On Being Busy and the Art of Saying "No" in Japan and a Few Thoughts on "Emoji"

March is always a crazy month.  The end of the academic year for schools is also the end of the fiscal year for government organizations and even some companies.  We tie up loose ends.  Students graduate.  New hires arrive in April needing to be trained.  Government and corporate departments shift personnel leaving many with new bosses, subordinates, and colleagues in April.  Before April there is March.  Wrap everything up and move on.

Which is why we're all busy.  Which is why it takes days to respond to a simple e-mail or a phone call.  Many of us in Japan go into complete triage mode.  The loud ones, demanding an answer get it.  Everyone else?  Pick a number, sit, and wait.

I abhor the "I've been busy" line as an excuse.  People say it's true and it might be, but I find it sloppy.  I see "busy" as an issue of priorities.  Let's face it:  You DON'T rank.  When e-mails and phone calls are blown off, it means your request is less important than that of another. 

Which is why I'm struggling this month.  I'm truly busy.  I get up early and stay up late.  I go to meetings and then come back to pound my laptop keys.  Not everyone's e-mail gets a reply that same day.  I'm sorry.  But, clearly not sorry enough to get up earlier or stay up later.  It's about priorities.  I triage.  I'll reply tomorrow.  I use the same line others use on me.  I hate March.

I contemplate this now because it's March and I find it almost comical and ridiculous how much I'm working, but more so because I've taken another assignment.  As of next month I will continue my work with Rikuzentakata City Hall for one more year.  I vowed not to.  I swore I needed to focus on me.  I changed my mind.  I can and will do this for one more year.  It's the right thing to do.

But, I reserve the right to say "NO".  I've not done this until now.  You needed something?  I obliged.  You wanted something done?  I did it.  Those days are gone.  Part of recovery from any crisis--medical, personal, environmental, natural--requires figuring it out on your own.  Long-term dependency is not the answer.

City hall will not be accustomed to this new me.  So then, the inquiring minds ask, how does one go about saying "no" in Japan?  Do people just say it?  Refuse?  Shake their heads? 

No. 

The commonly understood method of turning someone down in Japan is to suck air through your teeth, cock your head, and say something, "Yeah, that's difficult."  That's a cue.  That's an incredibly good indication you won't get what you want.  I'm fully prepared to adopt this into my répertoire of phrases.  Bring it on.  Sorry people.  To quote the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want."  I'm hoping my "Hmmm, difficult" utterings will help people I work with to realize this is how "you get what you need."

Side note:  I woke up to a series of Facebook texts this morning from an ex-boyfriend from high school.

"Are you coming to our high school reunion?  If not, why?"

It takes a unique group of students from a high school to be the only class in the past 30-plus years to have NOT held a class reunion.  It takes an even more unique group of students to be this way when clearly, very clearly, our class was the coolest the school had and has ever seen.

We are busy.  That's the truth.  The rag-tag gang of boarding school friends who live in Tokyo--all men but me--cannot find the time to gather for a drink or a meal because one of us (usually more than one) is somewhere else.  As in South Korea, or Singapore, or San Francisco.  On this, I renege my point from earlier.  We're not blowing each other off.  We simply are too busy and we prefer to meet as a group.  That means we're willing to wait until all can gather.

With the pressure from the one pushing us all to attend our class reunion, e-mails, LINE messages, and phone calls flew around the world throughout our day.  None of the men in my gang are subtle.  We all revert to our 17-year old selves when we talk.  All rules I apply to other men in personal and professional settings fly out the window with these guys.  They're jerks and I absolutely love them.

Our LINE messages today were peppered with emoji, art posing as punctuation marks, words, and used primarily to make a point.  I am not someone who finishes my sentence with a smiley face.  With these guys, I search through the emoji options available on my iPhone to see how to put them down, build myself up, show how grossed out I am by their teenage antics.  We are silly adults, resorting to using emoji for unicorns, bottles of wine, and hot tubs.  (But, we're still the coolest class ever.)

Perhaps a rambling post without any real point.  Then again.  Then again.

PTSD and Me

Evidently doctors hate it.  Our ability to self-diagnose and the like, all thanks to WebMD and more has them collectively annoyed.  "I think I have..." is at the top of their list of dislikes.  Do I do this, too?  Yes.  Watch me.  I'm going to right here.

I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this.  Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms.  I might be a candidate for treatment.  When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder.  Do I have PTSD?

I've been on vacation for a week.  I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day.  My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza.  We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17.  We've done so for years.  The servers know us by what we eat.  There's comfort in this routine.

Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine.  In with the new.  It's delicious.

It took us a week to get here, to Emma's.  We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19.  There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server.  We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple.  Alas.

My husband and I chat.  We look at the other customers.  I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night.  We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday.  Then I hear it.  My head jerks towards the big window.  My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.

A man on a Harley Davidson rides by.  The low rumble was his motorcycle.  I know that now.  Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to.  Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit?  To be warned?  So we can prepare?

No.  There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming.  We can't stop it.  The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake.  We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.

I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake.  My body, however, does not operate with the same speed.  I cringe.  I begin to shake.  I walk through airports with the same discomfort.  The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.

Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings.  The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake.  My mind, however, did not register safety.  Quite the opposite.  I braced myself for the impending earthquake.

Is this PTSD?  I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering.  Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge.  I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.

I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern.  Is there a solution?  Will I grow out of this?  Move on?  Get over it?  I don't know.

I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative.  So it is.

I Am Not Depressed

I will never say or write any given culture is superior to another.  Elements of a culture may be beautiful.  More beautiful than others.  Elements of a culture may be cruel.  How I define this beauty and cruelty is mine.  Yours may differ.  Your definition and mine probably won't always intersect in a peaceful and harmonious way.  Some days this is just fine.  Other days it's anything but.

Robin Williams is dead.  According to news sources, he took his own life.  According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression.  We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.

What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams?  In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas.  I will now renege.  I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism:  Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.

I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years.  To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement.  I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain.  Sadness is normal.  Grief is constant.  Getting help?  Seeing a therapist?  Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief?  Not a chance.

Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman.  Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain".  Men drink away their frustration.  Women keep going.  These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false.  In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman.  Here, people really don't complain.  I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.

On a good day gaman can mean strength.

"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."

Yes.   All that.
Until none stay true.

To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.

Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human?  As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things?  Good food makes us happy.  Laughter is the best medicine.  We love sex.  Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.

We dislike the same things.  Betrayal hurts.  Death of a loved one causes pain.  Rotten food doesn't taste good.  Abandonment we fear.

If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture?  I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired.  Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.

So, let me say this.  I am not depressed.

But, last week I had several moments that shook me up.  I was tired.  Incredibly tired.  Too tired.  Not-good tired.

Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up?  Wouldn't that feel good?"

Let me repeat:  I am not depressed.  I am not suicidal.  I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.

Why am I writing this?  Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain.  I don't know what happened with Robin Williams.  I remember crying he made me laugh so hard.  I will miss that.  I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting.  But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.

Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster.  Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.

Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life.  Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness.  Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.

And me?  I'm going on vacation.  I will do nothing productive other than rest.  For two weeks.  If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job.  I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.

Opinions That Matter Not

Awhile back a friend introduced me to his high school buddy.  This man becomes my accountant.  This man then introduced me to his mistress who becomes my "older sister".  She runs a small pub in my neighborhood so I go there every now and then when I crave potato salad.  (She makes the best potato salad in Tokyo.) 

At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles".  Great guy and very charming.  I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.

Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear).  Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion.  We laugh again.

Then the phone rings.  My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call.  She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up.  I find this sweet.

The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk.  About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me.  Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three.  She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say.  "That's nice.  Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."

This is true.  There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes.  The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild.  Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate.  The horror.

"You can still see it up close, though.  There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."

I smile.  I do not nod.  I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else".  I now sort of smile but still don't nod.

Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you.  The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have.  I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."

Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud.  His audacity floored me.  Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name).  I get that.  But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie?  Who says this?  Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense?  Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents?  Seriously.

This sentiment can be heard more and more these days.  Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol.  Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.

Recovery is about the residents.  More specifically, it's for the children.  I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story.  Your needs are really very irrelevant.  Deal with it.

I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back.  "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say.  "And, they're drunk, I know.  It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about.  It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.

I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally.  Asshole.

Mary's Skunk and PTSD

Once upon a time, Mary may indeed have had a little lamb.  I'm sure it was a cute, fluffy thing.  Several months back, the animal belonging to Mary was a skunk.  Which she gave to me, she said, because it matched my outfit and because I reminded her of Liza Minnelli.  Okay.

Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal.  I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.

I named the skunk Liza.  Seemed fitting.

I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use.  To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan.  (Correct me if I'm wrong.)  Would the kids know what animal this is?  They did.  Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings.  Liza would help.

"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say.  "When a skunk gets scared it farts.  What do you do when you get scared?"  Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo.  We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say.  "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says.  I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry?  What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit.  Especially if it's my brother."  I want to laugh but don't.
This is good.  We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?"  I say.  "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say.  "Did you know that?"  Some heads nod.

In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm.  There are exceptions, certainly.  Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm.  The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue.  I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom.  For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.

If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize.  People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years.  Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post".  As in, "in the past".  As in, "we're not traumatized now."  This is misleading.  It's wrong.  Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well.  The first fact that needs acknowledging is this:  it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.

Focus on the today's trauma.  Focus on the fact life is painful still today.  Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life.  It's not past tense.  It's TSD.  Not PTSD.

Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary.  Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception.  I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave.  At the very least, allow the kids to express.

Kick, hit, cry, laugh. 
It's time.

When Global Means Local

Today I divide my time between two towns in Iwate on the coast surrounded by beautiful purple-green mountains.  These towns face the ocean, and on this Sunday the winds from the sea have blown away all clouds leaving a bright and blue sky.  We can see for miles.

This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside.  Today we're cold.  Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.

People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous.  These towns are like any other; we're just like you.

Except that we're not.  Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different.  Adjectives describing emotions are more intense.  Not better or worse.  Just intense.

Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago.  For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous.  A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people.  Today, this is personal.

I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities.  We know each other.  We stand out in town.  There are very few of us.

Some lived through the disaster.  They too lost.  Homes.  Cars.  Friends.  A sense of normalcy.  Their lives have received significantly less coverage.  A victim is a victim is a victim.  Right?  Wrong.  We still quantify pain based on loss.  When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here."  Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners.  Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.

Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix.  Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns.  We brought food.  Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt.  Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.

My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate.  Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.

In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles.  For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy;  a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.

With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.

The Art of Complaining

The magnet on my grandmother's refrigerator read, "The more you complain, the longer God lets you live."  I believed this because grandma did.  In my corner of the world, this woman did no wrong.  Conclusion?  Don't complain.  When I found this same magnet in a gift shop I bought it, displaying it proudly on my dishwasher at eye-level, certain my son would see, learn, and agree.

There are chronic complainers in my life.  Every conversation we have is about what is wrong.  They're seldom able to talk about anything other than their latest problem.  It's true some times they are given massive doses of life-changing crises, sometimes back-to-back.  Then came the realization, the ones who always have issues are the same bunch--I can count them--and this begs the question, should grandma's magnet have read, "The more you complain the more crap God throws at you"?

I imagine us walking on a beach.  You're talking and I'm listening.  You're actually complaining.  Let's just get that out in the open.  Somewhere in this process a line magically appears in the sand.  This is the line at which I stop listening.  You cross it, this line, because you need to spill, but because your complaining becomes too much I tune out.  I'm not proud of this fact.  I'm sorry, sort of, but not enough to stop the line from appearing.

We all have this line.  It appears for us at different times.  Most of us who complain are unaware of its existence, that here is a cue for us to shut up and stop which is why we cross it.

I recently complained publicly online about my latest gripe.  It's a big gripe, and one I feel justified in sharing.  Did you want to know?  Probably not.  Did I care that you didn't?  Not really.  Did I cross your line?  Maybe.

The problem with complaining is just that:  we don't really want to know.  Most of us who ask the question, "How are you?" aren't particularly interested in what follows.  We want to hear, "Fine" and get on with the conversation.  We want to order our food, gossip, and talk about the latest books we've read.  Only with a select few do I ever allow myself to spew.

Complaining is an art few of us have mastered.  Without expelling problems, they fester.  They start to smell.  The corners in which we keep our problems hidden become infected, turning into pimples and boils filled with puss.

Pimples need to be popped.  Boils need to be lanced.  Infections in our bodies need to be removed.  The same goes for emotions.  Before we are molded by our culture, we are all base humans.  The same things make us happy:  good food, sex, companionship.  The same things make us sad:  death, rejection, indigestion.  It's through culture we are taught about "good" and "bad" emotions.  It's through culture we are taught to "control" our feelings.  In Japan, the prevailing sentiment when things to badly is to "suck it up and ride it through."  Perhaps that's too crass.  That said, the word and concepts behind gaman offer most Japanese little opportunity to complain.

There are 500,000 or more people going through varying degrees of trauma based on the same event.  The disaster that took place almost 36 months ago is old news in chronology but not in emotion.  Whoever said, "time heals all wounds" was wrong.  Time may lessen pain but in the past 36 months I've seen little healing.  Asking those who have experienced varying degrees of loss to "hang in there" by personifying strength, stoicism, and patience--all words applying to gaman--there are consequences to this assumption.  Not good ones, either. 

I do not complain to my friends in Tohoku because I feel my problems are insignificant in comparison.  I diminish my issues, whatever they may be and however large they are because, lets' face it, they seem petty in comparison to what they've gone through.

I have not mastered the art of complaining.  Neither have my many friends.  Those who should be allowed to release their pain don't, and those who ramble on don't see my line. 

Let it out or keep it in?  I write today not to offer solutions but to urge us all to think--myself included, of course. 

The Post Two Years in the Making and the Most Un-Christian Christmas Ever

I am over two hours late to a dinner with my visa sponsor.  He wants to see my husband more than me, which means I'm once again relegated to playing the role of interpreter.  An invitation by this man to anything is never something I turn down so I speed down the highway in my rental car hoping the cops will not see me.  In my defense, I called to say I didn't know what time I would arrive and this great man, my sponsor says, "You're working.  Work.  I'm sure your husband and I will have plenty to talk about even without you here."  Two men talking about yours truly without said person's presence is always reason for serious contemplation.  I have a very odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I am right.  By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner.  I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence.  My husband shares the news.

"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says.  I look up.  The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer.  Soon would be nice.  Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing.  The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife.  Of course.

I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words.  "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down.  Christmas?  What Christmas?  I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.

I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing.  Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you.  I'm not asking you to believe.  I'm sharing experiences and observations.

Rewind back ten years or so.  My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal.  Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts.  Did they exist?  Possibly.  Probably.  Maybe.

I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting.  The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful.  (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?)  I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room.  I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like.  I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned.  Success.  It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer.  I could smell him where he was in the room.  The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.

Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed.  That's when he came back.  The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful.  Then the bed moved.  It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight.  I open my eyes.  Nothing.  I'm certain, though.  Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed.  The cologne is strong.  What does one say to a ghost?  I'm not scared.  Is that a good thing?  While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot.  He must have sat down again.  Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.

Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku.  The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms.  I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night.  There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable.  I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific.  Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.

One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet.  That was it.  Tonight I made it official:  Hiro's office had a ghost.  All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.

I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost.  "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?"  What am I?  The Ghost Whisperer?  Why would a ghost listen to me?  Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth.  Is that possible?  I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale.  "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says.  "Gives me the creeps."  Great.

Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence.  I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone.  Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.

So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian.  David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot.  I don't mess around with religions.  I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.

We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place.  Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him?  Immune?  Is that the right word?

Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now.  The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.

'Til next time, The End.

Crows, Blowing Winds, and Conspiracy Theories

The wind has been fierce for the past three days in Rikuzentakata.  Stepping outside means noses run, eyes tear, cheeks burn, and hair requires rearranging.  It's hard to walk.  It's hard to stand upright.  Window panes rattle causing an eerie whine. 

We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal.  The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but.  Finally last night I heard the whole story.

Yuji is drunk.  This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered.  By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.

"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this.  Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."

Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes.  While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss. 
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone.  "Look at these dates.  We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say.  "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind.  Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go.  I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before."  I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows.  Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky.  They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says.  "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.

What do I do with this pseudo-science?  Nothing.  Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory.  The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss.  I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect.  Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now.  Wouldn't I?

I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake.  It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?"  This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive.  I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami."  I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start.  Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad.  It's stupid, that's all.  If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku.  There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.

What would Yuji make of this?  I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural.  I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.

My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this:  thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface.  If only we could predict.