Month: October 2022

Day 17 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo by Christopher Beloch on Unsplash

Today’s assignment requires a different approach from the previous ones.  In order to answer this question, I have to put my feet in somebody else’s shoes, somebody who is trying to win my heart. 

Let’s say I’m Person A.  A looks at me.  What makes A looking at me want to win my heart?

Because A is interested in me, attracted by me, get to know me.  Because A wants to take me out for dinner or drink. Or A wants to sell me something…

OK!  My suggestion to that person A.

If you want me to get to know you, or talk to you at a party, don’t bring me any drink or food.  I would rather choose myself what I like.  Rather, stand at the corner of the room, quietly, awkwardly, hesitant to mingle with people.  Chances are, I will find you and come talk to you.

If you want to take me out to a dinner, would you please choose a place that is quiet?  Preferably with no background music.  I want to enjoy our conversation without yelling at each other.  You don’t want to hurt your throat either, do you?  I have never encountered such a place so far in Seattle, so if you found one, most likely I have never been there so I would say yes. 

If you want to sell me something… Stand behind the table, put your product on the table, demonstrate how to use it.  Don’t look at me!  Keep talking in what way your product is great.  Explain who made it, how it is made, what ingredient or material is used, how long it took to make it.  Keep on talking, focus on the product.  Don’t look at me.  I might listen to your talk, from the distance at first, then come closer, watching your demonstration, listening to your sales talk, and might eventually buy.  Please don’t look at me.  Focus on your product. 

Day 16 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Yesterday’s memorial service was beautiful.  Four of us Ikebana friends made flower arrangements.  Potteries she had made decorated the table next to the arrangements. Her wedding photos taken 60years ago stood by them.  I miss her very much.

But I miss another person who should have been there arranging flowers, or at least giving me a critique on my arrangement.  It’s been over eight years since she passed.

When I started taking Ikebana lessons, she was already there.  She was not a teacher but was in charge of administrative work of the study group.

When I obtained my teacher’s certificate, she told me to attend an “old and new board.” What board?  She was good at making me hesitant to ask any question.  I also knew she wouldn’t take “no” as an answer. 

When I went to the meeting place, I found out it was the board meeting of Ikebana International (I.I.) Seattle Chapter.  She had already written a recommendation letter for me to join the chapter.  In the group she was in charge of several committees.  Many of I.I. members had been also recruited by her, so I learned.

I joined another non-profit.  There I was a volunteer to visit local schools to help students learn about Japanese culture.  I found out she had been the longest and the most active volunteer there.   Whenever the organization had a problem finding a volunteer in the last minutes, they could count on her. 

Reliable, organized, not complaining, not gossiping, getting things done.  When she was alive, we didn’t think too much because she took care of the group so well.  Only after she was gone did we realized how much she meant to us.

For the first time I went to her house, for her memorial service.  It was pretty far from downtown Seattle.  At her funeral I learned how old she was.  Ninety years old!  I thought she was not even 80.  Until very end she commuted this long distance and continued her work as a volunteer.

Thanks to her I still enjoy being a member of I.I. In the next two years I serve as the president. 

I miss you, Lily-san.  There are so many things I wish to ask you for your advice.  You are my unsung hero.

Day 15 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo by Meritt Thomas on Unsplash

I came across a documentary on YouTube, of an old man living totally alone, totally naked, in a remote island near Okinawa, for over 20 years.  The documentary was aired about 10 years ago.  At that time the old man was about 80 years old.

“Is he serious?“ was my first reaction.

How does he find food?  Does he have a house?  How does he protect from all the insects and other yukky looking creatures?  What kind of tools does he use? 

Doesn’t he get bored? Lonely? Doesn’t he miss another human?  Does he have Internet? 

How does he know if the typhoon is coming or not?  If such a huge typhoon comes, how does he protect himself from the strong wind? Doesn’t he mind getting wet in the storm?  Doesn’t he have any danger of becoming a prey of any animal? 

What happens if he can’t hunt so many days?  Or does he hunt?  Or does he only eat plant -based food?  How does he cook?  Does he have any form of fire?   Does he know how to start a fire? 

How can he live without toilet paper?  How does he maintain sanity?  What about drinking water?  Does he have a filtering system so that he doesn’t get sick? 

How does he keep track of time?  Does he keep regular routine every day?  Or does he sleep all day long because there is nothing particular to do?  How much time does he spend catching food?

After living alone so long,  does he lose any language capability?  Can he write?  How important is writing in his life?  What does he write? 

Is it true that he has nothing to read?  How can he not get bored?

If there is any island that has similar climate and situation, I would like to spend at least 24 hours living like him.  Not more than that.  Only after spending for 24 hours, I will decide if I can go on living like him or not.

Day 14 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

I’m trying to minimize the purchase of my clothes.

I still wear a T-shirt that I bought when I went to Grand Canyon for the first and only time 32 years ago.  I’ve been wearing the same jeans for over 15 years. They were brand new when I bought them, but now have holes here and there.  Thanks to the latest trend, these holes and tears are now regarded as my fashion statement.  Maybe I can keep wearing these jeans for 10 more years, assuming I keep my weight as it is.

The only exception is kimono.  I’m saving money to buy new kimono, hopefully every year. Preferably having it totally custom made.  I consult with my retailer, carefully select the craftsperson, learning about how they prepare the fabrics and what kind of skills are required to make the work of art

I refuse to buy a kimono made of synthetic fabric.  I’m well aware of its convenience.  I could throw it in the washing machine after each time I wear it.  But how much damage are we pressing upon all the other life form on earth just to satisfy the human being’s convenience?   For me, kimono is a symbol, a reminder of the importance of living in harmony with nature.  A synthetic kimono fabric, therefore, is an oxymoron to me.

When I had my summer kimono and obi made during the pandemic, I documented the whole process of how a team of craftspeople worked together to make my kimono and obi.  Hopefully that piece will be published sometime soon.  The purpose of my writing up this piece was so that whoever reads it may be interested and inspired to have his/her own kimono made like me.

For more casual occasions, I look forward to shopping vintage haori (a kimono jacket) at Kyoto Art and Antiques, a twice-a-year sale that is held in Seattle’s Georgetown neighborhood.  Mostly I choose ones with an elaborate tie-dye method called “So-shibori.”  Haori, in my opinion, go pretty well with casual wear, even jeans.

What is distinctive in both kimono and haori, is the long sleeves.  Inefficient?  Maybe.  But elegant!  Through practicing tea cermony, I realized how effective kimono is to make my movement more graceful.  With these long sleeves, I pay much more attention to how I move my arms.  “Does it look beautiful?”

“Who cares?” You might say.  But I do.  The graceful movement of my body makes me feel good.  What is wrong with it?  That’s my style.

Day 13 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

I start my day with writing a number on my journal.  Today’s number: 14,322. 

Each day the number decreases by one.  Tomorrow I will write down 14,321. 

The number is followed by DTID; Abbreviation for “days till I die”.

I wish to live a long healthy life.  I have arbitrarily chosen to live until my 100^th birthday.  Or I have chosen to die on my 100^th birthday. 

When I was born I didn’t have any choice.  When to be born, from which parents, in which country… They all happened before my consciousness was developed.

But when to die, how, where… Can’t I have maximum control? You know, I’m a control freak.

Of course, so many things happen beyond my control.  If it rains or not today, if my husband is in a good mood or not, if the bus is running on the normal schedule or not.  But death… such an important event of my life.  Unless I’m hit by a car suddenly (and what is the probability of that?), can’t I have the final say to my life? 

I’m not talking about suicide.  That’s cutting off short.  No. I have every intention to complete my life.  My intention is I want to be on a driver’s seat until the last moment of my life.  Even if I become gravely ill, at least I want my consciousness to be in control to the end.  What is the proof that I can’t? 

Till the moment I die, I want to live. My life is getting shorter by one day every day.  While writing this number each morning, I ask myself:  Do I choose to live this day in vain, or fully.

Soon after finishing this book, I started this morning ritual.   Its title is

Death; An Inside Story: A Book for all those who shall die   by Sadhguru

It’s not my favorite book, but it has transformed my approach to life entirely.

Day 12 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo: Wikipedia

I refused to have a TV in my room in college.  I have never been a TV fan.  So I had to sit down closing my eyes for a minute or so until one scene came back to my mind.   Yeah, the Brady Bunch!

In the 70’s in Japan, American TV series, dubbed in Japanese, were popular among us kids.  Bewitched, Columbo, McCloud… I used to watch them all.  The brady Bunch, above all, was my favorite. 

I can’t recall any of the episodes now, but I can still vividly remember the opening scene. The three-by-three grid of nine faces of the family; the mother and the three daughters, the father and the three sons, and that housekeeper.

First of all, the setting that the both parents were divorced was so foreign to an eight-year-old me.  Maybe because divorce was not so common yet in Japan then.  I thought it was cool. 

Second, I couldn’t get over how huge their house was.  Their kitchen was as large as the entire first floor of our house.  I had never seen a cooking oven before.  In Japan those days, a two-burner cooktop was a norm. I wondered what that big box could do.  And last but not least, the fact that they had a housekeeper!

For the Americans, the series must have depicted a typical middleclass family.  For me, and I bet for most of the kids my age in Japan those days, everything the Brady family had looked so glamorous.  Their house seemed like a castle for me.

The program was aired in Japan from for a year between the summer of 1970 and 1971.  I was in the third and the fourth grade. 

In my sophomore year in high school, I applied for the AFS exchange program, to live with an American host family for the senior year.  In my essay I was supposed to write why I decided to apply for the program.  I don’t think I was that honest, but for sure one of my top motivations was to see such a huge kitchen and the oven with my own eyes.

Day 11 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo by Joshua Clay on Unsplash

I have a younger brother who became estranged several years ago.  It’s easier to list up all the nasty things about him, maybe because the more recent experiences tend to dominate one’s memory.  But here I will force myself to dig in my memory pool to look for the fun part about him.

It was my brother, not my mother, who called me on a Tuesday morning that my father was dying.   My father had been admitted to hospital a week before, at that time the doctor indicated six months.  A week later the number was cut down to one week. 

I called my office that I would take time off that whole week.  On Wednesday I took off to Japan.  I crossed the date line got to Kansai Airport on Thursday evening, went straight to the hospital. 

My brother was on the bedside.  My father was sitting on his bed, with lots of pillows around his upper body.  “H.” “Hey”… Usually he would say “hey”, with raising his left hand.  But this time he only nodded.  Maybe it was too painful for him to use his arm.  He looked weak, but his smile on his face was not. 

Then I went to see my father’s doctor.  He showed me the X-ray of my father’s chest.  How would I know what’s wrong!  The doctor explained to me the lung was damaged pretty bad.  “Why was not his cancer found earlier?” But it was too late to regret. 

My brother and I went home together.  We agreed that I would find a place for his funeral, do whatever I could do until Saturday, but come Sunday my brother would take over everything   until the completion of the funeral.  I would have to go back to Seattle.  He understood.

The next day my brother and I went back to hospital.  My father gave me the similar smile, without raising his left hand.   My brother and I did all the talking.  My father would either nod or smile.  Sometimes He wanted to change his body position, to mitigate his pain here and there.   All day long my brother’s and my laughter filled the room. 

What were we talking about, exactly?  It is strange but I can’t remember a thing.  All I can remember vividly is giggling and laughter of my brother and me.  What happened years later between my brother and me must have caused to erase the fun side of our time spent together.  Is it how a human’s memory works?  I don’t know. 

Will I ever have another chance to laugh together with my brother?   I should never say never, but I’m pessimistic.

Day 10 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo by Vonecia Carswell on Unsplash

I don’t have a best friend.  Do you? 

What is the definition of a good friend? 

Somebody whom you talk to most often?  Somebody who doesn’t mind receiving your call in the middle of the night when you have an agonizing issue?  Somebody who wakes up at 4am to take you to the airport?  Somebody who hands you 100 dollars when you are broke and doesn’t expect you to pay back?   Somebody you are comfortable with talking about your sex life? 

Do you really think a single person can handle all these your needs?  Let’s flip the side.  If a single person count on you for doing all those things for them, would you be fine with that? 

We do encounter these needs, probably more often than we wish.  Some of the needs can be met by our spouse/partner.  In such a case, s/he is our friend.  Some of the issues we prefer not depend on your spouse/partner, because the issue is between us and our spouse/partner.  We need someone else to go to.  

The reality is, depending upon the needs that come up, we consciously or subconsciously look through our database in our memory and pick someone who can best fulfill the needs.  Of course we don’t choose someone we have just met at the party last week.  We select from those we know long and well enough.  We assess the probability of that person saying yes to our request.  Based on the calculated probability, we contact or not contact that person. 

For this purpose, I think we are better off if the database holds decent number of contact names.  If we have only person in the database, chances are we will lose that versy person from the database soon.   We don’t need to nor should we have hundreds of people in this database, but we should have at least handful, not one.  And if we are ready to be approached by one of these handful for such issues, these handful are more likely our good friends.  Or vise versa.

I don’t think it’s a good idea banking on one person for all the issues or needs that may come up.  I think everybody is better off having several good friends but no single best friend. 

Day 9 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo by Stan B on Unsplash

The sky is refreshing blue.  From my window I can see the bright morning sunlight reflecting on the neighbor’s roof and cedar sidings. 

My husband just left for work.  Oh, he forgot to bring down his wallet!   Don’t worry, you have already your shoes on.  I can go upstairs and get it for you. Is it a little chilly outside?  Which jacket do you want?  You prefer the black one in the closet in the back room?  I can go get it for you.  Just a moment. 

This small conversation that happened right before I sat down and started writing this morning, this little snippet of my day, doesn’t necessarily make me happy.   Instead of seeing him off with a smile, I could have reacted…

What?  You forgot to bring down your wallet?  How silly of you!  What?  You want me to go upstairs just because you don’t want to take off your shoes?  Why didn’t you wear slip-ons instead?  Chilly outside?  What do you expect? it’s already October.   Take this jacket hanging on the wall in the hallway.  A wrong color? Are you blind?  This one goes well just fine.  Why do I have to get the one stored in the back room?  Why do you want me to work for you?  I’m already late for the morning writing session!

Depending on my mood, I could react such a nasty way.  The same incident could be my curse to start another day of grudging. 

It’s not what happens to me that can make me happy or unhappy.  Happiness is a choice I make when responding to any external situation.  External situations are not tagged as happy or unhappy.  What I make out of it is what matters.  Happiness is what I consciously choose as my state of being each moment. 

Am I happy?  Will I be happy today?  I plan so, because I am capable of choosing to be happy. 

Day 8 of 30-Day Writing Challenge

Photo by Ozgu Ozden on Unsplash

I got to the restaurant a little early. 

I had never been there, and I wanted to make sure I would have enough time to find a parking space and to walk there.   

The person I was meeting with texted me she was running a little late, so I had a slack of time.  As anyone would do lately, I took out my cellphone and was going to read one of the news, so I thought.

The restaurant was almost empty, with only two other parties.  The volume of the music was just about right, not to bother my reading.   The melody sounded familiar.  I went back to reading. 

The next song was another familiar melody, an old song.  I kept on reading.  The next song…

Wait! They are all hit songs between the summer of 1978 and 1979.

I know 100% sure, because that was my senior year in high school! The only year I spent in a small town called Grove City, PA, as an exchange student from Japan. 

I used to dance to the music.  With whom? With this classmate and that classmate.  Where? In the school auditorium and at the cafeteria What was I wearing? Oh, that check flannel shirt the white overalls!  Yes, that Dairy Queen store! Mr. Naples! Miss Stuck! Oh my!  My mind was filled with everything Grove City.

Through the window I saw the person I was meeting approaching hurried at the entrance door.  I turned to the waiter and asked her, “Which radio station are you playing?”  She said, “I don’t know if it’s a radio station.  I know the owner choses the music.” 

I didn’t confirm it, but I bet the owner is the same age as me. 

The power of music.