Seasons: Cycles and Circles

The more time I spend in Tohoku, the more aware I become of the differences between men and women.  There's nothing wrong with these differences, per se.  My observations are just that:  I notice the subtle nuances, changes in behavior and expectations, scene after scene in how these traits are played out.

I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons.  Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events.  (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.)  Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones.  Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter.  That's what quarters are for.  They peg the calendar.

Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles.  Quarters are seasons.  Months are not simply a bunch of dates.  It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events.  Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this.  We are biologically, naturally cyclical.

It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles."  One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato.  It's a "knitting circle."  Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause.  Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand.  I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet.  Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking.  I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.

Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato.  The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle."  They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how.  Not being a knitter, my role is to connect.  That, I can do.  Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation.  Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.

We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back.  We drove on highways and winding mountain roads.  One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.

It's the season for wisteria.  The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes.  Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender.  We rounded one corner and gasped.  (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?)  In front of us was a wall of wisteria.  The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves.  Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush.  It was simply beautiful.

Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.

The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.

"Why do you do this?"

This questions, phrased differently from many people has been asked over and over in the past year.

"Why are you helping us?"

Why did I go to a region of Japan I was completely unfamiliar with last March? What made me do something I was so profoundly uncomfortable doing?  I've tried several answers.
"Japan was home to me for many years."
"I thought I could help."
"I was in a position where I could.  My family was supportive, and I had the freedom in my professional life to take time off."

None of these responses have really convinced anyone.  The explanations I've offered are incomplete to those in Tohoku who simply don't understand why a gaijin would drop everything and do something, to them, so odd and yet meaningful.

I now have two answers, both of which (to me, at least) speak volumes.

Here's one answer.

This was given to me by a boy at a day care center back in December when I made the trip up as Mrs. Claus, handing out candy to kids.  After the kids had opened their stockings filled with bits of chocolate and candy canes, one boy came up to me from behind, tugging at my Mrs. Claus skirt.

"Give this to Santa," and he hands me these two sheets.
"What is it?"
"Money.  I want Santa to have it."  I look at the two "bills" and fight tears.
"Okay," I manage, and then "Thank you."
One of the men with me, seeing I'm about to lose it, asks, "How much are you giving Santa?" pointing to the amounts written on the origami paper.
"One hundred thousand million billion."  Or, it could just have easily been "a bajillion."
I laugh.  The boy laughs.  I thank him again.  He smiles and runs away.

Then there are the women.  Those who did not lose their homes in the tsunami have reached out to the women now living in temporary housing quarters.
"Let's knit together," is the invitation extended as they try to rebuild the sense of community and neighborhood lost to the women who don't know their new neighbors in the temporary housing complexes.

They need yarn.  They don't care what kind, color, amount, or quality.  I set up a site on Amazon.com (the Japanese site: amazon.co.jp) where people can send yarn to them.

Here's the link.
http://www.amazon.co.jp/gp/registry/wishlist/ref=wish_list

In sharing this story about women coming together, news spread to women in Fukushima who also now want to start their own knitting group.  I reached out to the "knitting teacher" in Ofunato, asking if her group would host the women from Fukushima.  Now women in Iwate are helping women in Fukushima.

This is why I do what I do.