The air is getting really humid now, rainy season is kicking in. That paired with my recent change in circumstances is making life a little uncomfortable for me, if you hadn’t already noticed. I’ve been busy with my teaching business and with re-arranging my plans for my early return to Australia. My mind is clogging up, and the stickiness in the air is making my thoughts glue together like nattÅ . But the humidity is not only making my thoughts sticky, it’s reminding me of the time I lived in Singapore. It’s uncomfortable, but a good feeling. Sometimes we need to move through discomfort in order to enjoy the satisfaction that progress brings.
This morning, I remembered my former life even more so as I rushed for the train. I immediately regretted it afterwards, because when I stood in line I started to feel the sweat soak into my t-shirt. My life in Singapore makes me feel a lot of things. I think of my old friends there, who I am not really in contact with anymore, and I miss my old lifestyle a little. A life where I could go out wherever I wanted, it was lively, safe and I was always busy with one friend or another. Having brunch here, trying hawker food there, drinking fancy cocktails at Japanese bars. My life now is different. In fact, my life as I arrived in France three years ago became different. But as usual, we keep reaching for the old familiar for a while.
This morning I went to a little city called Hirakatashi. And as I exited the train station and walk out into the grey muggy day, it reminded me of Hong Kong. Another blast from the past. The tall buildings in this little city told me of the first time I arrived in Hong Kong during a similar season. I was walking circles around the Kowloon Hotel because I couldn’t find the place where I was to meet a man that I had only come to know one month prior. We went to a restaurant for breakfast the next day, cheekily called The Flying Pan because it specialised in American style fried breakfast. The start of a relationship is always so fresh and new, exciting. It turned out not to be the person for me, but I am grateful for the adventures that I lived during that time.
Walking around Hirakatashi felt nostalgic, even though I’ve never been there before. As I exited the shopping centre next to the train station, I walked a cute little road made only for pedestrians. There was a mixture of facades, some were traditional Japanese wooden panels, and others were modern, sleek glass windows. I continued down until I reached a crossing under the train tracks. As I walked across, it was like walking into another world. All the concrete disappeared, replaced by lush green leaves and tall sticks of bamboo. Little alters sat on the ground, humble and unassuming. As I climbed the stairs, I started to see the skyline. Another man who was walking ahead of me stopped and stretched his hands across the wooden railing, admiring the view. He smiled out into the open air, and when he noticed me, his smile became wider. Japan has this weird way of doing that – next to a bustling concrete jungle can exist a natural space of tranquillity.
And it was quiet. Shortly after reaching the top, I had to walk down a steep hill again until I was at the bottom of another set of stairs. A stone gate loomed before me, a familiar sight for me now. Rope hung across the bottom pillar of the torii gate, with jagged strands of white paper dangling in front of me. It’s something I’ve seen at almost every shrine gate in Japan, and they often hang so low that I need to bow in order to enter under the gate. I later realised that this signifies the entrance to a sacred place. When I reached the top all I could hear was silence and the occasional sound of the crotal bell from people offering their prayers. An atmosphere that had the air of sanctity. Something grabbed my attention to my right and I looked over.
A series of bright red gates, all lining up, forming a tunnel. The urge was too strong, I had to walk through it. But before I did, I did what I often saw the other Japanese do and bowed first. The gates hung so low that I needed to keep my back slightly bent the whole way through anyway. The little passage led to a small red building. I paused and took in the moment. It was as if walking through those gates helped me to transition into a place of calmness. It gave the short moment I needed to clear my mind of thoughts, and simply appreciate my surroundings. The beauty of the red against the green forest, the soft shadow of each pillar forming dark strokes on the concrete floor and the craftsmanship of the thick rope which I’d seen so many Japanese pull to sound the bell. The Suzu.
If I hadn’t bowed, if I hadn’t walked through those gates with my eyes to the floor, I might not have appreciated the moment so much. It may not have been so special. It made me think that structures like this symbolise something that is good, and maybe even necessary, in daily life. A crossing, a boundary or a line which we walk over when we move from being present in living life to simply observing it. When I took the time to observe my time in Japan so far, it became clear that my time here was a moment of transition in itself. Maybe that’s why I had been feeling so many emotions lately, because transitions are always moments of great movement.
Like the contrast of the bold and loud red against the calming green forest, in order to move from one place to another we must feel a little shocked. For the last three years, I had wanted to live in France, but I wasn’t fully committed to the decision. I only walked half way along the bridge. One foot in Asia, and one in Europe. Trying to stay in the middle and enjoy both worlds at once, but ending up not really enjoying either. As I paused, it became clear that during my time in Japan, I have actually been finding France. From the bakery I go to every morning for a coffee and croissant, to the French words I see everywhere in brand names or advertisements. Sometimes when I overhear Japanese conversation, I swear I can hear them using words in French.
It’s sending me a message that I need to listen to. Sometimes we feel we’ve spent a lot of time pining for our dream to come true, but the moment your dream arrives then it hits you. It sweeps you up and takes you along with it, and if you refuse to go then it will wear you down until you have no choice. I suppose that’s why people say that it’s always good to go with the flow. I now have only one month left in Japan, and I intend to make every day of my time here count. I intend to live each moment to the fullest here, not holding back, so I can pack my heart full of memories. Memories that I can share with others in whatever new form my life is to take very soon.
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