Autumn Equinox Visitor

Autumn Equinox Visitor

This is the tale of who I, girl child, and resident Lab Lou met when we went for a respective night run, scooter ride, run last night. 

Once out on the riverbank, just opposite my Australian mate’s house, the hair on Lou’s back went up and he let out a Grrrr and couple cautious barks. I’d noticed he’d been sniffing with extra intensity up to that point, so turned back lickity split upon hearing a rustling down in the riverbed. 

It was then that I saw it. 

Whoa! Inoshishi! 

A huge freak’n boar! 

I fumbled for my iPhone as we stared each other down for all of a long 5 seconds--just long enough to increase my heart rate to the point of being relieved he opted to bolt rather than charge up the riverbank. 

Now, day after delayed reaction, it hit me.

 Last night, or more like early this morning just past 3 a.m., was Autumn Equinox. 

Autumn Equinox!  Why that's the time of Persephone’s return to Hades. 

But of course! 

Long ago, the boar’s tusks (much like the horns of the bull) became symbols of that mysterious orb in the heavens that perpetually died and resurrected, believed to be a god in its own right since the dawn of humankind, if not earlier. The moon’s disappearance was obviously a sign of decent into hell, where it’d remain for 3 days only to resurrect over and over again. World without end, Amen. 

The underworld is another common mythological motif, and no matter the culture or period it’s found in it’s always got a ruler. The earliest one that we know of was the Sumerian goddess Ereshikgal (sister of Inanna—first deity in recorded history to resurrect from the dead). She was queen of the underworld. In Japan it’s Izanami. There are countless others from other cultures and eras, but I've digressed long enough, it’s Persephone and her decent into the underworld that seeing the boar last night brought to mind, since it was a boar that killed her lover Adonis. 

Persephone and Aphrodite were both in love with the mortal Adonis actually, and love triangles are never pretty, right? So Zeus mediated and deemed each would spend a third of the year with Adonis. Zeus let Adonis choose who he'd spend the remaining third of the year with. I think he probably chose his dog. After eight months with feuding women no doubt he needed a break. 

In any event, Adonis wasn't so keen on spending four months of the year in Hades with Persephone, which she didn't like but it's a long story so I'll wrap it up by telling that this in a roundabout sorta way is connected to Adonis death via wild boar. The main thing to know is it was the boar that did him in. 

So there ya go! 

On the night of Persephone’s return to Hades the boar confused me with Adonis. This is my theory at least, since Adonis was considered the epitome of male beauty so Adonis? Casey? It’s an understandable mistake  😆  

Fortunately the boar, or the gods who sent the sinister swine assassin on its murderous  mission last night, weren't  counting on me having one of Cerberus’s more goofy, hyper-drooling, fun-loving, one-headed kin as my running partner. Thus Lou scared off the big bad piggy and I lived to tell this tale. 

And the moral of the story is? 

I guess there’s not one really, other than what a joy it is to get surprised by Nature. That and to contemplate these age old tales—all the myths and their metaphoric symbols about this Mystery—this Life thing we’re all swimming in.

Big M and little M at the old Numazu Public Gym

I used to see them in the weight room at Numazu city gym—the old one.

 I loved that place. It was raw. There was tape on the benches, welds on the dumbbells, a million black dropped-plate divots across the countless shades of brown, sweat and gym-shoe worn hardwood flooring. It was all Weider bars, racks and plates. Olympic stuff! The best there is.

The Japan powerlifting champion was there all the time. I haven’t seen him since the last day of training there. About twenty years ago, after some months of “konnichi wa's", when I first started going there, we got to talking a bit between  grunts and occasional “ganbatte ne” words of encouragement.  I’d always tell about me, as I still tend to do a tad too much. But he, true to man of greatness humility, spoke little of himself, and thus left me ignorant as to how much of a badass he was. It wasn’t till after years of knowing him that I heard from someone else that he was Japan powerlifting champion back in the ‘70s. He told of competing at the world championships in New York. Strongest man in Japan! My buddy at the gym. 

But today it’s not him, but them, that I think of—it’s their images that I hold in my heart.

With them too, it wasn’t till after months of cordial weight room macho man nods and “konnichi wa’s” that we introduced ourselves. They, like I, were foreigners in this land. Back then foreigners were still few and far between in the small city public gym. We stood out. I don’t recall which language we spoke. Was it English? Japanese? The one who did most the talking spoke English well. I remember that much. And it definitely wasn’t his native tongue, though years later results of a DNA ethnicity test revealed I’ve a long lost ancestor that must’ve known it.

من ایرانی هستم

man irani npastam

“I’m Persian!” 

Sure only 2%, but that’s 2% more than I ever imagined.

In any event, one day we introduced ourselves. We shook hands and I said something about never forgetting their names—about how it’d be easy to remember:

 “Mohammad and Mohammad”

Then he clarified:

“I’m Big Mohammad.

He’s little Mohammad.”

We laughed and laughed, and every time we met after that I would greet them as such.

Hey! Big Mohammad. konnichi wa

Little Mohammad. Yo! 

The names definitely fit. The little guy was thin as a rail. 

And Big Mohammad? The dude was freak’n huge.

I swear though his smile was even bigger’n his biceps. Back then, as I see yet again now and seemingly never ending, my nation and his were in conflict, and the leader of mine had said some stupid shit about his. I mentioned something to this effect to let him know most of us didn’t share in such dumbassery, to which Big Mohammad just smiled, shook it off and said:

“That’s politics my friend”. 

My friend.

I've yet to hear where my ol Japan powerlifting champ gym friend went after the old gym closed down. I see a few old faces at the new gym. The free weights part of the weight room's much smaller there. And they replaced all the Weider equipment with fancy rubber coated plates and bars that are already showing rust. There's about four times as many and all fancy high-tech new treadmills as in the old gym though, which brings in a lot more people. The old gym was leveled last year. Seeing the big vacant lot when I teach in a nearby building on Fridays always makes me think of it. I competed in my first and only Shotokan karate tournament there in 2000 and fought in a couple full contact Kyokushin karate tournaments there as well. But it's the weight room I miss the most. The weight room and folks I met there.

 Like Big M and Little M. 

I thought about them when skimming news this morning. 

I heard long ago that they’d moved back to Iran.

 I hope they’re doing well. 

Ganbatte ne

Prince Five-Weapons

Prince Five Weapons

A young prince had just completed his military studies under a world renowned teacher. Having received, as a symbol of his distinction, the title Prince Five-Weapons, he accepted the five weapons that his teacher gave him, bowed, and armed with the new weapons, struck out onto the road leading to the city of his father, the king. On the way he came to a certain forest. People at the mouth of the forest warned him. “Sir prince, do not enter this forest,” they said; “an ogre lives here, named Sticky-hair; he kills every man he sees.”

But the prince was confident and fearless as a maned lion. He entered the forest just the same. When he reached the heart of it the ogre showed himself. the ogre had increased his stature to the height of a palm tree; he had created for himself a head as big as a summer house with bell-shaped pinnacle, eyes as big as alms bowls, two tusks as big as giant bugs or buds; he had the beak of a hawk; his belly was covered with blotches; his hands and feet were dark green. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “Halt! You are my prey!”

Prince Five-weapons answered without fear, but with great confidence in the arts and crafts that he had learned. “Ogre,” said he, “I knew what I was about when I entered this forest. You would do well to be careful about attacking me; for with an arrow steeped in poison will I pierce your flesh and fell you on the spot!”

Having thus threatened the ogre, the young prince fitted to his bow an arrow steeped in deadly poison and let fly. It stuck right in the ogre’s hair. Then helmet fly, one after another, fifty arrows. All stuck right to the ogre’s hair. The ogre shook off every one of those arrows, letting them fall right at his feet, and approached the young prince. 

Prince Five-weapons threatened the ogre a second time, and drawing his sword, delivered a masterly blow. The sword, thirty-three inches long, stuck right to the ogre’s hair. Then the prince smote him with a spear. That also stuck right to his hair. Perceiving that the spear had stuck, he smote him with a club. That also stuck right to his hair. 

When he saw that the club had stuck, he said: “Master ogre, you have never heard of me before. I am Prince Five-weapons. When I entered this forest infested by you, I took no account of bows and suchlike weapons; when I entered this forest, I took account only of myself. Now I am going to beat you and pound you into powder and dust!” Having thus made known his determination, with a yell he struck the ogre with his right hand. His hand stuck right to the ogre’s hair. He struck him with his left hand. That also stuck. He struck him with his right foot. That also stuck. He struck him with his left foot. That also stuck. Thought he: “I will beat you with my head and pound you into powder and dust!” He struck him with his head. That also stuck right to the ogre’s hair.”

Prince Five-weapons, snared five times, stuck fast in five places, dangled from the ogre’s body. But for all that, he was unafraid, undaunted. As for the ogre, he thought: “This is some lion of a man, some man of noble birth—no mere man! For although he has been caught by an ogre like me, he appears neither to tremble nor to quake! In all the time I have harried this road, I have never seen a single man to match him! Why, pray, is he not afraid?” Not daring to eat him, he asked: “Youth, why are you not afraid? Why are you not terrified with the fear of death?”

“Ogre, why should I be afraid? For in one life one death is absolutely certain. What’s more, I have in my belly a thunderbolt for a weapon. If you eat me, you will not be able to digest that weapon. It will tear your insides into tatters and fragments and will kill you. In that case we’ll both perish. That’s why I’m not afraid!”

Prince Five-weapons, the reader must know, was referring to the Weapon of Knowledge that was within him. Indeed, this young hero was none other than the Future Buddha, in an earlier incarnation. 

“What this youth says is true,” thought the ogre, terrified with the ear of death. “From the body of this lion of a man, my stomach would not be able to digest a fragment of flesh even so small as a kidney bean. I’ll let him go!” And he let Prince Five-weapons go. The Future Buddha preached the Doctrine to him, subdued him, made him self-denying, and then transformed him into a spirit entitled to receive offerings in the forest. Having admonished the ogre to be heedful, the youth departed from the forest, and at the mouth of the forest told his story to human beings; then went his way.

As a symbol of the world to which the five senses glue us, and which cannot be pressed aside by the actions of the physical organs, Sticky-hair was subdued only when the Future Buddha, no longer protected by the five weapons of his momentary name and physical character, resorted to the unnamed, invisible sixth: the divine thunder bolt of the knowledge of the transcendent principle, which is beyond the phenomenal realm of names and forms. Therewith the situation changed. He was no longer caught, but released; for that which he now remembered himself to be is ever free. The force of the monster of phenomenality was dispelled, and he was rendered self-denying. Self-denying, he became divine—a spirit entitled to receive offerings—as is the world itself when known, not as final, but as mere name and form of that which transcends, yet is immanent within, all names and forms.  

--  THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES pp, 69-73

Disclaimer:  The photo is not an accurate representation of Sticky-hair I don't think, although the black ogre in the photo does try to eat everything.

In any event, I share this tale here because? Well, I'd been almost entirely news-free, at least as much as one can avoid news while still remaining plugged in to the online world, for over a month when I committed to teaching an advanced level adult ESL class at the start of this year. I've since returned to skimming headlines and of course can't avoid seeing opinions galore on social media, yet am glad I decided to use something other than current news or articles on contemporary global issues for discussion. It's no better or worse for helping folks increase their proficiency in a foreign language, just more in line with where I was at the time. 

Now at just over a month into the course we've covered Amanda Gorman's The Hill We Climb, Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot, and last night I introduced them to Joseph Campbell. Rather than model reading the text I played each by the charismatic miss Gorman, Carl Sagan and Campbell with his the intro to the Power of Myth, respectively. The outcome has been terrific.

 Some of the the poetic metaphor was a bit of a challenge but they all were more than up to it and learned something new. What's more is all of the materials thus far, especially discussing the life and works of Campbell and the seemingly countless rabbit holes that comparative mythology branches off into last night, has resulted in interesting discourse to say the least, not to mention they teaching me as much as I them. 

For example, I thought I knew about all there was to know about the symbols and rituals of Setsubun in Japan, (photo at the heading is of Setsubun ogre mask and beans) but lo and behold one retired university professor in  class told me things I'd yet to hear about, which in turn led to discussing ogres, demons, evils spirits and monsters and such and...

"Light bulb!"

I came home and searched online for the tale above only to be disappointed with the results, so looked it up in THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES and transcribed it to share with the students next week. It was easy to find in my copy since I had a post it note sticking to page 69 with the words "Bedtime story!" written on it. (and yes, for what it's worth all my kids loved and would sometimes request it at bedtime when they were younger) 

And so I put it here in hopes that maybe someone searching someday may find it--the Tale of Prince Five-weapons encountering Sticky Hair as told by the master storyteller Joseph Campbell. 

Here's to awakening to the thunderbolt

人間万事塞翁が馬 Ningen Banji Saiou ga Uma

人間万事塞翁が馬

Ningen Banji Saiou ga Uma

Human's Everything Saiou's Horse

Long, long ago there lived a poor old farmer in China named Saiou. He only had one son and one horse to work the farm, until one day his horse ran off.  His friends and neighbors came to console him. “That’s so bad about your horse” 

But Saiou calmly replied; "Bad? good? Who knows?"

A few days later when out working the field his horse returned with another younger, stronger horse following it. News of this spread quickly and once again friends and neighbors stopped by, this time exclaiming "How lucky you are!" 

But ol Saiou just smiled and said "Lucky? Unlucky? Who knows?"

Sure enough the very next day the new horse threw his son. He landed hard and broke his arm. Neighbors and friends came to see him. “We're so sorry to hear about your son"

 Saiou replied "Bad luck, Good luck, Who knows?"

A week later a warlord arrived on horseback. He was going through the area collecting all the young men to go fight and die in the Emperor's latest war. When Saiou called his son outside the warlord saw the boy's condition and moved on without him. 

And the neighbors came by and said...

And Saiou replied...

Politics or pornography

I’d been in Japan a couple years before one unforgettable late fall morning in 2000.  A few teachers were sitting on the sofa in the teachers room at the junior high school where I was teaching as I entered. They were talking about something in the newspaper one was holding. I walked over to join them and as I approached the science teacher looked right at me and asked with a straight face: 

“Henry sensei, how about your erection?” 

We’d joked quite a bit and talked about many things by then but … 

“My… uh… My… What!?”

I could feel my face grow warm as I fumbled for a reply until finally it hit me.

“Oh! The Election!”

I’d told of voting via absentee ballot so he was asking my thoughts on Bush v. Gore and the Florida recount. 

I should note that I still have the damnedest time pronouncing りゅ (ryu) correctly. For many Japanese it’s the “L” phoneme that gives them fits. Thus my (country’s) “election” became my “erection”. 

After I removed my backpack from where I’d unconsciously placed it in front of my crotch and told why I was laughing myself silly by then, his mispronunciation gave rise (pun intended) to a lot of joking and we all sat laughing about it until the bell rang. 

The story is true, and that’s about as much as I’ll share about politics, elections (or erections) online anymore. 

stung by fried chicken and smiling

“Ow Ow Oooow!”

I saw it fly out of my shoe while I was still in what must’ve looked something like a frantic mid-air twist  jump screaming kung-fu disco move. 

“Mud hornet! Damn that hurts!”

  I bolted for the door and ran inside.  “thump -  thump  - thump” went my one non-stung still shoe clad foot across the wood floor as I made a beeline for the poison sucker gizmo on the shelf, all the while yelling  “I got stung” to the two boys in the living room. 

One laughed.  I’m sure it did look rather comical but…

“Hey! I was stung dang it! This hurts”. 

He then showed some sympathy, suggested I wash it so okay, nice save, but oldest boy remained nose buried in a book over in the corner of the sofa. He’d yet to as much as look up and acknowledge my presence in the room even. I hobbled over closer to him while still working the poison sucker on my foot.

“Hey! I got stung!” 

Nothing.

 Once more I tried, this time in Japanese. 

ドロバチに刺された！

He looked up. 

Okay that got his attention.  I continued in that mode:

English translation:  “This is the second time this week! Look! A piece of fried chicken stung me when snorkeling on Sunday.” I said while pointing to the squiggly red bumpy line on the inside of my calf. 

I didn’t realize until he looked up again and smiled at me in a way that screamed “You’re making no sense whatsoever” if not “OMG you’re such a goof!”

“Fried chicken… fried chicken…. No. Jellyfish!” 

That was enough to bring noise outa his smile.  

Genuine laughter. 

I couldn’t help but laugh too as I defensively added

 “What? They sound the same!” 

Alas kurage (jellyfish) and karaage (fried chicken) sound nothing alike to my kids. I, on the other hand, can still easily confuse the two along with many other things, such as enema and nervous (kanchō and kinchō), or sweet bean paste and poop (anko and unko). It’s especially easy to do when excited. 

Evening now and the boy still can’t look at me without breaking out in that smile. I’m pretty sure it’s the “OMG dad’s such a goof” smile but so be it. I don’t mind it being at my expense one bit. If it gets him to smile then play it for all it’s worth.
“ Karaage ni sasareta. Mada itai desu. (I was stung by fried chicken. It still hurts.) 

Head shaking side to side he hides an ear to ear grin behind the book, but not before I see it. 

My god what a joy it is to see your kid smile after riding out some long, difficult to bordering horrific months of  pain, fear and more pain. I’m sure most taking the time to read this know what I’m referring to.  I don’t know what’s to come, but really none of us know what the next moment will bring so nothing new there. For now I’m just grateful the smiles are coming back more and more lately. Hell I’m even grateful for that danged mud hornet and piece of fried chicken. 

Or jellyfish. Whatever. 

My point, or advice even, is notice the smiles in life.

 Experience it for all its worth, 

and please,

 notice the smiles. 

Ripped into being alive

A 1 and an 8 ballon are taped to the wall on each side of the clock. I told the boy I will leave them there until we can replace the 8 with a 9. He agreed that was fine.

We got the final diagnosis the day after I hung them there. Now, going on two weeks later, I see his bike hanging there on the rack I made out of driftwood as I head out the door. It kills me to see it hanging there, unridden since I can’t remember when. I wonder if he’ll ever ride it again. 

I get in the car and drive to my first class. 

I put on my mask. 

I teach.  

Anyone the least bit perceptive could see through it I’m sure. They’d know I cried my way to work. They’d see the pain behind the mask.  Indescribable pain. 

Heart ripped right out of my chest pain. 

Does he really have this? Is he really there in the hospital as I type? Are they really pumping chemo into his body, maybe right this moment? I’ll text him later and he’ll probably give me a thumbs up.

 Not once yet have I heard him complain or ask “Why me?” A question I’ve asked a million times. 

“Why my son?” 

I just assumed it'd always be “them”, never “us”. 

Now it’s here. 

This is Life in the Here and Now.

I hold my wife through tears. My God what must be a mother’s pain? The fear on her face… 

I pull her in close so as not to see. I feel it too but I’ve got to be strong. I’ve got to stay hopeful, but it’s so fucking hard. 

“But suddenly you’re ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my god you’re alive and it’s spectacular.” 

~ Joseph Campbell

I cling to adages that have brought me this far. 

It doesn’t feel so lately, but there must be more joy again someday again.

 Am I life-worthy? Can I take this? 

God it just hurts.

 But I’m here for it still. 

I’m here for that boy till the end. 

Love and Compassion.

The photo is a love and compassion pictorial 
but maybe more on that in a later entry, I just wanted a photo to go with this one and this gift from friends is the first that came to mind. 

For now I'll just add that it's also a family portrait.

It hurt to see him wince while putting books in his bag. He went back to the hospital today. My God how life can change in a mere few weeks. 

I was understanding most of what the doctor was saying. The printer spat out pages—one with each click of his mouse as he explained in a calm, caring tone. Our son, my wife and I were sitting across from him. The nurse at his side would hand us the pages. I snapped a shot of one with google translate and tuned out the doctor as I read. 

"rare sarcoma … bone…. advanced” 

My heart began racing, I felt dizzy then everything went dark. Literally. I like to think of myself as a pretty tough guy. Back in the day I went up against some of the best wrestlers in the nation; have gone toe-to-toe with some pretty damned good full contact karate guys, worked years of hard labor framing homes and have a long list of other tough guy feats of strength that my ego is all too willing to be sure you know about, but this was too much for me. I passed out.

I used to tell the boy how much tougher it was for me. I don't tell him that anymore. Now I tell him how much tougher he is than me. There's not a doubt in my mind about that. He sat stoic as could be and took in every word the doctor said. His mom's tougher than me too. Granted I've held her through tears many times since that moment, but there in the doctor's office the shock of it all took the wind right out of me. 

At times still I wonder if it’s really happening. Could this all just be a bad dream? I mean this is the kind of thing that happens to other people. Not us!

But No…. It’s happening. This is life in the here and now, and just as in times of joy the here and now is all we've got. 

I'm home from teaching the day’s first round of classes. I start every morning at one of six kindergartens we have contracts with. I didn’t cry this morning as I have when driving to others in recent weeks. I was still holding on to the hope and optimism I gave to the boy and his mom when I left. So no tears to wipe away this morning, but same as mornings with them it was all I could do to don the happy sensei mask, to sing and chant with scores of genki little English learners. The mask fell as soon as I got back into the car. Numbness set in as I drove home. I turned up the volume as a favorite song began to play…

“You’re right,

there’s nothing more lovely,

nothing more profound,

than the certainty, the certainty

that all of this will end

that all of this will end…”

And so it will.

The richest in the world will lose all their wealth.

The prettiest in the world will lose all their beauty.

The most powerful in the world will lose all their power. 

The strongest in the world will lose all their strength.

Same holds true for the downtrodden.

The sickest will lose their sickness.

The weakest will lose their weakness.

The poorest will lose their poverty.

And yet, I believe that love somehow transcends it all.

Somehow. In some way. It’s a belief that stems from ideals instilled in me long ago such as:

 “Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me”

Love and compassion touch on something outside of this realm. They are of the Spirit.

It's the :...no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me" as the Apostle Paul put it. 

It's the Bodhisattva remaining in this world to ease the sufferings of others. I have no science or data to support this. It’s something that’s come more from life experience. And yet it’s a certainty as solid as that that all of this that we see and touch, taste and smell around us, will indeed end.

It’s been a tough month. This journal—my Mac Pages “2023 Life” file--is now at 68,204 words. At least a good 10K—mostly prose with a bit of poetry mixed in—was written over the past month. Venting thoughts and feelings on the keyboard is a good way to work through emotions for me. There’s been a lot of emotion lately. 

My wife told me I should put it on my blog. I thought that kinda strange since she never reads my blog. Heck sometimes I don’t even think she reads my texts! but okay, I’ll do it.  

She suggested as much after finding solace in another mother’s blog. Her comment there led to her and that mother now texting daily. That mother and her son will pay us a visit someday in the not so far off future. The son is 25 years old. When he was in high school he was diagnosed with the same that our boy has. It’s rare. It’s deadly. It scares the hell out of me, but maybe my writing on it here will help someone as well. 

I also want to share with family and friends who don’t know yet. I’ve pretty much fallen off the social media thing since we returned from a trip to California. It’s so strange this life… We’d taken the boy to the doctor before then. He’d had x-rays, regular shiatsu appointments and back again to the doctor. Nothing showed up. Never in a million years did we expect what the MRI and blood tests eventually revealed after the pain really hit hard a couple times during vacation. Apparently the pain is intermittent with this kind of thing. Still now it comes and goes. Last night fine. This morning hurting.

Thus I started this one with thoughts of sharing it as a blog entry. In time I'll come back to add bits of previous tales of love and compassion and “no coincidences” shots of hope from the Universe--help from Above--embraces from God--moments metaphysical no matter how described--that’ve come over the past month as well. 

Things like me just knowing I couldn’t don the “everything’s fine” teacher mask for that one adult student. I told my wife;

 “I’m telling M- san”. 

People don’t share things like this so much in Japanese culture, especially not in the workplace or with a student who's paying for a service, but I’m not Japanese and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past 19 years it’s to follow my heart. And soI began the lesson with:
“You want real communication, right?” 

He agreed with a confused look on his face.

Okay… And so I told, only to learn that his son, a teenager now and also my student, was given less than a 10% chance to live when doctors found an even rarer form of cancer in him at 18 months old. 

Things like that give us hope. And as I type as much the tears return…

I’ve benefitted much from the works of Joseph Campbell over the years in my own battle with a different disease.

On one of the countless dog-eared and highlighted pages of Reflections on the Art of Living Campbell advises:

“say ’yes’ to life: ‘yea’ to it all.

Participate joyfully

in the sorrows of the world.

We cannot cure the world of sorrows,

but we can choose to live in joy.”

a few pages on he adds:

“If you are lifeworthy,

you can take it.”

Am I "lifeworthy"? Can I take this? So far apparently so. Not always joyfully but I’m here for it. I am here for that boy. If by chance you’ve read through my ramblings this far, then thanks in advance for each and every shot of hope and love, compassion and prayer and good energy.

I think it’s on my FB page, or maybe it’s my Skype account? Somewhere I have another line by Campbell:

“The purpose of the journey is compassion”

The only things we can know for certain in this life are what we experience. Everything else is hearsay. That said I can say with certainty that nothing so much gives rise to compassion as being there for a sick child. This I am able to do today because I followed my heart to my own belief in the Ultimate Reality--in what this Life thing is all about. That in turn has resulted in me still being here to care and provide for the boy, his two healthy siblings and my wife now nearly19 years sober. 

Thus I am grateful. 

My boy is in the hospital as I type this.

There weekdays and home weekends

Treatment begins.

 His mom is still there with him. 

As I sit alone at home between classes,

Hurting but not even close to being done with the Joy

And sorrow, and come what may.

Right here

Right now

And I thank everyone who’s heart is with us

No matter your race or religion, who you are, vote for or love or any of the divisions we humans tend to focus on in this life of opposites.

Love and Compassion is transcendent.

It’s the stuff of eternity.

Slippers. I did it again!

I did it again! 

My gosh how many times does that make it now?

 Every time I do it, or some kind of similar “Ugh! what a dumb ass cultural blunder that was!” move, I can’t help but think of a friend who visited during my first year in Japan and laugh. I don’t even remember exactly what it was he did when we went to the A-bomb museum in Hiroshima, just him telling that he did some kind of bonehead tourist move only to have the staff point it out to him and, in telling me about it once outside the museum he said: 

“They’re probably wondering, ‘How’d we lose the war against these people?’” 

That was a good visit. We traveled all over this land and laughed a lot. 

In any event I recalled that time while laughing at myself when walking back to my car this morning.  I pictured the staff at the door shaking their heads as they watched me go:

“He forgot to take off the toilet slippers when he left the toilet? What a dumbass! How did we lose the war to those people?!”

When I was all finished I went to leave and the lady said "You forgot your slippers"

"No, those aren't mine" I replied, only to notice... "Ah shit!"

Then have to explain (in Japanese of course) that I'd forgotten to take off the toilet slippers when I went there to do the urine sample. 

I asked my wife about it this evening. Have you ever forgotten to take off the toilet slippers when you left the toilet? I could tell by the “What’ya think I’m some kinda dumbass?” look in her eyes that she hadn’t before she even replied. So apparently it’s not something the Japanese do. But me? Well, yeah. 

This morning it was at my yearly physical, which was held in the building that houses the public health department offices. The town I’m in, like most other’s in Japan I’m guessing, mails health check packets out to its citizens around their birthday every year. The packet is basically a “Time for your yearly physical” kinda thing. It’s got all the info on how to sign up or when and where they’re being held. It’s a fantastic system and $20 for a full on medical check is a small price to pay for peace of mind. 

There's plenty I think they could do better in this land I'm in, but gotta give credit where credit’s due and they’ve got affordable, annual medical checkups for every citizen down to a fine science. Since turning forty I've gone to my regular doc to get it done maybe once every three to five years. You can do that to get a more thorough physical, like last year I went to Dr. Takahashi so I could get the up the butt and down the throat cameras. (hopefully different cameras or not in that order!) but so far everything’s checked out fine so most years I opt for a big exam test site. You can't get a butt cam there, but still they take a look inside your guts via the barium drinking belly x-ray test. They have trucks set up outside the building—a couple for that and one for chest x-rays—then the blood drawing, pee in a cup, blood pressure and physical exam by doc and all take place inside the building. 

The pee in a cup part was right at the beginning. I went in came out with my little sealed vile full of pee, handed it to the lady at the next desk then went through the next half dozen or so sections completely oblivious to the fact that I’d forgotten to change out of the toilet slippers. 

Depending on the type of place you’re at here there might be slippers to change into at the entrance then others to wear in your room (like in a hotel) or still others to wear if you step out on a patio and of course then there are the toilet slippers. I’d just as soon go barefoot or in socks and often do in places like a hotel or spa, but when handed slippers by someone at the door I just think “when in Rome” and put them on. I just wish there was a flashing sign outside the toilet that said “TAKE OFF TOILET SLIPPERS HERE!” though. That’d be helpful. 

But there’s not, so I did it again, and yet again a small group of Japanese probably looked on in amazement at how anyone could do such a bonehead thing, all the while wondering to themselves... .

“OMG! How did we lose the war to those people?” 

Oh well, medical check done for another year at least. 

Grateful for that I am. 

I guess I should be grateful that knowing slipper etiquette is not necessary for winning wars as well.