Just West of the Midwest Chapter 18: Spring in Shintomi

"You have to believe that the buds will grow.

Believe in the grass in the days of snow.

Ah, that's the reason a bird can sing.

On his darkest day

He believes in Spring."

~Douglas Malloch

Well, it's my third week in the office due to the fact that it's spring break and there's no school. So, I've been trying to keep myself busy with various work-related activities, studying my Japanese and working on new stories.

Here in Shintomi, the temperature (and humidity) is on the rise. The cherry (sakura) blossoms are beginning to fall from the trees. Sad as it is to see the beautiful blossoms disappear, wildflowers are waking throughout the town. 

Brightly colored petals are cropping up along the streets and the river banks.

In the parks and in the fields.

In neighborhood gardens and flower pots.

Brightening the gray, rainy days and my spirits.

I headed to the beach each day after work where I often find myself alone and loving every solitary moment. I've begun to jog again (okay, you can stop laughing now) and am finding it a great tension reliever - as is the long strip of deserted beach where, because of strong tides, no swimming is allowed. I must confess, I occasionally sing into the prevailing winds at the top of my lungs, dance a wild, unabashed, unbridled jig and have, more than once, built a sandcastle and then crushed it unmercifully like Godzilla - all without curious eyes watching me. During my recent jog-walks to the beach (about 2 miles) I have also discovered some charming parts of Shintomi that I hadn't known existed.

Where old, wooden barns, stained with times gone by, stand at the edge of rice fields in their early stages of growth. 

The young crop sprouts methodically and meticulously from its watery beds. In the reflection of each patch, the scattered clouds and light blue skies, the wooden shacks and passing strangers seem even more real, more earthy, more harmonious and serene than the world they reflect.

The winds often carry the scent of wildflowers mixed with the pungent, but pleasant aroma of the local dairy farms and the unmistakably salty smell of the ocean. It's a strange but comforting combination that I wish I could bottle and save for years from now when memories of my time here have faded.

Passing the farms along my route, bowing to and greeting those I meet, I look to their furrowed faces and small, strong frames and am reminded of the toil in working the earth. The old men and women shuffle along, their backs twisted and bent from years of stooping over rice fields and under cows. Like rings on a tree, their faces are impressed with browned, rough wrinkles that mark their years. 

Their smiles often toothless, but never missing warmth.

Their eyes, drooped and tired, still exuding an extraordinary spirit, causing me to wonder, "What would I see if I looked from those eyes?"

Occasionally, I run across some of my students playing ball at the steps of a small shrine, or hide and seek in an overgrown field that looks like fur on the back of a giant green dog. Nearly always, they stop in mid-motion and run to my side where they smile shyly and look to one another for the courage to speak. 

I'm still amazed by the fact that even though I have become a familiar face, my presence can still cause such commotion - both quiet and un. I always try to melt away any apprehension with a warm smile, a little Japanese and, for my littlest students, a big hug. 

Admittedly, it isn't always easy because I'm simply not always in the most cordial of moods. Yet no matter how much I first strain my facial muscles into something kind and welcoming, by the end of nearly every encounter, I wear my smile as easily and comfortably as a pair of faded old jeans.

I've also had fun discovering the many small shrines tucked away down tiny streets and hidden alleys in my little town. Shrines are well-worn and well-loved here in Japan and even though I am a devout heathen (or at least heartily convinced that organized religions have been the source of much of the world's prejudices and conflicts), I find the simplicity of Shintoism and Buddhism enticing. In truth, I enjoy spending time among the mossy green shrines, beneath the newly blossoming cherry trees, with my new community, giving thanks.

Akiko stood me before at an alter during the recent festival celebrating children and in her broken English, told me to clap three times and then bow, which I did. She then told me to hold the bow for as long as possible. 

"The longer you hold," she explained as she turned her own head toward me and gently smiled, "the more the spirits will see your devotion and the higher your blessings."

I wanted to tell her how very blessed my life already was.

But I simply held my bow and smiled.

Silent.

Grateful.

Contented.