garbage week

The irony is not lost on me that the week I move out of the dorm is also the week I get trash duty. I take out the burnables on Tuesday, plastics on Wednesday, paper on Friday, and on Saturday I'll be hauling my personal "garbage" out on the curb for the moving truck to pick-up.

They say when you throw stuff away, you make space for new things, and it works out since I've got a lot of new things barging into my life these coming weeks.  But I'm a still little uncomfortable talking about these new changes, because most of these changes have to do with things I'd rather keep under wraps. Why the secrecy? Well, it's a number of things.

First, it's a matter of tact: I'm not the type to brag. All the people I respect don't have a habit of bragging. I think there's really nothing to gain from gloating aside from ill will, or in some cases, a punch in the face. I'm not really the fighting type, so I'd rather not risk it, too.

Secondly, it's a matter of obedience. I was instructed to keep a lid on it. I've actually told a few people, people I hold dear enough because they're my friends and they should know what's happening in my life. I owe their constant companionship that gesture. But the truth is I wish I could just tell everyone. Life is simpler with no secrets.

Lastly, and this one I'm still having a hard time with, I'm in denial. The move is only 1 week away, and the week after will be that day. Things are moving really quickly, to say the least. Though all the details are in place, there's still a long list of things left to be done. I'm taking it a day at a time, but it has been a rough ride so far.

But I'm proud of myself in a way. This is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, and yet, with a little help from home and good friends, I've been managing well. Despite staying in a country with only a slip of paper keeping me away from deportation, a language that considers me illiterate, and a currency value pulling my income and assets down with it, I think I'll be alright.

Because here in Japan, there's always a way to make things work out. Someone's done the thinking and put some process in place to catch your fall. So those bags of garbage I'll take out tomorrow morning, the shelves of books I've amassed these past months , the printed photographs of friends I've been given, there's a place for everything and a home for everyone here.

And I'm on my way there.

Photo Credit: the Star

the Story in the Sea

There are stories out there that find us and touch us deeply, like an ocean wave that crests above us, slams down, engulfs our body, and recedes leaving an unsettling chill that remains long after the sea has dried off from our shivering skin.

These stories are fantastic, a trip around the limits of imagination. They take our hand and lead us out to the distant fringes of our lives, then invites us to stare into the darkness far and beyond.

I am left restless every time I find stories like this. I wonder, how a story so strange to me, so far removed from my dull life, could affect me so deeply.  How could mere words provoke me, how can it lure me out of worrying about schedules and deadlines and laundry and duty, and leave me spellbound, submerged in wonderment.

I can't help but wonder what it means. If it was meant to mean something. If it meant anything at all. Did I waste my time listening to the story, and now waste some more rationalizing it. Can a story not be purposeful and stay relevant?

And yet I feel the remnant chill of the sea, I feel the fibers of my being drenched and saturated by unfamiliar images, thoughts, and words. I am compelled to think about it, think about how something so far outside of my life, could make me feel so alive.

Photo credit: Awais Aftab