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.”