For more than 2 years my tummy has been behaving weirdly. My sleep, also, has been disrupted easily, and I have often felt fatigued. Why? Are they common symptoms of getting old? Or am I having too much stress?
August is usually the month many people take a break and community events wind down. I had promised to myself that I will stay at our cottage on Texada Island most of August….no scheduling, no to-do-list, just to “be” there and relax.
When Neil and I both retired, we chose to build our house in Powell River, because it is the closest town to Texada island. We thought it would be convenient, we could get there quickly and easily. All we needed to do was hop on the ferry boat.
Powell River has been our home town for 5 years now. We love this musical, vibrant, and friendly town. We are involved in a variety of communities in town…neighborhood, exercising, walking, singing, reading, meditating, church…, lots of commitments, which always come with duties and responsibilities. I look over from Powell River shore to Texada shore, feeling a bit sad. When can I relax at our cottage?
There came another August. I made sure my promise to myself would be realized. We are now on Texada island, after the many months of waiting. Today is the seventh day here. Under the shiny blue sky, I see a bit of haze/smoke from wild fires somewhere down south. Beautiful, just so beautiful. “Cleansing My Soul” is a Japanese expression, that means being truly worry free.
It’s like a magic. My tummy which was giving me hard time is now behaving well. I am sleeping deeply every night. I am enjoying cooking and cleaning which used to be mere chores. Where did my stress go?
We all need to have the time for our “soul cleansing.”
Women in my family – from left – me, my daughter, mom, my sister, my niece
My mother suddenly died in 2012. It was the year after the horrific earthquake and tsunami followed by the unbelievable nuclear meltdown in Fukushima. How time flies relentlessly… Her death was totally unexpected. She was only 82 and relatively well. One day, she had heart failure while taking her bath, and drowned.
She was a creative person, elegant and fashionable. A huge collection of her clothes was left behind. It was a weird feeling stepping into the familiar house with all her clothes, and her scent vividly present, but mom herself was gone…nowhere. Yet I feel like I can still hear her voice, her sigh, and laughter…My father passed away late last year, so my sister and I had to do something about their stuff.
One of the big problems was my mother’s hand dyed silk clothes. She dyed them herself, all from scratch and made into beautiful dresses, but all specifically fit to herself. Unfortunately, neither my sister nor myself could wear her dresses. Over many years I watched mom working hard day and night hand-dyeing the silk. She would make patterns, etch and cut, color onto silk, wash, dry…etc., such a complicated process… Who could throw them away, or donate them to strangers who might or might not appreciate the love and sweat that went into the silk. But then, what should I do with them? After thinking hard, I came up with an idea. What if I undo all the dresses and turn them into patch-work quilt and make bed spreads for my sister and myself?
However, there was a serious problem. I had no idea how to quilt; absolutely zero experience and zero knowledge about quilting. It was an incredible challenge for me and I didn’t even know where to start.
Right then, Jeanette came into my life, like an angel God had sent for me, and offered to teach me how to do this step by step. Thus…. the challenge of making my first ever quilt began. I opened my sewing machine which was tightly put away in its cover case. It had traveled with me through many moves, once across the Pacific Ocean, and had never been opened for many years. OMG… it was in disappointing shape. Some critical parts were missing, and it was in no way usable. So that was the end of my sewing machine that had traveled all the way from Japan 35 years ago. Jeanette mercifully lent me her machine.
My heart ached undoing my mother’s perfectly beautiful dresses. Yeah…mom had such sloping shoulders that were great in a kimono, but a couple of shoulder pads were necessary for dresses. She would hand-dye silk fabrics and dry them hanging wall to wall, like flags hanging in the house. I couldn’t help stopping my hand every time such memories occupied my head. What a slow process it was.
Even so, thanks to Jeanette, there are two beautiful bed spreads, after two years, all finished. My mother’s “bingata-zome ” dyes were reborn, reincarnated into something I could be proud of. I can tell my children, nieces and nephews, that these bed spreads were dyed by your grandmother, and quilted by Obaba (me). They can pass them on to their children for generations to come. Isn’t it wonderful?
I was so happy.
Thank you so much, Jeannette. I have no words to express my gratitude to you!
So…., I’m thinking….What should I quilt next….Is it going to be my new hobby?
Every two years, Powell River, the small town I live, hosts an international choral festival called Kathaumixw. It is, I was told, the only international choral festival in Canada. Kathaumixw means ‘gathering of different people’ in the local indigenous language.
It’s been around for 40 some years, and apparently this year was the 20th festival. Canada’s Independence Day, July 1, was the opening day and it literally filled the small town with choral music for 5 full days. The participating choirs came from not only Canada and USA, but also Costa Rica, Slovenia, New Zealand, Philippines, and Taiwan. My choir was the festival host choir. What a super-hectic, super-stimulating, super-exciting, and super-exhausting 5 days!
When the festival was over, I found myself in a somewhat stunned or ‘out of it’ state. My heart was crying out…”no, I don’t want it to end!” “Let me linger in the exhilaration!”, then slowly turned to ”I am so sad”, “l’m missing the excitement already”….
Especially the final concert was so inspiring to my heart. For four days since the festival opened, almost 1000 singers, learned the three beautiful choral pieces together, and rehearsed together, under the direction of Dr. Zimfira Poloz. Dr. Zimfira is the director of the Toronto Children’s Choir and a well-known well-respected educator in Toronto. I got to learn so much from her.
Dr. Zimfira told us a bit of her life story. She was an immigrant (refugee?) from Kazakhstan. When the USSR had collapsed, she and her husband emigrated to Canada. They were concerned about their future in Kazakhstan and Canada was one of only two countries in the world willing to welcome them. Their life in Canada was not easy, but every time they were given opportunities or challenges they felt so grateful. She said she would never take anything for granted.
Wow, she went through a similar path as an immigrant as myself, I thought. Of course, I immigrated from Japan which is a peaceful and stable country, and I didn’t have to be concerned with my security or my future. However, to a woman from Japan with hard-to-pronounce name, and not especially talented in anything, Canada gave me opportunities to build a decent life. I met many good hearted people. Abundant nature, peaceful country, clean air, warm kind friends…I feel so grateful.
So now, the festival is over. The town is back to normal getting ready for the tourist season. I run into my choir mates in town, we say to each other, “I can’t get those 3 pieces out of my head…..They are still ringing in my head.” Aren’t we lucky?
Music is the only language that has power to speak directly to our heart. Music can unite people instantly. I want to say my heart-felt “thank you” to my late parents who initiated music education for me 60+ years ago. And “thank you” to our beloved town of Powell River that included me in its music community.
Opening concertFirst rehearsal of 3 common songs 参加者全員での最初のリハーサルConcert コンサートAfter the concert with my granddaughter Sumi and her friend コンサートの後で
Two months after my father’s funeral, I went again to Tokyo and spent the whole month sorting stuff at my parents’ house.
It was overwhelming. Amazing volume of stuff, like my mother’s clothes, kimono, her artwork of silk-dye paintings, bone china paintings, and her water color Japanese paintings, lots of gifts given to my father during his 30 years of working in Los Angeles, Indonesia and San Francisco, many of them still beautiful, carved on valuable teak woods that are now extinct, and also…there are many artworks my parents purchased….Where can I start?
I did my best to sort stuff to a pile of keeps, no keeps, and throw aways in that one month I was there. However, I was no way near finishing when I had to return to Canada.
It was beyond my imagination how difficult this task could be….I was stunned to see how wasteful…. I was surprised to find out how different we all are. Even family members have different views and values, different reactions, different tastes…..
Just after we arrived in Los Angeles in 1969, we went on a family driving trip to Mexico. The moment we crossed the border from the US to Mexico, the scenery changed drastically, from green lawns to brown desert. Dry dusty sands were blowing everywhere and tiny houses looked built with layered carton boxes. People looked poor wearing clothes torn and disfigured. I was shocked to see how differently inside and outside of the border looked.
We saw a man with brown tanned face wearing a big straw hat, putting some wooden carved birds at the roadside. My mother said, “how interesting! Can we stop and see?”
So we stopped our yellow Chevy Impala, got out, and looked the birds that this cheerful and friendly man had carved. The birds were so simple, not even oil stained, but so interesting and cute.
From that day, for 55 years the birds sat in the corner of my parents’ living room and watched over us. Whenever I saw these birds, I thought of the man’s smiling face, his straw hat, the burning sun, the dry sand, the poor villages….. I couldn’t dare throw the birds away. I wanted to send them to Canada. However, I was told that since the birds were carved with untreated wood, they would not be permitted to enter Canada. I was crushed…so sad.
After I came back to Canada, I received a message from my daughter in Tokyo. “Look who are here!” The wooden birds are now sitting in my daughter’s home! ‘Oh they were adopted!’ You wouldn’t believe how happy I was!
I was born in 1955, only 10 years after the end of World War II. I grew up during the time Japan was so poor, just recovering from the dreadful war, and there was nothing. Things were scarce and nobody had anything luxurious. ‘Do not waste things,’ ‘you have to take care of things’, ‘cherish your possessions’, my parents and grandparents told me over and over. Perhaps that’s why my heart aches when I see things that look completely fine thrown into the garbage pile. I hear the utterances of others…. I don’t want this… I don’t want that… it’s not my taste…. it doesn’t suit my house….,I don’t have the space for this…..
I know it’s a popular trend to get rid of things, keeping the bare minimum, and living a simple life as an extreme minimalist.
However, I can’t do that. Of course, I don’t agree with the lifestyle with too much stuff, the house turning into a hoarder’s.
But for me, stuff is part of my history.
I would like to treasure things that bring back memories. I want to keep loving stuff that had dear meanings in my life. I would like to value my relationships with those special things.
After all, did you know that Zen Buddhism which is supposed to have had immense influence on Japanese culture, actually teaches that ‘things’ have souls as well?
My father’s funeral was held at his church in Tokyo. It was a Christian service. Although the minister of the church had never met my father, he performed a heartfelt, sincere service that I truly appreciated.
Although I appreciated the funeral service, I didn’t feel peaceful about everything else after the service. The farewell staging was so pretentious that it left me cold. I have to note that it was after the church service and it had nothing to do with the minister or the church.
The farewell staging, or final goodbye, included some discomforting rituals.
The funeral director from the undertaking company, for example, told us to stroke my father’s face to express our love. The family members all stroked the icy cold face.
I also felt awkward sitting in the hearse which was driving off from the church while a group of people singing hymn were seeing it off. It reminded me of a scene from a century old black & white movie. The hearse carried my father and us to the crematorium.
And more dreadful ritual was that the family members picked up his burnt bones with chopsticks and placed them into the urn.
It didn’t sit well with me at all. I felt extremely uncomfortable. People say it’s just how funerals are conducted in Japan. It’s one of those cultural things. It sure is a big cultural difference. But it was not just that. Something was making me feel uneasy. What was it? I kept wondering.
It’s been almost 3 months passed since that funeral day. Thinking back now, I feel that the reason I felt so uneasy could be coming from my fundamental lack of understanding.
What is the objective of the funeral? I feel that in Japan the focus of the funeral is on “death”. It reminds us over and over that the person is now dead.
The focus of a funeral in Canada, where I have been living for the last 35 years, is more on “life”. The life the person lived is remembered.
I still remember how the cold face felt on my palms. It was something I didn’t want to remember. I wanted my father to be alive in my memory until the day I die. I wanted him to be a healthy lively person with a warm and beautiful soul, not a cold corpse or fragile bones.
Experiencing such a cold face would be too shocking for my little grandchildren. I worry that they would only remember that coldness rather than the warm smile and beautiful bass voice of their great grandpa who loved them.
My father lived more than 13 years after my mother passed. He lived to be almost 97 years old. People say, he had a long happy life. Yes, for sure, he did have a long life. However, his last 13 years must have been terrible. I cannot believe he had ever felt anywhere near “happy”. Perhaps some natural defense mechanism had kicked in, possibly in order to blur his loneliness, his memory had started to deteriorate little by little. It eventually took away his ability to recognize us, his family faces. He could not remember us despite our strong kinship. He had dementia.
Dementia is a terrifying disease. I read an article about it describing what it would be like. Imagine sitting in an airplane all by yourself, not knowing why, definitely not because you want to go somewhere. The plane takes off and lands somewhere and you have to get off. You see people everywhere, surrounding you and talking. But you don’t know anybody. You don’t understand a word they are saying. You feel helpless, you don’t know what to do. Some people look aggressive, and you feel they may harm you, but there is no way of defending yourself. You are totally alone.
My father must have felt like this for the last several years, fearful and devastated. How terrifying it must have been.
I am sad I was helpless, powerless and worthless for him. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even be physically with him, just sit with him, help him feel at peace. Of course I was living far away, but still…..
My father was the person who was always quick to help me when I got in trouble, in tears, or feeling lost and overwhelmed. He was also quick to celebrate my joyous moments, flying to wherever I was.
It hurts to recognize that I was utterly useless when my father needed me the most, and there is no other chance left for me to make it up.
In July, I visited my son and his family in Honolulu for a week.
My journey began with taking a small plane from Powell River to Vancouver. I enjoyed the thrill of low altitude flying and dynamic Sunshine Coast sceneries. A few times, the young handsome captain made announcements in the plane. His talk was amazing…supreme tongue twister…totally impossible to keep up and understand what he was speaking. I thought, well… he must be saying something boring that he could even repeat in his sleep for every flight…how could it be important? 😜
So I arrived in Honolulu. My goodness, I noticed people are speaking so fast there too. I had to keep saying “eh?” asking for repetition. How come people speak so fast? Definitely faster than people in Powell River.
Then a memory came back to me. It was perhaps about 30 years ago. I was working in a college called Harbourside College. It was a small school and I was one of the few administrators responsible for key tasks like registration, marketing, and student services. I was always super busy. Every time I walked out of the office, people asked me questions from all corners of the school. Then I would go home to my three little children, all craving for my attention, and waiting to be fed. One day, I went to Japan for business and stayed at my parents’ home for few days. When we were having conversations, my mother looked at me puzzled and said. “Why do you talk so fast?” Suddenly, I was hit by a surprise. Am I speaking so fast? I never even noticed that. Is it because of my busy life? Have I forgotten to take time to enjoy conversations? Have I forgotten to relax?
After all, when I think of it, my mother, then, was around my age.
So, that means, Neil and I with our old dog Lu are aging and becoming slower. No wonder, living in slow countryside towns of Powell River and Texada Island is very comfortable for us. Does that mean we will keep getting older and slower without even noticing? Isn’t it scary?
Last year I suffered from terrible sciatica…perhaps caused by my lack of exercising (?). In any case, I promised myself, “never again”! I was determined to work on becoming fitter. I began with muscle training. I attend fitness classes almost everyday. A class called “Strength and Core” is held on Monday mornings at the Powell River Rec Centre. There are many fitness classes offered there, but I find this class most effective for me.
Of course, there are many other like-minded people who also come to this class. Although demanding and exhausting, the class is very popular. In order to secure a favorite spot, people typically arrive 30 minutes before the class, go straight to the spot and spread their mat. It’s funny…some people like to be close to the instructor; some want to be closer to the wall, some want to have the best view of themselves in the mirror…etc. I like to be in the front row, close to the mirror, and close to the instructor.😆 I’m also one of those people who arrive early before the class, and spread my mat at the right spot. I love to be perfectly prepared.
And, one day….the class was just starting….music came on….bodies began to move….. just at that moment, a tall guy with fuzzy hair arrived to the class. He was perhaps in his 50s, perhaps with some kind of mental/cognitive challenge. He walked right into the class, and walked straight toward where I was. He said to me, “you are in my spot.” Apparently, he usually comes on Tuesdays, and the instructor is reserving this spot for him. I almost said “No, this is my spot!”, but I didn’t. Instead, I just nodded, moved my mat, and let him take my spot. I thought, since he might have some kind of disability, I better let him do whatever he needed. Later on, some of my classmates said to me, “You didn’t have to give him your spot”. Of course I didn’t have to, but I felt I did the right thing.
A few days later, I ran into this guy on the road. I said “Hi!” with my usual smile. His face was motionless. He looked rather nervous and murmured something to me. “What?” I couldn’t hear him. He said, “do you want to go to the Chinese restaurant in the mall nearby?” I was surprised, not expecting such an invitation. What should I say to him? My mouth stumbled….“Uuuum… I have to go home right away.” He nodded and kept on walking. I felt sorry and walked away, but kept on thinking, “did I do the right thing?”
Was I mean? The guy perhaps has no friend….he might have thought I could become his friend. It might have required so much courage for him to talk to me. And no doubt, he thought he was rejected…actually that was true…I did reject him. I’m sorry. When I put myself in his shoes I could really feel his pain.…
Lilacs
昨年、坐骨神経痛なるものにかかって大変苦しい思いをした私。2度と同じ苦しみを味わいたくないと筋肉をつけるトレーニングを始めた。パウエルリバーの市が経営するフィットネスのクラス、いろいろある中で私は月曜日の朝のStrength and Coreというクラスが特に気に入って毎週行くようにしている。
We came back to Texada Island finally, after 9 long months. I love this island. It’s so close to my vision of heaven. Hard to believe that we have been coming here for so long. We built our round cottage 20 years ago. In it, we created a Japanese tatami room with some tatami mats. It turned out beautifully. However, of course, our dog Kuma had to go onto the brand new tatami to have a terrible diarrhea. Although somewhat nicely faded over time, the stains are still visible after 20 years. But you know what? I even love those stains. It makes me smile. The cottage has been a restful healing place for us. It has been witnessing our life and family history for 20 years.
‘Gosh… 20 years! No wonder we are getting old…”, we sigh. Time is indeed flying away like a butterfly.
We moved to Powell River 3 years ago and have been enjoying our retirement. We feel blessed to be included in this friendly community…for example….
When I went to my fitness class in the morning, one of my classmates brought me a bunch of green asparagus from her garden. She said, “You told me you love asparagus, right?” “Yes, I love them! Wow…beautiful asparagus!” They were very delicious.
The same day, when I finished exercising, I went to a coffee shop. I ordered a cup of coffee and a muffin. The clerk said, “Yours have been already paid.” “Oh no, I haven’t paid yet….” I looked at her puzzled. She smiled and said, “The person in front of you in the line had a gift card, and said to use the money left on the card to pay for the next person’s order.” Wow, a stranger has treated me my breakfast for no reason, and made my day.
How cool is that! What a happy day.
From the ferry boat to Texada IslandOur Round Cottage
I live in Canada, a nation known to be one of the most culturally diverse. However, the major stream of its racial profile is white Caucasian. No doubt about that. So it is a country of European descent people wherein other races, yellow, red, brown, and black people are mixed in. In the countryside, like Powell River where I live, there are way less Asians. Unlike some areas like Vancouver or Richmond, Asians in Powell River are definitely a minority.
Several months ago, I had a lovely lunch with my new friend. She is a Caucasian in her late 60s or early 70s, an intelligent woman with a warm compassionate aura. She seems to emanate loving and caring light, and I truly admire her. So at this lunch, although I can’t remember what we were talking about, in the middle of our conversations she opened her eyes wide and said, “oh, that means….how old are you?” So I said, “67” I have no reason to hide my age. She looked genuinely surprised. “What? So you are of the same generation as I am. I had thought you were in your 40s.” It was my turn to open my eyes wide. “What? Wow… I’m so happy. You made my day!” So as you can imagine, I had a wonderful rest of the day, smiling and humming.
The next day, when I went to my usual fitness class, there was a non-regular person, an older Caucasian woman participating in the class. As soon as she saw me, she said, “are you Emily’s mother?” I was stunned. Emily is a slender Chinese-Canadian woman around my age. “What? No way!” Although pretending like it was no big deal, I was offended like crazy….with my chest burning with anger and shock.
What a change in just one day!!
Recently, I read an article about how hate and racism toward Asians are increasing. It had been boiled up by the Covid turmoil and has been persistently continuing.
After the class I said to Emily “somebody asked me if I am your mother.” Emily laughed and said, “she has probably had no Asian friends in her life. There are a lot of people like that. They merely don’t know or not interested in knowing Asian people.”
I thought Emily’s reaction was pretty cool. Yes, she is right. This is not even racism…it’s only a phenomenon coming from ignorance. It made sense to me.
I’ve read somewhere that the discrimination toward Japanese Canadians around the time of WW2 was ignited by the fear coming from ignorance of the general public about Japanese Canadian people. Ignorance is dangerous and could end up in sad situations.
So if you make friends with people from many different cultures, would the world be more peaceful?
I don’t know. It doesn’t seem that simple, does it?
My 95 year old father surrounded by his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Only missing is me!
数ヶ月前だったかこんなことがあったよ。新しく出来た友達といっしょにランチした時のこと。その友達は知的で優しいオーラに包まれた白人の女性、60代後半か70代前半くらい。何を話していた時か覚えてないけど、話の途中で彼女が「え？」と大きく目を見開いた。「ということは…え？…あなた何歳？」と聞いて来た。もちろん何も隠すことないから正直に「67歳よ」と答えたら「え？じゃあ私と同年代じゃないの。私はまたあなたは40代かなと思っていたわよ。」と言われて今度は私の方が「ええ？」と目を見開くことになった。「そんな…嬉しい！わあYou made my day!」と言って笑った。そしてご想像の通りご機嫌よろしく鼻歌まじりにその日1日を過ごした。
pocoapocowithsmile 