Obaa-chan

Obaa-chan, your childless carriage pushed with a back bowed by a meager war diet and the weight of a post-industrial society that has moved from feudal to digital in your lifetime. Where have your children gone?
Was it a .50 caliber round through the chest on Mindanao? His youthful, pensive face staring back through the smoke of your prayer incense. Or perhaps it was a Bullet-Train out of town when she could no longer stand the smell of the farm?
Where have your children gone?
Maybe off to the Juku, or the sex club? Your knowing, patient hands still cooking meals for a generation no longer interested in waving the Rising Sun, dusting off pictures of the Emperor, or toasting victories in Canton.
Obaa-chan, I know you were once young, but do your grandchildren know that you had hair as shining and skin as soft and fair as any who now peddle their flesh in Ginza on a cell phone? Do they know that the takuwan pickles in their bento are from a recipe you learned as a girl at a time when you weren't allowed to speak in the presence of your father without permission?
Do they know you are day-care to a generation, and rain-swept, roadside grime and mud labor to a nation?
I know, but I could never have endured as you have through wars, famine, and now isolation. I know, because you once showed me your picture as a young girl in monpei, bidding your brother farewell at the train station. So handsome in his uniform; you bowed stoically as he headed to his grave in the Pacific.

But I will not bother you now for a story. You are too busy knocking the snow off rows of long, white radishes drying in the winter sun and setting up an offering of rice for your brother's long awaited return.

Author's note:
When I first visited Japan almost 35 years ago, I often saw Obaa-chans (grandmothers) in the Japanese countryside with terribly bowed backs. Purportedly caused by a calcium poor war diet and long hours stooped over in the rice fields. They would often be pushing a cart that looked something like a cross between a baby carriage and a shopping cart. It struck me that this nation would truly have been lost after the war had it not been for these stout, resolute women.

To the Green Sea

Author's note:
I have heard a few comments of late that my recent posts are not very zen-like, or filled with martial arts philosophy. I would agree. However, I find most zen writing rather boring. If you want reflective meditations on peace and harmony, don't go to Japan for zen training. If you want to know what one day was like; read below. I'm not saying this is the only way, I'm just telling you how it was.
'nuff said?

To the Green Sea - a book excerpt

It was one of the coldest and snowiest winters that anyone could remember. Even the old monks who came by on occasion remarked that it reminded them of the days after the war when the monasteries were one of the only places with food and young men became monks out of necessity. Those winters were cold they said. Blankets were scarce and discipline severe. I knew they were right. The worn wooden shoe box with the hand written names above it counted seventy-five in number. Almost three times the number of training monks on hand now.

It was my second winter at the zen training temple in the quiet port town of Onishi. January was the month of kangyo, the winter training. Regardless of weather we would march ten to fifteen kilometers through the nearby villages each day to collect alms in support of the temple. Normally we would take the same course in and around the town, but once each season we would walk through town, cross the river, and visit the small fishing village of Nishimura. No one minded going out there in summer, but the winter trip was hard, and we would be exposed to a piercing, biting wind most of the way.

On the morning of the march into Nishimura, I woke to the coldest day so far that winter. I slept next to an old, ill-fitting window and the wind in the night had blown the snow in through the cracks to form small drifts on the top of my blankets and across the floor. Yet I'd learned that a few degrees below freezing were better than above for marching because the slush on the road would freeze hard keeping our feet dry a bit longer. Feet and hands suffered the worse.

Meditation started at five, chanting at six, and rice at seven. At seven forty-five the roll call began with a monk beating a steel plate which hung in the entrance to the temple. We rushed to get ready. The steel plate sounding out in a jagged, steadily rising clang as we assembled on the hardened dirt floor of the Entry Hall. The head monk shouted,
"Everyone going out today must stand at attention to receive the day's instruction and recite the chant." Our nickname for him was The Apache. He would not have looked out of place in a maximum security facility.
It was cold, yet it seemed that the tighter I bound my garments the warmer I felt. One man would pull the chin straps on his kasa hat so tight there would be marks on his face for hours. We all had our little ways of keeping warm, but it wouldn't matter for an hour into the march warmth was something months away in a dream. In the Entry Hall we stood at sharp attention, heads up, looking strong. It was easy to look tough now, our feet were dry. The head monk spun towards us and barked,
"Move."

We marched into Nishimura to a bitter cold wind rolling off the ocean like a giant wave, dashing against the corrugated metal houses and blowing the cold even deeper into our bones. At the moment I thought,
This is what it really is to be cold. Who cared if I couldn't feel anything from the knees down? Someone had to break a trail in the two-foot deep new snow. It was so cold I became euphoric. Without gloves in the cold we lost control of the muscles in our hands. It would start slowly with the little finger then move on to the next until the whole hand curled into a weak fist. It was a daily ritual watching men try to straighten out a frozen hand with the still good fingers from the other.

Each year important villagers and inn keepers in Nishimura held a formal meal for the monks to commemorate our visit. After our morning march through the village we stopped at the appointed place. A spacious inn with very gracious people. But there would be a price to pay for indulgence in food and wine. The problem was that our frozen feet would swell from the Inn's heat and when it came time for the return march, we could no longer get our now wet, stiff tabi socks on without great and painful effort. Some walked the 5 km back to the temple barefoot.

Dinner that night was instant Ramen-if anyone wanted it. Most recovered in their rooms huddling around small hibachi coals. Some of us sat quietly in the Meditation Hall. I would stuff a thin blanket under my robe to stay warm. Body heat would keep me reasonably comfortable in the still air-and my feet were dry. Not a bad day after all.

© All rights reserved James Noah 2008

The Tea Merchant

The fall had been mild with many warm, clear days, but winter had come hard to the Japan Sea. Frigid Siberian winds pushed down on humid ocean air dumping deep, heavy snow on the coastal plains. Yet by early spring the melt had begun in the low-lying areas. A short month of sun followed; then the rains began.
For many weeks the sky was dark and the rain drove down. Tourists never came to Nihonkai for the dry climate. Now and then the rain relented and a low fog would descend on upon the mountain ridges silhouetting solitary black pines in a sea of mist.

On the eighth day of continuous rain, I decided to get away from the confines of the temple and go into the city. I caught a local train for the ten minute ride to the Central Station. It was unseasonably cold and windy as I headed towards the old mercantile section of town on narrow, wind-swept roads. Two-storied wooden shops and draining rice fields lined the way. A cold rain stung my hands and face as I clutched a bamboo and oil-skin umbrella. The few people on the streets hurried forward, their bodies braced against the weather.
I stepped from the street into a tea merchants shop and banged shut the sliding glass door behind me. In the dimly lit and age-worn shop, I could see large aluminum boxes of tea stacked against the walls. The shop smelled of smoldering autumn leaves.
After a moment a muffled hai came drifting out from behind several layers of sliding doors. An old shopkeeper brushed through a curtain in the back of the store. When he looked up his eyes brightened and he said,
"Please sit down, please sit down." He pointed to a space around a large hibachi where an iron kettle slowly steamed over hot coals.
I told him that I wanted to buy a gift of Japanese tea to send overseas. He nodded and handed me a steaming cup of bitter green tea that spread warmth with every sip. As I drank the shopkeeper suggested that a lighter, less bitter tea might be a suitable gift for someone not accustomed to Japanese tea. The tea we were drinking, he explained, was made from only the young, tender leaves of the best plants. The milder, less expensive, teas were made of more mature leaves and stems.
"I would like a mild tea of good quality," I said.
"If you'll wait a moment, I'm certain I have what you want in back." Then the old shopkeeper stood up and hurried back through the curtain.
As I waited and drank the hot tea, I stared at the glowing coals. A piece of charcoal popped and blew sparks into the dry ash bed. I was grateful to have found a haven of warmth and dryness in a wet land.
The shopkeeper returned with a deep-colored green tea in a round metal container. I paid for the tea, tucked it under my arm, and headed up the wet street.

© copyright 2008 James Noah
As previously published in Hidamari, March 1994

Autumn in Akita

秋田
Chinese Maples in brilliant crimson
frame the worn, ship-like timbers
of a temple gate.
The air swirls with the aroma
of burning leaves and sandalwood.
Cirrus clouds at the edge of space
draw my imagination out to
ancient mariners beyond the horizon.

Heavy Industry Ships South

A huge factory in Northern Japan stands barren in the snow. Snow that drives through cracked window panes and gaping holes in concrete and brick. A severed and frayed high-voltage cable swings in the wind. The empty hulk of a foundry that no longer pours molten steel. No longer makes locomotive wheels or bulldozer buckets. No longer feels steel-toes boots walking down long corridors to load flatbed trucks with carbon alloy motor cases. Now the loadings docks sit empty, boarded shut. Shipping skids lay strewn around the yard. I step through a door-less entry. I feel as though I must walk slowly, reverently, as if in a church, so as not to disturb sleeping workers. Shafts of snow speckled sunlight column down from above. Cracked and stiffened boots lie next to an overturned helmet. Someone must have decided that these weren't worth hauling away. The lunch menu still hanging on an oil-stained wall. The work has moved south and is not coming back, at least not for the ghosts who roam these lonely halls. Now someone else will make gears with grease and iron, and wash off the grime of a full day's work with pumice and cold water. Now someone else will drink coffee at break time from a worn and dented thermos.

Karate vs Terrorism

Over the years students have often asked me why I teach an art-based skill rather than only self-defense. I usually reply that barring an unexpected incident; the focus of your training in martial arts should be on fitness, self-development, camaraderie, and the joy of developing your skill. Nevertheless, should a situation arise in which you would need to defend yourself, the effectiveness of your training will be the deciding factor. Given the recent terrorist attacks however, I have reflected of my own abilities and how I would act if confronted by a terrorist. On September 11th, it appears that some were forced to put their training to the ultimate test.
There is strong evidence to suggest that passengers on United flight # 93 put up strong resistance foiling the ultimate goals of the highjackers. One passenger (Glick) known to have resisted was an NCCA judo champion. Another passenger was an officer in the Israeli Army. Whatever transpired on that flight my never be known, but all were tested in a way I pray none of us ever have to face.
Another incident that has made me reevaluate my training happened a few years ago to a good friend of mine, Dave Leventhal, a long time judoka and owner of Cecil’s Deli in St. Paul. After withdrawing money from an ATM one night, he was approached by a man who demanded the cash at gunpoint. Dave, in an amazing moment of calm, said that he thought the gun was a fake. As the crook began to fire, Dave sidestepped and brought him down with a forearm strike to the neck. Unfortunately, Dave’s wife, who was standing behind him, was struck in the hand by a ricocheting chip of concrete. She was injured, but not severely. Dave held the man down until police arrived. At first chastised by police for his actions, he ultimately received a commendation for bravery from the St. Paul Police.
In the final analysis, martial arts should prepare you to protect, disarm, or kill if needed. I will continue to center my own training on the art of karate, but I will also be putting more emphasis on strike force and real-world applications as well. If our style is determined to eliminate all sparring or hard-contact training, then we will have to work that much harder to include drills and methods that will keep us effective and lethal when necessary. I do not say that combat-style training is superior to kata-based training; it is just that when the unthinkable becomes a reality, you may need it to survive.

These are my thoughts in the aftermath of the great tragedy to our nation. I hope this has been of some help to you in your training.

James Noah
October 2001