Prairie Post (Today from Tokyo)

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Prairie Post

June 30, 2014

(Today from Tokyo)

It’s been warm, this last week; the temperature has climbed steadily over the last couple of weeks. People lose a little bit of their patience, they complain in their quiet, unassuming ways, and they shelter themselves in air-conditioned rooms or hide underground. Or they listen to some of their favorite stories.

The Pillow of Kantan is one of their much-loved Noh tales. Rosei, a young man seeking enlightenment, wonders about how he should live, and he makes his way to Mount Yōhi in the land of Chu, where he expects to find a wise monk who perhaps knows the answer. He gets himself ready for a long trip. “I need to find out, I simply need to find out,” he exclaims.

Not unlike him, many wonder about the essence of life, the path to longevity, and where, where would we find it. Perhaps we should make our way to distant destinations, places where people are known to live a long life. The fountain of youth somewhere on these islands? Compression of morbidity, here in some corner of this land? “I need to explore, simply explore,” he tells all those who would like to hear.

The path is long and arduous, the walk fatigues and slows down, here, in the mountains of the beautiful countryside, and it is time for a rest. Rosei stops at a guesthouse, hunger plagues him, and he needs more energy. The innkeeper welcomes this unexpected visitor from far away, and suggests that he rests, lay down and put his head on this special pillow. “I will wake you when the millet meal is ready,” she exclaims.

The trip is definitely long, and every day in this country takes up new energy. It is time to rest and to trust the host to provide a good meal, to slow down and contemplate long life, healthy long life, and perhaps respite will provide new insights and discoveries of unchartered places.

Rosei is approached by a messenger who tells him that he will now be the king of this territory; he will rule the land with all splendor and glory. And for fifty years he rules this country, fifty years of recognition, of decisions affecting the lives of many people. How good it must feel to lead the citizens of this country.

And so he dreams of new findings, of new insights into life, long life, and discoveries now come so easy: Exercise, of course, specifically stairs, and stairs, and stairs. Gardening and activity, of course. Nutrition, of course, but not so much what you eat but how you eat, small portions of many dishes, and one of the wisest ones exclaims, “eat everything!” And then, other components: of course, personality, self-discipline, agreeableness, and certainly no anxiousness. “Fear not, do not worry.”  Low stress, adaptability, harmony, kindness, and aesthetics. Support, family and community support, omiyage. Health care, universal health care relating to the long-lived in this country. Cleanliness or purification, onsen for every age. Happiness, physical health, less functional health. The symbolism and culture of longevity makes this perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Rosei is woken from his dream, the meal is prepared. And he realizes that, just like the kingdom he dreamt of, life itself is but a dream. There is no need to search further, he can go home now.

And so the dream brings this journey to a close. It is time to be pinched, perhaps the secret of longevity, like life itself, is but a dream, here in this beautiful country where people like to go on long hikes carrying parasols, where people like to contemplate and appreciate life for what it is.

Prairie Post (Today from Hokkaido)

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Prairie Post

June 17, 2014

(Today from Hokkaido)

It’s been raining, raining just about every day of the week, here, in this rare place that is part of Japan but in so many ways is not. Heavy showers start during the late morning and will not let up until sometime in the afternoon when short dry spells trade places with more heavy rain. All the precipitation has made for a very lush, fresh, green flora; the white birch trees and poplars of Hokkaido proudly show their spring splendor in Daisetsuzan Sounkyo. And it is raining, and raining, and raining.

Higher up on Kurodake the snow is still piled up, dirty remnants of the long winter season that has just passed. The snow covers hiking paths in too many places making it next to impossible to continue a safe hike up the mountain. Some innocent trekkers attempt to master the path through deeper and deeper snow only to find out that the scenery at upper levels reveals the same foggy clouds all around. Perhaps it is the challenge of nature itself that propels them to continue to the next snowy hill. “Why not?”  they ask and continue onward. Others follow the path to yet another glorious waterfall, one step at a time, up and up, with raingear in hand. At each corner they warn unsuspecting brown bears that they are coming. Without the famous bells, a human chirping will do. After a long roundtrip, they return to the small village for the reward: a warm ramen noodle soup with plenty of mushrooms or a local donbori dish with delightful chicken pieces. Outside it is still raining, and raining, and raining.

A little more toward the canyon the colorful flowers have started blooming: Japanese alpine cherry, skunk cabbage, lilacs, azalea, moss phlox, lily of the valley. Their yellow, red, pink, purple and white display of colors challenge the gray sky above and brown soil all around. They lead the way to spectacular waterfalls gushing over the top of the summit, water pulled by unimaginable force to the base. And it is raining, and raining, and raining.

Away from this special park, there are other national treasures worth logging. The lakes of Akan and the geysers and mud pods of Noboribetsu in Shikotsu-Toya. A bath in the local onsen immerses visitors completely in sulfuric waters, a milky bath promising to heal all ailments humans might encounter. Meanwhile, it is raining, and raining, and raining.

The coast of this island invites with roaring waves that seemingly want to push the clouds further away, the surfs come in big waves and retreat just as soon as they reach their destiny. The Pacific is close to marshland here, home of the red-crested crane that has made a remarkable come-back in recent years. Only ten or twenty were left just a few decades ago, now they have made the shallow water their trusted territory again. So they pull up their head and trumpet their primitive territorial songs for everybody to hear. “This is my land,” “This is where my hatchlings will grow up” – “Leave us alone.” Only the Japanese cuckoo responds from the distance. And it continues to rain, rain, and rain.

The showers do not bother the Ainu here, indigenous people who have lived with harsh weather conditions for centuries. They imitate the cranes’ dances and their honk, they weave and they carve, and they keep warm around the fire built in the middle of their huts. They pull out their mukkuri, a distinct wooden hand harp, and play strangely vibrating sounds that surely tell a tale of bygone times when the God of Fire ruled here, in this peaceful land, where nature governs, where the cranes defend their territory, and where it rains, all days of the week.

Prairie Post (Today from Kyoto)

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Prairie Post

May 25, 2014

(Today from Kyoto)

It has warmed up a bit this last week, here in this city of tradition and splendor. The sun is beginning to dominate during the day, and everybody is aware that the rainy season is expected to take over soon. Humidity has set in, and all signs suggest that there will be an important shift in the weather pattern.

The older generation knows that it is time to work in their fields and gardens. Rice shoots are showing their green leaves and are flooded by artificial lakes of water. Tractors are driving through the muddy, water-covered fields to bring some order to the fields. Men and women wearing their conical rice hats tend the grounds to inspect the season’s crop and thin out the plants. Rice means life and livelihood in Japan.

Women in the city carry their summer parasols as shields from the sun’s damaging rays. Kimono wearers are choosing light fabric with beautiful summer flower designs. And the more modern inclined generation chooses high heels over comfortable sandals. They wobble one step at a time, they hold on to railings when walking up stairs, but they feel proud to master the art of high-heel quavering. This city is full of contrasts: Business people in their dark suits sit next to students in jeans and t-shirts. Women in kimonos walk next to tourists in shorts and sleeveless tops.  Every fashion is spotted here in the city.

The younger generation does not mind breaking some of the conventional rules. Oh no, there is a young man eating a sandwich in the subway. He sheepishly tries to hide the food in his bag, but we all saw this! Oh no, there is a young women who did not cover her shoulders. Perhaps she is just returning from the Western world. Did she think we would not notice? Oh no, there is a young man who receives a phone call in the subway. He jumps up from his seat and runs toward the corner. Too late, young man!  We heard the ring loud and clear.

Kyoto – the city of temples and castles, and shrines, and gates – Nijo castle shows all its splendor on this late spring afternoon. The gold-platen gate promises a grand place inside. The Togugawa Shoguns built this wonderful palace containing paintings of tigers and leopards crouching under protective pine trees, of hawks and egrets, searching their next meal. The tatami rooms open to the most beautiful garden of trees, lakes, and magnificent boulders.  How generous the space, covering more than 275,000 square meters.

And then we find the path leading to the Fushimi Inari gates; more than 30,000 torii gates, they say, lead to the top of the mountain, stairs up, stairs up, and more stairs up. We can only image what the guardian foxes would say. Inari is the God of Rice, so they plant a holy rice field here to honor the higher being. And then there are stairs, stairs up, up, and more stairs up. They walk through red-orange painted gates. It’s been said that the bright color scares evil away. As the path leads to the top of the mountain – oh, did we mention, stairs up, up, and more stairs up – hikers seem to become younger and younger the farther one follows the path – perhaps these steps lead to the path of youth? People at any age would be easily convinced to turn around after having passed through perhaps the first 18,000 gates. But they keep walking, and walking, and walking, stairs up, stairs up, and more stairs up, until they reach the shrine on top of the mountain. People come to pray, press their palms, clap twice, bow, and pray. People come to face the city and play the recorder, a contemplative melody that transcends through the woods. People come here to pronounce a life that is well lived, they blow a conch-shell horn as if they had an important announcement for the rest of the world. This is a special place, a path up a challenging mountain. After a brief rest, visitors slowly descent to the base, down the stairs, and more stairs, and more stairs down.

The longevity researchers who had come from all over the world have now left town after discussing their secrets. There was much debate about FOXO-3, about the importance of social support, about life satisfaction, and gender differences; there was discussion about frailty, the importance of leisure activity, and loneliness, the importance of dental care, quality of life and personality, and debate about culture, about eating regular full meals, particularly those containing leucine. A historian shared his unique finding: a proclamation of how the people of Nara were to treat centenarians around 900 anno domini.  At that time, centenarians were entitled to receive a whole year’s worth of rice on their birthday and they were authorized to be cared for by four caregivers (three if you were an octogenarian). What an incentive for long life, here, in this classic city where people still like to wear kimonos, where there are torii gates everywhere, and where young people like to bend the rules, if only from time to time.

Prairie Post (Today from Okinawa)

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Prairie Post

April 29, 2014

(Today from Okinawa)

Is it the rain, here, on this island of longevity, one downpour after the next, or is it the sunshine that comes after a day of steady precipitation? Is it the wind that blows in your face and tries to take you off your feet or is it the calm, humid climate that retells a story only narrated on subtropical islands? Is it the moderate climate that makes life just a little easier, just a little more comfortable every day of the year?

Perhaps it is the food that everybody yearns for here; perhaps they truly are what they eat.  Perhaps the chanpuru, with eggs and goya, or the purple sweet potato substituting for raissu, here in this part of the world, or purple sweet potato ice-cream, or purple sweet potato cookies. And one must ask why, why no one discusses the connections between pork consumption and longevity – here, where pork ribs, pork feet, pork tongue, pork bacon, pork, pork, and pork is eaten. Perhaps people are correct in suggesting that pork fat strengthens coronary walls, boosts the cardiovascular system, the good fat, they call it… but perhaps it is simply moderation after all, hari hatchi bu must have been invented here, on this island.  Dooshite, dooshite?

But then, it may be the lower stress, the easy-going mentality, “Okinawa time,” the island version of tranquility, or is it the music of the sanshin that projects cheerfulness and bliss, the dancing of notes, more a gliding of feet with an occasional stomp … with swirling “mini-hula-like” hands. Is it the creative minds that encourage the potters, textile weavers, and glassware makers to thrive? Perhaps the secret to longevity is that shisa simply protects from all evil by scaring the bad while keeping the good.

Or is it simply a historical fluke, the helpful side-effect of a foreign invader who first destroyed and then cultivated, improved hygiene and changed public health? Perhaps it is a geographic fluke, a crossroads mixing of the best of China, Korea, Japan and Southeast Asia?

And what would the oldest of the old say? That family is important, then health, then hobbies, and then social relations? That keeping active is important perhaps by folding origami, by weaving baskets or crafting small hats. That one can trust a daughter who always takes good care, even sleeps in the same room? Or that the national health care system, which pays for flexible stays at the day center, provides quality care and meaning for their lives and that 45 people in the day center support with friendship?

Is it that the oldest old do not fatigue easily here and that they appreciate company and that they like to give and receive small presents? Perhaps it is because they continue to speak Hogen and chant songs from the past or they continue to enjoy karaoke? Is it the cold water they wash themselves with or is it the fact they do not need and they do not take medication? Then, is it the strong handshake, strength in very old age that makes the difference, or is it a deep sense of spirituality, the sense that ancestors continue to guide through a very long life so long as one prays at the family shrine and visits the family tomb?

Perhaps it is simply the belief that a long life is given if a long life is strived for. Perhaps it is simply important to be kind and attentive, and that years are granted when years are enjoyed, here on this longevity island where everyone loves the temperate climate, the mouthwatering pork with sweet potatoes and where stress is not something people appear to come across very often.

Prairie Post (Today from Hiroshima)

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Prairie Post

April 5, 2014

(Today from Hiroshima)

It is cool, cloudy, and rainy in this solemn city, appropriate perhaps for the heavy history it continues to bear. The damp weather keeps inquisitive minds at bay; most of the time is best spent in the halls that summarize grave perspectives of the past. The cherry trees in full bloom line the Ōta River and their pink and whitish colors stand in stark contrast to the gray buildings that dominate Peace Memorial Park. The people of Hiroshima have dealt with adversity, and unpleasant weather will not keep them from gathering for the annual Hanami festival with a picnic and with a sake gathering under the cherry trees.

Outside, you see the eternal flame that promises to distinguish when the last nuclear weapon has been destroyed, outside, you hear the peace bell ringing when another reflective person decides to add to the long line of admonishers, outside you see the remains of the dome with dangling pieces of metal and with rubble remaining on the ground around it.  And the clock shows 8:15 a.m.

Inside, you see thousands of mosaic pieces, one for each lost life, surrounding a water fountain meant for all the children who had pleaded for water, just water after the attack. The water comes late, too late, but it symbolizes life here, in the formerly destructed city. And the clock shows 8:15 a.m.

Inside, survivors tell their stories about the fireball, about the devastation, about the desperation. About lost family members and about the 1,000 cranes that are supposed to grant you a wish. And the clock shows 8:15 a.m.

Inside, you see hundreds of people lining up to learn about history, old people who may remember and young people who are curious to obtain answers to the “why” question. Inside, you see pictures of burned children, of running adults, of a scorched tricycle. And the clock shows 8:15 a.m.

There is hope that peace is possible, that one day, we will not have to worry about nuclear winters and unnecessary destruction, there is hope that the clock will move one day beyond the 8:15 mark, one day…

This city is a reminder that life will prevail, it did not take 75 years for nature to reappear and for people to reemerge. The people of Hiroshima know their legacy and they continue to be who they are in spite of the city’s past. They welcome guests from all over the world, they have moved into the 21sst century; they use the I-phone to communicate with their guests. “Can you read?” they ask.  “Yes, I can read.” “Do you eat pig?”  they type in.  “Yes, pork is ok.”  The waiter brings the food and writes “I hope it will please your mouth.”  “Oishii desu, totemo oishii desu!”  “Should we have pictures?”  “Oh yes, pictures would be nice.”  “Can I take picture with my I-phone?”  “Yes, you can take a picture.”  “Arigato gozaimasu, arigato gozaimasu…” Friendly people, such friendly people here – where perhaps you would expect it the least.

Friendly people also reside in the nearby island of Miyajima, the island not too far from here.  Jurojin, the God of longevity, rules here.  With his stretched head and white beard he projects calm and wisdom, and he is usually escorted by deer – or perhaps a monkey, a red panda, or a raccoon dog instead?  Jurojin sits with six other Gods as part of the seven Gods of Good Fortune lined up in the Daisho-in temple right on the foot of Mount Misen. People come to visit, up the hill, and they walk to the hall of longevity, spinning a series of metal wheels that are inscribed with the sutra. Turning these wheels is said to have the same effect as reading the Buddhist scriptures with benefit of blessings that the reading is believed to entail. So they spin the wheels.

Down below they find the flooded gate which opens to water on one side and to the Itsukushima Shrine on the other. This is a place to walk, to view, and to picture, this is a place symbolizing the peace Hiroshima has been yearning for, here, where resilience and friendliness are side by side, where longevity rests next to tragedy and where the gate is open come high or low water.