Tadaima

There are certain things that stick in my mind from my time as an exchange student.  One of those is the routine of coming home each day from school.  It was a bit different from what I was used to in Illinois.  No school bus dropping you off conveniently a block from your door.  First, there was the long walk down the steep slope from the high school, admittedly easier than trudging up it every morning.  That was followed by finding the correct city bus that would take me to the stop nearest my host family's house.  Then, there was still more than a quarter mile of road to walk up through the neighborhood to arrive home again.  This was all in the oppresively hot and humid rainy season, all in heavy layers of navy blue school uniform, often in drenching rain.  At last, I would slide open the front door, step into the dry and inviting genkan, change into house slippers and call out "tadaima," announcing that I was home again.  Okaasan (Mom) would answer her welcome, "Okaeri," usually from the kitchen where she was already busy preparing the dinner.  Six days a week, we followed the same routine.

Tadaima - Okaeri

The grateful return, and the welcome home.

When I made the decision to plan a return trip to Japan, part of me wondered if that return would feel the same.  I hadn't merely been away at school since breakfast.  A couple of decades had passed since I left.  I had grown older, married, divorced and remarried.  I had raised children, built a career, and generally struggled through the kind of things life throws at you.  I was different.  They were surely different, too.  Although we had kept in touch all these years, exchanges with my host family had been mostly polite letters and cards with the occasional photo to remind you how those you knew as children were children no more.  They were part of this amazing experience that had changed the way I saw the world.  I couldn't possibly be that amazing to them.  I wondered if they were only polite in saying they wanted to meet me and my husband.  I wondered if that meeting would be quiet and awkward.

I guess I didn't have to worry.  When we stepped off the train in Nagoya, my sister was there to greet us, along with the next generation, her one year old son Takeru.  When we traveled into the countryside, there were hugs from Okaasan and Otoosan (Dad) waiting for me.  The Japanese aren't generally hugging people except when it comes to children or those who are very close.  Even friends will usually bow rather than embracing each other.  So, I was pleased to know that even after all these years, I was very naturally perceived on that family level where hugs are OK.  My husband was welcomed in and treated like family, too.  We were invited to eat sukiyaki cooked at the kitchen table, to play mah jong with the family, to visit the village temple during a special festival, and to partake in o furo at a local spa.  All of these things tend to be out of the reach of normal tourism, but help us outsiders to better know Japanese life.  This is the aim of an exchange program, of course, but I was so grateful to see the warmth and hospitality extended to my husband, too.

Did I just get lucky being matched with a family and a country that suited me well?  All those years ago, when the exchange service assigned me to Japan, they could as easily have sent me to any of dozens of other places.  There was nothing in my application to specifically recommend me for Japan.  There must have been a moment when someone threw up their hands and chose it from two or more equally promising possibilities.  Yet in Japan, I found a family that, despite my strangeness, saw qualities in me that were typically Japanese and welcomed me as one of their own.  This was a place that could become home in a very short while.  And when my initial stay had ended, I felt the wound of tearing away from this new family.  I told myself I would return, but part of me wondered if those last moments in the train station would be my last with Okaasan.  This time around, I managed not to tear up until I was on the train.  Maybe this return had provided enough assurance that this need not be the last time, or maybe I'm just older, but it still hurt.  Every parting hurts.  It's how we remind ourselves to  treasure the time we have.

Now, we've returned home happy, refreshed, and inspired.  We've brought back new memories, photos and souvenirs and stories.  But we've also brought the nagging feeling that a piece of us belongs somewhere else. The same feeling is carried around by anyone who has left their home and family, only now, we have a little of that no matter where we are.  It's the knowledge that life is a series of partings and reunions.  When you step out into the world, you leave your home behind.  By doing so, you may find a larger sense of home, and you can always look forward to your return.

Tadaima- Okaeri

The next few posts will be a brief diary of our ten days in Japan.  First post tomorrow, May 6.