longevity

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.

Prairie Post (Today from Fukuoka)

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Prairie Post

March 11, 2014

(Today from Fukuoka)

The first signs of spring are here, in this harbor city that finds itself closer to Korea than to Tokyo.  The temperature has been climbing steadily and the first fruit trees are blooming.  “Two more weeks, and everything should come into flower,” is what they are predicting.  The sky is blue and there are small waves on the Sea of Japan, glistening and reflecting the bright sunshine. Centenarians write poetry in calligraphy about such scenes, short sentences that capture the moment,

 

“The blue sky hangs over peaceful landscape, charged with busy people.”

 

This city is authentic, not inundated by sightseers; it is a city with people who live here, shop here, work here.  There is a genuine flavor about this port town, the Dutch and German influences are still visible in words and with bakeries and butchers, and they serve coffee with braunem Sirup and decorate spaghetti with Bierschinken. It is a welcoming city, open to guests and proud of their own.  They gather at Tenjin for a good meal or outside in one of the Yatai “tents” that offer a quick meal to anybody who likes to stop by after work.  Anyone is welcome to join: etiquette requires one to talk to those in the next seat.  The city shares its space with Hakata, the city on the other side of the river. There the merchants reside, while in Fukuoka the Shogun warriors once lived.

 

In late spring and early summer, they get ready for the annual festival in which seven teams in white shirts and questionably brief thong “shorts” compete in running a statue built on a wooden platform.  Hundreds of people throw rice and water and the entire city appears to be involved in the race or at a minimum are there to cheer on the rival teams.  Weeks before the festival, the populace prepares with great anticipation. Saki-san also had been heavily involved for many years, until she was almost 100 years old.  She used to own a restaurant and was responsible for cooking the rice to feed her team.  Now Saki spends most of her time taking care of her own affairs; every night she makes sure to have her rooms cleaned up, she may not wake up the next morning, she thinks, and she does not want to leave untidiness behind.

 

Saki talks to a group of longevity researchers who are in town to hear about her secrets.  Perhaps Saki’s secret is to keep her room cold, she does not worry about things, and she is grateful for the care she receives from her children.

 

“When I need care, I know my daughter is here, and for that I am grateful.”

 

Kokoro-san also appreciates the care she receives from her daughter.  At 102, she sits upright in her bed with her daughter right behind her, supporting her physically and emotionally.  Kokoro displays a disarming smile, one that connects to others, a smile that does not display affection but that does demonstrate amiability.  Nobody ever gets upset about her; she is called “Mother” by everybody in this care facility.

 

“You can’t upset my soul or my heart, I will smile, thankful that I am…”

 

Noburu-san also gains the respect of others in this care residence.  He resolutely walks the hallways every day before breakfast and dinner, because he needs to keep up with the physical demands of the day.  He enjoys examining maps, mostly of Japan and Korea, and he remembers his younger days in the navy.  Noburu takes care of his younger wife who also resides in the facility.  He is concerned about the deterioration of her memory.  “Perhaps we should have stayed longer at home,” he observes.  His wife might not have deteriorated so quickly then.  She is his only concern, as for himself, he feels quite robust.  When asked about advice to today’s generation, Noburu reflects for a moment and responds, “Everyone should get a good age.”

 

“Life is short, so live every day, every week, and every year.”

 

The research team sorts through the many longevity clues they receive, they drive from the city to the shore, from small town cafes to countryside restaurants to seek the fountain of youth.  They eat nabe and drink sake, they eat sashimi and steaki and tonkatzu. And when the work is done, they tour the local temple, observe the large sitting Buddha’s intense eyes, they watch weavers, stop at Zen gardens, visit the castle of Kumamoto, and approach Mount Aso, the active volcano in the region. They find a glimpse of the first of the seven lucky gods, Fukurokuju, the god of happiness, wealth and longevity, and they reflect on short poetry:

 

“The Plum Tree in front of the gate is pleasing during the morning light…”

 

Here, centenarians sing wedding tunes just for comfort before going to bed and practice their calligraphy so the lines are as beautiful as the words they express.  Centenarians thrive in this city, here, where people are genuine, where Buddha is revealed from temple to temple, and where centenarians write poetry, one kanji at a time.

Prairie Post (Today from Osaka)

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Prairie Post

February 8, 2014

(Today from Osaka)

It is snowing here, flurries started coming down earlier in the day, and there is much exhilaration in the air.  It only snows once or twice a year, in this city at the Osaka bay. Some of the houses are covered with a very thin layer of snow that reluctantly melts when the temperature starts climbing about mid-morning. There are continuous weather reports on television, trains are not leaving, and people are meticulously cleaning the sidewalks with window squeegees on large extensions, and then they immediately use their trusted brooms to clear the remaining slush. The snow is short-lived here and does not belong to this part of the country where people are used to their comfortable, more predictable, and highly hygienic life.  The snow, though, is a welcome change from the otherwise cool and damp weather pattern of winter.

Students are finishing up their examinations, with much restlessness and anticipation before presenting their final bachelor’s and master’s projects.  They come in their black suits and show a level of nervousness that communicates a rare occasion that they prefer to be left alone, if only for a while. Then they emerge from the academic tribunal with exhaustive relief – the examination is over, although the results will not be known for another month.

But they celebrate already with a nabe feast to which everyone is invited. They pull out the stoves, flip on the gas, boil the water and mix the pork, the cabbage, the mushrooms, the carrots, and after half an hour, the meal is ready to serve. They treat themselves to their best sake, only the best, you should taste it, it is something special indeed.

Meanwhile, the search for longevity continues.  They start the day late but stay long hours into the night. You want to be seen in the office here, it adds more to your prestige than any publication or grant you may get.  There is time to study, to compare, to investigate.  And they find surprising results: Not so favorable is the level of functioning among the very old, here, in this country of extreme old age, not so favorable is their level of cognition. The gerontologist here explains, “old people in Japan are like fish in deep water – they don’t move much but get very old.”  In contrast, he jokes, “old people in the United States are more like sharks – moving all the time, not getting quite so old…”

Our two visitors listen and learn. And they relax at a local onsen, no tourists here, no plush area hidden in a first-class hotel. This is where Jedermann stops by, a crowded place on weekends, a place to contemplate, steam, think, steam, cold water and hot, sauna and bath, steaming, and relaxing, just thinkiiiiing  aboooouuut it ….. makes you ………..feel……………………kind of  …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..relaxed, here……..in the city…..where your worth is measured by how much time you spend in the office, where there is occasional snow, and where people know how to take care of their body and mind.

Prairie Post (today from Villagrande, Sardinia)

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Prairie Post

6-17-13

(today from Villagrande, Sardinia)

It’s a beautiful day, here, in this small village of Villagrande. The air is clear, the sky is dark blue, the temperature just right. They say that the lake they built some years ago has changed the weather, more fog and more rain than ever, but there is no evidence of this today. A cool, sunny morning brings out the good in everybody.

Three strangers have arrived from elsewhere, they clearly are not from here. They are just a bit too overdressed, their hurried walk gives them away, and they seem to be talking all the time. People here prefer a much simpler life. They hang out at the local bar, they sit around tables in cafés , they take a break, and there is no need to constantly analyze their own well-being. Life is much simpler here, in Villagrande.

Even though it is apparent that these strangers do not belong here, they are welcome into a dense social web of relationships. It is lunchtime – a time spent together, time for a good meal. They bring prosciutto and sausages, and their own special bread soaked in water. They bring pasta and parmesan and their own local red wine. They bring boar, pork, lamb, and beef.  They bring fresh fruit, their own peaches, cherries and apricots, they bring cheeses and tomatoes, and risotto with mushrooms, they bring tiramisu and coffee, and you must finish with their local digestives.  There is nothing simple about the meals they offer to visitors coming through town.

It is the atmosphere that is most remarkable around the long tables where people share a meal.  They relax in togetherness, without a loud word, there is simply social togetherness. There is no rush, not hurry, no mission to fulfill.  There is an exchange of a few words, enjoyment of the day with others, being there for each other.

It is not only their social togetherness that is striking, there is also a composed, relaxed personality noticeable among the people of Villagrande. No stern reaction to others, a faint smile every now and then, a no-worry attitude. After all, what is all the fuzz about?  They are used to protect their sheep, and so they are used to protect each other.  Their self reliance must be coming from many hours and days on the mountainside.  They call it the “pastoral life.” A given responsibility is a taken responsibility. They are pastoral to each other as much as they are pastoral to themselves.

And they are active here, in this small community, walking up and down these hills, stairs, everywhere stairs, they are headed toward their own garden built into the hillsides of the village. They walk their sheep, and tend their goats.  They are outside and walk, stairs and stairs and stairs, they are outside and breathe. There is nothing complicated about this philosophy, it is very down-to-earth way living, down-to earth relating, down-to-earth introspecting.

And they have a good sense of humor. They laugh or smile, they like to be with other people even if they don’t need to talk all the time.  They like to create a mess but then bring things back to order, they like ideas, so long as they are not too abstract. They have family, and family is at their inner core.  They say it’s a hard life, but a good life. Roberta is asking all the questions, she is engaged, she enjoys the interaction. And they enjoy her, because they know her.

Today they celebrate St. Basilio, the patron of the city.  The only road through town is blocked off and the street vendors bring in their food, their crafts, their antiques.  The church is too small today, so there are additional chairs outside, neatly ordered in rows.  There is a procession with a statue of the saint in front, the whole town will follow with music and prayer. Afterwards, the extended family gets together for another feast.  More than fifty people have come, and there are these strangers again.  Of course, they are also welcome. There is food, food, and food. A piglet, lamb and chicken are roasting on a large grill. “You should never run out of food,” says Marcus, the father, “it would be bad luck.”  Marcus stands up and leans over the tables to make his point.  He always smiles when he gets excited, his short hair frames a bronze taint that he develops when he is out in the forest.  Marcus is in charge here, in his quiet way.  Because he is proud to share his experiences, he pours another glass of local liquor for everybody, because it is time to celebrate life.

They live in a blue zone, a longevity hot spot. They live a good life and a long life, here, where the sun is always shining on top of these beautiful hills and in the hearts of these humble people, where the food is local and plentiful, and where everybody puts issues aside to enjoy the simple life.