"Osaka, it is. I'm going to plan, then hit the hay. Good meeting you both." K stands up and walks over to a nearby table. His mellow tone paired with his Australian accent informed me that he's as soft as he looks. Not weak, not reticent; just gentle, easygoing. Before too long, he gets up to instead lay on a bean bag and tatami, finishing up his research. Meanwhile, I continue to talk to B.
She looks to be in her 50s, or perhaps it's my bad, perhaps she's younger and the wrinkles were carved into her by others, testimonies of the life she's led here. Her English is slightly seasoned with European flavor, and her passionate disposition reminds me of somewhere I'd studied, my area of emphasis in college. She tells me she's from Germany.
"If you don't mind me asking, what kind of work are you doing out in Japan?"
She's a researcher and a professor at a prestigious university here. I can't shake the feeling that perhaps the wrinkles around her face are undeserved, that she's more worn out that she should be, especially in her line of work. As I converse more with her, I feel like I've already known her for a couple of years by virtue of the way she speaks. She is direct and unswerving in her words. We get to talking about a lot of things, mostly revolving around our lives as foreigners in Japan.
She is a good listener, patient, and yet simultaneously saturated with sage sentences. And just general things she wants to say. She tells me about her troubles, past and present, vast and varied. A constant thorn in her side seems to be the diminishing ability of her students (and, my generation) to interact socially, off their phones and face to face. She grumbles about the direction she sees our technologically-suffused world is headed and about how her son's current childhood is galaxies apart from her own. In spite of myself, I feel inexplicably rejuvenated talking about these topics outside of church, with nonbelievers. In hindsight, it may have been because I've been realizing more and more how nonbelievers are still people with good and bad in them, much like believers are people with good and bad in them. (Perhaps I'm not being as theologically clear as I should be, but forgive me for saying that as I write this, I don't really care. Not in this moment, not in that moment.) Sounds so simple, right? But I still see such a huge gap between what comes forth from our mouths and what comes forth from our hands.
Toward the end of our conversation, as I share with her about my life here and about teaching English, she gives me fair warning that everything she's shared with me thus far has been only her experience, and that she's never taught language in Japan. Like I said, so far, her words about herself, about others, about Japan have been direct and unswerving. Her wrinkles now demand my respect, and I understand now that they are the weathering of the bow of a ship sailing across stormy seas; always going forward despite the battering waves and frigid winds. She tells me this, "If you really like this country, be well-equipped to be here." Sage and sobering. Life is not all play. I think we easily forget that, especially my generation. Life is real, it's tough, and it requires the work of your hands, not your sitting on your ass. I feel awake all of a sudden, like I'd just been assaulted by a breathtakingly cold zephyr. I ponder on her timely words that night.
The next morning K, B, and I sit together for breakfast, the few foreigners staying at this ryokan and we continue our conversation from last night. We try to convince her that there really do exist positives in this new age of technology, but by the end, K and I find ourselves becoming more fearful about the possibilities the future could spiral toward. As we go our separate ways to check out, I shake my head in disbelief; the three of us were only there for that one night. I feel a surge of happiness and relief that I had decided to approach K and B the night before. How I would have missed out on those precious moments of real, raw, gritty, and beautiful human interaction.
Dear friend, take those chances, don't be afraid. Don't miss out on moments such as these, please. And every once in a while, do something for yourself. Do something you'll fail at, in order to find that you actually didn't fail. Take baby steps toward your dream and be proud of walking, instead of crying over falling down. Play hard but work hard, too. Let every bruise and every scar toughen you up and keep crawling forward if you must. And never forget, you are loved, whether you feel you are or not. As surely as the Earth spins, as the seasons come and go in order, as running will leave you out of breath, you are loved. And who knows? Maybe you'll actually reach the place you're running to much more quickly than you thought. And if not, you'll only be a better person for stopping along the way to build bridges between your heart and others'. Cry deeply when it hurts; that's okay. But let's keep going forward together.
She looks to be in her 50s, or perhaps it's my bad, perhaps she's younger and the wrinkles were carved into her by others, testimonies of the life she's led here. Her English is slightly seasoned with European flavor, and her passionate disposition reminds me of somewhere I'd studied, my area of emphasis in college. She tells me she's from Germany.
"If you don't mind me asking, what kind of work are you doing out in Japan?"
She's a researcher and a professor at a prestigious university here. I can't shake the feeling that perhaps the wrinkles around her face are undeserved, that she's more worn out that she should be, especially in her line of work. As I converse more with her, I feel like I've already known her for a couple of years by virtue of the way she speaks. She is direct and unswerving in her words. We get to talking about a lot of things, mostly revolving around our lives as foreigners in Japan.
She is a good listener, patient, and yet simultaneously saturated with sage sentences. And just general things she wants to say. She tells me about her troubles, past and present, vast and varied. A constant thorn in her side seems to be the diminishing ability of her students (and, my generation) to interact socially, off their phones and face to face. She grumbles about the direction she sees our technologically-suffused world is headed and about how her son's current childhood is galaxies apart from her own. In spite of myself, I feel inexplicably rejuvenated talking about these topics outside of church, with nonbelievers. In hindsight, it may have been because I've been realizing more and more how nonbelievers are still people with good and bad in them, much like believers are people with good and bad in them. (Perhaps I'm not being as theologically clear as I should be, but forgive me for saying that as I write this, I don't really care. Not in this moment, not in that moment.) Sounds so simple, right? But I still see such a huge gap between what comes forth from our mouths and what comes forth from our hands.
Toward the end of our conversation, as I share with her about my life here and about teaching English, she gives me fair warning that everything she's shared with me thus far has been only her experience, and that she's never taught language in Japan. Like I said, so far, her words about herself, about others, about Japan have been direct and unswerving. Her wrinkles now demand my respect, and I understand now that they are the weathering of the bow of a ship sailing across stormy seas; always going forward despite the battering waves and frigid winds. She tells me this, "If you really like this country, be well-equipped to be here." Sage and sobering. Life is not all play. I think we easily forget that, especially my generation. Life is real, it's tough, and it requires the work of your hands, not your sitting on your ass. I feel awake all of a sudden, like I'd just been assaulted by a breathtakingly cold zephyr. I ponder on her timely words that night.
The next morning K, B, and I sit together for breakfast, the few foreigners staying at this ryokan and we continue our conversation from last night. We try to convince her that there really do exist positives in this new age of technology, but by the end, K and I find ourselves becoming more fearful about the possibilities the future could spiral toward. As we go our separate ways to check out, I shake my head in disbelief; the three of us were only there for that one night. I feel a surge of happiness and relief that I had decided to approach K and B the night before. How I would have missed out on those precious moments of real, raw, gritty, and beautiful human interaction.
Dear friend, take those chances, don't be afraid. Don't miss out on moments such as these, please. And every once in a while, do something for yourself. Do something you'll fail at, in order to find that you actually didn't fail. Take baby steps toward your dream and be proud of walking, instead of crying over falling down. Play hard but work hard, too. Let every bruise and every scar toughen you up and keep crawling forward if you must. And never forget, you are loved, whether you feel you are or not. As surely as the Earth spins, as the seasons come and go in order, as running will leave you out of breath, you are loved. And who knows? Maybe you'll actually reach the place you're running to much more quickly than you thought. And if not, you'll only be a better person for stopping along the way to build bridges between your heart and others'. Cry deeply when it hurts; that's okay. But let's keep going forward together.
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