"We needed to keep her alive."

Stories come from the unlikeliest of sources. 

In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato.  I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers.  I have an appointment with him next week.  More on this in a moment.

We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do.  It's lovely.  I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.

"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely.  He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved.  I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him.  He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.

Her friend was a student of hers.  "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata."  Now I'm confused.  Her friend was washed away?  As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived?  I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it.  Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people.  Hence my confusion.  She was "washed away" and then treated later?

"It was a miracle," my friend says. 
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake.  The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami.  The woman was at home with her three children.  After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape. 

"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says.  "Bad luck, you know?"  I nod.  "She had to turn the car around.  By that time, the water engulfed the car.  The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it.  My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet.  That's the last thing she remembers."

The woman survived.  All six of them were tossed out of the car.  She was found later, the only one breathing.  Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.

"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law.  Six people.  Everyone in her family.  She's the only one who survived."  I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?"  I'm not sure I would.
"I know.  I know.  Right?  We needed to keep her alive.  We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend.  Here again; women helping women.

"She's not doing well now.  It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve.  It's not good.  She's not well.  At all."

Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.

The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."

The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon.  The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach.  We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain. 

Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories.  And repeat them.

Working Mothers: Part 2

"My husband said, 'You've changed,'" and she looks at me for a response.
"Have you?" I put the question back to her.
"Yes, I have," and we both ponder this for a few moments.

I just did the math last night.  A year ago today I arrived in Tokyo to come up north, an area completely devastated by the tsunami, to begin what has ended up being a life-changing experience.  So, yes.  I've changed, too.

The woman telling me she's changed is also a working mother.  She volunteers from 9-5, then goes home to "Do laundry, make dinner, clean the house.  You know.  Wifely things."  What comes to mind immediately is her energy level.  Physical stamina is a must for all women who work outside the home, and then come home to continue Part 2 of their day.  Mental and emotional energy is also a prerequisite.  Add to this the fact the women I'm meeting live with daily reminders of how their lives were turned upside down over a year ago, I marvel at how they find the energy.

My mother used to tell me to "not spend energy on that" when I would complain about the latest injustice I faced, or the unfairness of someone's words or actions.  I much preferred to complain.  Energy?  I have plenty of that.  Right?

Wrong.  Mothers are more often than not right.  I am now keenly aware of the fact my energy level is definitely finite.  I often tap my reserves.  Knowing this is not a good thing, I have yet to figure out how to work with the energy I do have.

Working mothers in Tohoku face an entirely different set of issues than the rest of us.  My respect increases with every visit.  The more women I meet, the more I am aware of their collective strength.  To say they can handle anything is not fair.  It is, however, I believe a fair statement to make that women here cave less frequently than others I've met.  I want to learn from these Tohoku women.  How do I harness their energy?  Is there a secret?  There must be.  If so, what is it?  Do I dare just come right out and ask, "How do you keep going?" 

With each visit I have more questions than answers.  Sometimes this is daunting.  At times, it's invigorating.  On this visit, I resolve to learn more about working mothers.  They have a secret, the answers to my questions; I know it.  I'm determined to find out what it is.

The green field of silence

I went back to Rikuzentakata for the first time since leaving Iwate in May.  I chose not to go there when I returned in late June.  At that time, I didn't need to see it.  Ofunato was where I wanted to go.  There, I left my past behind.  Or, so I thought.

I'm with three very good people.  They're all safe, and I can be myself with them.  We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company.  They're all important to me.  We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there.  Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going.  I see their shock.  It's palpable.  Our laughter is gone.  We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses.  We park the car near the Port of Ofunato.  I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline.  We're all again speechless.

"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look."  I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house.  A commode.  It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door."  The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence.  The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque.  More silence.

We head to Rikuzentakata.  I warn them of what they will see.  Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists.  Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood.  We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner.  That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There.  See those two white things?  Those are a few of the remaining buildings left.  They're apartments, five stories high.  You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...."  We drive in silence for a very long time.

As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green.  Weeds grow everywhere.  Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds.  Everything is covered in tall, green grass.  If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited.  Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence.  I see a front end loader here and there.  Cars are few and far between.  Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.

Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way.  I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy.  "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car.  The tears come.  Here, over 1,000 people are still missing.  People died here.  The city is essentially gone.  How will this town survive?  Will it?

The green field of silence is filled with pain.