Their Hearts and Minds

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Nearly a year has now passed since I touched down to rice field central last August, expecting civilization, and finding nothing but rice. The few who live here, who have not yet been swept over to the dark side of overflowing cities, rampant waves of technology, and exquisite shoebox living, have had a lot to teach me about Japan. I am of course, officially known and unofficially referred to as the “gaijin,” Japanese for outsider, the mysterious stranger who braved a 13-hour airplane ride from New York, the living, breathing center of the world to come to the rice paddies and teach them English. I am the ever-present celebrity who is accosted on nearly every visit to the supermarket, the ATM, and the government office by people who long to have a few words with someone from beyond.
Yet, in spite of random deliveries of food to my doorstep, in spite of countless invitations to parties, even in spite of my imperfect knowledge of Japanese, living here can be a lonely affair. At a recent barbecue, everything stood still while the teachers stared at the countless fireflies that skirted the breeze for what must have been a good thirty minutes. I swear I must have mentioned that New York really does have fireflies a good half dozen times, only to receive the same response each time. “That’s unbelievable. We thought they were only in Japan.” They looked at me with incredulity because I threatened to wreak havoc on their worldview with the heretical notion that fireflies exist elsewhere. The Japanese here know so little about America and about the world that everything is a surprise. There is such a large gap between my world and theirs that at times I have doubted whether I will ever truly understand them.
To attain a glimpse in the hearts and minds of the Japanese, I study what they study, learn what they learn, subjects which often have roots going back hundreds of years and provide a bit of insight into their mind frame and their worldview. I studied ikebana, or flower arrangement. It is to the uninitiated, perhaps not the most masculine activity in the world, but for the Japanese, knowing the correct rhythms of balance and harmony that are essential to a well-conceived arrangement is very much a skill to be lauded. My teacher would hand me several varieties of flowers and a pot, with instructions to arrange them in a natural formation so each of the seven or nine flowers gets maximum exposure, and strength and weakness are in balance. Invariably, as I cringed in disbelief, my seemingly perfect creation was rendered asunder, one plucked flower at a time, as my sensei gently chided me on my inadequacies. He proceeded to insert the flowers in the correct places and told me to remove it all and recreate his work until I had mimicked his style. Each time, I could see the sensei’s work for the skill of the creation, yet at the same time I was unable to achieve such success. The idea of balance eluded me. I wanted to emphasize strength; he taught me to see the bigger picture: the sunrise that allows us to see the flowers, the mountains that give them perspective and depth. For the time being, I have called it quits to the intricate and complex art of flower arrangement, but I still remain committed to the challenge.
For eight months, I have studied calligraphy, the art of making Japanese characters beautiful with the aid of ink and brush. With the sensei’s work beneath my blank sheet to guide me, I aim to achieve the flow of the strokes as they connect with each other to form coherent units of meaning. To achieve perfection, one must be precise. There is only one correct order for the strokes, and the slightest shift or incorrect curve can turn an otherwise perfect character into a flawed creation. In calligraphy, I have had noticeably more success than at ikebana, coming as a result of practicing the same character dozens of times to achieve the correct flow and spirit of the ideogram. Success in calligraphy does pay dividends. On several occasions, my work has been hung for display at the post office. People who never speak to me came out of the woodwork to say how much they admire my work. I take such praise with a fistful of sand, however. As the resident foreigner, everything I do is automatically an object of marvel and amazement. Still, in calligraphy, as in other things, I gradually learn the Japanese mentality. In this case, attention to detail, precision, and an ability to see the over-arching picture create the desired result.
My final extra-curricular activity is one that is a bit more active, although I am only in the beginning stages. It is the martial art known as ‘kendo,’ or the way of the sword. My wooden sword, a gift from my supervisor, is about a meter long and several centimeters thick and not particularly sharp. (Sorry, metric comes easier these days.) The object of kendo, as far as I can make it out, is to hit certain targets on your opponent: the neck, arm, and hip. In battle, the gladiators are decked out in a uniform consisting of several layers of thick clothing and a robe with the fighters name embroidered in gold. For protection further up, there is a helmet with a plastic transparent visor. You are pretty well protected, but if you get hit in the right places, you can get bruised up pretty badly, or so I am told. But, as I said, I am a beginner, and as such, I am still learning the basic strokes of the sword. It is not difficult, but it does take practice, and all the elementary school children have been doing it a lot longer than me. Soon, I will triumph over the eight year olds!
Well, that’s a large part of what I do to keep busy. Now the impending visit of my uncle, aunt and two cousins weighs heavily on my mind, particularly what to do to entertain them in the middle of nowhere. The next installment will feature the outcome of that engagement, which is first and foremost an opportunity to see the life I have lived here these last ten months through fresh eyes.

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