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.

Hell and the Evil Called "Spider"

Why a book read to me by my first grade teacher has stayed with me all these years is a true mystery.  Books by Ayn Rand, the  Brontë sisters, and Charles Dickens are all lodged somewhere in my subconscious, but seem to have left significantly less of an impression than this one book.  How is that?  What triggers such a strong reaction to a book read to a group of six year olds?

The Japanese folk tale "Kumo no Ito" or in English, "The Spider's Strand" as in the single strand of silk it ejects when getting from place to place, is a story about a spider (God) lowering one lone strand down to earth to bring up the good people into heaven.  The good people of earth do indeed climb up, sharing the space single-file.  Pleased, God the Spider decides to do this again, at which point a bad man climbs up the strand of spider silk kicking down those who try to make their way to heaven behind him.  Displeased, God the Spider sends this bad man down into hell where the Japanese version of the devil, red, big, mean, surrounded by fire awaits this man.

That was all it took.  Spiders and Hell were forever connected in my mind.  Six year olds can be convinced of pretty much anything, and in my case this meant I began to believe spiders (God) some how have the power to send people to hell. 

Fast-forward to the no longer six year old me, I don't actually believe spiders are that powerful, or that there's some yet to be proven connection between spiders and god.  My point is broader than that.  I walked into a single strand of spider silk last night, connecting the staircase bannister to the wall.  I always find myself fascinated by the fact spiders actually get from point a to point b.  Do they fly?  Do they just float through air waiting to land on something?  Spiders lowering themselves downward, that I can understand.  It's this sideways movement, the strand that can measure many meters at times, how they do this is what confuses and fascinates me.

My fear of spiders and the horrible Japanese version of the devil all came back to me in that one instant as I frantically batted this strand off me.  Knowing I would feel this strand on me the rest of the night in the same way I feel non-existent spiders on my skin all day when I find one crawling on me in the morning, the miracle of horizontal spider-flight, amazing as it is, would be overshadowed by the fact I would toss and turn trying to rid myself of the strand I just walked through.  I really don't like spiders.  I am not proud to say I scream and flail when I feel one me.

This latest spider-thread incident has brought back how much of what I grew up with, all that is buried in my psyche untapped and ignored, is still very much a part of me regardless of whether I give it any time or energy.  Indeed, all it takes is walking into spider silk, and I'm taken back decades to the classroom where I trembled at the power of what is surely the evil called "Spider."