Matthew 11 for Me

A couple of weeks back, I was working on Advent liturgy... and this sort of happened. I hadn't written a poem in months, and this one got written in five minutes. It was definitely meant for me, but I share it here for all my friends and colleagues during the breakneck Christmas season. May you find rest, friends.

Come to me, all you who are busy and self-important,
　And I will make you humble.
　　Take my work upon you and do it with me—
　　　For I have all the time in the world to help you—
　　Stop this meaningless spinning of plates.
　For my work brings joy
To those who lose their self-imposed burdens that they might gain eternity.

全て忙しい人、そこにプライドを感じている人は私のもとに来なさい。
　私はあなたがたをへりくだらせたい。
　　私の仕事だけを引き受けて、私と共にそれを果たし、、、
　　　私があなたを手伝う時間は永遠に続くから、
　　あなたの意味のない頑張りをやめなさい。
　私が与える仕事が喜びに至る人は
自分で背負い込んでしまった重荷を永遠を得るために手放す人です。

The Bike-Riding Crow

“Caw!” said a voice. I jumped. From the depths of the garage, a crow stared out at me. This cheeky bird was perched on the handlebars of my bike.

The crow cocked his head to the side; his bright eyes shone with curiosity. But I wasn’t about to go any closer. Crows had been dive-bombing us in our garden ever since we moved in, so I didn’t trust this one, even if he looked a bit smaller and friendlier than the others.

I looked at Keith. “What do we do?” We were running late for an appointment, and since we were still searching for a car, bikes were our only mode of transportation. But I couldn’t very well take my bike out when a crow was perched on it.

Keith started around to the back of the house to try to chase the crow out of the garage from behind. He didn’t get very far, because two other crows, possibly the parents of the crow in our garage, cawed angrily and swooped down around him. He came back holding a broom. “Shoo!” he called, swiping at the crow with the broom. The crow didn’t move.

I stared at the crow, and the crow stared back. “What should I do? There’s a crow in my garage, and he won’t go away!” I said in Japanese to no one in particular. A group of elderly women happened to be walking by, and they stopped to see what the strange foreigner was so worked up about. “Look, he’s sitting on my bike!” I exclaimed.

One of the women wordlessly grabbed the broom from Keith, turned it around, and extended the handle towards the crow. “Come on, little one! It’s okay! Come on!” she encouraged. The crow immediately hopped onto the end of the broom, allowing himself to be carried out into the street. He sat there for a moment, dazed by the bright June sun, then took a couple of hops before he flapped off.

Keith and I sputtered our thanks; she gave a curt bow before continuing on her way.

Hints of Spring

Chop, chop, chop.

Birdsong is not the harbinger of spring in Ishikari. I know spring is coming when I hear the sound of my neighbors breaking up the ice on their driveways and sidewalks and even on the road in front of our houses. On sunny days after the roads are clear, they fling scoops of snow out into the road so that the warm asphalt melts it.

The winter is long here—three or four solid months of snow. We are more than ready for the ice to melt and spring to come. The crocuses are also ready, waiting just beneath the earth’s surface to emerge as soon as the snow is gone, after which they bloom within days.

Winter has already been defeated by the coming of spring. We feel it in the warmth of the sun, but the snow still covers our gardens, so we cannot see it yet. Our heads are filled with visions of the crocuses, daffodils, and katakuri lilies that are just waiting to be freed from their prison of ice. And so we help, my neighbors and I, spreading the snow and breaking up the ice.

On Amateur Pottery

The master potter, my teacher, sat at the pottery wheel and switched it on. The mound of clay whizzed around, spitting out drops of muddy water. She stuck her thumbs into the center of the mound and gently pulled outward and upward, and a shapely bowl formed in her hands. She switched the motor off and looked up at me. “Like that. Got it?” I nodded. It looked so easy.

I centered my mound of clay on the wheel and sat down. My cellist’s hands were strong and steady, so I was confident. “Ready?” asked my teacher. “Yep!” I chirped. She switched on the wheel, and I imitated her motions, sticking my thumbs in the center of the mound… except that the clay, mounted on the wheel, was stronger than I was. My hands jerked around, as the unruly clay refused to be controlled. My teacher sprinkled water on the clay and guided my hands until I had pulled a wobbly bowl. “It’s a chawan!” I exclaimed. “Great, now let go,” said my teacher.

But my finger caught the edge, skewing the bowl into a not-at-all-chawan-like shape. My teacher pointed out that the bowl would still work as a modern-art sort of cream pitcher.
The next week, I sat again in front of the wheel. This time, I wasn’t going to mess up. This time I was prepared for the strength of the wheel. I wasn’t going to let it jerk me around! I stuck my thumbs again into the center of the mound, and slowly pulled upward. Not enough water; I added some more. Again, I pulled upward. Still too dry. I added more water, and the clay yielded in my hands, forming a pretty cylinder. “It’s a flower vase,” I exclaimed, elated. I gingerly let go, but the edges immediately started caving in towards the center. Again, the clay defeated me.  “Too much water,” explained my teacher. “It’s okay; it will still work as a vase.”

Again, the next week, I sat in front of the wheel, a large mound of clay prepared for shaping. I switched on the wheel, sprinkled a little water (but not too much), inserted my thumbs, and began to pull upward and outward—slowly, carefully—and then in again, and out again. “Don’t over-work the clay,” my teacher warned. “It’s okay, I’m almost done. This time I’m making a kensui bowl!” I released the bowl, switched off the wheel… and watched in horror as the delicate bowl collapsed into something like a rumpled old boot. “No… not again… this was my last chance!”

My teacher shrugged, a twinkle in her eye. “You weren’t going to master the wheel in three weeks. Don’t worry; you can still use this one to practice glazing.”

There was always coffee around at pottery class. So I tested out this bowl that my teacher shaped and I glazed. Works pretty well!

Hungry

I sit at your table, hungry
For anything, really; it’s been a slog
Through wasteland of death and destruction.

“Do you want to eat?” you ask.
“Yes! I’m so hungry,” I cry,
And you smile, as if this
Is what you’ve been waiting for.

You pile plate after plate onto the table—
   tender roast beef and crusty fresh bread
   macaroni and cheese (the way my mom makes it)
   orange-glazed ham and ensalata caprese
   salmon sushi and oden and gyoza
   pumpkin pie with whipped cream for dessert
All these my favorites; how did you know?

Then I look up, and I see them—
Why are they here? My enemies—I drop my fork
And pick up my knife—but they stay where they are.

They stare at the food piled up
On the table, a greedy look
In their eyes, but they do not eat.

I look up at you. “Why are they here?
Why don’t they eat?” I ask.

You smile sadly and turn.
“Come to the feast, friends. You are hungry—
Come and eat!” but they sneer.
“We are not hungry; we are fine. We do not need
What you offer”—as loud growls and gurgles
Denounce them as liars.

“They too
Have been welcomed, but they will not accept,
So they watch, perhaps till they starve.”

A pang of compassion. I turn
With grace on my lips, and a plate in my hands—
But your hand on my shoulder—“It’s enough,” you say,
“You can’t make them come; you must show them
My goodness. It is mine to give and theirs to accept.”

Where I Belong

Today’s coffee: Valentine’s blend (but I’m still drinking New Year’s blend at home)

It seems like ages since New Year’s Day, and at the same time, it seems like no time has passed at all, as if I were just opening my jū-bako to show off this year’s osechi to Keith. But since it is still January, Happy New Year! 今年も宜しくお願い致します (Please be kind to me this year too.)

Osechi, the traditional Japanese New Year’s feast, is the most complicated and labor-intensive meal of the year. I spend a day planning, half a day shopping, two or three days cooking, and then about two hours arranging the food in a three-tiered lacquered box (jū-bako). There’s a word in Japanese describing an undertaking like this one: 面倒くさい (mendō-kusai), which literally means “stinks of trouble.” The benefit of all this work is that we eat it for days. Traditionally it’s three days, but with only two of us, it lasts at least a week, until we’ve had enough, but it’s still not gone. “Maybe you should make smaller batches next time,” suggested Keith.

Filling the boxes...

Step by step, as each item goes in

This year included, I’ve made the full-on osechi meal six times. The first time, in 2010, I could barely read Japanese; I was saved by the step-by-step instructions with pictures in my osechi cookbook. Some of the ingredients and cooking techniques didn’t even show up in my dictionary, so a lot of guesswork was involved. This year I didn’t use a dictionary at all, since my cooking obsession gave me the motivation to learn all that complicated vocabulary and more. Keith says our osechi gets better every year with practice, but he’s probably also getting accustomed to the taste.

As I made grocery lists and translated recipes and shopped for expensive ingredients this year, part of me wondered why on earth I put myself through this rigmarole (almost) every year. It’s tasty, but perhaps not three-days-of-solid-work tasty. Hardly any of my Japanese friends even do this; if they eat osechi (it’s kind of old-fashioned), they order it from a department store or restaurant. So why?

I suppose it’s the same reason I eat turkey and all the fixings on Thanksgiving Day, despite it not being a holiday here, and despite the trouble and expense of getting all those imported ingredients. It’s because back home, all my family and friends are eating turkey and sharing around the table what they are thankful for. When I eat the same meal and give thanks with my friends here, even in Japan, it’s like I’m affirming that even with the ocean dividing us, I still belong to my family and to the community in which I grew up.

By making and eating Toshi-koshi soba (year-crossing soba) on New Year’s Eve, osechi and ozōni (soup with mochi) on New Year’s Day, nanakusa-gayu (seven-greens rice porridge) on January 7, and so on, I remind myself that I belong here too, to this place and to these people.

Each of the foods in the osechi feast symbolize a hope for the coming year: red and white foods expressing the festivity of a fresh start, tiny fish for fruitfulness, beans for the ability to work hard (a wordplay in Japanese), kombu rolls for joy (also a wordplay), lotus root (which has holes) for clear-sightedness, taro root cut into turtle shape for longevity, yellow foods for prosperity, and so on. I eat these foods together with my friends here as I share their same hopes and prayers.

This is comforting, when so often I feel out of place and out of my depth, and sometimes I don’t even want to belong. But God brought me here and joined me to this community also; I affirm this by my feasting.

It’s no wonder, since I also experience my deepest belonging by feasting at the Table of Tables—and this sense of belonging informs and deepens the others as heaven and earth are joined together. I belong here and everywhere God is honored.