Thirty Minutes on a Train

No one to date has been able to understand how a spouse, mine in particular, would just say "Go." 
"Go into an active tsunami zone."
"Go where the aftershocks are hourly and often large."
"Live apart for an indefinite period of time."
"It's okay."
"I miss you but what you're doing is worthwhile enough that we can handle it."

My spouse has said all this since immediately after the March 11th earthquake and tsunamis.  He is a large part of my reasoning for coming to Japan.  I couldn't and wouldn't do this without his complete support.  For that, for the freedom he gives me, for his patience, for his kick-in-the-pants ("Go!") I am most definitely grateful.

Knowing I still can't say when I'm leaving Japan for good, it's important we're on the same page.  I need to know he's fine with this ambiguity.  I'm often asked, "How long are you staying?"  I smile and say, "Until I'm not needed here anymore, and when my husband says 'That's enough.  Time to come home.'"  People nod in response. 

On the Marunouchi Line last night, as we make our way towards downtown for a Friday-night-in-Tokyo-date-night, we continue chatting.  Let's make one thing clear:  Skype cannot and does not replace what live, in-person chatting accomplishes.  I'm grateful for Skype.  Don't get me wrong.  While my husband and I e-mail daily, it's the multi-hour Skype chats that keep us connected.  Sitting in the subway,  however, I'm reminded how much of this personal connection is missed when we talk laptop-to-laptop.

I bring up (again) the fact I can't say how long I'm going to be here. 
"I know," he replies.  "I knew that when you left."
I know he knows.  But, but, I need to hear it again.  I need to make sure he's okay with this no-end-date-in-sight reality.  I also need to know how and why he's okay with it.  I need to hear it again.

"When we sat in that coffee shop in Ofunato the other day," he begins, "and that spider started dropping towards my head you immediately freaked out, right?"
"Right."
"You got this box of tissues and you were adamant I should get rid of it."
Of course.  It's a spider.  It probably has fangs.
"That's how I know you haven't changed." 
Evidently, I looked confused.
"That's the spiders-are-evil part of you that came out right then and there.  Things like that make me realize you're still you."
Okay.
"Then, an hour later, you take me to this apartment building in Rikuzentakata that looked like it had been bombed."  He leaned in as he told me this.  "You did that as if it was no big deal." 
I don't get where he's going.
"So, see.  You've changed.  Part of you still hates spiders, but there's another part of you now that has a purpose.  You were bored with the past several jobs you had back home.  You did them and did them well, but you were bored.  Here," and now he laughs, "you're anything but bored."  He sat back then, as if he'd made his point clearly, taking another sip of his tea.  "I like that.  The ways you're changing--they're good changes.  That's how I know you're okay here.  So long as you're changing in ways that make you grow, make you do new things, give you a purpose, so long as you're doing that you should stay.  It's when you tell me spiders no longer freak you out that I'll worry."

Evidently that's it.  Evidently, for him, it's as simple as that.  I decide to take him at his word. 
This is the kind of support that keeps me going.  I couldn't and wouldn't stay without it.  I still don't know how long I'll stay in Japan, but my husband's words warm me up.  I hit the jackpot with this man--that he's fine with not knowing (so long as I'm growing) feeds my soul.

Thirty minutes on a train and I realize all over again how lucky I am.  Gratitude on a Friday night:  a lovely way to start a date.