Viva, Japan!

As those of you who participated in Month of Poetry know, I owe a debt of gratitude to Japan for not only writing material, but also a way of seeing the world – a change in heart. During Month of Poetry, I found my voice in writing poetic memoir, much of it about experiences I had during the ten years I lived in Tokyo.

About a month ago, a tweet led me to this blog post titled No-divorce expat: a mixed identity becomes permanent . The article struck me motionless for a while after I read it. Much of my identity revolves around my life experiences, especially those of living abroad. My outlook is more global and much less regional than they were previous to those formative years. I still don’t separate myself from the places I have lived or the people I have met.

So the news of earthquake, tsunami, and radiation have had me glued to news feeds. Worrying about the folk I know there. Wishing them well. I’ve written nothing, but encouraging emails and inquiries. Mostly, I’ve been paralyzed.

Undoubtedly you have seen plenty of venues for donating to humanitarian aid for Japan. Many of our children’s literature colleagues have started fundraisers to entice us to participate. By all means do donate, do volunteer.

For those who have watched in horror and need to feel some hope, I’d recommend having a look at Deborah Davidson’s blog Etegami by Dosanko Debbie. She has done a wonderful job of turning her own concerns into a healing, cultural experience in “Humanizing the Earthquake” posts. Not only that, but her whole site is a joy to the eyes. Her paintings are lovely.

  

Looking through my MoP poetry, I could find only one poem which I thought might be appropriate to share at this time. We have heard much of sharing despite the devastation. The gracious willingness to share despite scarcity is what ultimately, will get Japan through this crisis. We see it in the many stories filtering their way to us. Viva, Japan. My prayers are with you.

Mikan

I took a trip to Sado-gashima

All by myself

In winter

rather brave I thought

I had been there before

but never in the snow

at least I knew the road to take

and how to catch a bus.

A snowy day in winter

the cold wind blew in from Russia

I could feel it age my face

More than a wrinkle or two

As I waited at a bus stop

under an awning

in a rice field

I watched the lazy sight

of a hawk loop through the sky.

Before long three village women

wearing mompei and indigo scarves

came and settled on the bench

right next to me.

They didn’t want to stare

but they had seldom seen a white one

except on the tv

and that really didn’t count.

One woman, much braver

than her hesitant companions

turned and faced me

held out a mikan

round and pocked and shiny bright

she offered it to me

I thanked her greatly

which surprised her

more than a little

I could speak her native tongue

Next I knew they had exploded

questions flew through the frost air

Where I came from?

How I got there?

Why would I attempt the trip?

Once they could

they were only happy

to start a conversation

with this wild, strange foreigner.

When the bus came

we all boarded

they insisted that I go first

We sat together

eating mikans

until their stop came

but I stayed on

When they left me

they left the mikans

and the golden memories

of their gracious gifts