Discovering my inner jock

Last week in Canada I got my hair cut... well, not totally off, but very short. I didn't want to have to mess with hair -- you know, shampoo, combs, and all that -- while on a bike trip.

I got two very different reactions to my altered persona from the first two people who commented: one said I looked like a monk; the other said I looked like a jock. I've never pretended to be either, but frankly, being called a jock is about the last thing I ever thought I would hear. You've got to realize that I was always the skinny kid with almost no athletic aptitude. I was usually the next to the last kid to be chosen for a team in school -- right before the, let's just say, most athletically challenged kid on the other end of the scale, so to speak.

What can I say? I excelled at other things. But even if it was a sport I liked, like baseball (sorta) or tennis, I just knew I'd never be able to compete with the kids for whom it was actually important.

Consequently, I am a late-bloomer when it comes to the rigors of athletic activity. I work hard at other kinds of activities, but I have rarely ever broken a sweat doing something athletic. Honestly.

By now, some are wondering why in the world I ever thought I wanted to bike from Canada to Mexico. I also am asking myself the very same question. Yes, I love adventure, and I love a challenge. And I love the outdoors, and I love spending time with my son. But I don't particularly love pain -- physical pain -- and there has been a lot of it this past week.

Now George is only slightly more of a jock than I. He endured a few football and lacrosse camps when he was at prep school -- mostly because he HAD to do a sport. But he learned a lot in those experiences. He's our "trainer" on this trip, making sure I do all the right stretching exercises in the morning and at stops throughout the day. He's also the "encourager" reminding me that Richard Simmons is right -- "You've got to work through the burn!"

We've been working through lots of burn, believe me. But now that we've ridden over 300 miles (we'll get to the Columbia River tomorrow!), I'm feeling less and less of that pain.

Today we had a spectacular day. We only rode 65 or 70 miles, but it was fun! Yes, the terrain was a little flatter and there wasn't as much of the brutal climbing we've been doing some days. But if we had started a little earlier in the day today, I honestly could have gone another 25 miles.

A woman stopped me outside the Mexican restauamt where we ate lunch today to ask where we were headed. I told her and she was surprised. She told me she had recently done a triathalon, and I assured her that she was much more of an athlete than I. She then drew the distinction between sprinting and the endurance required for long distance, and made a comment about not having what it takes to go the distance. I could have said the same thing -- except that I'm learning otherwise, even at this rather late point in life.

Both George and I are more conscious than ever of how important the food we feed ourselves is. Keeping a healthy, balanced diet makes a huge difference in how we feel and how we perform out there on the road. We're feeling really great with zero caffeine, alcohol, or junk foods; lots of protein and fiber; and making sure we keep lots of fluids (almost exclusively water and juices) in our systems.

George also mentioned at one point that endurance is as much mental as it is physical. I think he's right about that, too. I also realized this morning as I was dreading the ride ahead of me that I hadn't been preparing myself spiritually each morning as well as I might, so we took some extra time after our stretches, just to sit, quietly, for a time of silent meditation and prayer together before we set out for the day. It definitely helped set a tone, and enabled us both to find new strength -- inner strength for the challenges ahead of us.

I'm far from being a jock (or a monk for that matter), but I'm learning some great things about endurance, about pain, and about how important it is to feed both the body and the spirit to be the whole person I want to be.

By the way, I love getting your comments, and if you're shy about them being posted, or just wish them to be a private note to me for any reason, just say so and it will not be published to the blog.

Sent from my iPhone

Washington State is bigger than Massachusetts

I know this is true, because George and I have been riding for three days now, have logged 190 miles since we left Vancouver on Wednesday morning, and we still aren't to Seattle yet. They make states a whole lot bigger out here in the West than they do back East!

And they have much bigger mountains, too. I have the sore legs to prove it. I have discovered, however, that there is apparently an inverse relationship between how easy the bike riding is, and how spectacular the mountain views are.

Today we had some breathtaking views of (I believe) the mountains of the Olympic National Park. Sometimes the view comes just after you've made a mind-numbingly (or other appropriate part of the anatomy) difficult climb, and then there it is - the most spectacular view you can imagine. And then we were riding through some farm country today, through a little out of the way town, then out past some rich black fields ready for planting, when the most amazing panorama of mountains in the distance appeared before us. Just couldn't believe the view that farmer got to wake up to every morning!

At least on days like today. We've been very fortunate with weather so far. Although we woke up to 36 degrees and cloudy this morning, it got up to around 60 with mostly sun. Perfect riding - and viewing - weather.

George and I are already learning a lot together. First of all, how much we really do like being together and having this kind of experience together. We're also finding that we're good for each other. Just when one of us doesn't know if he can make it up the next hill or not, the other one kicks into gear, encourages the other, and we end up doing things we didn't know we could do.

I had lots of good advice from biking friends before we started this trip, and it has come in very handy - all of it. Todd Miller said to spare no expense on good padded biking shorts. He was right. Today on day 3, I began to feel a bit saddle sore, but the good padding definitely helps.

I also got lots of very helpful advice from Tom Jones in Andover. Tom and his son did this same trip in 2000 and have done other big ones since. When I told him a couple of months ago that George and I were planning to do this, he looked at me and said, "I just have one thing to say: you will never be sorry you did it."

Actually, Tom is pretty much responsible for our doing this trip at all. In the fall of 2000, I was still rector at Trinity Church in Topsfield, and for a fall stewardship event we invited Tom to speak. As we were talking before the event, somehow my recent cross-country motorcycle trip with George (then 12 years old) came up. He then told me that he and his son had just done the Canada to Mexico ride along the Pacific Coast. I was definitely impressed - and challenged - and have been imagining doing it ever since.

One of Tom's pieces of advice in a recent email was to remember that the first 4-5 days are the hardest - and secondly, to take the maximum amount of Advil recommended. I forgot to do that the first two days, but I remembered today - and it definitely made a difference in how I'm feeling tonight. If he's also right about the first 4-5 days being the hardest, that means we are well on our way!

George and I are both overwhelmed by the experience already. We're deeply grateful, first of all, for the opportunity, and thrilled to be learning all the thing about ourselves and about life that we are learning.

It will be nice, I have to say, to cross into another state - eventually. But, we're going to soak up every bit of the experience in Washington in the meantime.

Another Christ Church

Still stranded in Vancouver. But if you have to be stranded somewhere it's a great place to be.

So, I got up this morning for some breakfast in the hostel refectory, then trekked off to Christ Church Cathedral for the 10:30 service. It's the cathedral church for the Anglican Diocese of New Westminster. I had stopped in already a couple of days ago, so I was familiar with the space. I was struck by how similar it is to what we're planning at Christ Church in Andover, so I was eager to see what the experience would be like for worship.

Thumbs up! What a great experience! Here are just a few of my observations.

Similarities to our plan in Andover include:
1) new organ in a rear gallery
2) altar brought forward into the nave on a flexible platform
3) area behind altar is a flexible space, which here is a gathering place for children during the opening of the service. After the opening hymn and collect, they come forward to the font in front of the altar for a brief word for the day and then go to a children's chapel until Communion.
4) the front half or two-thirds of the nave has flexible seating -- nice wooden, interlocking chairs that were arranged in a semi-circular pattern on three sides of the altar. They were comfortable to sit on, and wide enough that people did not hesitate to sit side by side -- even with me, a visitor.

The church was roughly the same size as Christ Church Andover, and nearly full -- about 300 people, on "Low Sunday." Made me wonder what it was like last week on Easter. The congregation reflected pretty closely the great diversity of Vancouver -- people of European, Asian, and African origin; old people and young families with children, a substantial number of GLBT folks, people with physical and mental disabilities, including a number of adults and children in wheelchairs, some making use of the ramp to the platform during the service. The congregation included Vancouver's leading citizens and outcasts alike. There was no difference between them here. It was an inspiring glimpse of the Beloved Community.

The music in today's service was led primarily by a small guest ensemble of Indian musicians playing sitar and tabla, together with a bass flute and a couple of other types of flute and vocals. They're playing services and concerts across Canada and are based in Toronto. The psalm they did was particularly moving. The organ played only for the doxology and the Creed (Merbecke). There was no choir -- perhaps had the day off after a full Holy Week and Easter. Congregational
singing was great, even being led by guest musicians. There was only
one traditional hymn, and the text was new to me.

From the perspective of a first time visitor, I give them an A+. The
space works beautifully -- even though they had made no effort to
duplicate the original Gothic architecture in their renovation. The
old and the new seemed to work together, with no pretense that the
balcony or cathedral seating were original. That's in the "for what
it's worth" category.

All were welcomed to the table here. It was an experience worthy of
their name -- Christ('s) Church. Glad to find myself stranded here --
for now.

--

Sayonara

Wet cherry blossoms
fall on the pavement telling
us goodbye for now

Sayonara is a beautiful word in Japanese, but it sounds just a little too final -- like it could be the last time you see someone. There's a hint of sadness in it.

The sadness feels appropriate now. But I hope not the final parting. Tomorrow morning we leave Shimoda on a train to Tokyo, then Narita Airport. From there Carolyn will fly home to Boston, and I'll fly to Vancouver, where I'll spend a couple of days with Liz, Duncan, and George. Then on Saturday, George and I will set out on our Pacific Coast cycling adventure.

But in the meantime, Carolyn and I are enjoying a final evening together in Japan, listening to the rain fall softly outside. The pink is turning more to green as the cherry blossoms fall to the ground -- right on cue.

Sayonara (for now), Japan.

A different kind of Easter

It has been years since I went to a sunrise service on Easter, but it’s a tradition for many Christians on this holiest day of the year. There are many things in nature that inspire awe for me. It happens nearly every day, in fact. But today, on Easter morning, it reached a new pinnacle. Carolyn and I set our alarm for 5 am so that we would be up when the sun rose. We were staying in a hotel on the northwestern-most point of the Izu Peninsula, looking across the Suruga Bay at Mount Fuji. At 5 am, I got up, looked outside, and it had begun to get light, but, sadly, it was cloudy – too cloudy to see Mount Fuji. We still had a great view of the Bay, and we were hopeful – hopeful that the clouds would burn off or blow away as the morning went on.

Well, they did. Slowly emerging from the mists, Fuji-san (as it is known by the Japanese) began to make its presence known. Mysteriously, powerfully, quietly, majestically – actually, in a way that kind of rocks your world. We’d had a few other glimpses of Fuji since being in Japan this time, but usually from speeding trains on the Tokkaido Line or Shinkansen. Carolyn had one main goal for our time in Japan this time – go to Mount Fuji, which is to say, go somewhere we you get a really, really good look at her.

This weekend was our last chance to do that. We had made reservations for Monday and Tuesday after Easter to go to the north side of Fuji and stay in a Japanese style hotel with a bath that looks out over Fuji – the kind of place you see in all the tourist brochures. It was also about a four-hour trip on three different trains (through Tokyo) to get there. But when we checked the weather forecast a few days ago, we saw that Monday would be partly cloudy, and Tuesday cloudy. Gotta cancel those reservations!!

So instead, we rented a car on Saturday, and we started following our noses up the west coast of the Izu Peninsula to the nearest place we could get to Fuji, which isn’t really all that far at all. In fact, this is one of the best places from which to view Fuji, and yet, from the lack of traffic we encountered on this beautiful, cherry blossom, picture-perfect weekend, it must be a very well-kept secret.


We ventured off the beaten track, and onto some very small roads in the extreme northwest corner of Izu. In fact, the road is only one lane in places. Instead of tunnels through the mountains, it has long winding switchbacks up and down the sides of the hills along the coast. Cherry blossoms are everywhere and in full bloom.

Now I know that I have made some pretty extreme claims for the beauty of other places we have recently been here in Japan (like Irozaki, for example), but I have to say there is no more beautiful place that we have either one been on the face of the earth than the west coast of the Izu Peninsula. Carolyn says she finally understands all of that exotic Japanese art she has seen all of her life, but didn’t really believe had any basis in actual places or in nature. She now knows that it does. On the Izu Peninsula. Between the clear, deep beautiful blue ocean with picturesque bays small and large, the exotic rock formations along the rugged coast, the green pine boughs and the delicate, omnipresent cherry blossoms, passing through quaint little towns and pristine countryside, much of it high above the coastline just below, it was a jaw-dropping experience. About halfway up the coast, we had our first sighting of Mount Fuji, buried in the mists on the horizon to the north and slightly to the west across the pure blue bay. We didn’t have a hotel reservation, and had planned on this being just a day’s outing, but we couldn’t imagine now not taking full advantage of this opportunity. So, we found a hotel on Izu’s closest point to Fuji – at Osezaki. The only thing between our hotel room and Mount Fuji was a little spit of land with a beautiful Shinto shrine on it, and the Suruga Bay.

By the time we checked in, Fuji was beginning to fade back into the mists. We had an elegant full Japanese dinner, with sashimi and a variety of steamed mollusks and other sea creatures, and later tempura with all the accompanying little dishes of pickles, fish pastes, whale fat noodles, and various exotic seaweeds and the like. Not only were we the only foreign guests at the hotel – we were apparently also the only people who were not there for deep-sea diving school. Over a hundred mostly young people (roughly college age and older) were on the beach for diving classes, including underwater photography. You wouldn’t believe all the equipment up and down the beach. Some were out late at night and then back up before dawn. It was all very interesting to see.

But this morning, at around 6:30 am, we finally got our first Easter morning glimpse of Mount Fuji from our room. We immediately set out for a walk to the little spit of land. It was a breathtaking experience to go to the far shore and look across to see Fuji-san standing there – still, silent, snow-capped from the winter, peering at us from beyond. It was not a crystal clear kind of day, but one that in some unique way lent itself more fully to the sense of mystery and awe inspired by things like Mount Fuji than if it had been. Kind of like I imagine it was with Jesus appearing to the disciples.

It was a different kind of Easter. There were no church services for us (although, I have to say that I was thinking almost hour by hour about what was surely happening back in Andover – thirteen hours behind us here. In fact, as I write this at 9 pm on Sunday evening here, the 8 am Easter service is just beginning there.) After a very full Japanese breakfast, we began our trip back down the coast toward “home.” There would be many stops along the way to glance back at yet another amazing view of Fuji-san or other eye-popping scenery – and yes, to take yet more pictures.

As I mentioned to someone in an email a short while ago, the whole experience of Holy Week and Easter has been very different for me this year. It has been odd, in that it has been totally disconnected from church, from the liturgies I so love, from hearing the lessons read aloud, from being together with others to celebrate the holy mysteries – from Communion. I have missed all of that. And yet, because of being in such a different place, it has been framed differently for me here and allows me to see it all with different eyes. It’s odd just being in a place where hardly anyone even knows that it’s Easter – or what Easter is. (Although we did see one man walking through one of the small towns through which we passed dressed in a black suit with a bouquet of lilies in his hand. I suspected he had been to church this morning.)

I’m thinking a lot about what the past four weeks have meant for me. The first week was a kind of “pinch me, I’m here!” experience. The second week involved Carolyn’s arrival, getting her acclimated, and establishing a routine together. The third week was bracketed by a trip to Tokyo and then the visit of Junko and her family. The fourth week has been different. I was very conscious of it being Holy Week, but parallel to that I was very aware that being here was beginning to feel “ordinary” in some strange way. It had become “home.” We spent more time at our house, and less time running into town, having seen most of what we have wanted to see and experience there. We did lots of reading (Carolyn is now on her eleventh book since she came – I’m on about my sixth), walked to the beaches, did chores, cooked, ate and slept. Even took an occasional nap.

Now I’m finding that I’m thinking a lot about what comes next – leaving Japan, arrival in Vancouver, BC, and a bike trip down the Pacific Coast with George beginning later this week. Wow. Wonder if that will start to feel like home.

One of the books I’ve been reading is Matsuo Basho’s Narrow Road to the Interior. Basho is a 17th century Japanese poet and wanderer who routinely set out on walking journeys of hundreds or even a thousand or more miles. In the opening words of this book he writes, “The moon and sun are eternal travelers. Even the years wander on. A lifetime adrift in a boat, or in old age leading a tired horse into the years, every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”

I’m not sure exactly what that means for me right now. I do know that if I thought I was getting away from myself by taking such a long journey, I was dead wrong. I keep bumping into this Jeff Gill guy here, too. I’m the same person I was, for better or for worse. But the “home” part of it all is a bigger place than it was. What “home” means to me keeps getting bigger and bigger, sometimes forcing me out of comfortable places into unknown ones that eventually become, well, home. They become part of me. Familiar. Kind of like family.

I think I have begun to ramble. I know this because my word count is now 1,651 – just about the normal length of one of my sermons. (DON’T say it!) So, I’m gonna stop here. Lots still to ponder. Lots of mystery today – Mount Fuji on Easter morning. Lots of nostalgia beginning to build as we prepare to leave a place we have grown to love. The journey continues.

Sawako's visit

Carolyn and I fell in love this week – with Sawako. She’s our two-year old Japanese “granddaughter.” Her mom, Junko, lived with us for a year in 1991-92 in Topsfield as an exchange student, and is very much a part of our family. Our last trip to Japan in 2004 was for her wedding.

This past Sunday evening, Junko, along with her parents, Shunichi and Keiko Nakao, and, of course, little Sawako, came to visit us in Shimoda. They stayed for two nights here in our place with us. It was wonderful to see them all, and to finally meet the adorable Sawako in person. Junko had taught her how to say “grandpa” and “grandma” in English. She’d also given her instructions on giving us kisses when she met us at the train station. It was precious.

The Nakaos are lovely and gracious people. Although we had never met them in person until 2004, we share a bond that is stronger each time we meet. Our visit this time was a little unique in that we were introducing them to a part of Japan they did not really know. It was fun playing host to them in their own country.

Unfortunately, Tomo (Junko’s husband and Sawako’s father) wasn’t able to be with them. He is a busy priest – a Buddhist priest – at a Jodo Shinshu temple in Osaka. Junko’s father told us he felt the reason Junko ever even considered marrying a priest was because of her experience living with us. And it’s amazing how much the lifestyle she describes does indeed sound like our own clergy household, the one big exception being that they live and work alongside Tomo’s father and mother, his father also being a priest. And because it’s passed through families in Japan, the Nakaos wonder if their own granddaughter, Sawako, might also become a priest someday, which is indeed possible for women in the Jodo Shinshu tradition. We had a good laugh when I was cooking one evening and accidentally rang the edge of the metal mixing bowl with a big “gong” sound, and Sawako immediately went into prayer position and started a chant. She’s a very spiritual young girl!

Together, we walked through Shimoda on one of the most perfect cherry blossom days of the season, and we learned a lot from them about the many varieties of cherry blossom – the hanging branch varieties versus the upturned branches, the different colors of pink and white, and the difference, for example, between the yamazakura (“mountain cherry blossoms”) and the hybrids. Yamazakura have little green leaves that come on along with the blossoms, and are seen especially on mountainsides and in the wild, while some trees are bred to have only the blossom before the leaves come on. They each have their own beauty and charm. During the days and weeks leading up to this time of year, the Japanese speak of the state of the cherry blossoms in terms of what percent completely open they are – 50%, 60%, 80%, etc.. We were a good 80-90% in most places during their visit, more in some areas.

One of our more memorable experiences with them was a visit to the very southern tip of the Izu Peninsula, about 15 miles south of where we are living – a place called Irouzaki. We parked the car and walked a stunningly beautiful, steep path, perhaps a half mile or so to one of the more spectacular places I have ever been. The rugged coastline of Japan, and particularly along the Izu Peninsula, is beautiful enough just about anywhere, but this was truly amazing. The pictures barely do it justice, but I have posted some here anyway. At the very end of the walk, out onto a promontory overlooking the Pacific Ocean was a little Shinto shrine, marking it as a place that inspires awe and reverence. It surely does that. Prayers written on wooden plaques or paper are attached to the shrine with people’s wishes for good luck and fortune. Shinto shrines are everywhere in Japan, but I’m not sure I had seen one on a precipice quite so awe-inspiring as this before. It was breathtaking, and worth every step of the rather arduous walk to get there.

Sawako was a cheerful presence throughout our time together. Her little voice, often singing or asking the questions a two-year old always asks (“Haha, nani?” Mommy, what’s that? “Baba, doko?” Where’s grandma?) were a source of constant joy to us all. Five grownups, four of them “grandparents” (two of them gaijin), all doting on one two-year old! It was quite a sight, I’m sure. She will never have to wonder if she is loved.

The fewer words the better

It's Palm Sunday. You wouldn't know it for the most part here in Japan. But I do -- even if I didn't go to church today. First time probably in my whole life that I wasn't in church on Palm Sunday. I've been thinking about it all day, however.

I don't really have any words to share today -- but I do have some pictures. Intimations of Easter -- if that's permitted when the rest of Holy Week is still before us. But I can't help sharing the pictures of the cherry blossoms from the past couple of days here in Shimoda.

Gaijin

A hawk swoops down to
take the apple from his hand
I saw it happen

This actually happened a couple of days ago. Carolyn and I were walking along the big beach (Ohama) with a couple of new friends. Like us, they’re gaijin – foreigners. I had wanted to believe that the out-of-the-way neighborhood where we’ve settled for this month was a place that no other foreigner had found, but I wasn’t here more than a few days until I occasionally caught glimpses of blond hair and Caucasian features whizzing by on a bike or in a car. At first there is the subtle hint of recognition, sort of like what I always imagine it must be like when two African Americans catch each others’ eye in a crowd of white people. Do you go and talk, just because their skin is like yours? Finally the day came. Carolyn and I were walking down the hill, and just ahead of us about ten or twenty steps were two of them. Didn’t know whether to speed up and engage them in conversation (always at first with those few cautious words, “eigo ga dekimasu ka?” – “Do you speak English?”), or to slow down and stay immersed in the experience of being away – “We didn’t come here to meet Americans!” But they slowed down to look at something, and we caught up. Eyes met. “Hi, how ya doing?” “Great! What brings you to Shimoda?” And the conversation begins.

Darshan is in his early thirties. His mom, Shannon, is roughly Carolyn’s and my age – perhaps a couple of years older, probably an old hippie (...her son’s Sanskrit name, her San Francisco address, hmmm…), now a rather conventional middle-aged west coast suburbanite from all appearances. Darshan is married to a Japanese woman, and they’ve just had a new baby. He lives here in the neighborhood, and has lived in Japan for ten years. His mom is visiting for a couple of weeks, eager to convince her son and daughter-in-law to move back closer to home, especially now that her grandchild has been born. We talk for a few minutes, long enough to learn that he sailed from here to Hawaii last year, and that he runs an internet-based business of indeterminate nature, though we’re guessing real estate. He’s the one who clarifies for us that there are actually two cherry blossom seasons here, and that we have not missed out. He also tells us about the wild pigs in the neighborhood. We love the exotic bamboo forest just behind us, and the lovely palms at the entrance to the neighborhood – we didn’t know that wild pigs went along with it!

He asks us if we’ve met any of the other gaijin in the neighborhood. We haven’t. He says we’ll surely meet David Dix, an Irish handyman who is something of a presence in the area. When we ask about wireless internet access in the neighborhood, he tells us about an open network next door to his house called “Home” which we can surely use. The homeowner hasn’t been around for six months. Yeah! No more treks into Makudonarudo! We finally part with some final “see you around the neighborhood” comments.

Through the tunnels and down to the beach, we stroll casually, until the two of them catch up to us again. We stop to talk again, watching the surfers, and getting more local information.

And in a terrifying split second, a hawk that had been soaring above swoops down between us, and attempts to take the apple out of Darshan’s hand, which he would have accomplished – perhaps along with his hand! – if Darshan had not jumped when he did! Whoosh! I’ve never experienced anything like it. We stood and watched the hawk soaring above, then engaging another large bird in some menacing aerobatics, until Darshan unloaded his apple and we watched the raptor dive for it on the beach, finally taking his prize. The hawk gets his apple – Darshan gets to keep his hand. Not a bad deal.

Later the same day we were walking around Shimoda when we spotted another Euro-American-looking gaijin couple ahead. It’s not all that uncommon here in town, actually. In fact, I spotted a guy in a Boston Red Sox cap about a week ago. He was with a group of West Point cadets here for a week on Spring Break. But this time, Carolyn had had enough of the familiar for one day, and was probably afraid that I’d want to stop and talk (as, yes, I often do), so we crossed to the other side of the street and made our way to our next destination. I guessed they were Germans.

An hour or so later, there they were again. This time we were looking right at each other. “Eigo ga dekimasu ka?” A blank stare. “Hi, how are you?” This time a response, even though English is not their first language. They were Germans. When Carolyn asked them what part of Germany, they said the south, near Stuttgart. Carolyn’s eyes lit up. She’s been doing a lot of family genealogy the past few years, and her Shilling ancestors came from the Stuttgart area, where they used to be Schillings. She told the couple that her family had gone to the US from Heilbron about five generations ago in the 1840s. Now their eyes lit up. “That’s where we live!” Long-lost cousins? We ended up bumping into each other a couple of other time as we both made our way through Shimoda Park and its lovely vistas overlooking the city and the harbor.

The next day Carolyn and I each took our laptops in search of wireless internet, walking up and down Darshan’s street until we found “Home” in the network list. While I am usually loathe to be such a conspicuous gaijin, it’s a quiet neighborhood – mostly a weekend getaway for Tokyo professionals and summer residents – so we each found an outdoor perch where we got at least two bars worth of connection, and from where we could catch up on the news, pay our bills, and read our email. Sure beats going into McDonald’s. Later on, walking back to our place, I saw two gaijin, one of them perched precariously on the side of a hill with a blazing weed-whacker in his hand. I walked on by. The other stopped me with a “Hi, how ya doin’?” (I guess I’m the only one who starts off with the cautious, un-prepossessing “eigo ga dekimasu ka?” bit.) This was the famous David Dix – Irish guy with a US passport, married to a Japanese wife. He’d made his fortune with Dell, so they decided on a lifestyle change, and now live in a lovely home here in the neighborhood with their three kids. He runs a handyman business. Strikes me as a variation on the Dominican or Nicaraguan doctor or engineer doing yard work in Andover, except with a very different level of comfort and security. He invites me over for a cup of tea or a beer. He’s a very outgoing, friendly guy, and I’ll probably take him up on it.

That same evening, I went out for my customary walk. It’s getting dark, and I’m walking through the tunnel to the beach, now listening for wild pigs (thanks to Darshan), when instead I notice the sound of a bicycle coming from behind, through the dark tunnel, on the right side of the road (they drive on the left side in Japan). It’s either a drunk, or a gaijin, or both. I see the blond hair as he whizzes by. Makes me nervous. I emerge from the tunnel, and the bicyclist has stopped to rearrange his cargo. I stop and we introduce ourselves. He’s Tom, a twenty-something from Colorado. Over the next twenty minutes, the story pours out, while he’s nervously showing me pictures of his family back home that he just happens to have with him – his brother, his mother and father, and his sister – and their family vacation to Cozumel last November. Tom came to Japan right after that vacation to see the girlfriend he’s had since they met in college about five years ago. Ignoring the warning his father gave him before he left, he and Yasuko got married in December. No big wedding, just a civil ceremony at the US Embassy. Tom doesn’t speak Japanese, but is trying to learn. He showed me his books in the basket on the front of his bike. He also showed me the picture of him “playing the harmonica in a Buddhist church.” Said that his mother-in-law wouldn’t let them stay in her house after they got married unless he converted to Sokka Gakkai. Tom didn’t seem to know much about it, but I know just a little. It’s a very aggressive Buddhist sect – one of the so-called “New Religions” in Japan. Relative to the more mainstream Buddhist denominations, it has roughly the same place as the Jehovah’s Witnesses do in Christianity. He doesn’t like praying the chants for three hours at a time, which he has to do, or pray for his wife Yasuko to be restored to the faith as his mother-in-law insists, and he says he doesn’t really believe any of it, but it’s a price Tom seems willing to pay for now – keeps a roof over his head and food on the table for him and Yasuko until he can get their act together. Then it’s “so long, Sokka Gakkai.” Meanwhile, he finally got a job – doing yard work for this really nice guy named David Dix. Ah yes, the kid with the weed whacker on the side of the hill. David, he says, is not only giving him a job, but is teaching him a lot about life in general and about marriage. “He’s like a father to me…”

You go, David.

I can’t help being slightly parental myself, and I mention my concern about him riding on the wrong side of the road out here after dark. “Oh, yeah, I was just over at David’s house and we were having a few beers. Guess I kinda forgot.”

Yikes.

I move along as he continues to get his stuff together. Ten minutes later, he passes me again – on the wrong side of the road again. “Don’t forget, they drive on the left side here, Tom!” I yell after him.

Oh dear. All I can think about is Tom’s poor parents.

Enough gaijin stories for now. Tempts me to start crossing to the other side of the street.

The Japan-Andover Connection

When I was an undergraduate at Indiana University doing East Asian Studies and Religious Studies, I wrote my senior thesis on a man named Neeshima Jo, who was the founder of Doshisha University in Kyoto. I was interested in him because in many ways he characterized the convergence of Japanese and American cultures at the time of Japan’s Meiji Restoration in the mid-19th century. He was an interesting case study in how a culture that had been cut off from the outside world for 250 years began to assimilate to the modern West, following the events that took place right here where we are living in Shimoda in 1854 after Commodore Matthew Perry negotiated the first Japan-US treaty. I had read just about everything that was written by or about Neeshima in English, and some things in Japanese as well. I knew all about his days at Phillips Academy in Andover. I had never been to Andover or even Massachusetts yet at the time.

It was an interesting coincidence then that just a few years later, when I was a second year seminarian at Harvard Divinity School, I would end up doing my parish field education at Christ Church in (of all places) Andover, Massachusetts. That was 1983-84. My relationship with Christ Church extended beyond that year through the mid and late eighties. Prior to my ordination I was a sometime member of the schola cantorum that sang at the 11:15 service. I remember at one of our choir parties bringing up something about Neeshima in conversation. One thing about the choir parties at Christ Church is that you can always depend on someone knowing something about any subject you might bring up! Sure enough, David Currier knew about Neeshima. He knew about him because his mother lived in the house where Neeshima had lived while a student at PA. I knew the name of the young couple (a brother and sister couple, actually) with whom he had lived, so I asked him if it was the house that Mr. and Miss Hidden had lived in. He said, “well, it’s on Hidden Road, so probably so.” Dave arranged for me to visit the house sometime later.

Neeshima’s story is an interesting one. It was around 1850 (if my memory serves me correctly) that a young boy with the family name Neeshima stowed away on a ship from Japan to China. It was illegal for Japanese to leave the country, just as it was for foreigners to enter, during the period of Tokugawa isolation that had begun around 1600. That’s another whole story that had to do with the suspicions of the shogunate about the colonial intentions of the Dutch and the Spanish. But for 250 years, the only foreigners permitted into Japan were a few Dutch traders, and only then into a small island named Deshima off the coast of Nagasaki. So when Neeshima left Japan, it was an act of treason. He sailed for China, studying English while on board, using a Bible that someone had given him. From there he got on another boat that eventually ended up in Boston Harbor. The boat was owned by a Boston trader named Joseph Hardy. Hardy became aware of the young “heathen” on board, but sensed his potential, and decided to send him to be educated at Phillips Academy. The headmaster at Phillips determined that Neeshima would be out of place in the dormitory, and would perhaps be the object of some ridicule by the other boys, so he arranged for him to stay in a private home with the Hiddens. He took the name Joseph Hardy Neeshima in recognition of his patron. In Japan he would later be known as Neeshima Jo.

While a student at Andover, Neeshima became a Christian and was baptized in the school chapel. He did well as a student, and qualified to enter Amherst University subsequently. The then-President of Amherst, Dr. Julius Seelye, took a particular interest in the young Japanese man. Neeshima would later write about their unique relationship. He said that Seelye’s eyes were “suffused with tears” as he entered his office for the first time. It was the first of many indications of his kindness and generosity toward Neeshima. During his years at Amherst, Neeshima decided to enter the ministry. In the Congregationalist tradition of the schools where he had studied, the best place to prepare for the ministry would be Andover Seminary, so back to Andover he went. It was while there this second time around that the Congregationalist American Board of Commissioners of Foreign Missions (ABCFM) would decide to ordain him to missionary work in Japan.

I haven’t found anything in the record to indicate whether Neeshima ever visited or was aware of the Episcopal congregation that had been established only a few years earlier in Andover (in 1837) at the corner of Central and School Streets.

Meanwhile, all sorts of interesting things had been happening in Japan as well. Commodore Perry had come back to the US in 1854 with a treaty opening Japan to trade with the US, an event that sparked a period of major political and social changes in Japan as they cautiously prepared to enter the modern world. It would require not only the apparatus of foreign trade, but also a willingness to learn and accept new ideas that would come along with trade. The Japanese government embarked upon what would be known as the Meiji Restoration – a period marked by radical changes in education and commerce. It was a time when Japan self-consciously opened itself to ideas from other parts of the world. There was a shortage of people who could speak both Japanese and English, but the young Japanese man in Andover came to the attention of authorities soon enough. He was invited to join a Japanese embassy to the US and Europe that would examine Western educational systems for possible implementation in Japan. Neeshima would be their interpreter, and as a result of this experience, he learned a great deal about education that would inform his own life’s work. Eventually, Neeshima did return to Japan, sponsored by the ABCFM, where he founded Doshisha University. It is still one of Japan’s more well-respected institutions of higher education.

In 1989 I made a brief 3-day visit to Japan on my way to Hong Kong and southern China. On that trip my host took me to the campus of Doshisha University in Kyoto. I wanted to see the place where Neeshima’s unique journey had taken him. Walking around the campus we came upon the university public relations office. We went in, and I explained to the person we met that I was interested in Neeshima Jo and the history of the college. I told them that I lived in Andover, Massachusetts, in the USA.

When I said I was from Andover, I was an instant celebrity! They immediately arranged for a photographer, and someone to interview me. Some weeks later I got in the mail a copy of the article that appeared in the Doshisha alumni magazine, featuring a distinguished visitor from the US. It was all a bit embarrassing. A few years later (Elaine Bailey or Skip Eccles can help me with the details here) there was a large group from Doshisha that came to Andover for a significant anniversary in the history of Neeshima and the university. They presented a Neeshima memorial to Phillips Academy, now situated in a garden just outside the Admissions Office on Salem Street in Andover. It is an obelisk with a Japanese inscription to Neeshima – a very nice reminder of the unique connection of the Academy, the seminary, and the town of Andover, with a very significant period in the development of modern Japan.

I suppose it’s another example of the “grassroots communication” that the Buddhist priest at Ryosenji and I talked about (and I reported on in a prior post – “The other side of cross-cultural communication”). What happened here in Shimoda to enable a new period of relations between our two countries was also happening in another way halfway around the world in Andover.