Drawing on The Writer Within

AWAKENING 2007: Heera, Yumiko, Alison, Carolyn, Sophie, George (1926-2010), Margaret at the retreat in Saitama. Happy days…

MOST RECENT WRITINGS…

SECOND PART OF LEVEL 1, INITIATION< AUGUST 29, 2010

The engawa is the space between a tatami room and the outside. Open the sliding glass doors, close the shoji walls, and you are on a bench outside. Close the glass doors and open the shoji onto the tatami, and you are indoors. It is a great space to relax in, reading or visiting. It is also a great space in my life. I can close and open certain windows and doors and let myself be in a Japan, or in a Western world. Maybe that is why I love the ambiguity of Japan. It lets me alternate between living like a local, or like a foreigner. This applies to almost all aspects of my life; social, culinary, household, entertainment. It is my safety valve, my cushion, which lets me slip in and out of these two worlds.
(Heather)

Some extracts from other exercises that Heather did that seem to work especially well:

1) ... not a civilized bloom, probably from Indonesia or the hills of Thailand. Mouths gaping, talons at the ends of petals... nothing will escape their grasp. Even the leaves have sinister curly-queues, wrapping themselves around the stems, or other innocent passers-by. Beware of this beauty.

2)... bushes and grass along the bottom cover most of the lantern, while giving the plum tree a luscious bed on which it seems to float out of nowhere. The fish is swimming in a sea of green.

3) On top of the pain, the drops and wads in the ear resulted in three side-effects; first, that uncomfortable post-shower feeling of water stuck permanently in the ear, next, no hearing in my right ear, which is usually better than my half-deaf left one, and finally, a echoing roar every time I spoke, my own voice sounding like a truck running through my head. Finding myself in frequent situations where I had to speak, I either spoke so quietly no-one could hear me, or yelled (seemingly to me), but suffered either way. A self-imposed silence was my only relief.

FIRST PART OF LEVEL 1, INITIATION, AUGUST 8, 2010
Martin wrote the following - his first ever "poem" - in class...

Stained glass window
Part of a butterfly
Bottle of washing-up liquid, bubbles squirting out, colours emerging
A boat at sea, sun high in the sky
Bright and sunny, the sea dark and solid
Sunflowers and a woman with a straw hat in a blue and white dress
Furrows in a field near small roads

Then re-worked it later at home:

The Stain of Summer

Stained sunshine pours from a window, a sermon goes unheard.
She slumbers in the garden, an Emperor flies overhead.
The short life of a rainbow, in a sink of gleaming delf.
The Pacific`s croon has risen, she turns from her sleep.
The sun against her bonnet, eyes on the blue, elemental deep.

SECOND PART OF LEVEL 1, INITIATION, JULY 25

Sunshine on the soles of my feet
enlighten the head. Turning down-side up
for an upside-down turn.
(Alena)

A paragraph worked up from a sketch:

A small wooden box with a piece of Styrofoam on top.
Looks harmless enough, but then I see them: bees.
Buzzing in harmony but perhaps not so harmless after all.
I notice a brick on top of the box holding down the foam...
gee, how strong are these bees?? I wonder if I can get
close enough to take a photo... I inch slowly closer, then
there's movement at the bee house, and the answer is
clearly "no" as I turn and run like a girl back to safety.
(Chris)

Resulting from an exercise based on a chosen object:

My father walks into the kitchen with a smile on his face and a fax in his hand. "I got Dr. George's Christmas card early this year." There was no way to begin to imagine what Dr. George would do or say at any moment so I jumped up to see what he had come up with this year.

The page was mostly white with a copy of a business card and Bryant George's signature. The salutation was in the form of a poem. "Money's short, times are hard, here's your fucking Christmas card." Only Dr.George could fax a Christmas card like that to my father the Presbyterian minister.

He had the voice of a giant, the intellect of a scholar and the uncanny ability to boldly be completely and fully himself. Thinking about him now, I realize that I probably gauge the passion and genuineness of the people I meet on the Bryant George scale. Where did he get it from?
(Jeffrey)

Resulting from an exercise based on an imposed object:

The Brown Book
Flipping through the pages, the musty smell stings my
nose and makes me sneeze. The yellowed pages filled
with foreign words take me back to the streets of Ichigaya,
lined with bookstores selling old and rare used books.
(Chris)

The sun was easing it's way slowly down into the Saguaros near a single runway airport in a dusty little town southwest of Tuscan. A man in dirty jeans, a sweaty t-shirt, and cowboy boots sat on the hood of his Chevy and watched a white and blue Cessna land and taxi toward the empty hanger. His left hand tightened around a leather bound manuscript while his right reached into his pocket to make sure it was still there. He felt his stomach tighten as he resisted the urge to get back in his car and get lost in the desert. But he couldn't go back into the desert.....
(Jeffrey)

It puts me off for some reason. The horse and rider on its cover should turn me on; I like horse-riding after all. Strangely, what I see is the apocalyptic horseman in the guise of a cowboy and his pony.

What a colour for a cover… brown… like dried blood. Screams flood out from the inside calling stray visitors at the communal library to pick up this monstrous piece of writing and take it home. This is what it wants. Escape from the orderly space on the book shelf, where little specks of dust have tried their best over the years to cover up the truth, and invade the home of a curious reader.

He opens the book and looks inside but does not really register what is written there. Instead, some photos from an era long past soon capture his attention. He realises too late that what the horseman set out for is not over yet.
(Alena)

INTRODUCTORY WORKSHOP ON MAY 19 - FIRST PART OF LEVEL 1,
INITIATION

It is Easter in the early part of my life. My parents are still together,
I'm still required to wear a suit to church every Sunday to hear my
father preach. The wind is clear and cool, the sun bright and
warming, the flowers in our backyard garden bursting big and bold,
stems long and firm, and a smell that fills my nose and overwhelms
my little body, as I pick through them to find the final Easter egg
before my sisters do.
(Jeffrey)

TIME TRAVELLER
Falling leaves in a cool breeze
Chasing away a fly makes me remember
Bang in my heart, holterdiebolter (helter-skelter) moving on.
(Alena)

LEVEL 3 (AFFIRMATION) - writing from five women, Rita, Sarah, Mary and Kathryn from the USA, and Alison from Scotland. (Some from exercises in class, other “omiyage” - developed pieces of writing done at home on assignment.)

CLASS 1
(from a 5-minute exercise) I am my best friend; being with myself fills me with energy. I am other people’s best friend too; I work to nurture and care for them. I am one of several circles of women who flow in and out of each others lives with blessing and love. (Alison)

CLASS 2
(home assignment) Old College Buddies at a Bar, Drinking Beer

Dan: Seen any good movies lately?

Michael: My girlfriend dragged me to that one about climate change. She’s into polar bears. She’s worried they’re all going to die off or something. Thinks they’re cute. She’s even got a huge one on the bed.

Rick: Cool. Who shot it?

Michael: It’s one of those stuffed animals, idiot. Like kids have. No one shot it, although sometimes I’d like to. She wants it to sleep with us sometimes. She even talks to it.

Rick: Chicks. What are you gonna do?

Dan: What’s this climate change stuff all about anyway? They say it’s global warming, but remember how cold last summer was? And the biggest freaking snowstorm in a hundred years on the East Coast. I was trapped in Boston for two days because nobody was flying in or out. So where is it getting warm exactly?

Michael: It’s all political somehow. And money. There’s money to be made somewhere.

Dan: What kind of money can you make out of dying rain forests and dead polar bears? Stuff like that.

Rick: Dying rain forests are something different. My girlfriend’s into that. Volunteered at that “Free the Rain Forest” concert.

Michael: It’s like war, man. The government goes to war and people make money. Somebody’s getting paid to make the bombs. There’s gotta be an angle, money to be made with this climate change stuff. If I could figure it out, I’d get in on it because the stock market isn’t doing anything right now.

A beautiful woman, with large breasts enters the bar.

Rick: Talk about global warming. She can warm me up anytime.

Michael: Give me a break. She’d freeze you, buddy. No way you could get a chick like that.

The beautiful woman hugs a man, her boyfriend, who has been waiting at the bar. Now it is clear she is with someone and didn’t come to have a drink alone. The woman’s boyfriend is better looking than these three men. They feel defeated.

Michael: Anyway, this whole climate change stuff is political, I say, ‘though my girlfriend keeps saying the ice caps are melting and the polar bears are all going to die.

Ice caps. Ice. Polar bears. Big hairy creatures. Ice and big hairy creatures remind all three men simultaneously of a recent ice hockey game. There was a lot of fighting at one point. A certain amount of blood ended up on the ice. Remembering this, they start talking about it with great excitement. They spend the rest of the evening talking of sports. Dan and Rick don’t give climate change another thought, though Michael remembers the topic when he gets home, but only because his girlfriend wants to have her stuffed polar bear in bed with them that night. (Kathryn)

Class 3
(10 minute exercise in class) They had the symbols of romantic love on the table between them in the restaurant. A silver bowl of red roses… A candle gently flickering…

It was so dark they couldn’t read the menu. The maitre d’ must have had this happen before. He carried a pen-size flashlight and shined it on the selections for them. The food was excellent, but the husband complained about celebrating their twentieth anniversary in a place where he could barely make out his wife’s face.

After dinner, they walked and walked, holding hands. Soon they were hungry again and coming across a dingy, little ramen shop, they went in. They had ramen and gyoza and toasted their twenty years, clinking water glasses. (Kathryn)

Class 4

Class 5
(10 minute exercise in class) All the men have died. Not suddenly from catastrophe but one by one dropping off this sphere by old age, sickness or folly. Ours was a family of men and I’m the only one left. Grandfather used to say I was a good as any man for I worked as hard as any two put together. That’s come out of necessity and the fact that my genes collided to build me like an ox. Harvest time again. I’ll hire some boys from the farm down the way but I’ll do my share too. My body needs to work and my spirit needs to feel the earth. All the men have died but I’m okay. (Mary)

Class 6
(10 minute exercise in class) Itinerant Buddhist monks find their spirituality in living without money and the comforts it affords. They beg for food and show their gratitude when they receive it by offering up prayers for those who have given them something to eat. Food, gratitude and prayers are not money, but all are a kind of currency.
(Kathryn)

(ditto) The loose change from trips around the world were collected into a container in the professional tourist’s closet. Her intention was to make exotic jewelry from the small coins she collected from her travels. Now the idea seemed rather shallow to adorn herself with currencies that, if shared, might make a real difference in the lives of others. If she was really honest to herself, she had never left her comfort zone in her extensive travels from one five-star resort to another. She had closed her eyes to the struggles of the local people. Her only encounter was with the elderly Thai woman on the beach who gave her the wonderful massage for only a few coins. The magic of that impoverished women’s healing touch was worth more than anything money could buy. She learned that human compassion is a commodity that is not for sale over the counter in a bottle or a pill. How many of her friends had such collections collecting dust in their own spacious Manhattan flats. In honour of the woman on a faraway beach in a faraway land, she began a foundation called Fellowship of the Least Coin for the upper crust whose loose change might feed and educate a nation. (Sarah)

What follows came out of a piece of omiyage. Like Kathryn (see writer’s comments), other writers find they are getting several piece of work out of one theme.

A Belief about Money

Money was never a desperate thing in our house. It’s not that we were rich, but we weren’t poor either. My father had a comfortable job as the town doctor, and although his patients didn’t pay all the time, we had a good life.

As children, my mother set us up with coin collections. Every night we would scour my Dad’s pocket change looking for rare coins: rare being a date that we didn’t have, or a coin that we had never seen. Even our allowance took on a special meaning.
The quarters were changed into dimes, nickels and pennies, and these were even exchanged with others in the hope of finding a rare nickel or dime. It made us feel that money was special and interesting in itself, and needed to be valued and saved.

Of course there were things that we couldn’t do as a family, but it never seemed like a hardship. We lived in a beautiful location on Long Island. We owned a small power-boat, which got us to the beach, and school friends had sailboats that always needed a crew.

Beside the few ski trips we did as kids, we rarely went on vacation. Probably my dad could never take the time, but it was also a big expense to take four kids anywhere. This never came across as a hardship though, since we lived in a great town and had our friends. Not many families went on vacation anyway, since we had everything there, as my Mom would often explain. At times we even felt sorry for those who had to go away.

The one thing we did have was a big old house. I’m sure this also took a fair amount of cash to keep up, so it was probably another reason why we tended to stay at home. This house provided endless forms of entertainment. We’d look for secret closets on rainy days, and spend hours of exploration in forbidden areas with our friends. There were certain areas that were always off-bounds: the dumb-waiter, the attic, and certain parts of the basement. But these were only rules to be broken, when our parents were too weary to be vigil or had to run out and attend to something urgent. It heightened the curiosity and the feeling of mystery. We searched for secret closets, hidden treasures, and, later, ways to sneak out of the house at night.

Looking back at this now, these experiences molded my value of money. A coin dropped was always picked up and inspected. There always seemed to be enough, and when not, we had a creative place to play. We valued our house, our friends, and our town. It was a very close-knit place, where everyone knew everyone, and greeted everyone.

I’ve led a very fortunate life. I don’t panic about money. For some reason, I always feel there will be enough, and if hard times hit, I will never starve. I have an education, and I will always have the means to earn money. That’s a huge belief that was bestowed on me from my parents, and I hope I can pass this on to my son. (Rita)

Class 7
(home assignment) I could hear the slight shift of the house as it settled down for the night. It was almost as if it needed to turn a bit to get comfortable. As the cool night air wrapped itself around the house, I could feel its tentacles stretch through the cracks in the floorboards, seeking conquest over the interior warmth. I burrowed myself deeper under the thick covers. With one more round of tucking and adjusting the material above my cold feet, I too settled in for the night.

It was dead quiet and pitch dark. There is nowhere that I live in the world that even comes close to the darkness that surrounds me in the Maine woods on an overcast night. The darkness unnerves me a bit, totally disrupting my sense of orientation. Whenever I have to get out of bed at night, I always grope to find the bathroom door and the slender pull-string of the light over the sink. It is a slow progression, inching forward with out-stretched hands and feet, searching blindly for the solid, wooden door and jam. After reaching the door, I can count the steps to the sink.

I rectified this situation recently, by buying a few low-level nightlights to help with the mid-night navigation. At the moment it is dark, however, as I realize that I have forgotten to switch on the night-lights before turning off the lamp over the bed. Unwilling to leave my carefully constructed cocoon, I decide to forego the comfort of the light.

As I am dropping off into sleep, I become aware of a sound. On windy nights it is usually the lake water lapping gently against the rocks at the shore. Tonight, however, the wind is still. I strain my ears in the direction of the noise, but am unable to locate it in the dark. I’m not sure whether it is coming from inside or outside, or from the direction of the kitchen or the bathroom. Silence. Did I imagine it?

Just as I convince myself it is all right to close my eyes again, I hear it: a very slight, scratching sound of something rubbing against wood. Perhaps it is a tree branch rubbing gently against the grain of the wood siding. Or perhaps it is the track of a small animal on the roof. These are things of no concern, so I relax a bit. In an effort to reinforce this comforting conclusion, I focus on pinpointing the noise. It stops. Once again, I am listening to the thick blanket of darkness, deafening in its total silence. I wait, endlessly, until I drift away into the darkness myself…

Minutes later, or perhaps hours later, something gives me a start. This causes the hair on the back of my neck to prickle. What is it? I strain for the slightest sound, but hear nothing. I can feel my body tense up and my breathing shorten, as I sense a presence in the room. As the silent minutes linger on, I finally hear a slight scratching, and I prick my ears in its direction, to pick up any familiar characteristics. The scratching grows louder, or is it the amplification that occurs in the dark, from focusing on a single sound? This time my heart beats more quickly, as I realize it is close to my bed. I grope for the flashlight and switch it on. Immediate silence follows.

I know that until I investigate, I’m not going to be able to fall asleep. Is it a mouse? My imagination, however, makes it bigger. Perhaps a rat. There could be a variety of animals under my floorboards waiting to burst through into my bedroom. Although the most common pests are squirrels and chipmunks, there have even been stories about dingos and coyotes. There could be a variety of animals living right under my floorboards, considering I have no basement and am standing on flooring just 12 inches off the ground. Who knows what animal has taken up residence since last summer.

Deciding to go on the offensive, I jump suddenly out of bed and land with the full force of my weight crashing to the floor. I whip the flashlight back and forth, vaguely aware at the same time, that something might be under the bed, ready to attack my feet. In a moment of panic, I jump back onto the bed and lean over the side. Slowly, I pick up the bedcover that is hanging to the floor and peek beyond, ready to spring out of the way if necessary. As I finally part the material and sweep my flashlight along the dark floor, I see the glint of two large red eyes.

Holy Sh….T, I scream, as I jump up and turn on all the lights. As I am dancing on the bed, trying to decide what to do next, my screams have unleashed a panic of activity in my uninvited guest. The striped body and bushy tail come flying out from under the bed, and race around the room looking for an exit. Seeking a form of defense, I grab an old pair of jeans off the chair and start whacking the floor with the pant legs, trying to keep the animal at bay. With one last suicide attempt, the frantic animal races towards me, dodging the thrashing jeans, and dashes beyond the headboard. The surprise rush catapults me backwards, and I fall heavily onto the bed. Crack! The force dislodges the mattress from its frame and sends it crashing to the floor. I hear a feverish scrambling and then quiet.

Shit! Damn Racoon! I wait a moment as my panicked breathing begins to subside. Carefully, I check behind the headboard, half expecting to see a badly mangled animal, crushed under the weight of the mattress. To my surprise, I find a hole the size of a small melon right at the base of the wall. Acting quickly, I take my jeans and stuff them into the opening, run into the kitchen to grab a large pot, and flip it over on top of the jeans. Shoveling books off the bookshelf, I stack their weight on the pot., and then jam the bed against the books to prevent them from moving.

Pheeeww! Only then can I relax a muscle and survey the shambles of my bedroom.

Feeling too weary to deal with it, I grab my bedcovers and head for the couch. Locking the bedroom door from the living room side, I switch on every possible light and finally lie down on the sofa. Once again, I prepare for the night by tucking the edges of the comforter around my body. I hear the ticking of the clock. I hear the hum of the refrigerator. I don’t hear a scratching noise. Nevertheless, I lie awake, listening to the silent darkness. After hours of vigilance, I finally fall off to sleep.

Class 8
(home assignment) Where does success dwell?

It resides along the ancient footpaths in the forests and in the gardens planted with care.

It is found in modern cities among those who walk, ride bikes or ride public transportation rather than ride in the car.

Success is experienced when the cork pops from a wine bottle and people raise their glasses with a toast to one another.

Success reigns whenever a person has the courage to knock down another Berlin wall that divides kindred or creates unwanted isolation.

Success reigns when a community rises from trauma and tragedy with an outlook for rebuilding its future. Kobe, Haiti, China. It prospers when the strong help the weak and vice versa.

Success is rebirth and reincarnation. It advises you from the voice of the distant past while living fully in the present. It has hope for the future.

Success is heard in the babies’ first cry, first laugh, and first word.

Success is being a parent of grown children who, while independent, still enjoy spending time with you.

Success is being available to friends and family while having a sense of your own identity and purpose separate from them.

Success is working at play and playing at work. Both are fluid components which are productive and give joy.

Success is splashing in the waves. It dwells in the reflection staring back at you in the mirror which murmurs, “All manner of things will be well.”

Success can move mountains while resting in the palm of our hands. For the writer, it is the creative flow of the pen and the word working in sync with a budding idea.

Success is present in each of your lives. Seek it out, set it free from its long captivity, and let it explore with you the mysteries of your blank unwritten page.

Yours is the story of success. Mine is as well. We were born to succeed. (Sarah)

Most of the writing that follows is omiyage (homework) as developed during the Level 2 Exploration course. But not all…

CLASS 7 - 5 minute textile exercise: Celtic Knot tapestry cushion

The pattern in the cloth is wound around itself, like a network of bridges and never-ending elevated highways. It reminds of the first time I was driving in New York City in the family car, sitting in the back seat with my nose pressed to the window. We were on an elevated highway traveling through Brooklyn at about 5th floor-level of the buildings we were passing. It was almost like being in a plane, whizzing by the windows of apartments and offices. I was excited and loved looking below at the miniaturized cars and people at street-level. It felt special being above it all. Maybe I had seen too many episodes of the ‘Jetsons’ and imagined I was whizzing around in a spaceship along highways in the sky.

Now, I actually drive on such highways in Tokyo, complete with 180 and 360 degree curves, and I only feel nervous. I now know about falling, car crashes, and the Kobe earthquake. Street-level is OK for me!

Rita (US-Tokyo, October 2009)

CLASS 7 (omiyage-homework assignment:

PROFILE WRITTEN IN 3RD PERSON
Missing: white, middle-aged female, medium height, well nourished, with short ashy blonde hair and green eyes. Wearing red framed glasses, dark clothes and possibly walking with a limp. No obvious scars or body art. Last seen near her home in Musashino-shi.

Mary (US-Tokyo, October 2009)

CLASS 5 (omiyage/home assignment):

MY IDEAL LIFE

When I awake the first day of my ideal life, the first thing I notice is that I’m not tired. As a matter of fact I feel great, and I jump out of bed. With that, I notice the next huge change – nothing hurts. This is unfathomable. I try a few bending and stretching exercises to test my new flexibility. To my amazement, I not only can touch my toes, but can place my hands flat on the floor.

I next try a full back bend, which is accomplished without any problem, and I can even loop my hands through my legs. I woke up as flexible as a rubberband!

Just to make sure my appearance hasn’t changed, I quickly look into the mirror. No, it’s really me, but I have no wrinkles on my face, and my hair doesn’t even have a touch of grey. Wow! I try to remember what I ate and drank the night before. What could have produced such a dramatic change? No lower back pain! I’m elated.

Off I hop to the kitchen. On the way, I knock at my son’s door and find that he is already out of bed, and the bed is made. No Paul in sight. I wonder where he is? As I skip down the stairs, I am hit with the delightful smell of freshly baked bread, and my eyes feast on a beautifully set breakfast table. My guys are both up, showered, dressed and cooking with huge smiles on their faces!

“We just wanted to surprise you!” They laugh, when they see my shocked expression. Hans points to the newspaper lying on the table, and tells me to put my feet up and look at the news.

So what’s in the news, I wonder. The front page shows the two leaders of North and South Korea shaking hands with a caption, ‘NO More Missiles’, ‘No More Hostilities’. As I read the article through, it appears that the Korean peninsula has been totally disarmed, and that a reunification pact has been signed. I quickly look up at the date on the clock, wary that I might have been asleep for years. No, it really is just the next day.

Also on the front page is a headline article about a Middle East Accord. All the leaders of the Arab world and the Israeli president are smiling and clasping hands. They have just worked out a constitution for the Union of the Middle East States. My jaw drops.

As I look at the second page of the paper, I notice a worldwide accord on Environmental issues and some good news about diminishing CO2 gases. Tokyo announces the elimination of the last gasoline automobile, and there are some slick pictures of new solar cars. The news article talks about the use of fusion energy to power micro-factories in small communities, and the recycling of nuclear fission waste.

I open to page 3 and there are more articles about huge health advances and the curbing of starvation across the world. It seems that with the new small-plant fusion power, everyone is now able to produce clean energy.

Page 4 is covered with articles about the new inventions for extracting water from the air and sea. According to the article, the water shortage around the world has been solved. I rub my eyes to make sure that I am really awake and look again. The text of the article is still there.

In a total daze, I lay the paper down and look closely at Paul and Hans moving around the kitchen. They are unusually spry and are working together like two Japanese restaurant cooks who have been moving like planets in a small orbit for years. No one misses a beat. No one runs into each other. I am amazed.

My gaze settles on the hamster cage and I almost fall off my chair. There is Zach, our hamster, cleaning out his cage and generally cleaning up after himself. There also appears to be some plumbing installed. A hamster toilet? “When did that happen?” I ask in amazement.

Paul looks at the hamster cage with a quizzical look. “You know that Zach went to training school awhile back,” he replys.

Where was I? I wonder.

After a delicious breakfast, the guys clean up the table and Paul happily leaves for school, whistling as he goes out the door. As I yell out to him about his lunch and homework, he smiles and replies, all done!

Hans brings me a cup of tea to cap off my breakfast and sits down to talk. I look at him questioningly and wonder if he works anymore. He reads my inquisitive look and with a smile, responds that he will be working at home today, over the global office satellite link.

I wonder if this will be good for me, and start thinking about my day and todo list. As if reading my mind, he mentions that he has lunch for us already ordered. He also reminds me of my appointment with my editor tomorrow at 10:00.

“What editor?” I ask.

“The one who has been publishing your books for the last 4 years!” he replies and looks at me rather strangely. “They’re being read worldwide,” he adds. “You should take a look at your lab before he arrives.” With that he heads up stairs.

My Lab? With that, I go searching around the house, which is much bigger than I remember it, with a lot of doors and tons of closets. Outside there are balconies with wonderful sitting areas around flower gardens. At the other end of the living room, I open a door and discover my lab.

There are gadgets everywhere and incredible looking test equipment atop a myriad of tables. As I cycle slowly through the tables, I see all the things which I am working on: Vibration and heat recycling generators; clothes that regulate their thermal characteristics based on a person’s activity and the room temperature (at this point I notice that I am wearing such a suit and now realize why I am neither cold nor too warm); rain makers (there’s a little thunder cloud hovering in the back of the room); a yoga suit (one that automatically trains your body into poses, without straining your muscles); a pedestrian mover ( a small, enclosed vehicle which uses a score of sensors for navigating crowded walkways); and various large screen displays with news, weather, and sports at each corner of the room.

I stop in front of one of the tables, which is displaying a holographic figure. As I look more closely at the figure, I’m astonished to see that it is a dimensionally perfect representation of myself. I spy a computer display to the left of the figure, and start reading the text instructions. It guides me to select various styles of clothes and accessories, which I do. Instantly the holographic figure is clothed in these items.
I start playing with the program and try out a whole new wardrobe. This is great! I don’t even have to go to a store. I admire my work. “Now that is really practical!” I notice that I can directly order on-line, anything that suits me. It’s like paper-dolls in 3-D, only with your exact measurements.

I turn my attention to the assorted large screen displays and check out what is being broadcast. As I switch my gaze from one to the other, I notice that the sound from the other displays is totally filtered out. I am only receiving the audio from the screen I am currently focusing on. I look around for sensors, but don’t see any. Telepathic control? I wonder.

On one display, a picture of my family from the States has just come up, and there are my niece and nephew holding their hamster. I focus on the screen and we start talking. Everyone at home, including my 85 year-old parents are healthy and happy. It’s not only a relief, but it’s fun to talk with them. Instead of reminiscing about years past, the conversation is fresh with activities and plans for the future.

After our conversation, I walk to a bookshelf, where I see a row of books, all carrying my name as the author. They are all about technology and inventions, which are going on around the world. I am amazed at the material within the pages. There are so many credits to huge collaborative efforts around the globe. The world seems to be miraculously at peace and sharing technology. I look at the calendar once again and pinch myself a few times to make sure this isn’t some sort of dream.

As I walk around the periphery of the lab, I notice a door marked ‘nirvana’.
“Well that I have to see!” I remark out loud. I open the door, half expecting a backyard alley and garbage can as a crude joke. What I see stops me in my tracks. It’s a beautiful garden with palms and jungle flowers. In the center is a large, inviting swimming pool, surrounded by lounge chairs. In the far corner is a jacuzzi and a sauna. The air is filled with the chatter of birds, and the scent of the flowers wafts lightly in the breeze. The sun peeks playfully through the palm fronds, casting a glitter over the water’s surface.

“Screw work!” I strip off my clothes and jump into the pool. The water is pleasantly cool and laps refreshingly over my skin as I swim to the far end. I feel totally alive.

Rita (US-Tokyo, October 2009)

CLASS 4 (omiyage/home assignment):

THE WEIGHT AND PIE OF REGULATIONS

If I look to the top of the behemoth before me, I am defeated before I begin. No. Must. Concentrate. On. Each. Foothold. Each. Step. So that the next time I look up ahead I will have a tiny thrill at how far I’ve come. These are the games I have to play with myself just to survive.

After what seems like hours of choosing my steps carefully, I try to bust a move just to change things up a bit: a little shuffle, a dip and a twist. No sooner had I come out of my twist when the sharp crack of a whip pulls me up straight and an evener sharper voice commands me to stay in line.

Freedom calls my name but enforced servitude is my game - the unlucky circumstance of being born an arthropod.

Once again:
Left, Left, Left, Right, Left.
March in line
Keep the time
Your mother’s got a dirty mind.

What happened to the art of conversation? Can these ants walk and talk at the same time? Judging from the scowls cast on either side of me- I guess not.

Forward. March.

I could think of 50 things that would make me happier than scaling this tubbo’s monstrously inflated beer gut. However, it’s the slice of banana crème pie that perches precariously on said stomach that is our target and the mission is to get as much as we can, descend the other side and get back to Queenie on the Hill before the lard ass wakes up.

A sudden rumbling low and deep emanates from the depths. Hit the deck! Gas Masks on! But the only thing that seeps out is some tiny bubbles sliding down the side of his gaping maw. False alarm. Everybody up.

And one. And two. And one. And two.

The sun is beating down and you have to be careful not to slide and lose control on a slick spot where sweat and sunscreen have pooled on bare skin. Luckily this guy is fairly hairy so you can always grab a follicle or two to keep your place.

Just when I begin to question how much longer we have, I hear the drill sergeant shouting new orders to change formation, encircle and prepare for acquisition. The first platoon of ants crowd in fast, securing the outer perimeter of the plate (thank god it’s paper). On the count of three, the we lift the plate while team two rushes underneath to support the center. I gotta hand it to my race-teamwork is our middle name. Once the pie and plate are firmly in our grasp, we head out for The Hill.

Unfortunately, with only four feet on the floor and the wobbly pie aloft, our pace has slowed considerably. With a sudden leap of insight, I cried, “Toboggan!” and readied myself to leap onto the plate and ride it down the other side to relative safety. Met with blank faces and unfocused eyes, I yelled again, “TOBOGGAN!!” Why don’t they get it? This is one great idea.

One of the sergeants cracks his whip again. “In line, soldier,” he calls, “and pipe down. Regulation 432-6.3: All provisions shall be carried by platoon members to home base.”

My shoulders slump under the weight of the pie and the regulations. For a moment I had forgotten about rules and had longed for the improve, the spontaneous moment that leads to crazy ideas and great successes. But we are Japonicas Ants after all and what’s not in the rulebook, well…. you know the rest.

Mary (US-Tokyo, October 2009)

SMALL CREATURE, LARGE SURFACE

Dot slowly made her way across the surface. Although this part of the plane felt similar to many of the other areas she had already explored, this section seemed different for some reason, she thought.

There was no logical reason for things to be this way. The two dimensional world she and the rest of them lived on stretched out horizontally infinitely in any given direction. Regardless of the vector on which they set out to explore some part of the plane, the process was always the same; x was equal to some constant, y was equal to another constant, and off you went. The journey could occur in an instant, or if you wanted to explore more carefully, you could set your step size to some increment and go as fast or as slow as you wanted. No matter where you were, at any given time you could use the Pythagorean Theorem to calculate exactly how far you were from “zero-zero”, or “the Origin” as it was known, the center of their universe. No matter what vector you selected to travel, you would find the same thing - more of the same nothingness.

For as long as Dot could remember, she was told that the Origin was their home and that all vectors were calibrated based on this starting point. Recently, however, as she started exploring along some of the outlying regions in the Third Quadrant, she noticed tiny deviations in her calculations. She would expect to be at one point and would be off by a fraction of a percent or more along one axis. For some reason, the instruments they used to navigate their flat world had trouble working in this region.

There were several theories for this. One was that the further anything got from the Origin, it ceased to work as effectively. This was the conventional wisdom, and so one day, all travel in the Third Quadrant beyond (10.5, 10.5) was banned without special permission. But there were other theories as well. Perhaps it was because the Third Quadrant had both a negative x-axis and y-axis, some of them theorized. When they traveled far from the Origin in the Second or Fourth Quadrants (both had one negative axis) no one reported any major navigation issues.

The theory no one wanted to discuss, and the one that excited Dot the most, was the possibility of a third dimension. No one discussed this much except in private, for fear of being seen as an outlier. It was a radical theory, but Dot believed that this was the only way to explain the deviations in their calculations from the Origin on longer journeys. Assuming there was a third dimension (say, an “z” axis), any estimated distance along a vector would have to be adjusted.

But by how much? Dot thought that if you could use the Pythagorean Theorem to calculate distance from The Origin based on a given x and y, you should be able to make the same calculation using a given x, y, and z. That was the theory, anyway. After getting the proper approvals from the authorities, she set out to prove it by making a special journey far out into the Third Quadrant to see if it was true. If she was right, the farther out she traveled, the more she would also move along this so-called z-axis, and at that distance, it would be fairly easy to pick up any difference between calculated and actual.

She set out, traveling along the 225 vector, which corresponded to a 45-degree angle right down the center of the Third Quadrant. Once she moved beyond (10.5, 10.5) limit, she decreased her step size to 0.1 units per iteration so she could cautiously measure her actual distance from the Origin and compare to her calculations. Sure enough, she was off by about 0.016%. At x=10.5 and y=10.5 she should have been exactly 14.85 from the Origin, yet she was at 14.851. Not a lot, but she expected the deviation grow as she moved further out.

At (100, 100), it was still a deviation of only 0.025%. What could be out here that was so terrible, she wondered. True, she had proved the existence of a third dimension, but by simply revising the Pythagorean Theorem to account for this third variable the problem would be fixed. She considered heading back, but something told here to explore further. After all, now that she knew how to make the correction she could get back easily enough.

When she got out to radius 1000, she noticed to get worried. Out here, the deviations were much more dramatic. She was a full 5% farther out than her instruments were reading. She also noticed that as she continued to travel along the same vector, the rate of change in the deviations began to increase. She noticed something else as well. She was no longer on the plane; she was, well, below it. And she was still sinking.

The rate of climb became even more dramatic as she progressed. She seemed to be rapidly falling into some sort of depression. As she continued to drop, it suddenly dawned on her that there would be no way back out. In her youth, she had heard stories of the hyperbola, mythical depressions in the plane that dipped down and then rose back up. But this was a very different matter. Dot looked at the data she had collected so far, did the math one more time and plotted the shape of the curve she was travelling.

Sure enough, the presence of the natural logarithm in the formula said it all. She finally knew with certainly what her final destination would be. She was not traveling along a hyperbola as she had hoped. Instead, the shape she was gliding across was a funnel surface, and the final destination would be infinity.

James (US-Tokyo - October 2009)

CLASS 3 - 10 minute piece of writing (leading to omiyage):

CLASS 3 EXERCISE: RED MARBLE

When I was young, everything was alive. Everything had a spirit and I could speak to it. They all had names. There were special ones. Ones that were just one colour were special. There was one which was the light blue sky blue of my mother’s eyes. My brother guarded his marbles, but I played with them.

This marble I would have loved. It is red and brown and purple. It is a bull’s eye, ready to be cut up in biology, ready to bleed, to teach us very little. Or nothing. What would I have called it? What voice would it have had and what would it have told me. I am guessing that it is an outsider in that bag of marbles; one colour, no pattern. It doesn’t look like family at all.

Alison (Scotland-Tokyo, September 2009)

(omiyage/home assignment)

UNLIKELY

Setting: In a park next to an Elementary School. There are some leaves on the ground.

Marble: I’m free! I’m free!!

Chestnut: What’s all the racket?!

M: I’m free! I usually ride around in this little girl’s bag all day. I saw my chance and I took it. I made it! I am free! It feels so good I can do anything I want. I can enjoy this beautiful day and the sunshine. I can lay here in the sun. I don’t have to be in her dark bag all day anymore.

C: Your person is going to miss you. I think you should go back.

M: Are you crazy? Once I became free I’m never going back!

C: But aren’t you worried about getting in to trouble.

M: Some things are worth that risk. Do you always follow the rules?

C: Yes! If my tree tells me some thing I always do it without thinking and without questioning it.

M: That doesn’t sound like very much fun. Now, that I’m free I want to live on the wild side and have some fun. An adventure. Yeah, an adventure!

C: That sounds like a lot of trouble to me.

M: Just think living off the lay of the land and doing anything you want for however long you want. Doesn’t that sound great!

C: I’m not sure. I think I have to get myself planted, so I can grow into a tree.

M: You got lots of time to do that. Let’s have an adventure first.

C: Like how? We don’t have legs, so it’s not like we can just walk.

M: Well, see that man coming right now. We could jump and see where that takes us.

C: OK, but you go first.

The Marble jumped, landed in the cuff of the man’s pant leg and then signaled for the Chestnut to jump.

M: Come on! Come on!

Even though the Chestnut was afraid, she jumped. She landed in the other pant leg.
The man headed for the train. It was difficult for Marble and Chestnut to talk because they were in different pant legs. Once the man was on the train, he was lucky enough to get a seat on the train.

M: Finally, we can talk again. I can’t believe you did it! You jumped!

C: But where are we going?

M: Who cares… let’s live a little and see where we end up.

C: But what if there is no dirt… and what if there are birds that will eat us…

M: Just try to relax and not to think about such things.

They rode on the train until the man got off. They were not sure where they were, but it was very crowded with people walking here and there.

C: Where are we?

M: I’m not sure, but it sure is busy. Let’s get off as soon as we see a safe place to land.

After a few minutes.

M: There’s some grass over there. Are you ready? Let’s go!

C: I’m not sure this is a good idea.

They landed in a small patch of green.

M: We can watch all the people from here.

C: I want to go home!

M: Oh, come on, we just got here.

They watched different sights all day. It started to get dark.

M: It’s starting to get dark… look at all the lights.

C: It is going to be scary if we stay here all night.

M: But aren’t all the lights beautiful! Some go off and come back on and there’s so many of them!

They watched the lights in silence for a long while.

M: I think we should try to go to another spot.
C: Where?

M: Come on!

C: Oh no, here we go again.

They were each in the cuff of a pant leg again. Again they rode for a while in the train.

C: Hey. Where do you think we are going?

M: I’m not sure but it should be fun!

C: Fun?! I am not sure why I let you talk me into these things.

M: Oh, She is getting off the train. When I see a good spot to get off I will tell you.

The woman walks for a while.

M: She’s about to go into a house, I think so let’s get out. Jump.

C: Wait! Ah,ah,ah.

M: That was not so bad.

C: What are we going to do now?

M: I see some grass over here lay down and cover up with this leaf.

C: But I’m scared and I want to go home.

M: It will be better after we get some sleep.

The Next Morning

M: Wake up! Wake up! She is going some where. Come on!

C: Oh, no!

They rode on the train for a long time and then a bus.

C: We are getting very far from home!

M: Yeah! Isn’t it fun! I wonder where she is headed. She is getting off the bus. It looks like some mountain.

The women started walking up the path.

M: When we get close to the top let’s get off!

C: But then how will we get down?

After the woman had talked for a very long time and was close to the top.

M: Come on! Jump!

C: Oh, no! ah,ah,ah!

M: Wow! Look at that view! I can see for many miles around!

C: It’s cold!

M: Look over there… it looks like you could just roll on those clouds. I can see so many mountains from here. I want to stay for a long time.

C: I can’t live up here. It is too cold and dry. I need more to drink.

M: OK, we can go down a little ways.

C: How?

M: Come on!

Marble started rolling.

C: oh, no!

M: How about here?

C: It’s still too cold.

Marble kept on rolling until it got warmer.

M: This is a great spot! I can still see all the mountains, the sun, and the clouds.

C: Yeah! I like it. I feel like digging and getting deep into the ground.

M: Go ahead! I am getting tired too.. maybe I’ll just rest a while here and watch you grow.

Nancy (US-Tokyo, September 2009)

CLASS 2 - 5 minute textile exercise: a small antique silk square

HANDKERCHIEF
So fragile, so delicate
Strong hands would tear
Older than time, yellow with age
Creased and beyond repair

Scalloped with ivory thread
Stitching of flowers and vines
Winding around four corners
Tea stain color at fold lines

The faintest smell of must
From being tucked far away
This square of silky elegance
Kept hidden during the day

Up a sleeve, in a purse
Or the pocket of a dress
Always ready comfort
For any form of distress

Long gone are the days
When part of the uniform
Relinquished to the attic
Forgotten and forlorn.

Mary (US-Tokyo, September 2009)

CLASS 2 (omiyage/home assignment):

OBITUARY - THE PASSING OF A GREAT LEAF

Mr. Edgar Birch died yesterday due to complications related to the changing of the seasons. He was six months old.

Edgar - “Leafy” to his friends - was the patriarch of a large family. He had scores of brothers and sisters and countless children from a myriad of wives. Known for his dry wit and uncanny ability to remain in the tree where he lived even in the strongest of storms, Edgar was kind to a fault and known far and wide throughout the forest in which he spent the majority of his life.

The tree where Edgar grew up was a fairly weak looking sapling. More prominent Birches in the forest were prized for their bark, but Edgar’s was rather sickly looking and disregarded by all. However, Edgar and the rest of his family of leaves prospered greatly from an extraordinary set of circumstances that year - heavy rains in May followed by an early burst of beautiful sunny weather shortly thereafter. While the majority of the Birch family was in favor of saving this bonanza of photosynthesis for tougher times in the future, Edgar was a strong proponent of showing their wealth immediately in the hope of raising awareness of the successful development of their tree.

The gamble paid off. First birds flocked to the tree as a result in search of insects. Then in later months, campers and hikers sought out Edgar’s tree for its leafy shade and cool but elegant splendor. The Birch tree was the hit of the forest that year.

As fall came on and Edgar approached his twilight years, he turned a lovely shade of orange, with tinges of red and yellow around the edges. His veins began to stand out and darken. And he began to emit that characteristic rustle for which he and the rest of his family became famous even in their post-retirement days.

We will always remember and love him for his gentle looks in the spring, the shade he provided us in the summer, and his brilliant songs of the fall.

Edgar is survived by a host of descendants, too many to mention by name, and also fathered several acorns who have now produced their own trees. We can only hope to see the same sorts of achievements from them as we have seen from Edgar.

James (US-Tokyo, September 2009)

A HARD LEAF LIFE

I am a leaf and I’ve led a hard leaf life. My reflection shows a shadow riddled with bullet holes of deterioration. When did this happen? This neglect and decay, my Miss Havisham dress ripped and in shreds-hanging from bony shoulders. I try to remember that first misstep down the long dark tunnel of self-doubt.

I am a leaf and I’ve led a hard leaf life. My obituary reads: Born, Lived, Worried and Died. OK, I embellish. It should read: Born, Worried and Died period. Looking back for memories not tinged with guilt, I see I have lived a life according to shoulds.

I am a leaf and I’ve chosen to live a hard leaf life. I see that now I might have had more choices but always worried about the other leaves and was too afraid to join in leaf games. I never believed Father Tree, Mother Earth, Sister Wind beckoning me to live big, swing from limbs and embrace the breeze. Instead, I was clutching at inside branches, afraid of the sun and its rays, knowing with each passing day I was sliding toward death and mulch underfoot.

I am a leaf and even though I think I’ve led a hard leaf life, this examination of fallen dreams leaves me wondering of its truth. This story I’ve created for myself—is it real? Surely I had moments when I glimpsed of what could be. It wasn’t all desperate clinging, fear devouring me along with the insects. But I chose not to trust. I chose to believe in smallness and darkness—even Loch Ness, because I chose demons. I never chose insight, hope or courage. My glass was perpetually half empty. And now in review of my hard leaf life, I wonder if it’s too late to contribute—even if only as a cautionary tale for young buds come spring.

So now here I lay, previously plucked off the ground and brought before this tribunal, this coven of women. Before I cave into the temptation to burrow among fellow corpses and hide once again, I linger a moment longer in human hands as I am held to the light. Eyes scan what’s left of my tired leaf life and I am as surprised as anyone when I, the tattered and forlorn, is held so tenderly and considered so carefully. I linger a moment then relinquish all control and let myself slide between clean sheets of soft tissue, leaving the only place I’ve ever known. As I ride home with my caretaker I begin my confessional. It’s the bravest thing I have ever done.

Mary (US-Tokyo, September 2009)

CLASS 1 (omiyage/home assignment):

LIGHTWEIGHT TREASURE

Dad said, “That Mick is no right” .

He was peering out at us, making his tea.

Mum laughed. Her favourite wee brother who preferred dogs, hill and children to towns and adults, had just dug over the front garden, a job no one else would do.

“Take the weans away from under my feet will you Mick,” she shouted up.

“Well, I’m seeing a man about a dog this afternoon, but I guess … “ his grinning face scanned us in mock appraisal.

“Come on then,” he said, “I’ll take you somewhere new.”

My own wee brother Jim is already setting off down the road, grabbing sticks for the dog. Goldie is her name, and she is gold.

“Can I put her on the lead, Uncle Mick?”

I sometimes think Uncle Mick doesn’t really like me. I know he prefers the Croy cousins who are tougher. That’s how he looks at me now; but I am his favourite sister’s child.

“Let her run. There’s no danger here.”

She brushed round us, her wet nose greeting us.

“Let’s race her Jim”

She left us far behind.

It was not winter yet, but even in my thick brown trousers and my duffel coat, I felt the cold. Jim is sweating already and desperate to strip off his coat. I am already wearing the long blue scarf that was wound twice around his neck. I should be wearing gloves. Nothing and no one is out today, no friends, no wind. I see a few birds looking for food; crows and seagulls, a few sparrows, nothing colourful or interesting.

“Where are we going, Uncle Mick?”

“Somewhere with treasure.”

We are jumping from cold and excitement. Its an adventure, just like in the books.

“What kind of treasure?”

“Whatever kind you can find.”

We are not going towards the hills where the glens are. There is treasure there, fairy treasure for sure. We are going through the industrial estate. To the right side are the smaller Croy hills where the Romans built their wall and a fort. Ancient money and golden goblets are there. On the other side where the valley flattens out the is the Lennox Estate where there is a big house with peacocks. I look at Mick. I hope we aren’t going to steal stuff.

We walk along the wide unused road that divides the town’s Industrial area. On each side, silent factories and plant hires. You could never see over these high cement walls, though I had heard stories of boys who had climbed them. The low brick bridge at the end crossed over the burn which, thin though it was, would join the Kelvin and flow into the Clyde.

And there beside the bridge I find the feather.

“It’s treasure, it’s a lucky feather. “

Mick and Jim say nothing as I pick it up and stroke it, sealing up each hair and pulling them apart. It is black and ordinary but a very dark black. Not a crow, another kind of bird. A magic bird. It is treasure and it will bring me treasure. I am sure.

We pass the school and the fields behind it that don’t get used for anything. This was a place I had never been before. Paper and plastic bags fleck the trees like weird big snow, getting whiter and whiter as we walk on. Seagulls, big and noisy fly round and about, near to us and far off. It looks like we are going toward the dump.

“Are we going to find treasure in the dump, Uncle Mick.”

“Only if you look well, hen,” he grins.

Big trucks go by us, wafting us with the dump smell that I hadn’t noticed, it had come on so slowly.

“We’ll use the back door,” said Mick, as he leads us past the entrance.

“Here it is.” he said stopping at an area on the right where the bushes had thinned.

“Mind and look well, keep Goldie on the lead, and “ he winked “ don’t tell your mum.”
He disappears into the bush, calling back: “You need to get through the fence and jump the burn. “

Jim is straight after him, under the barbed wire and looking for a good jumping spot. A run and a jump and he is over. The burn is narrow but the banks are high. If I fall then… But they are both already ahead. I hold my feather, let Goldie go on her own and search the bank for a good spot. I make it, though one leg ends up slipping down the bank. I note the spot. I am going to have to come back.

There is treasure. I have found a really small cuckoo clock and a tiny Bible just bigger than a postage stamp. Both Mick and Jim are eyes down walking through the valleys of rubbish. I can’t smell it at all, but I can hear it. The seagulls are loud and enormous. I hold on to my feather. It will show them I am a friend. I see Goldie sitting tied to a small bush. She looks fine.

The rubbish is spongy and I am careful not to put my feet on anything sharp. At the top of my mountain, I spy something that sparkles. It looks like a bag; a pink shimmery bag, like ladies take to dances. The gulls sweep all over it. I knew the feather would lead me to treasure.

Mick is to the side of me, a curl of wire around his body. Jim ahead, his pockets stuffed. We are all alone on the dump. I move towards the bag. And begin to sink. I move my feet again, looking for something more solid, but there is nothing there. I move back, but am sinking in, my trainers below the level of the rubbish already. Mick and Jim have disappeared into one of the valleys.

“Uncle Mick… Jim… Help! HELP…”

My voice rises and floats into the screaming gulls. They are taunting; it’s as if they know. As if they have been here too, that they had sunk into the rubbish and become seagulls. I held up my lucky feather to their laughs, shouting and crying.

“I’m sinking, help me, I’m sinking…’

From behind I can hear Goldie barking, then find myself being lifted easily up. “Don’t panic. No injuries. You’ll live. Jim, come on. Best get going.”

We walk along the burn with Mick coming and going as he explores new bits of the dump, his eyes looking even brighter blue, his plastic carrier bag looking heavier. My feet are smellier than they have ever been and so happy to be on solid ground. I finger my feather. Is it really a lucky feather? I remember the birds jeers. It could have been an unlucky, an evil feather.

A grating covered the burn on the flat part beneath Castle Hill that the Romans had built on. I was happy to be walking over the burn.

“We can cut through the farmers fields here. “ Mick directed.

“But …. there might be cows. “ I said more to myself as we followed him through. And there were. And they came up to us wanting to sniff Goldie, but I ran, dragging my smelly feet all the way to and over the stile.

And that’s when we saw it, though Mick saw it first. A tree - bare already with the autumn cold - that had been decorated with dead birds. There were sparrows and a crow, two magpies and even a big seagull. Mick’s face twisted in disgust. Even Jim passed quickly looking sad and frightened.

“Why did someone do that?”

The dead birds hung still in the windless air, their bead eyes empty.

“Evil sods,” Uncle Mick said moving us on. “Evil crazy sods.”

The farm road leads from the main road into town up into the hills. It is a thin farm track used mainly by farmers and it goes right up into the hills and back down again several miles along the road. It winds past the gully that we play in and the private houses where people we don’t know live. Where the gully turns into the houses, there is a road that we take home.

My feather was not lucky. I took it out of my pocket and ruffled it for the last time. I held it in my hand a while wondering. Then the seagulls screamed at me and the dead birds stared at me. I threw it into the gully.

Alison (Scotland-Tokyo, September 2009)

CLASS EXERCISE: 5-minute textile piece: small old knitted patchwork blanket

SO I SAT THERE
So I sat there, staring at the cloth. “What to write about?” I thought. Then Angela tossed the cloth towards me. It was a quilt sort of tapestry, about the size of a large tableplace setting. The feel was familiar. My Mom was into knitting for a while when I was a child. I remember her sitting on the couch on Fridays, playing some music on the stereo. My job was to feed her the yarn as she stitched it together. She mainly made hats, gloves, things like that. Once she tried making a blanket, but it came out wrong for some reason.

James (US-Tokyo, September 2009)

AUGUST 2009
Emma did this WRITE on August 5 at the monthly "WRITE with Angela" meet, this time in Minami-aoyama. Notice how beautifully the question she asks, beginning What do I mean by... encourage her forward into reflection and self-discovery. She felt very peaceful afterwards, as if she had led herself into calm waters:

I don’t like the idea of putting my writes into files. So far, I’ve even managed to avoid stapling them together. Why don’t I want to? Putting them into nice, neat categories feels like confining my life to a few little boxes. What do I mean by “confining”? Forcing something into an unnatural, grotesque shape, like a topiary hedge. Trying to make all the connections linear, neatly representable on a chart, instead of the fluid, living web that I believe them to be. What do I mean by “web”? Everything is connected, yes, but to many other parts, in some sort of organic way. I am very good at drawing straight lines between points; I do it regularly, to order. The last thing I want is more graph paper in my life. What do I mean by “graph paper”? Uniformity, perfect 90°angles, regularity, no room for spaces in between.

What do I mean by “spaces in between”? Breathing gaps, expanding and contracting, flowing into each other, appearing unexpectedly at random moments. The clear patches of the kaleidoscope, completely calm but endlessly evolving. What do I mean by “completely calm”? Containing both nothing and everything; the non-space and the key to the pattern. What do I mean by “non-space”? No conditions, no requirements, no limits, no agenda. No meaning. What do I mean by “no meaning”? Nothing that can be analysed, dissected, questioned, explained, found correct or incorrect. No point of reference outside itself.

JUNE
Sara, who currently lives in Tokyo and works in finance, wrote this as part of the beginner’s workshop on June 15, 2009.

My Walk
It first started with a single step outside the “genkan”. The first step is always the one that excites me the most. Where am I to go? Which way to go? How far should I go?

As I stepped into the garden, the questions ceased to exist. Since I live in Tokyo, I hardly ever walked on grass anymore. Back at home (in Indonesia) we have a big garden with just grass and a small pond in the middle of it. Walking today reminded me on how much I miss walking on grass. What I miss the most is the way the earth absorbs the sound of my footsteps, leaving only the gentle rustle of the grass. Walking back on to the hard road, the sound of my footsteps really disturbed me. Maybe because it reminded me of the sound of the crowds of people in the morning rush hour at the train station as I go to work.

Another thing that came to my mind during my walk was about the pace. I tried to walk slowly today so that I could see, feel and experience more of my surrounding. It’s ironic that walking slowly is a luxury that I can’t afford recently. Rushing about seems to be the norm. I can’t say that I even know my own pace anymore. If I change it now, would I lose more than I gain?

Coming back from the walk, I was amazed at how much I learned about myself, starting with just a single step outside the “genkan”.

MAY
At the Sunday workshop on May 24, James began to make clear progress in his second PW WRITE of the day. He had tested this questioning form of process writing at home after the first workshop in March, and found it valuable in terms of sorting out what it is he wants to do in life from hereon. With his permission:

I can’t wait to go to work tomorrow. What do I mean by I can’t wait? That in some strange way, I look forward to having a frank conversation with my boss that I don’t want to be there anymore, but that I’ll stay around until something better comes along. What do I mean by something better? Something more stable, less stress. Something that doesn’t suck the life out of me emotionally.

I feel so drained these days. What do I mean by drained? I mean that by the end of the day I feel like I’ve been soaking in something all day that has bleached me. Taken away what senses I have to enjoy the life around me. What do I mean by enjoy the life around me? I want to discover what it means to be aware again. What do I mean by aware? I mean I want to feel alive again. These days a lot of the time I feel like I’m just pretending to do somebody else’s dance - and I’m not even very good at that anymore.

Maybe that’s why I started reading more. It was cool to spread out in the Japanese room yesterday, surrounded by the dictionaries, combing my way through that novel. So satisfying. So wonderful to be engrossed in someone else’s words. What do I mean by cool? Engrossed? I mean that was how I felt when I first came here. I used to spend the whole day reading, looking up words, translating. And I liked doing it. There was such a feeling of discovery. Awareness. Yes, that’s what I miss. I must do what I can to create more space for this in my life.

It’s funny. When I was a kid one of my first aspirations was to be an interpreter. I loved the idea that people could speak in different languages. And my stutter went to near zero when I started studying French. But somewhere I just got it into my head that I needed to do more. What do I mean by do more? Be a high achiever, in technology or business. First I chose technology, then business. And so here I am. Full circle. What do I mean by full circle? That I’m back to wanting to do what I have always loved doing.

But how to go from here? I suppose the first thing is to be honest with myself. What do I mean by honest? Admit that I’ve done shit for years for other people without allowing myself to ask the question, “Do I want this?”. And I need to be honest with other people on my job. Say, “Hey, I don’t like doing this!”. This will be a difficult conversation in difficult times. But I can’t go forward until I straighten this out.

I wonder how many of my ex-colleagues are going through the same sorts of difficulties? What do I mean by difficulties? I mean taking on work for the goals of others (family, friends, society values, etc.) instead of what they want. So many of these people I am sure do not get any sort of satisfaction in working there. They’re just in it for the money. I mean, that’s all that’s keeping me there now.

It must have been this way ages ago too. What do I mean by it? The idea of suppressing one’s own desires to earn a living. Naturally this has been a part of human existence, but things seem more extreme these days. What do I mean by extreme? That so many people out there, myself included, have allowed ourselves to be mislead. What do I mean by mislead? That we’ve been told to go out and get that money, and not a whole lot more. What if half the people in my class had been doctors, or worked in government, or (gasp!) writers?

MARCH
At the workshop on March 15, Brendan found that a session of what was supposed to be process writing inspired the beginning of the memoir he had dreamed for years of writing. It was thrilling as he read it out: thrilling and immensely moving.

Wicklow head Lighthouse - Childhood
I was four when my mum and my dad and my baby brother, Garry, aged two, moved to Wicklow head lighthouse on the east coast of Ireland, forty kilometers south of Dublin.
We arrived by taxi, in 1969. That’s the year Boeing launched it’s first commercial 747; Concorde made its maiden flight, in Toulouse, France; and half a million miles away, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon. The world was changing. Technology was shrinking it. As for Wicklow head, little had changed in over a hundred years. The keepers there, were still igniting incandescent paraffin burners and winding a light.
One of those keepers was our granddad Conway, William, my dad’s dad. He was there the moment we stepped from the taxi, hanging freshly caught herrings on a clothes to dry in the wind. My mother recalls, looking on, and thinking to herself: Mother of God! I’ve come all the way from the hill of Howth, Co. Dublin to this!
William was the station's temporary keeper. He came at weekends, when either the A.K – assistant keeper, my dad, or the P.K – principle keeper, was entitled to a day off. But he also came full time, in the winter, when it was necessary to have a third man on watch to get them through the long, dark winter nights.
William lived alone, in a dark stained wooden prefab, oozing of creosote, sunk into an embankment of long, coarse green grass, encircled by the station road which snaked its way down from a pair of heavy, red gates up on a mound, called Long Hill. The gates had three distinct, white letters running across either side. They read, C.I.L – Commissioners of Irish Lights. Our employers.
The station road continues on, moving up and down, across farmers fields, dotted with some cows and always lots of sheep. And across red painted cattle traps, until half a mile in, you arrive at a single red gate with a sign, Private Road. Here, the station road joins the coast road. You can go north, through Wicklow town. Rathnew. Ashford. Greystones. Bray. And Dublin. Or you can go south, passing by hidden, sandy white beaches with lovely names, like the Silver Strand, Maghermore, and Brittas Bay. And the not so lovely names, like Jack's Hole!
(to be continued...

Brendan's companion at the same workshop, James, was surprised to find one exercise leading him to write a poem. Not a very good poem, he felt at the time, but one that has helped provide the necessary incentive to keep going and write more. His walk follows...

Paper Dance

Swish of paper,
Red, green, then katakana.
Swish of paper, up and down, and to the right.
Same motion, can see the form of a statue on the page.
A single wave, from right to left.
A circular arc, 360 degrees, paper spirals.
Up and down, cutting like a sword.
Upward flick, then snaps to the right.

The Long Walk

We had 20 minutes to take our stroll, so to avoid getting lost, Brendan and I took our walk together. Not that we planned on it or anything, but there was just this subconscious link between us that said there would be safety in numbers.

Down the hill we headed, with the occasional exchange about the virtues of dogs versus cats (Brendan and his ex-wife had six cats at one time!), and we wound up at the crossing by the station. The sky was a nice deep blue color and you could smell the spring right around the corner - that fresh dirt smell, and that clean smell after the heavy rains from yesterday.

There was quite a lot of congestion at the intersection for some reason, but most likely it had to do with the old guy in the black van trying to remember if he was supposed to turn left or right in front of the station. We headed left and after going along five minutes or so turned left again, then headed back up the hill to check out the famous bear shrine. “Travel much in Japan?” Brendan asked me. “My wife has family in Hokkaido and Niigata, so I’ve been up there. And Kyushu. Haven’t been to Shikoku yet though,” I replied.

For a name like Bear Shrine, it was strange that there was nothing resembling a bear. Perhaps there were bears in this area back in the day, I wondered. God the trees were huge! You don’t see tall trees like these back in Tokyo.

More wandering around the shrine. I stared at a few signs with the rules. So many rules, even out here.

With five minutes to go, we returned down the stairs. I seemed to remember a little white sign. Could this be the one? Brendan kept on walking. “Isn’t this where we’re supposed to turn?” I say, pointing to the little road to the right. This was probably the little road Angela was saying the guy owned half of. “Yeah, this is it,” he said. “Good thing we came together. I would have kept going up that way.”

Reminded me of the first day I got to Tokyo. I woke up at 5:00, jet lagged from the trip over from DC. Called myself taking a walk, but all the little streets looked alike, and before I knew it, I had no clue where I was, or how to get back to my apartment. I wandered around in the October morning chill, trying to find a sign, some sign, that would point me in the right direction. For what seemed like an eternity, there was none. Then finally I saw the trash area from the other side of a small playground. Never was I so happy to find a trash dump.

APRIL
While in Scotland, I stumbled upon the piece of writing that follows while surfing your contributions, and can only assume that because Terri had submitted one poem already, she felt it too much to post another. Well, you were wrong honey, and here it is. From the third level AFFIRMATION course of early 2008, on the theme of Sex.

“Are there no prisons?”, quoth one bard
I sat in wonder and pondered hard
It is not only me I know
Who wonders if this thing will grow
Abandoned by all gross conceit
And languishing in sad defeat
Myself and all that went before
I fool myself and others more
There is no thing to grow, t'is true
And if there were, t'would not be you!
But then the fault is mine, you see
I am not open, am not free
I do not look along the byways
It is not lurking on the highways
Of life lived focused somewhere else
I point the finger at myself!
I place my virtues carefully
Where no one suitable will see
And half content, not wanting more
I slyly close the prison door.

FIRST LEVEL INITIATION, ONE-DAY WORKSHOP IN ZUSHI, FEB 1, 2009
Sadly Gillian is off to Chicago with her family so will be unable to continue with us. She did however have some interesting things to say about her DOTWW day (see extract under STUDENTS COMMENTS) and sent the piece she wrote after lunch for posting on this site. We wish her well.

Mountain Breathing
A breath of fresh air - a call of nature - whenever I am walking near mountains, trees, green - I just want to walk into the scene, feel the leaves on the path, brush past greens, reds, foliage, grass, ferns. The sun was out, the trees waving, dancing in the breeze - the green shining in the sun - inviting me up and through to be refreshed, relaxed and rejuvenated. I enjoy the city, the diverse throngs, the things to see and sometimes buy, the restaurants, the sensual pleasures of this variety. But I also hear the call of the wilds-the mountains, the rolling hills, the trees-which is what I have enjoyed in this area for the past few years and will miss; the winding mountain paths to streams and rivers and finally to the sea-the colors of it all-from browns to oranges to greens and blues and purple sunsets. So in my short 15 minutes, I tried several roads past giggling girls, who waved and people tending their bushes, past futons flying and a father walking with his toddler riding a tiny trolley car. It was to him I asked if any roads or paths lead into the mountain - but here in this peaceful, tranquil valley of weeping trees and beckoning bamboo - no paths led to the surrounding flora - just like a virtual reality of being close to nature but not really able to touch the earth-cement walls creating a suffocating barrier - there must be a way - as my eyes follow with anticipation the line of the trees on the hill’s horizon, circling around the homes below. An exploration denied - perhaps the paths have been covered-drowned in the cement of supporting hills - preventing landslides but stifling life - so ‘we’ can move into prettier homes near the trees. As I live here I know several open paths to the mountains and for too brief few hours I can roam with my boys - breathing in the earth and its bounty all around us - it is life - its our air and freedom. We have swung on boughs, eaten obentos up trees, made a room of our own in a bamboo grove, sketched the coast line below, held on to thick roots to challenge our bodies to climb the steep mountain side, jumped from wet rock to wet rock, plunged for ebi and worms that look like snakes, and caught grasshoppers in nets in the summer grass to observe them and then let go - this is why paths that lead to mountains lead to a world apart from the dreary routine of our cement-filled world - for children to have adventures,discover and follow new paths and enjoy so they will really know what the mountains give - and hopefully so in turn the children will give back and protect our breathing mountains, our mother earth.
Gillian (UK-Japan-US-The World)

MEMOIR WORKSHOP, WOMEN'S CONFERENCE AT AMAGI SANSO ON IZU, JAN 24, 2008. EXERCISE: FIRST CLEAR MEMORY AS A CHILD...

I was three. Sitting on the big, beige couch. My mother in her big green sweater.
She took my small hand and put it inside her sweater on her tummy, "Ooooo! This baby is kicking again!!"
I felt at the time it was a secret... only my mother and I knew.
Karen Seevers (US-Tokyo)

Creeping into my parents' bedroom while no else was looking, I'm drawn to my father's dark antique wardrobe with the mirrored door. Behind the magical mirror and my own reflection are locked my father and mother's most prized possessions. Quietly, I search for the long old-fashioned spindly key in my father's bedside table and find it once again in his usual hiding place. The key feels cold and heavy in my tiny hands. Tension building, I navigate the secret ritual of opening the door without breaking the fragile key. As the door finally creaks open, the worn treasures inside are revealed. Wedding photos reflecting my parents' youth and the handmade veil with a tiara of seeded pearls. Centering the crown onto my blonde locks, I am transformed into Princess Sarah. I close the mirrored door, smile at myself and enter my fairytale world once again.
Sarah Oba (US-Tokyo)

My first memory is of the day my best friend was absent. As a four-year-old in kindergarten, I was a dependent copycat. I followed my best friend everywhere and did whatever she did, not considering what I would do if she were absent from school. Without her, I had no idea what to do all day. I walked around the playground alone with a hunch back, staring down at my shoes to avoid seeing the other children playing.
Fiona Oba, 15 (Japan-US-Tokyo)

First memory - staring out a very very large picture window of my play room on the second floor of my house...looking out through the leaves of the tree... looking far far out to what the gigantic world below held. (In talking with my mother, she said this was the house that we lived in when I was two.)
Theresa (US-Japan)

Resulting from the first part of the second level Sunday workshop (EXPLORATION) conducted on November 16 in Zushi.

Torching the feather, feathering the torch: a play on words

Americans call a torch a flashlight which is, after all, when you think about it, a much more accurate term. Britain, steeped in history as ever, clings to the original flaming torch; which conjures the emotive verb: to torch, to set fire to. To what? To the kindling around the feet of witches and martyrs, to the dwellings of innocent villagers … rape … pillage … where is this leading? Let’s go back to the noun: to torches in their elegant wrought iron holders, flanking the stately aristocratic residences of Georgian London; to firelight Noh stages, where shadowy figures loom almost imperceptively through the gloaming.

‘Flashlight’ on the other hand, sharper, pro-active, practical, seems to typify the New World, shining the brilliant light of intellect, challenge, action into the gloomy corners of Old World thinking. Think Seventeenth Century Enlightenment – the very word encapsulates the illumination of new concepts, ideas.

So what of feathers? A personal anecdote. My legal name is Jonquil. The father of a school friend once morphed this into ‘Yon Quill’; but then, rather to my delight, into ‘Thither Feather’. And so I feel an affinity with feathers for I, too, am a feather.

At school, in the beguiling Yorkshire countryside, nature study was a major part of our lives. I remember collecting feathers, studying the intricate wonder of their structure, how the fine fronds meshed their lateral hairs together, like zippers, to form an airtight shield, which somehow contributed to the extraordinary aerodynamics of the tiny creatures who clothe themselves so. Humans have this fascination with feathers – think Indian headdresses and Inca Emperors, think bird’s nest hats and feather boas slid around the necks of sensual women - a mark of status for chiefs and kings, a fashion coup for Victorian women, sexual allure for Twenties vamps, to be clothed in the gorgeous plumage of defenceless birds.

If the pen is mightier than the sword, which wins out between the torch and the feather? Does the torch symbolize death and destruction? Or enlightenment? Is the feather brilliant design? High status glory? Or the sensuous feel of seduction? Certainly the caress of a feather is preferable to the pierce of a torch. Yet my eyes respond to both. I cannot imagine a world without either – one without light and heat, or one without colour, sensation, nature. Both bring joy, both complete our world, both inspire and nurture in their way.

How fortunate this is a choice I’ll never have to make. As long as Earth is bathed in sunlight, and birds wing through its skies, I can continue to delight in both.

Heera (Jonquil), UK-Kamakura 2008

The following pieces are a random selection from first level Initiation (IC) and second level Exploration, May-July 2008.

[Five minute exercise: an African American quilt top in crazy colours and design)

The summer of ‘69

It’s 1969. I am thirteen; a hippie-wanna-be, but I am forbidden to wear jeans and beads and grow my hair long.

I spend every summer with my two cousins. Sally doesn’t want to be a hippie. She wants to be a “Great Lady.” She takes boys down to the fruit cellar, where it is dark and cool, and kisses them. I tell her she will never be a “Great Lady” if she keeps that up.

My other cousin Lynn just wants to play golf. When she’s not playing golf, she is out in the garden swinging clubs around.

I just want to be a hippie, with hip-hugger bell bottoms and colorful peasant blouses. Bangle bracelets and beads like Janis Joplin. Hair, long and straight.

I just want to be groovy.

Well, that……and world peace.

It’s the summer of ‘69.

Kathryn - EC, Week 8, July 2008

[A course project in which the writer struggled to find a hopeful ending to a family story and managed to do just that]

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time not so very long ago, but long ago enough, there was a young girl whose mother died when she was still in pig-tails and her sister was still a babe in arms, and everyone was very sad.

In those days, that were not so very long ago, a man was thought to need a wife, and children, especially little babes in arms, need a mother, so before very long, along came a new mother, a stepmother, and her son, and they all went to live together in a nice brick-built semi with a frog pond in the front garden, and apple trees in the back garden in a nice, respectable, middle-class suburb. There were parquet floors and a piano, and the house soon smelt of coal tar soap and father’s cigars.

After a very short time it became clear to the young girl that her stepmother was no ordinary stepmother. She was actually a Wicked Stepmother, and as wicked stepmothers go, she was really, quite wicked indeed. She took a great dislike to the young girl and treated her like a servant. Clean the cooker! Polish the parquet! Scrub the sink! Sweep the stairs! Wring the washing through the mangle! The young girl grew sadder and sadder. Her father, who was still grieving over the loss of her mother, and who was grateful to have someone to take care of his daughters, used to go and smoke his cigars in the shed and didn’t seem to notice what a wicked stepmother she was.

Several years of cleaning and polishing, scrubbing and sweeping and wringing the washing through the mangle went by, and when the young girl was only fourteen, her wicked stepmother insisted that she leave school and find a job. This made the young girl extra sad, because she was a clever girl and liked school and had dreamed of one day becoming a Chartered Accountant. Her wicked stepmother wouldn’t hear of it, however, and so the young girl found a job in a chemist’s shop, and everyday except Sunday, she went out to work.

Every day except Sunday, the young girl served behind the counter selling aspirin and Brylcreme and corn plasters, and stocked the shelves with Dr White’s and emery boards and Floradex. Every Friday when the young girl got paid, and this was in the days before ATMs and automatic bank transfers when people still got paid in real money in little manilla envelopes on Friday afternoons, her wicked stepmother would take the young girls wages and keep them all for herself.

For the young girl the only good thing about working in the chemist’s shop every day except Sunday, was that she was sometimes allowed to keep the little samples of perfume that the perfume salesmen left, tiny little bottles of Chanel Number 5 and Coty L’aimant and Tweed. Afraid that her wicked stepmother would take these from her, too, she didn’t dare to wear the perfume, and hid the little bottles at the back of the wardrobe in one of her father’s old cigar boxes. Sometimes, at night when all the lights were out and the house was quiet, she would take them out and undo the stoppers and smell their delightful, forbidden fragrances.

After several more years of cleaning the cooker and polishing the parquet, scrubbing the sink and sweeping the stairs and wringing the washing through the mangle went by, the young girl became a young woman. Still the wicked stepmother kept all the young woman’s wages for herself and, for good measure she made the young woman’s little sister wear her stepbrother’s castoff boots to school, because she was too miserly to buy her any new ones.

The young woman began to wonder how she could escape from the house with the frog pond and the apple trees, and the constant demands of her wicked stepmother. She knew that without money she would never be able to get away, and so she began to daydream about meeting a rich, handsome man who would rescue her from her life of penniless misery and polishing the parquet beneath the ever watchful eye of her wicked stepmother.

And so a few more years went by and just when the young woman had almost given up hope of being rescued by her rich, handsome fantasy prince, a potential rescuer rode into her life. Alas he wasn’t Prince Charming on a white steed, but he was charming enough in his postman’s uniform and riding his postman’s bicycle. He was older than the young woman and his stories of his National Service in the Core of Engineers, and travel to foreign countries made him seem exotic and ‘worldly wise’ to the young woman who worked in a chemist’s shop every day except Sunday, and who had to clean the cooker and polish the parquet, scrub the sink and sweep the stairs and wring the washing through the mangle.

The charming postman and the young woman began to date, but before too long the wicked stepmother discovered the romance. She flew into a terrible rage and she forbade the young woman to see the charming postman ever again. Afraid that she would never escape from wringing the the washing through the mangle and would always smell of coal tar soap instead of Chanel Number 5, the young woman began to climb out of the bathroom window at night to keep her trysts with the charming postman. It wasn’t long before the wicked stepmother discovered the young woman’s clandestine comings and going through the bathroom window, and she flew into an even more terrible rage and beat the young woman with a broom handle, but it was already too late. The young woman’s escape plan was already under way.

Once the escape plan was discovered, the wicked stepmother raged and ranted and worried about the family’s reputation and what the neighbours in the nice, respectable middle-class suburb would think if they found out, even though it was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius and the beginning of an era of peace and free love.

For his part the charming postman hadn’t planned on marrying the young woman, at least he hadn’t really thought about it, at least not yet, but he decided to do the decent thing and make an honest woman of her. After all, he’d walked her home and had seen the nice brick-built semi with the frog pond in the front garden in the nice, respectable middle-class suburb. He’d seen the brand new, black Morris Minor that was parked in the drive and he thought to himself that it might not be so bad being the son-in-law of such respectable, middle-class suburb dwelling, Morris Minor driving folk.

And so it was that the young woman who worked in the chemist’s shop every day except Sunday, and who kept her hidden treasure of perfume samples in an old cigar box in the back of the wardrobe, and the charming bringer of birthday cards and gas bills were married, quietly and without frills and white lace, and the young woman became a young wife.

This did not appease the wicked stepmother, however, and she forbade the young woman ever to return to the house that smelt of coal tar soap and floor polish and her father’s cigars, and which had a piano on the parquet, and a frog pond in the front garden and apple trees in the back garden.

When the young woman and the charming postman were alone together in their little, rented terraced house, they realized that things had not turned out quite as they’d hoped they would. The prospect of comfortable son-in-law status had receded and disappeared when the wicked stepmother had banned the young woman from the brick-built semi in the nice, respectable, middle-class suburb, and the young woman had been so eager to get away from the cleaning and polishing, scrubbing and sweeping, and wringing the washing through the mangle that she’d forgotten to plan beyond the means of her escape. Things were starting to look very bleak for them both.

Then along came a fairy godmother. Well, actually it was the constitutionally cheerful, blue-rinsed, middle-aged lady, who lived next door, who every day polished her front door step and swept the pavement outside her house, and who still used lace-edged antimacassars, drank strong, dark tea out of real teacups with saucers, and collected china cats, but she turned out to be just as good as any fairy godmother.

The fairy godmother, who’s real name was Gladys, was a widow of long standing. Her George, God rest his soul, had been killed in an accident at work when they were still newly weds, and Gladys had never remarried. Although there had been those who would have asked her if they’d thought she’d have said yes, after George’s unfortunate and untimely death, Gladys had busied herself wisely investing the compensation money in real estate, and quietly becoming a property baroness. In fact, Gladys had kept herself so busy that by the time she realized that George, God rest his soul, would have wanted her to remarry and have a family, all the would-be-suitors had married someone else and had families of their own. Since this was long before the days of speed dating and computer dating, and Gladys was far too busy for tea dances and Crown Green Bowling she took to reading Mills & Boon novels instead.

Gladys and the young woman quickly struck up a friendship over the garden fence. Later over cups of strong, dark tea drunk out of real teacups with saucers, and Marie biscuits, the young woman confided in Gladys. She told her all about her wicked stepmother and being made to leave school at fourteen, about how her escape plan had been ill conceived and how her dreams of becoming a Chartered Accountant would now never come true. Gladys listened and said, “Shocking!” and “Oh, deary, deary me!” and “Well, I never.” and other blue-rinsed, middle-aged lady expressions to convey her consolations and solidarity, and together they came up with a plan, and the plan was this.

Gladys, being a closet property baroness, would lend the young woman the money to go to night school to study bookkeeping. Gladys would take care of the baby during the day, so the young woman could go to work and cook the charming postman’s dinner before she went out, and the charming postman would take care of the baby at night and help with the housework at the weekends. The charming postman, who had already begun to worry about how they were going to manage once the baby came along and the young woman stopped working in the chemist’s shop, since even in those days postman weren’t very well paid, readily agreed to the plan.

Because the path to Chartered Accountanthood is a long and difficult one with lots of exams in peculiar subjects like taxation, financial audit and financial accounting, the years of study and hard work began in earnest for the young woman. During the day, she continued to serve behind the counter at the chemist’s shop selling Germalene and Haliborange and insect bite cream, and stocking the shelves with Johnson’s Baby Powder and Kaolin & Morphine Mixture and lint, and three nights a week she went out to night school to learn all about double entry book-keeping and tax allowances. But the young woman was clever and enjoyed studying, and Gladys looked forward to becoming a grandmother, even though she had never been a mother, and the charming postman continued to make people smile by delivering birthday cards, and frown by delivering gas bills, especially the red ones.

One cold, bright day in March, a beautiful baby girl was born and the young woman became a young mother, and everyone was very happy. The young mother having already worked for the Chemist for so long, and the Chemist knowing how much she and the charming postman needed the money, was allowed to return to work at the chemist’s shop. During the day she stocked the shelves with Mack’s Throat Lozenges and nit combs and Oil of Ulay (as it was still called back then) and served behind the counter selling paracetamol and Quells and razor blades, and three evenings a week she continued to go to night school. Gladys enthusiastically began her duties as grandmother, and three evenings a week the charming postman looked after the baby, and began to think that perhaps he would like to do more than deliver gas bills and birthday cards.

When he could find an excuse to sneak away from his wife, the wicked stepmother, and the house with the frog pond and the apple trees, the young mother’s father would drive over in the black Morris Minor to the little, rented terraced house to visit, and fill it with the smell of his cigars. He was secretly very proud of his daughter, who was studying bookkeeping and tax allowances at night school and who would one day be a Chartered Accountant, and of his beautiful granddaughter. He even started to quite like the charming postman.

After studying bookkeeping and learning all about tax allowances at night school, the young mother began to look for a job with a firm of Chartered Accountants, who would give her an apprenticeship and allow her to study for her professional exams. It wasn’t an easy task. In those days, young wives and mothers were expected to stay at home and wash nappies (They didn’t have Pampers back then.) and cook the dinner and dust the sideboard.

After being turned down by dozens of posh Chartered Accountancy firms run by middle-aged men in pinstriped suits and boring ties, whose wives stayed at home and gave dinner parties, and supervised the dusting of the sideboard, and collected their husbands starched, white shirts from the cleaners, the young woman was finally accepted. She was accepted by Appleyard & Daughter, a family firm of accountants. As the name suggests, Mr & Mrs Appleyard had had the terrible misfortune of never having been blessed with sons, but over the years they had grown quite used to, and if the truth be known actually preferred having, lady accountants.

And so the young mother left the chemist’s shop. She no longer had to serve behind the counter and sell Seven Seas Cod Liver Oil and Tunes and underarm deodorants, or stock the shelves with Vicks Vaporub and Wintergreen Lotion and Zinc & Caster Oil Cream, and she started work for Appleyard & Daughter. She worked and studied very hard. On fine days Gladys took the baby for long walks, and sang her lullabies, and on rainy days she read her Mills & Boon novels to her even though she was too little to understand them, and the charming postman thought a great deal about the future.

He thought about his own future, his young wife’s future and his daughter’s future. He also thought back to when he had been in the army and realized how much he’d enjoyed solving tricky logistical problems when designing camps and planning campaigns. He remembered how satisfying it was when his solutions to tricky logistical problems resulted in concrete systems that really worked. He recalled how he’d especially liked working with electricity, lighting and power and he decided that he’d like to become an electrical engineer.

The charming postman discussed his ambition with his young wife and she thought it was an excellent idea. Now that she was working for Appleyard & Daughter, they decided that he should apply to the local technical college to study electrical engineering full-time. Gladys thought it was an excellent idea too, and being the good and generous fairy godmother that she was, she agreed to lend them the technical college fees. Of course, there wouldn’t be money for weekends at the seaside or roast beef on Sundays, but with Gladys helping out with the baby, they would be able to manage. And so the charming postman stopped being a postman, except in the holidays, and became a mature student. He studied lots of difficult maths and physics and electronics, so that after four years he would be able to design power systems for hospitals and schools and prisons, which he thought would be much more fulfilling than making people frown, although he quite liked the idea of making people smile.

The years passed happily and productively by. Gladys continued to take care of the little girl as though she were her own granddaughter, taking her for long walks and singing her lullabies and reading her stories (except now it wasn’t Mills & Boon, because she was old enough to understand) and the young woman and the charming ex-postman worked and studied very hard. About the time when the little girl was old enough to start school, the young mother passed her final Chartered Accountancy exam and the ex-postman finished his electrical engineering studies, and everyone was very happy and proud. The young woman was made a partner at Appleyard & Daughter and the charming ex-postman found the perfect job designing power systems for schools and hospitals and prisons. Things were beginning to look very good indeed.

They decided it was time to move from the little, rented terraced house and buy a nice brick-built house with a conservatory and a big back garden in the countryside. And so they did. They found a lovely, old house in a nice friendly village that had a duck pond with fat, white ducks, and a village hall, and a nice village school for the little girl to attend. The recently qualified Chartered Accountant and Electrical Engineer decided to have a big house warming party to celebrate their great good fortune, and invited all their friends and family.

The wicked stepmother was purple with rage when she discovered that her husband had been secretly visiting the young mother and her daughter. She refused to go to the party under any circumstances, and forbade him to go, too. For once, however, the father chose to defy his wife, the wicked stepmother, and on the day of the party, he drove himself and his younger daughter in the Black Morris Minor to the lovely, old house with a conservatory in the nice friendly village that had fat, white ducks on the village pond and a nice village school.

At the party he met all the young couple’s friends and colleagues and saw how very happy his older daughter had become, and for the first time he began to realize just how unhappy she had been at home. Seeing his older daughter so very happy he began to realize for the first time just how unhappy his younger daughter was. And for the first time he was finally able to see just how wicked the wicked stepmother was, and he felt very sad. He made up his mind there and then that he could not allow things to continue the way they were.

At the end of the party the father kissed his daughter and granddaughter goodbye, and he drove himself and his younger daughter in the black Morris Minor back to the nice brick-built semi with the frog pond and the apple trees in the nice respectable middle-class suburb. His wife, the wicked stepmother, was waiting up for them, and she was beside herself with rage. He closed the front door quietly and sent his younger daughter upstairs to bed, and was alone face to face with the wicked stepmother, who was now purple with rage.

The wicked stepmother was now so very angry that she was speechless. Seizing his opportunity, the father took a deep breath and told her that his younger daughter must not be made to leave school at fourteen. She must no longer be made to clean the cooker, and polish the parquet, and scrub the sink, and sweep the stairs, and wring the washing through the mangle as his older daughter had been made to do. From now on she would have pocket money and new shoes and be allowed to visit her friends’ houses for tea. He also told her that he would continue to visit his daughter and granddaughter in the lovely, old house with the conservatory and big back garden in the friendly village with fat, white ducks on the village pond.

The wicked stepmother was dumbstruck. The father had never before spoken to her in such a way and she simply could not speak. Had she been able to speak, she wouldn’t have known what to say. She stood for several moments speechless, her mouth agape. Then still not having said a word, she slowly closed her mouth and walked out of the room with the polished, parquet floor and the piano and stormed upstairs, locked herself in the bedroom and flung herself onto the bed like a child having a tantrum.

The father sat down in his favourite armchair and lit a cigar. He watched the pale, aromatic smoke unfurl from its glowing red tip and he smiled. He had a feeling that although wouldn’t be easy, at least not at first, from now on everything was going to get much better in the nice brick-built semi with the frog pond in the front garden, and apple trees in the back garden in the nice, respectable, middle-class suburb.

Michelle - IC, Class 1-8, June 2008

[An exercise in fear…]

The Camel

The woman bought me in the market, where my previous owner had decorated me with bells and colors. She did not hit me and pat me as the other buyers did. She looked me in the eye, strong and true, and I looked sideways to my brother, who stood beside me. “Both,” she said. “I will take them both.”

We became the property of the woman and set out in a caravan across the desert. The woman rode me and my brother trailed behind loaded with her trunks and goods.

The woman slept at night in her tent, but she never failed to come to me before sleep: to rub my muzzle and scratch behind my ears: to whisper to me and my brother.

We reached a border and the others in the caravan were denied permission to go ahead. Only the woman and my brother and I………

And so, we began to traverse the desert alone. When we found water, the woman would lead us to it and let us drink before she enjoyed it herself.

The woman no longer bothered to put up her tent. She slept curled beside me, under many rugs. I can feel her backbone against my stomach even now.

My brother grew weak and when he died, she dug a grave in the sand with her hands and tipped him in with a mighty effort. She buried him and then held onto my head for a long time, her arm encircling my face.

She left her trunks behind. Now, just the two of us go on and on. Each of us no bigger than the grains of sand we walk on in this vast landscape.

We traverse the desert because that is what is in front of us. The sand ahead and the sky above.

There is nothing for us here. We keep going, toward some vague promise. We do not despair and yet, we do not hope. This emptiness is our world and we keep going because there is no choice.

Kathryn - EC, Class 6, June 2008

[10-minute exercise that inspired both a piece of fiction and a childhood memory]

1. Although I tried to ignore it, I kept seeing the book. Even when I turned my head to look out the window or talk to a friend at the table, I kept seeing the damn book. It was not just any book, you see, it had these hills and valleys, kind of like the English muffin commercial where they talk about the nooks and crannies that catch the melted butter.

It felt heavy and it even looked heavy. As I flipped through the pages I saw words I recognized from my high school Spanish class. It must be old because it smelled old–like a mixture of sawdust and stale beer. It was probably stolen from a bar.

But then I noticed why I couldn’t avoid it–couldn’t avoid looking at it. It was because the guy and his horse were looking at me. Looking at me in a way that gave me the creeps. Looking at me like they’ve been looking at me a long time. You can see it in his eyes and that smart ass grin. He’s found me!

Barry - IC, Class 7, June 2008

2. Looking at the russet coloured, moulded cover (of the book), at the figure on horse back, but not looking in any great detail, taking in only the figure and the horse, I’m transported back to Coventry, where I spent my first decade. The figure reminds me of the large, cast bronze statue of Lady Godiva that adorns the city centre. We, my sisters and I, used to pass her every weekend.

On Saturdays we’d take a big, double decker bus, occupying if we could the coveted front seat on the upper deck above the driver’s cabin, into the city centre to go to the kids cinema. When my brother was old enough to walk we’d take him, too. We’d sit in the dark in a row eating pressed sugar alphabet letters hard as rock, and choc-ices (my favourite used to be the Pink Elephant) and getting lost in the cartoons and the action.

Sometimes we’d stay in town all day. After the cinema, we’d go the museum and wander through the sculptures and portraits, because it was free and you could stay for hours, which was great when it rained. When we were hungry, we’d eat salty, vinegary chips out of newspaper on a bench or a wall, and when my brother got tired, we’d take turns giving him piggy backs.

Sometimes we’d go to the covered market (also good a place to go when it was wet). It was huge and always so crowded, so full of noise: stall holders shouting, cajoling the housewives into parting with their housekeeping money, so full of the smells of fruit, of enticing hot dogs and burgers and frying onions, and coffee, so pungent and exotic to a child brought up on sweet, milky tea.

Michelle, IC, Week 7, June 2008

[Starting point: a finely pleated grey silk cushion cover]

The hills in very early spring.
The snow is half gone.
Here and there and over there,
a horizontal strip,
left alone for now,
or a strand of shadow late in the afternoon.
And in between,
stripes of dull earth,
just waiting to turn green.

Kathryn (Kate) - EC, Class 4, June 2008

[Starting point: a small patchwork blanket from the 1930s]

I’m in a whitewashed cottage in Wales. Opening the door the smell of ‘old life’ is overpowering. Perhaps the room was shut before the clothes were dry, damp raincoats hanging by the door. Salt and sand dry and gritty. The stairs rise up into darkness. Opening the shutters light pours in. That special sort of seaside light. Somehow clearer, it bathes the furniture falling on the miss-shapen and well used sofa, covered with a faded woolen knitted blanket.

Hannah - EC, Class 1, May 2008

The Flattened Cow

My flattened cow dog frisby – this is the one that really got me thinking. A flattened out cow, just like a pancake … as flat as a cow pat really. It’s not the frisby that has emotional weight, nor the fact that it’s totally flat, except for the head, but rather it’s the cow itself.

Cows haven’t always been my favourite animal, but when I looked around the flat for three objects of emotional weight, this was the first that sprang to mind. Why? I had to think hard; why am I now so attracted to cows ? I never used to be. Maybe it’s an unconscious reminder of England, which is more and more in my mind. Or is it their character – calm, docile.

They used to scare me. I remember when we moved to the village, can’t remember its name. We had to walk three miles to get to college. It was great. We had three choices. The first, and quickest, was via the main road – good for bad weather as we could always grab a lift. My chemistry teacher lived in the next village down.

That’s it! Easton-on-the Hill was the name.

The other two routes were through the woods or across the meadow, both equally as charming. I say that now, but I don’t think I really appreciated them at the time.

The latter was my favourite, but was very seasonal. It would take us about an hour to get home depending on how much we loitered.

About half way we would come to a small metal bridge crossing over a babbling stream. And there they would be, the herd of Friesians, all huddled together munching peacefully until we arrived.

We would edge across the bridge, watching the cows cautiously. Usually cows move away when people get to close. Usually. But not these. They would keep one careful eye on us. Watching, waiting.  It’s something about their eyes that I love – always aware of who or what is around them, but never really distracted by much. Except fear maybe. We knew they wouldn’t hurt us, but still we would be wary. It was if we were somehow their entertainment – watching us edge nervously over along the railing.

Mum always told us not worry, she’d never heard of a cow harming a human unless provoked. Later that summer, a man was crushed by the very same herd!

But why then are cows so important to me and why are they becoming increasingly important? Why was it that I went all the way to Australia on a course for school and the most I got out of it was buying a frisby for a dog!

I had to buy it. Even though I was surrounded by strangers, and I should have been focusing on the task in hand, my mind was on souvenirs. But not the typical everyday souvenir people expect for a souvenir – something daft to make people laugh – well some of us. I bought it for Svet, actually, for us.

And now it’s finally dawned on me. The cow represents us. It has many meanings, many connotations, all positive. It was our code, the first phrase we used to tell each other: I love you. Stupid really.

Of course, it sounds so much better in Russian – ‘tikae korova’; but we didn’t go around calling each other ‘You cow!’ And where does the affection stem from? One of my favourite sights in Kazakhstan.

I would look out from my kitchen window onto the main road in front of the school campus. Every evening, without fail, the cows would meander along the dirt track to the river for grazing, each with a bell dangling from its neck. Led by one or two young boys, the deep sound of the bells would chime with each step.

It was such a simple sight, yet something I looked forward to each day.

Joanna - IC, Week 5, March 2008

At the workshop on Sunday March 8, a young writer - English is not her native language - made an enormous leap of faith in how she viewed the world. Here are her two WRITES.

MORNING WRITE
I woke up this morning very tired. I was full of anger.

What do I mean by “anger”?

I need someone who really, truly loves me with all their heart, to make me feel warm and safe. But it is hard to get such feeling. I always feel nervous to see reality. Everyone around me doesn’t like me. They all are too busy caring for themselves. Nobody can help me.

I’m hungry. What is today’s lunch? I think something with tomatoes. I can smell it. When I think of food, I always feel happy and get excited.

What do I mean by “food”?

Eating with people I like always makes me feel happy. It is a wonderful time as I can forget about everything which bothers me. I find myself smiling. Cooking something is to care for someone I love. I know that is why imagining the picture of having a lunch with my family is the one of my happiest in my life. It is very hard to change myself, but it is even more difficult to make others change. When I think of that, I feel so sad. (She is by this point very upset…)

AFTERNOON WRITE
I found a dirty old box. I opened it, but saw nothing. It was only an empty black box. So I threw it away.

What do I mean by an “empty black box”?

It was the long path which I see in front of me these days. I totally got lost. I was standing and looking around, but saw nothing.

Sunday evening, I saw something twinkling on my way home. I picked it up and thought, “Have I seen this before?” I stared at it for a while to find out where I had seen it. “Ah, this may be the box I threw away the other day. After raining last night, the box was cleaned. I didn’t notice it was such a beautiful box.”

I carefully opened it, and again found nothing. But this time I decided to take it home with me. (She is by this point glowing…)

What follows are early postings by members of the third level Affirmation course (AC - started Jan 17) and members of the first level Initiation course (IC- started
Feb 8th ), currently in progress at RBR.

IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE (as developed from a 7-line exercise)
In the south of France,
the air hung
as heavy as glass.

Beyond the open window,
the static bay,
was as blue-grey,
as my lover’s
unfaithful eyes.

The ennui of that room’s loveliness
was like a languid woman at dusk.

The velvet chair that felt no weight.
The violin case, empty always.
The bronze clock that told no time.

In the corner waiting,
a young girl, whose eyes
were ever open;
for she could find no rest
without love.

His words to me were smoothest suede.
My kisses, our bitter medicine,
nightly drunk.

We posed and posed,
and posed again,
to reassure one another
all was well
inside that ornate frame.

Until,
it came that day,
Distraction.

In the south of France,
a kite fell from the sky.

His air was infused with desire
and the scent of limes.
His arms unfolded,
finally,
to receive a gift.

In the corner,
the young girl swayed,
falling into sleep at last.

Kathryn - IC, Week 3, February 2008

A Corner in my Home
My immediate image is the genkan. Technically, it’s not a corner, but every morning, before I open the door, I’m in front of a corner of shoes and boots, usually strewn about and mostly all black. It looks like a corner to me. But it’s also an exit and entry, a place to say goodbye and a place to welcome. It makes first impressions. When I get a delivery, maybe from the post office or Pizza Express I often wonder what the deliverer thinks about my genkan. I might try to tidy the shoes into neat pairs, display a funky new pair of trainers and hide the dirty old boots in the cupboard – that’s if I’ve got time. Occasionally, when I’ve opened the door, perhaps standing amidst a pile of disorderly footwear, I feel almost exposed, like I’m revealing to a stranger “Yep, this is me.” I feel brave, but also defiant because I don’t care – who are they to judge me? I don’t know them. But, sometimes I feel ashamed; my shoes are in a mess - sorry.

But what about the other corners in my home? If the genkan is technically not a corner then how about the “real” corners? A quick scan and evaluation reveals a pattern. Books: three shelves of books in two corners. A yoga mat collecting dust. Exercise equipment in two different corners. Picture frames that have been stacked against that wall since I moved in two years ago. All these things in their respective corners. Gathering dust. They’ve been there a long time. Important but overlooked. Books. Exercise. Yoga, Pictures. All things that I want to be important in my life. Waiting to be used. The things in the corners of my room are the most important in my life.

And the genkan? It reflects my appearance. First impressions and all that. Even as I write I want to “pretty it up”. Maybe put my pair of aqua-blue mules between my black, shiny high-heeled boots and my new running shoes. Displaying three alternate, yet what I hope are, attractive options. I don’t often wear any of this footwear, but for the moment, this seems irrelevant. Then an evaluation of what footwear I tend to wear. I count five pairs, all black, mostly practical - useful for walking and standing for long periods of time and then try and count all the footwear I have. Over thirty pairs!

It’s time to sweep away the junk and let the corners come alive!

Nikki - IC, Week 2, February 2008

A WALK
There is an invisible barrier that divides Japanese pavements in two - up on the right, down on the left. This helps to avoid that embarrassing moment when two strangers stop in their tracks to duck and weave and avoid a collision. They flick momentarily from side to side, make eye contact, and perhaps allow a brief smile before moving on their separate ways. Anything to avoid that human connection with a stranger.

Have you ever tried walking the wrong way down a Japanese pavement? As people surge towards you with puzzled expressions, shocked by your deviance, there is so much to see…

Heel, toe, push squeeze… heel, toe, push, squeeze. Heels pound down, feet roll forward and weight is momentarily distributed. Toes connect to the ground and push up, thigh tightens, buttock clenches and you’re off. A brief moment of infinite possibilities - propelling forwards, jumping back or springing to the side. Such potential at that moment.

Such potential to express joy with bounding strides, head held high, stomach pulled in, chest pushed out. The entire world can see and share in your happiness. Nothing can stop you now. The crowds’ part before you and shiver in your wake, touched by the energy exuding from your body.

Or head dropped, hang dog. Feet shuffling, arms hanging. A picture of dejection, sorrow and defeat. You blend in, seeking camouflage; people might look, but they do not see.

Or hips swinging, head poised. Arms tense rocking your body from left to right. Look at me you strut, glittering and gliding to your destination.

Knees in and tottering; fists clenched and stomping.
Head down and shuffling; eyes front and smiling.
The turned out toes of a ballet dancer; the turned in toes of a teenager;
The slouched shoulders of a schoolboy, the purposeful march of a mother.

Who needs words when so much can be said through walking?

Hannah - IC, Week 1, Febuary 2008

LOVE IS…
Love is damn near incomprehensible
Extensible, reaching heights & depths of dreams
Scheming to surf the deepest waves
I am not brave but still unbroken, hope unlooked for
Hearts unlocked & loaded for want of love

Terri - AC, Week 3, February 2008

CLIMATE CHANGE
A woman leaving a PTA meeting stops to admire a snowman in the school yard.

Woman: Aren’t you lovely? Shame you’re melting so quickly.

Snowman: Well, it’s global warming, isn’t it? With the rate the climate is changing, you’ll be seeing less and less of my kind around here.

Woman: You speak?!

Snowman: Only when I have something to say.

Woman: I see.

Snowman: Do you? Do you really see?

Man in the Moon: It’s all of you who are responsible for the demise of his kind, you know.

Woman: Who said that?

Snowman: It’s him, up there. Look up.

Man in the Moon: Yes, all of you, with your laziness and greed. Driving around in your S.U.Vs and People Carriers. Using air con, when you could just open a few windows and let a breeze blow through.

Woman: I need my people carrier. I have children.

Man in the Moon: You have two children. Your mother had six and drove a Ford Escort.

Woman: What do you know about my mother?

Man in the Moon: A lot more than you do, that’s what. I’ve been looking down at you people for longer than I care to remember.

Woman: Well, times have changed.

Man in the Moon: Yeah, common sense has become extinct.

Woman: What do you mean?

Man in the Moon: I mean you drive your kids a mile down the road to school. Then after school drive them to a gym, because you’re worried they’re not getting enough exercise, complaining all the while about all the driving you have to do.

Snowman: That is kinda dumb! If the kids just walked to school, they wouldn’t really need to go to the gym, would they? And you wouldn’t have to do so much driving.

Woman: But it would be dangerous for Julie and Jake to walk to school.

Man in the Moon: Dangerous? The way you drive, they’d be safer skateboarding to school.

Woman: I don’t know.

Man in the Moon: Yes you do. You know perfectly well. The little voice inside your head has been telling you the same thing for years. But you just go on doing what you do, ‘cos the neighbours do it too. Wouldn’t want to go against the flow, now would you?

Woman: That’s not fair!

Man in the Moon: Huh. You forget who you’re talking to. You silly woman! I’ve seen you taking your clothes out of the tumble dryer, and fondly reminiscing about how good they used to smell and feel against your skin, when you used to dry them outdoors. You could still have that nice smell. Lose the tumble dryer. Your clothes will stay soft and new looking for much longer.

Woman: But everyone uses tumble dryers nowadays.

Man in the Moon: AHA!

Woman: I’m conversing with the man in the moon and a snowman. I must be losing my mind.

Man in the Moon: You sat for hours in that stupid PTA meeting listening to reams of nonsense thinking yourself perfectly sane. Yet the moment you hear something that actually makes sense, you start questioning you’re sanity.

Snowman Maybe she is mad.

Man in the Moon: Nothing wrong with her that a good kick in the backside wouldn’t fix.

The woman rushes away to her people carrier.

Snowman: Now look what you’ve done. You’ve scared the nice PTA lady away.

Man in the Moon: She wasn’t that nice.

Snowman: You know, you get more cantankerous by the year.

Man in the Moon: Who could blame me?

Snowman: Well, I don’t see that you have it so bad. You’re not the one melting away before your time.

Man in the Moon: Ah! I’ve had enough of gabbing. I’ve gotta go feed my rabbit.

Margaret - AC, Week 2, January 2008

MY
WRITING
LIFE

When I have the time, I will record Napoleon’s cure for hiccups.
Compose Galileo‘s ode to a star, and the life of the Buddha in limericks.
Reveal Darwin’s correspondence with Mrs Beeton, and why the Mona Lisa never blinks.
I will tell you where the Vikings bought their helmets, and what Hannibal fed his elephants.

When I have the patience, I will observe where the dandelion seeds drift to.
Define the shape of water; catalogue the colours of the wind.
Teach you the lullaby of the sinking sun; recount how the rocks got their wrinkles.
I will tell you why the butterfly, and how the armadillo; where the start, and whether the end.

When I have the courage, I will chart the contours of integrity.
Call an antiphon to sorrow; send an invitation to possibility.
Dip my pen in curiosity, load my brush with hope, and draft the plot of the future.
I will tell you whence perseverance, and where wisdom; how joy, and why never despair.

But for now, I will transcribe the mystery play of your everyday.
Relate your sagas of discovery; portray the treasure house of your mind.
Tell the legend of your laughter; sing psalms to your ceaseless permutations.
I will tell why your beauty, and where your strength; what your spirit, and how much you.

Emma - AC, Week 1, January 2008

Awakening as the Theme of the Writing Retreat - May 2007

Awakening to what? What do I mean by awakening? The eyes open when we wake in the morning and the day rushes in - sense impressions: the thoughts that we carry in our heads from day to day about the past and projections about the future. All this goes on in an eternal present which is not static but an endless succession of “present” moments of which our existence consists. Ever changing, ever moving towards an ultimate awakening where fears and passions dissolve and complete awareness is attained.

Along the way are small awakenings when we feel that we have suddenly gained a new insight. It seems miraculous to “see” something at last that until then had been hidden. Saying the Buddhist refuge prayers day after day one slowly begins to internalize the expressed wish that all sentient beings may have happiness and be free from suffering and that one strives to obtain Buddhahood in order to lead all sentient beings to perfect understanding.

When we speak of attaining happiness and avoiding suffering we hardly question the nature of happiness. One could perhaps call it harmony of being. The nature of suffering however, needs to be analyzed. A simple and common cause of suffering is toothache. What is the experience of this suffering? It’s a concentration on the self. The sensation of pain is that of being trapped in the self. Such pain may be psychological rather than physical – the pain of self-consciousness. In either case a distraction from the self will cause a diminution of the pain. This can be applied generally to the alleviation of pain and suffering through the development of altruistic attitudes and behavior in daily life. Nor is it a question of charity which is ego centered and tax deductible, but one of shifting attention from oneself to others. This is a natural development in the socialization of the individual from the scream of hunger of the infant to the “Mummy Tommy hungry” of the three year old. Awareness of others is integral to the social development of the individual. We distinguish the self from others in the social context as a matter of survival. But the shift of awareness from self to others empathetically is a higher sense that must be cultivated through conscious practice.

Reflecting on the various pieces I have written about my past life in the course of the writing seminar I have observed a gradual shift in emphasis from myself to a sympathy and understanding of those I have encountered in my life. The process of writing has transported me back to a formative period in my life of the 1950’s and what one might term the psychoanalytic mentality of that time in which mental pain and suffering were ascribed to past experiences wounding to the self which had become submerged in the sub-conscious. Healing was purported to be promoted by the uncovering of these experiences which could then be seen in a new light and assimilated. Parents and family members as the most intimate relationships were usually the focus of psychoanalytic probing. “My father did this to me” “My mother didn’t do that for me” were basically what was seen as the root causes of psychological injuries that underlay mental suffering. Reconciliation might take place with these ghosts of the past in the sense of forgiveness of injuries one had suffered. Or one might simply reinforce negative feelings that psychoanalytic probing had justified. The analysand who was after all a patient (and a well paying one) was rarely encouraged to place himself in the position of the oppressor and to contemplate the other’s needs, motives and suffering. It was all “what was done to me” neglecting the development of self-esteem that would have followed the assumption of responsibility for one’s condition.

The faith in psychotherapy in the mid 20th century now seems antediluvian in the light of particularly Tibetan Buddhist teachings that have spread throughout the world through the Tibetan Diaspora. In my own life I can compare all of my relationships in the past and reinterpret the feelings I have had of persecution and inferiority as positive ones of love. “Memories” of parental abuse which I had harbored for years now suddenly seem like sick fantasies when with the aid of memories and old photographs I have constructed an image of an attractive young couple of the 1930’s who struggled through the Great Depression from which they emerged more or less unscathed and finally finished their lives in an up-market retirement home in Tucson, Arizona. The great sadness of their lives was that their one son who survived World War II did not give them grandchildren. My feeling about them now is one of peace but deep regret that I couldn’t give them that sense of continuity.

The turbulence of youth has survived into my later years and I find that here, too I have been plagued with old habits of focus on self to the exclusion of other. But this time the awakening has been more abrupt and more complete for which I thank Buddhist teachings and meditation.

I had been blaming the unsatisfying relationship I have had for the past three years on the selfish, deceitful person who would use me and exploit the attraction he exerted. But when I let myself momentarily escape from the self I realized that it was I who had invented this person in defiance of his honesty about himself and the initially expressed limitations of intimacy that were inevitable due to his commitments. And then having opened myself to the other I suddenly saw him as he really is with all his difficulties domestic and professional that have left him worn-out and conflicted. And at last I have awakened to the ultimate pain of the other for which there is relief only in prayer.

George (New York-Tokyo)

LONG HALF DEAD LEAF

where did it come from this
long half-dead leaf

was it once a part of a beautiful orchid
cultivated in a glass cage
by the finest florist in town
to be displayed in the lobby
of an elegant five star hotel

until that is
under the heat of the artificial lighting
the leaves started to wither
and the petals started to fall

then as quickly as it appeared this
long half-dead leaf
was thrown ruthlessly
into the garbage
along with half eaten dinners and
endless wet napkins
disposed of after use

less than perfect beauty
doesn’t belong in a place like that

or could it have been the last survivor
of yet another battle between cityscape and countryside
concrete dwellings and green open spaces

for generation after generation
it skirted the edges of a small piece of farmland

until that is
the developers moved in
and the land was cleared
to make way for another brand new carbon copy home
it’s green leaves will be replaced later with trees grown
row upon row in a greenhouse
uprooted and replanted in the
square and rectangle gardens
of the houses
just in time for the opening of the first showroom

or maybe it came from a houseplant
stifled by the central heating
abandoned by it’s busy owner
dehydrated and undernourished

it tried to hold on, but without water it
could not survive
and so it slowly started to wither
only then it’s owner noticed it
but by then it was too late
and once again this
long half-dead leaf
was pulled off and thrown away

thrown away
disposed of
discarded

with all the other long half-dead leaves that litter the Earth
with all the other long half-dead leaves that fall in our way
that we try to ignore
or burn
or bury

out of sight out of mind

buying new ones to replace
and cover up
our mistakes

starting afresh again
striving for perfection
always starting anew

I’’ll never know exactly where this
long half-dead leaf came from

but for now it has come to me
as a timely reminder
that in my endeavour for perfection
I continue to fail to learn from my mistakes and my failures
constantly trying to wipe the slate clean
yet never erasing completely

perhaps I need to find the other long half-dead leaves
of my past
that I thought I could ignore
but have nonetheless left their mark

Carolyn - Scotland-Tokyo (EXPLORATION course at RBR, March to May 2007)

Strangers in the Night

“Sorry to bother you, it being so late and all. Would you have a flashlight I could borrow?”, he drawled.

It occurred to her as she led him through to the scullery, that inviting a stranger into her house in the middle of the night might not be the smartest thing to do. He seemed pleasant and amiable though, and she felt completely at ease.

She held the light while he repaired the puncture. He was on a cycling holiday around Ireland. He would be staying in the nearby town for two more nights. He believed his ancestors were from the area and wanted to explore a little more. He invited her for lunch the next day to repay her kindness. She didn’t envy him the eight long miles down the dark, lonely road back to his guesthouse.

They met in front of the church at one. He wore a feather in his hat. Unusual, yet he carried it off well. They had lunch at Cafe Hans. Conversation came easily. He was a talker, but he listened too.

She had lived alone in the cottage since her husband left her twelve years ago. She had been desperately lonely for the first couple of years, but had come to aprreciate her solitude. She had her family and friends, her neighbours, her dog and the cats who had chosen to make her house their home.

He lived in Upstate New York with his teenage daughter. His wife traveled a lot for her job, so when they got divorced, it was agreed that he would look after their daughter. He and his ex-wife remained good friends and, because of their daughter, saw quite a lot of each other. He dreaded the day his daughter would fly from the nest. He feared loneliness.

They took a long walk around the castle grounds after lunch. And then went to O’Malleys for an evening of traditional music and dance. She thoroughly enjoyed herself.

Perhaps opening your door to strange men in the middle of the night, wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Margaret - Eire-Tokyo (ditto)

MY LITTLE PHONY

“This story begins and ends in a fairy tale. Not the sort of fairy tale that warms children’s hearts; cherished in books, gets passed on from generation to generation. This story, doesn’t even come in a book. It comes from a dark place in the recess of our subconscious minds. It is the story that tells us how suffering became to be. The human mind that takes a world of purity and innocence and turns it into one of evil and darkness to allow one’s self to feel righteous in the realization of its evilness. It is this deception that we, in the most early stages of childhood, create for ourselves to feel worthy of redemption.”
“Yes thank you, Christine, that is what I was thinking, you put it into words quite eloquently.”
“You are welcome Christine.”
“Are we ready for another flashback?” I sigh, worried.
“Yes Christine, we are going to remember that memory you have of when you were watching your favorite TV show as a little kid, ‘My Little Pony”.
“May I ask why? That’s very off the wall”
“Because you know nothing! If it weren’t for us you’d be a waste of space.”
“Damn you all! If you don’t stop verbally abusing me I’m going to take my pills!” I thought angrily as I collapsed myself onto my bed, giving in anyway, closing my eyes and awaiting the dream.
The voices died down and very quickly I was in a dream. A lucid dream, where I could fully realize I was asleep as I dreamed. My eyelids like an overhead projector played yet another educational video for me, my mind playing classroom again.
In this video I saw myself at five years of age, sitting in front of the TV watching my show. I was singing along to the little ponies running around in the field and eagerly awaiting for something silly to happen, like the selfish pony to eat everyone’s cake or the outcast pony to break down and cry because it wasn’t accepted in the playgroup.
For a short while I sat there comfortable, enjoying the scene until the memory started to take on a life of its own. I first noticed little Christine starting to tremble as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. The shakes quickly turned violent and froth appeared at her mouth as she lay there convulsing, tormented by some sudden seizure. Frightened, I held her down and tried to bear the sight. Then as quickly as it had started, the seizure subsided and she sat upright and hyperventilated as she returned to her original position and carried on watching TV.
However for some reason she now started to cry, frightened by the images she saw on the TV screen. How is this possible? There’s nothing scary about this show. My focus wandered onto the screen and that is when I realized that something had gone terribly wrong. There I was, brutally beating and murdering these ponies and selling their meat.
“God no!” we screamed, my younger self and I. There was nothing we could do but sit there, gaping at the brutality we were witnessing.
“Calm down I say, these ponies are just in a factory farm. They may be covered in mange, but you only eat what’s inside”
“Yes,” chimed in Christine, “she is right. It’s just the same with people, living is taking what you can from them and leaving the rest. You mustn’t deny that we all have an ugly side. Don’t you see that all the things that make you happy someone had to suffer for? For your sake?”
“Is this true?”
“No” I said. “Christine, don’t listen to them, you are young and they are taking advantage of that.”
“Unfortunately we lie not. And why are we to be blamed for telling the truth, people can’t appreciate love until they’ve learned how to hate.”
“Yes, we all must live in this factory farm and some don’t know this, yet others do know their fate.”
“Oh yeah” I said with a tone of sarcasm, “love is just great when you wait until its too late.”
“Love is just great when you take the bait,” little Christine sang.
“That’s it, you’ve got it, Christine,” they cheered.
“Well,” I sighed, “great minds think alike don’t they?”
“They sure do, and you know what the funny thing is?” Christine asks with a giggle.
“What?” I asked in between a little chuckle.
“You made this video when you were only five years old. How smart you were back then.”
Shocked, I looked at my little self. “This can’t be true… what have you become?!” I stammered, horrified.
“Well, why the ponies allegory then? Think about it.”
“No,” I pleaded, “don’t do this to her, don’t do this to us.”
“I am a human being, what can you expect? This, right now, is why you are the way you are now, enjoy this transformation…”
That is when I realize that the TV that I had zoned into had swallowed me up in its rays and I was now in a cage of my own, caged behind the screen, in the second dimension… helplessly trapped in this twisted late night freak show. I was animated, my cartoon heart furiously pumping ink through my veins as my screams and pleas came out as nothing more than printed blurbs, illuminating the scenery with my cries which now literally hung in the air.
I get up and run, run past the slimy cages of ponies, run past the suffering, run past the screams of agony that sound almost human, run past the humans…humans? I stop in my tracks.
I force myself to stare into one of the cages. My eyes widen and my mouth opens in a silent scream of terror. Inside was a half pony half human, a hideous deformed beast, cigarettes and liquor strewn all over its cage. I looked in the next one, another human and pony hybrid, this one sex-crazed, pregnant and tearing at another in its cage. I look in the next one, the next one, the next one, all containing these horrific mutations with their sins on display, and I realize these were human beings, being transformed into ponies by their ignorance in sin. They were oblivious to what they were doing to themselves and what they were becoming, all they knew was that they suffer. Yet they didn’t know why. They didn’t know!
“I’m sorry, did I say factory farm?” I could hear yelling from where I ran and had left them.
“We call it pleasure island now, its more politically correct.”
“Hah. This is just life,” little Christine affirmed.
“No it’s not, Christine!” I yelled back. “This is not life and this is not Pinocchio, and I’m sick of this dream, I want out.”
“Bah, I say, you’re lucky that you know, most of these here don’t. I’m chosen, in this place I’ll stay. And the people I die for? I’ll let them know damn well, I died because of their sins, in their world.”
“Blasphemy,” I whispered to myself. “You cannot play God, don’t pretend to understand Him.”
Now they all sang in unison, all of my ugly selves; “join the fun side, I’ll decode your life if you want to play dead”
I knew there was no winning… I had to escape but how? I know they’ll do things because they like the show. I smiled at them and nodded as they carried on to sing:
“My flesh still tingles, my mind is blank, the appetites I indulge in fuels my addiction to starve. Shame is knowing no one knows, their smiles make me want to hide…”
“…the world is getting darker now…” I contribute.
“Then let the fire burn!” they proclaimed, “bring on the devil, for now it is his role”
“Yes!” I yell, “water over the fire is the salvation that burns out my soul!”
…if they really read my mind, I must believe my lies.
“My, aren’t you the phony one!” exclaimed Christine.
And we all laugh as I awake from my dream.

Christine - Tokyo (ditto)

The pieces that follow were written during ‘Initiation’ - the first level of DOTWW - and stand in their own right, unedited. Many students begin work tentatively, either strong in the left-brain imposed belief that they cannot write, or convinced they are not very good. When the rest of the class puts them right, they quickly realize that the only thing standing in the way is their own thinking.

Flash

twirl of black

face fragment

a page mid-air

whisper in my hair

smooth semaphoric arm movement

world upended

she’s a tease!

Jillian (New Zealand-Tokyo) 2005

Dragon Flower

Scantily dressed, her pale green bikini barely there, the samba dancer shimmied on the float, oil and sweat glistening on her body. She shook her body quick-time, in perfect harmony with the music, a part of it. Her head-dress of bright orange and lilac feathers shook with her, reaching the rooftops, brushing the earth as she dipped her head. She was a wild thing, an animal, a bird of paradise in full display, proud and alive.

The Carnival floats moved on down the streets, each one covered with hundreds of dancers like Solena, enjoying every moment, broad smiles and laughing eyes. For this night, they were the stars, on parade. Tonight there was feathers and sequins and bows and silk and gold. Who needs tomorrow, with a tonight like that?

Lora (Australia-Tokyo) 2005

Memory

I’m in the garden threading vines through the lattice. It’s six a.m., quiet, barely a murmur of traffic. I am so content. The grass is thick beneath my feet and the vine, a clematis, is phenomenal. I bought it in early spring for one hundred yen, a tiny curl of a plant with a single leaf. Now it is an explosion of tendrils, almost breathing. In days the tendrils creep and curl around anything in their reach. Once, I forgot a chopstick on the lawn and it was entirely encircled inside the vine, like something encoiled by a snake. The vine reminds me of when I was young and a vine crept through my window and across my room all the way to the bedroom door.

Emma C. (UK-Tokyo) 2005

Come

Beware, for I am a shape-shifter.

I am the adder flickering across your path.

I am the snowflake swirling through the storm.

I am the bud that slowly unclenches under the first kiss of spring.

I am the whisper of the fern frond unfurling.

I am the far-off land that draws the swallow home.

I am the vine that hugs the ancient trunk.

I am the darkest recess of the deepest cave.

I am the vibration of the violin string.

I am the mountain torrent rushing from the glacier, and I am the expanse of the ocean. Beware the currents that will draw you far from shore.

I am the still axis of the tornado.

I am the perilous beauty of the sleeping panther.

I am the breath of a butterfly’s wing.

I am the life that runs through your veins.

You cannot hold me: I will slip through your fingers like smoke.

But take my hand, and we will dance together in the heart of the flame.

Emma P. (UK-Tokyo) 2005

The Walk

It’s a busy morning. I had to get up at 7:00, WAY before humans are supposed to, knowing I have a deadline to meet. “Why do I always leave things to the last minute?” I groan, inwardly kicking myself for not finishing my work up yesterday when I had more time. I boot my computer up and start my translation from where I left it the day before. My wife’s head pops around the corner followed by the slight swell of her stomach. I am struck simultaneously by the responsibility and the joy that lies ahead.

She asks me how she looks—beautiful, as always, I think. “Busy…” I say, “But it works.” She’s got on an orange-brown blouse and turquoise skirt, and is hurriedly putting on her shoes, because there are only two minutes before she needs to get out the door.

“I can’t go with you today. Sorry baby, but I’ve got a deadline to meet.” I remind myself.

“Okay, have a great day.” We kiss and she is out the door.

I waffle and tell myself that the translation will get done anyway and that 20 minutes to the station and back won’t make a huge difference when it comes to finishing, but spending more time with her in the morning will. Jumping into some sandals, I rush out the door to catch her as she is just about out of the driveway.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Aren’t you cold?” she stares up and down at my attire, t-shirt and shorts—more fit for summer than autumn.

“Nah, I love this weather.” I take a whiff of the cool air.

And we are off, hand-in-hand down an alley. I always love walking down this lane. I think of it as a miniature Eden, a bonsai jungle. It is a little haven away from the smells and jarring sights of the construction filled neighborhood that we live in.

The narrow street is filled with potted plants and flowers on both sides. Persimmon trees, one of which has left a sticky red mess on the asphalt, have replaced the apple tree. The snake has been replaced by Shiro, the neighbor’s dog. One furtive glance to the right lets me know that he won’t be barking at me this morning—he’s probably on a walk too.

My wife and I talk about the coming little one—more specifically about her stomach. She’s looking unsure about its ever-expanding nature, and me; thinking how cute the budding bulge of it looks… It is our own little potted flower.

As we exit Eden and walk toward the small bridge across the way, I decide to take a different route today, and rather than walk under the cherry tress, leaves not starting to change to yellow with the fall, we cross the street.

She seems unsure as to this small change in our morning ritual—our walk together to the train station on her way to work.

Perhaps hoping to regain control of the situation she hits me with the question, “Do you think our kids will have American citizenship?”

“Maybe. Why not?” I reply, thinking that it will be up to them to decide which country they like better and want to live in. “If we have a daughter we could name her Ame-ko, after America.”

“Not funny. And what do you think we should do about their last name? Should it be Sherr or Ishino?”

“Definitely Sherr.”

“But it’ll be easier for them to have my name in Japan, don’t you think?”

“I suppose…” I am forced to admit.

“Maybe we could combine our names, like they do in the States, and be Ishino-Sherr?” She’s pressing me and it isn’t even 9:30. This is not what I wanted to talk about on the way to the station…

My first reaction is anger, but she’s hit a nerve I didn’t even know was exposed. I bite back my response, and then I realize here is an issue that we’ve hardly even thought about much less talked about. THE issue of who keeps their name. As it stands now, we both have our names.

I think back grumpily to before we got married, and she notified me with no uncertainty that she’d be keeping her name… the unspoken words echoing once again painfully in my heart “I thought changing your name meant I was the most important man in your life…”

Of course there was the initial benefit of not having to deal with the painful process of changing all her legal documents, credit cards, etc. Bet when it comes to our kids, the issue is larger, more complicated.

No verbal blows have been thrown, but we’ve suddenly got an argument threatening to storm over our short time together this morning. I put my arm around her waist, and we continue walking in silence, dodging around the odd bicycle, and then turn right at a stoplight. It is red, and we can cover more ground if we keep moving.

I look over to a daycare center on my right, where a young man is fixing a wheel of a large kiddy-mobile made of red plastic. A brief picture flashes in my mind of ten or so little people, with bored expressions on their faces being pushed to a destination they probably aren’t interested in going to and I quietly vow never to send our children to daycare.

“This wouldn’t be a problem if you’d changed your name…” I grumble.

We’re only a couple of blocks from the station now, and I turn away angrily.

“Well, I should get back home and finish that translation.”

“What?” She is startled. “You’re going home?”

“Yeah, I’ve got that 2:00 deadline to meet… have a great day at work, okay?”

“Okay… see you at the clinic tonight.” My heart is torn, and at the same time bounces to think about our family date with the doctor. We’re going in to check on the baby’s progress.

She heads around the corner and I question myself, “Is this really how I want to start my day?”

Finding my answer, I do an about-face, running around the corner to catch up with her just as a big bus is passing by. I slip along side her, resting my hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t have to look around to know that it is me, and smiles, “I thought you were going home.”

“I didn’t want to leave things like that…” She puts her head on my shoulder and I gather her in, giving her a peck on the cheek.

We move onto the escalator, and hold each other in silence, as we are transported slowly up three stories to the top. Our remaining time together ticks away—but right now we have each other.

As our heads poke out of the floor, I can see the wicket up ahead—that magic portal which will whisk her off, and send me marching back home. I walk a few steps with her at the top of the platform, and then head back to the down escalator, turning to look over my shoulder and watch her go. She looks around to check one last time—like she always does—then is gone.

As I head down the escalator I realize I have no idea how the naming of our child will work out… but somehow it doesn’t seem so urgent to me now. There are more important things to care of in the immediate future, like making sure that our baby is born into a happy household. I head out of the station. There’s a translation I’m going to finish.

Jonathan (US-Tokyo) 2006

Still Life

Life is really endless, limitless. There are so many roads and combinations. Just by changing one piece the composition changes and gets new meaning. A million variations, options, so many choices. It is intriguing how sophisticated the patterns are, how we can create new patterns by slightly changing something. Each time we look at it from a different angle, we discover new meanings. When we look at ourselves and everything we create around ourselves, just like we look at this composition, we can see how we can shift things around within and outside of us, just like we can rearrange this composition. In looking at this composition I feel it is telling me that, in essence, we are no different.

Jacinta (Netherlands-Tokyo) 2006

Magic Journal

A magic journal just appeared on the table. Its embossed leather cover has a curious pattern in it that could be African, Indonesian or Celtic. Most intriguing of all is the presence of two deep amber orbs, the size of a pea, captured in the center of the mysterious pattern of raised ridges in a dark stain, forming a rectangle in the center of the tan leather.

Inside this obviously old book is an unused pad of lined paper, stained the color of tea. A small Japanese maple leaf sits loosely on top of the pad, inside the front cover. Upon closer examination I notice that two pages have been torn out.

The absence of any writing on this pad in no way detracts from the sense that this book was written in many years ago, and a strong message of mystery and deep emotions emanates from this slim volume.

If you listen carefully, you hear voices and conversations, the clinking of glasses and the shedding of tears. The two orbs in the embossed cover are almost like eyes, peering out as mute witnesses to words not written, events unspoken – intense, mysterious, and long, long ago.

The owner of this book possesses a rare and precious key. If someone actually puts a pen to this paper, one imagines wondrous tales unfolding that fill the senses, spark the imagination and satisfy the natural longing for connections, for history, for understanding.

John (US-Tokyo-Canada) 2006

The following writings (with a single starting point) are by students who participated in the second-level Exploration course at RBR in 2005.

A feather. Light and airy. Elegant in its simplicity. Offering no resistance to the forces that come its way. Whichever direction the wind blows, off it goes. But the feather is a part of something more than itself. Part of a bird that controls the direction of its own flight; that controls its own destiny. And the feather that fell off? Was it unnecessary? Lost its purposefulness? Outgrown? Is that why it fell off? No. The feather serves as a symbol, as a reminder that things have dual purposes and dual meanings. The feather - a symbol of both weakness and strength.

And what of the flashlight? Focus. Precision. Bringing to light that which is dark. Fierce, penetrating light. Light that brings clarity and a sense of purpose. But away from the glare of the light, and yet a direct result of it are the shadows. The multiple meanings. Nuances left to interpretation. The light also provides warmth. A subtle yet pleasant sensation. Calm and soothing.

And when we bring these two together? We achieve balance. Confidence and wisdom. Vulnerability and responsiveness. Strength and flexibility. Somehow these two seemingly disconnected physical objects encapsulate a person’s life; our search for meaning and happiness.

Efrot (Israel-Tokyo)

Michael and feathers, Michael and Light, Michael and feathers and Light.

Michael was nothing if not feathers and Light. Even when temporarily tethered to bodily form he was a winged messenger who brought Light into our lives. Though bound by flesh and blood and bone for this lifetime, his soul had been called to earth borne on the wings of angels.

On that glorious spring day when we bade him good-bye, orchestras of cherry blossoms oozed pink petals as if heralding the passing of the likes of a modern ascended master. I heard the funeral salute wailing from shiny trumpets - a soulful sound. And for a dreamy moment I thought I felt the tickly soft tips of feathers brush against my cheeks,

running rivers of tears, as Michael was taken back home on winged chariots streaking across the heavens pulled by four thundering white steeds. The homecoming was surely grand.

So now where is the Light? The Light is his benevolent wisdom, deep wells from ages past, his big generous heart that beat in rhythm with our own joys and sorrows. Like the eternal flame, his light shall cast a glow upon time’s end.

Buddha taught:

For one who clings

Motion exists

But for one who clings not

There is no motion

When there is no motion, there is stillness

As if he had been a learned disciple, Michael clung not to the material, thetangible, not even to life. Perhaps when I hear the distant rumbling of that chariot sent to take me home, the staccato trot, trot, trot of approaching hooves, I shall embrace a reunion. But for now I miss painfully the bearer of Light and feathers, feathers and Light.

Ellen (Hawaii-Tokyo)

That which survives

She was in the muddy yard tossing grain to the hens when the soldiers came for them. The widow three houses away began to wail, as loud as any warning siren and equally eerie. The sound bored into her bones, falling and then rising in pitch before ending as abruptly as it began. Already she was racing towards the door, dropping the pail of grain with a clang, scattering the geese and hens: she knew how little time she had. She kicked off her muddy boots, aware even in her haste of the telltale traces that they would leave. Running into the downstairs room in which the children were clustered around the fire, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, she shouted at ten year-old Sarah to get her younger brothers and sisters dressed in all the layers of clothing they owned. It was still early autumn, the frost had not yet come; but who knew where they would be taken, or for how long? The rumours that slid around the edges of every conversation at the village pump or in the queue at the bakery did not specify such details; but the impression left by them was dark and cold.

She remembered the weight of responsibility in David’s voice as he told her, “They may think they can destroy us, but they are proud fools. We have survived worse than this. As long as we hold onto our past and our traditions, they can never succeed”. He held her gaze as he made her promise that she would throw the holy books on the fire before she let those savages defile them. Now, with David out in their fields, the responsibility fell on her alone, as he had foreseen.

But she had a better plan. At least, she believed it to be better, though she had never dared voice it to David for fear that he would forbid it. Snatching the prayer shawl from its hook on the wall and spreading it on the ground, she quickly piled the scriptures and prayer book that had been passed down from David’s great grandfather in the centre, placing the heavy silver candlestick beside them. Thus far, her husband’s instructions were fulfilled. However, even in her haste, she could not accept this digest of their history: it lacked the essence of their family life. Looking round her, she grabbed a few everyday items that lay close at hand: the scarlet and gold kerchief that David had brought her from the annual fair, in the days when they were still allowed into town; a sheet of paper lying on the table, covered with the uneven writing of six year-old Miriam practicing her letters; a family portrait photograph taken after Aaron’s birth, she sitting stiffly with the baby squirming in her arms, David with a hand on her shoulder, gazing proudly at his new son, Sarah squinting rather uncertainly at the bottom half of the man who had disappeared under the camera’s voluminous cape. Not enough to capture the twelve years of their family history, let alone the generations of which David talked – how could so many squabbles, reconciliations, secrets, tender whispers, so much sorrow and love be contained within one small square of faded blue cloth? But she had already taken too much of a risk. Slipping off her silver bracelet, a wedding gift from her grandmother that had never left her wrist since, and thrusting it on top of the meagre pile, she knotted the corners together, grabbed the bundle and ran up the stairs two at a time.

There was no time to climb the ladder to the loft, open the trapdoor and return for the bundle, so she grasped it in her teeth like a mother cat and scrambled up the ladder. She could hear the shouting outside, nearer now, and the baby’s screams from below, but there was no turning back. She had thought this plan over so many times, while never allowing herself to believe that the moment would come to carry it out, that she knew her way instinctively between the boxes of apples and the chests of winter clothes despite the cramped space and the gloom. Darkness was her ally: the darkest hiding-place was the safest. The cobwebs clustered thickly in the far corner. Where the crossbeams of the walls met the thick rafter at the join of the roof, there was a small space between the wood and the plaster. Thrusting her bundle into the nook, she shoved the corners of the shawl underneath to make sure that they were out of sight. Not that she could check in the near darkness, except by touch; she could only pray that her work was good enough.

Half-scrambling, half-sliding down the ladder, leaping down the stairs three at a time, she landed in the midst of her children, all crying now except for Sarah, too aware of her responsibility for the others. Scooping the wailing baby from Sarah’s arms, pulling a sobbing Hannah against her legs with her free hand, she was in time to face the intruders as the door was kicked open.

*****

The strident beam of the searchlight sliced through the silence of the loft, criss-crossing the roof with heavy black lines that wavered violently as the soldier heaved himself up the ladder and through the trapdoor. The torch-beam swept the length of the enclosed space, boxes and uneven piles springing to attention under the urgent light, before fading away again. At its edges, the darkness lurked watchfully, awaiting the moment to spring back and reassert its ownership. The steel toecap of the soldier’s boot slammed into a crate, splitting it open and sending apples rolling heavily in every direction. He cursed loudly. Nothing but a bunch of mouldy apples… More urgently now, he flung open the lids of chests and pulled out the contents, until the floor was strewn with clothes and blankets; still he continued his search. His orders were to check for anybody attempting to hide from the soldiers, but there was nothing to stop him having a little look around while he did so… He was a local, and he had his suspicions. Everyone knew how greedy and miserly these people were; rumour had it that they slept on top of the gold they swindled from the honest townsfolk in order to keep it safe, concealing their wealth all the while with their modest h