Wabi Sabi

Wabi Sabi

Cherry blossoms float

  Carpeting the earth in pink

    Spring is here again.

桜

A flash of distinctive bright plumage draws my attention to a robin. Landing lightly on a branch, he dislodges a shower of petals. Throws back his head. Warbles his set piece: Cheerily-cheer-up, cheer-up, cheerily-cheer-up! A dusky companion joins him, and they flutter down to the ground to pull worms together.

Harbingers, I say to myself. Cherry blossoms, robins, even earthworms. Walt, up the hill, mowing the field. A subtle shift in the quality of light. A soft breeze plays with my hair, carrying with it a faint almond scent. 

Recent rains have washed over the gravel driveway, leaving behind a layer of mud. I watch little rivulets of water trickle down the slope, changing course to go around some of the larger stones. My yard clogs squelch in the soggy soil, while weak sunshine tries to warm my back. Spring is here again.

There’s not much in the mailbox. An advertising flyer, a bulk rate envelope, a postcard from our optometrist. “Time for your eye exam.” I look in the box again. Fan the pages of the flyer to make sure there’s nothing stuck inside. 

A cloud crosses the pale sun, and I shiver a bit.

This is the first spring in fifty years that I haven’t received a card from Edith. 

桜

Thirty-five students per classroom might seem a daunting prospect to modern teachers. Fifty years ago, it was standard. Then, I was young—just over twice the age of my charges—and enthusiasm overpowered inexperience. I could tackle anything! Or so I thought.

“Good morning!” I smiled at the children filing into the classroom. “Welcome to sixth grade! I’m Miss Young. Your desks are labeled in alphabetical order. Please find your place and sit down.”

At age eleven or so, they’d figured out their relative positions in the class list. It didn’t take long for most of them to locate their desks and plop down, but one boy remained standing beside the only unoccupied desk. It took me a moment to realize he was grinning. 

“Is something funny?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and trying to sound stern. Was he going to be a troublemaker? 

Quickly consulting my seating chart, I looked across at the boy. 

“Douglas?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound uncertain. The name on my chart indicated that he was Douglas O’Hara. But—his Asian features didn’t match the name. 

“Yes!” He pointed to the placard on his desk and burst into a fit of giggles. “But my last name is Ōhara, not O’Hara. And by the way, I’m not related to Molly!” He flashed his dimples at me, and grinned at the girl behind him. 

I’ve always been a sucker for dimples… Douglas soon became one of my favorites.

The sixth grade curriculum included cultural studies, and I figured the best approach was to concentrate on the backgrounds of my students. That would give them a sense of being connected to what they were learning. We started with a few European countries that made up the heritage of most of our community. It was my aim to link each culture to another, somehow. 

“The Portuguese were great navigators,” I reminded the class. “They traveled to distant places and left bits of their own culture and language behind. It may surprise you to learn that there’s quite a bit of their influence still in Asia. Especially China, India, Japan… so I think we’ll take a trip to Asia in the spring!”

A buzz of approval circulated through the room. Now, I thought to myself, full of zeal, I’ve got to make the journey worthwhile! Engage the young minds!

One day, after class, I leafed through a teacher’s magazine and learned about a just-published book called “Farewell to Manzanar”. Perfect!  I ordered thirty-six copies, and hoped they would arrive on schedule.

“We’re going to be reading the memoir of a woman whose family was shipped to an internment camp during the Second World War, simply because they were of Japanese heritage. She was just a year or so younger than you when they were sent away. Doesn’t that sound interesting?”

“My parents were in one of those camps,” Douglas remarked, shrugging. 

I was taken aback. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me that there were people right here, in our community, who had experienced that shameful event. 

“Do you think they’d be willing to talk to us about their experiences?” I asked impulsively, then almost wished I hadn’t. Maybe the subject was too sensitive. But Douglas was nodding vigorously.

“They’ll do it!”

We read the book together during the first part of March. It was fascinating, and the kids got immersed in the story. I wanted to follow up with a field trip to the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park, and I’d gotten a bee in my bonnet that we needed to go on the very day of spring equinox. 

“But that’s a Tuesday!” The principal frowned. “Field trips are supposed to be scheduled on Fridays.”

“Mr. Watkins, please. Don’t you want the class to have a meaningful experience? It’s a very important part of Japanese culture to celebrate spring by picnicking under blooming cherry trees. It’s called hanami. Flower viewing.”

“Hrmph!” He grunted, then said, “Oh, I suppose it’s all right.”

I was thrilled when Mrs. Ōhara volunteered to be a chaperone!

桜

We sat on blankets beneath the frothy pink-and-white trees, finishing our picnic lunch. The scene could have been a study done by one of the old master painters, but there’s more to memories than just pictures. I can still see, these many years later, the dark branches contrasting with a pale blue sky. But along with the mental image,  I feel the mild warmth of sunshine filtered through blossom-laden trees; hear the birdsong; remember a gentle breeze carrying some indefinable scent that is spring itself.

“Mrs. Ōhara is going to tell you a story now,” I announced. “Please listen respectfully. No talking, no slurping through your straws.” I added that last bit preemptively, motivated by experience. 

“Well,” she smiled, “What I’m going to tell you is a true story. It’s about finding a treasure!  My parents, Takeo and Yoshi, were born in Japan. They were excited to come to California. My siblings and I were all born here. We have American names, because our parents wanted us to fit in. But we each have a Japanese second name to help us remember our heritage. My first name is Edith, and my second name is Sakura.” She waved her arm in an arc, indicating the trees above our heads. “It means cherry blossom. I was born in the springtime.” A few petals drifted down, as if in response to her summons. I watched one settle on the top of her head, contrasting with her glossy black hair.

“In fact, it was just at this time of year when we were forced to evacuate our homes. I had just turned eight. Old enough to remember, not old enough to understand. Although, the adults didn’t understand either.” 

I need not have worried about the class paying attention. They sat in a semicircle around her, cross-legged. Hunched forward, silent. I did not hear a peep from them. Even Marty, the rowdiest of the lot, was captivated. 

“Mama came in early to wake us, even though it was a Saturday. I remember it was still dark in the room. And all quiet outside. 

‘Come, we must eat asagohan! Quick!’ 

Mama’s English was fair, but she couldn’t pronounce the word “breakfast.” So she stuck to Japanese for that. She held out our bathrobes and guided us—my sister and me—to the kitchen, where Papa was getting our brothers settled at the table. Mama grabbed bowls and spoons. Papa set out a box of cereal. I can see, in my mind, that box of Raisin Bran, the only type of cereal Mama would buy. We didn’t know what was happening, but we could tell this was no ordinary day. None of our usual Japanese-style breakfast of rice, miso soup, and meat or fish. That kind of meal was to be eaten without hurry. And it seemed that, this day, we were in a rush.

“We had already been on food rationing for awhile. There was only enough cereal for each of us children to have a bowlful. Mama and Papa hastily ate leftovers from Friday’s dinner.

‘Takeo,’ Mama told Papa, pointing at the refrigerator, ‘make sure to empty reizōko and unplug it. Nothing must be left!’ I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but later I remembered, and realized why she said that.

“‘Eat! Eat!’ Mama clapped her hands twice, like this—” 

Clap-clap! Mrs. Ōhara demonstrated. I’d used that method myself, in class. It does command attention. 

I was just as absorbed in her story as my students were, visualizing that eerie Saturday morning gathering.

“Mama finished her bowl of leftovers and went to the sink. ‘Hurry. Bring your bowls to me when you’ve finished. Then we have something to tell you.’

“As you can imagine, that ‘something to tell us’ changed life as we knew it. We really could not imagine what lay ahead. We had just a few hours to get dressed, pack a box with necessities for each of us, and say goodbye to our pets. I turned for one last look before I went out the door. The ceremonial doll Mama called “Murasaki” stood silently in the entry hall, guarding the house; a serene white porcelain lady in her glass display case, with elaborate hair and a beautiful kimono of lilac and scarlet.

“When we left, the cherry trees were in full bloom, just like these. Robins were singing, hopping in the grass, hunting worms—just like those.” The closest bird cocked his head and peered jauntily at her, as if he understood.

“Our neighbors, the Nijssens, promised to look after the animals and the property. When the van came, they hugged all of us. Then they waved until we couldn't see them anymore. 

“We were taken to a holding facility over in the Central Valley, where we waited for the camps to be built. It was crowded, hot, and uncomfortable. We were surrounded by strangers. They looked similar to us, but we didn’t know them. 

“We were there all summer, and into fall. You’ve just read about a similar experience, and we don’t have time for all the details, so I’ll shorten my story and only tell you my personal perspective.

“Finally the day came that we were loaded onto a train, and I remember feeling excited! I’d never had a train ride before. How many of you have taken a journey by train?”

Just a few hands went up. Mrs. Ōhara nodded.

“So you can understand that it was a new experience. At first, it was so thrilling! I wondered where the ride would end. Surely it would be better than where we’d been. We bumped and rattled along for three days. Even the train sounded like it was saying wonder-wonder-wonder… When we left the valley at the end of September, it was very hot. But as we traveled east, it got cooler. Across Nevada and Utah, into Colorado—three states away from home.

“It was cold. And windy. The sand blew in our faces as we huddled at the station, waiting to be crammed into Army transport trucks. The word ‘camp’ sounded like fun to me, as an eight-year-old. But it turned out to be dreary and bleak, a rough place in the desert. There were long buildings that looked like chicken houses, but there were no chickens. They were for us. The whole place was surrounded by high fences topped with barbed wire.”

Mrs. Ōhara paused, looking around at the lovely spring day. 

“Enjoy your freedom. You never know when it might be taken from you, as it was from us… But we were lucky, compared to some detainees.  At Camp Amache, we were allowed more liberty than most. I learned later that the governor of the state was against our detainment, so he was determined to treat us as nicely as possible. 

“The adults decided, since we’d probably be there awhile, they wanted to make the camp look nicer. They asked for seeds to start a garden, and they got them. It was so cold, even in the buildings, that the seedling trays had to be near the cooking area. 

“By springtime, when we’d been there six months, it was still cold. Gray skies. Snow. No robins; no cherry blossoms. So Mama made spring for my birthday! She had tucked in one of our boxes a packet of washi, Japanese paper. And she made me an origami cherry tree. Really, it was just a dry branch with three twigs, but she was very clever with the craft. She folded delicate blossoms for it, and even made a pair of tiny robins. 

“We were at Camp Amache for three years, until the end of the war. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. Mama and Papa never showed bitterness about it, they simply accepted it.

“I remember once complaining that it wasn’t fair to be taken from our home and kept like prisoners. Mama answered,

‘This experience is an example of wabi-sabi. That means something that is impermanent and imperfect can be a thing of beauty. Like sakura, we can bloom again.’

“Do you remember, I said that this story was about finding a treasure?” Edith Ōhara smiled around at the group of children. “The treasure is life. It’s not always perfect, but we can either let it destroy us or we can look for ways to make it beautiful.”

桜

The doorbell rings, and I realize I’ve been daydreaming. Maybe, I suppose, even dozing. It’s hard to bring my thoughts back from—where? That field trip, fifty springs ago? Camp Amache, so vividly recalled by Edith Ōhara? 

I open the door. The sun has valiantly come through the clouds, lighting up the blossoming trees with a soft pink glow. Robins are singing Cheerily-cheer-up, cheer-up, cheerily-cheer-up! 

Our neighbor stands on the doorstep holding out a thick envelope.

“This was in our box. It looks important!” 

桜

Inside the envelope is a handmade card from Edith Ōhara, decorated with a sakura branch and a haiku. At nearly ninety, her work isn’t as precise as it used to be. The blossoms are uneven, and the writing is wobbly. And it’s perfect.

Pink petals falling

   Rosy as a maiden’s blush 

      Cherry blossom time 

桜