Sakura means peace

Sakura means peace

In Higashi Ojima I sit in a camp chair beneath some cherry blossoms. In front of me the best playground we know of is absolutely overwhelmed. Everyone, it seems, is in the park. The children swarm the zip lines, roller slide, climbing structures. For years now we’ve been lucky to spend these few weeks in Japan, in Tokyo, wandering beneath cherry blossoms, sitting in parks, and surrendering to the temporary nature of beauty. We’ve found peace in odd moments, and in huge crowds.

Being in Tokyo for the peak weekends of sakura, of hanami, is a gift born of cheap tickets and a repeated bet on the calendar. It’s a gift born of our new beliefs, that these are the good years. We are here because our friends are here, because we are focused on people, finding time with them wherever we are able. As I watch the playground the children from Australia enjoy the small roller slide while a hundred meters away 5’s climbs a ladder to the longest roller slide we’ve ever seen. In between and around hundreds of other children swarm, chasing climbing talking playing falling jumping flat out running. Above and around all this adults sit, alternating between taking in the moment and worrying over their progeny’s behavior. It’s a beautiful whirlwind, the playground of a park full of humans doing hanami with all their heart.

In the sento, a bit later, alone for a few moments, I soak in the hottest tub and consider how many friends have seen this room, the inside of our local bath house. A half dozen, I think. Friends from Vassar, friends from Tokyo, friends from Colorado, and from Hong Kong. This place, which I appreciate because the rest of the family does, which took me time to learn to love, has become a something to share. It has become relaxation I didn’t know I was seeking.

I love the small rituals of it, the lockers, the towels, the cleaning and the soaking. I love the mural, the way it’s so clearly built by and for people, for this community, this neighborhood. I appreciate the family that runs it and the work that such a place requires, open six days a week and the one day off time for cleaning.

Mostly I appreciate the space it’s given our evenings here in Tokyo, where kids and adults both take a break and breathe, take a bath and think.

Watching the cherry blossoms as the sun sets in a different park a week later, I am surrounded by fewer people but more friends. The blossoms are still up, but fading. I am so grateful to get another weekend like this, with time to sit and watch. With so many children and adults in our group, with all the children familiar with this area, there’s little need to pay specific attention to anyone. So I don’t, instead drifting in and out of conversations, watching children climb the castle at the playground’s center, helping them climb trees higher than they thought they could. I listen to people tell stories of work, friends, family, school, and the world. It’s a peaceful place, here among the falling petals, without worry. 5’s knows this park from so many days, at three and a half she’s a confident leader, taking people to the slide or heading back to our blankets to find someone. For half an hour she wanders with a stick, drawing X’s in the dirt all over. I find a few of them still clear some hours later, as I go looking for one of the other children on the swings in the gathering dark.

And as the evening ends I find the four oldest kids watching a juggler in the dark. He’s a young man, practicing eight balls in high rotation. His huge throws are eliciting the correct amount of awe from the children sitting side by side on a wall. A seven year old, two four years old and one three year old, they chat and watch. Two are from Hong Kong, two from Tokyo, and one just introduced today. They were shy at first, uncertain of language and etiquette. After seven hours of talking running sharing climbing doing and eating they are at last a group, at last sitting still to watch this juggler practice.

Finding them like this in the dark is a wonderful end to a week of peace, to another set of moments I’ll try to remember forever.

Runbike

Runbike

We are building new traditions, I have said. We are building ourselves, and the kind of family we hope to be. Most of these traditions are built in the small moments between things, in the off hours and off days. They are built in the ways we choose to do the things we want.

Thus this morning between bands of rain we went on a runbike. I start on foot, trying to maintain pace as we head south east from our apartment on big roads and small neighborhoods. Past a big shrine and turn west, heading up a long hill towards Ikebukuro. I work hard to the top and we pause at a red light to switch. I get on the bike, Clara on the back, giving Tara her turn to run along side, to lead and determine our path. We weave through small streets, crisscrossing a cemetery, before heading back towards the city. A quick couple of kilometers each, the runbike is something special, a way for the three of us to explore, to exercise, to appreciate Tokyo and Toshima. We get out in the world and sweat a bit, gradually shedding our layers into the bike basket as we run, and then cool down on the bike, coasting along while chatting with Clara. Or the opposite, a good warm up on the bike and then a quick run to top it off.

Exercising while traveling with a kid has always been one of the hardest things, requiring planks with extra wiggly weight on top, jumping jacks during nap time, or the occasional joint climbing session. It’s good then to have found a different way to share, to do things together as a family. Together we cheer the runner on and admire our small side-street discoveries.

And then, a few blocks from home, Clara declares it her turn to run and gets out to join. Thus they jog the last bit together in the rain, while I coast along behind, warm and happy with what we are building.

From Real Coffee

From Real Coffee

“This is on my list,” I say. She nods, chewing. Both of our eyes are elsewhere, on the ocean. We are watching the palms sway in the wind. We are watching the waves push across the world’s finest sand. We are watching the boats drift or motor past. In another way, we are remembering rather than seeing.

The list in question, of my favorite restaurants, is slightly absurd. It contains a dozen or so spots that are not primarily famous for their food. They’re often not famous at all. And, while I recommend them, they’re not places I expect others to love the way I do. Each one is a place that matters to me, that happens to serve food. Or coffee. Or alcohol.

Our first visit to Real Coffee was in November two thousand seven, the old location, mid-island behind Station 2. I remember the tables, the photos, the food, and the camaraderie. It was cramped and hot in November, and still great. The current location, with its second floor view of the ocean, has the same great food and friendly staff, the same photos and a super-sized sense of place. It is perfection. Every time I’m there I don’t want to leave. I just want another cup of real coffee and some time with my novel and the view, in alternating measures.

My favorite places are all like this. They’re places I am happy to be. I appreciate their owners, their staff, so much, because they’ve created not just a meal but a place, an environment. Creating something like that takes huge amounts of work. It takes work every day, greeting every customer, maintaining the business, cleaning the restaurant, cooking the food. It takes time chatting with customers, remembering faces, taking care of staff, holding holiday parties, giving sick leave. More than anything, building a great place takes caring.

I guess that’s what all my favorite spots are famous for.

Still moving

Still moving

On the 高铁 from Yunyang to Chongqing I share six seats around a table. By the window a man watches tv on his phone while eating snacks. He is well prepared, two different snacks, a battery pack, a Bluetooth earpiece, and a stand to put his phone at the most proper height and angle.

Next to him his wife sleeps, and next to her another woman likewise, head on the table. Underneath, between us, a full white plastic bucket of something, the couple’s. We all share space. Next to me, the head on table woman’s husband sleeps, arms crossed. Beside him, by the window, my factory contact, deep in a half dozen WeChat conversations with the team back in Rongchang, a suburb of Chongqing.

Across from me a man with fingernail clippers on his loaded keychain eats instant noodles while playing a mahjong game on his phone. Another couple sleeps across, arms in their coats to keep warm. This train passes through tunnels frequently and so is half dark half sun lit on our mid day journey. The hills north of Chongqing are steep and green, beautiful and necessitating the tunnels. It’s a two hour ride from Yunyang to Chongqing, and I am happy to be again out in the world.

The early bus rides and first tentative high speed rail links are two decades ago now. In twenty years the 高铁 has become commonplace here, so that “在高上” is what my noodle-eating neighbor yells at the phone when someone calls to ask where he is.

Some things have changed. The train staff collects rubbish frequently and asks the man listening to audiobooks or some long form story, perhaps radio, to use headphones. There are station announcements in English, though I haven’t seen another westerner in days.

Empty out

Empty out

In a forest in Lithuania I watch the sun shift through the trees. In the morning the light is thin shafts, pushing through in odd places. Then, near mid day, the snow is warm and wet and the light broad and full. Towards evening it will grow beautiful, the trees and frozen lake low and side-lit in high relief. Days pass. Eventually I have seen the cycle enough to write.

It’s rare, in the happening world, to have enough time to watch the same cycle of light for several days. It’s rare to have enough time to pay attention, to focus on the color of the branches which are a light brown only revealed in mid day, at the right angle. It’s rare to notice the difference between types of tree, to find favorites. It’s rare to walk barefoot in the snow, even briefly.

Rare for me, anyway.

It’s been years since I walked barefoot in the snow across the Vassar campus on my way to class. Years, though fewer, since I spent enough time sitting quietly to feel comfortable with doing nothing. And having found both activities again, it’s comforting to be at home in them, to step out of the heated house without considering my shoes, just curious about the snow and our ability to see the stars. It’s wonderful to say no to an activity and instead watch the light on the lake, watch the way the tree branches rise as the snow drips off of them in the sun. There are metaphors everywhere in these moments, in the uncurling, in the quiet cycles. I try to ignore them, to instead focus on my eyes, on the fly hopping around the curtain tops, on the smell of cedar.

Thus a few days pass, another gift of airplanes and old friends.