Happily ever after

This blog has been about the past four months of my life.  I went to Ofunato and Rikuzentakata, scared out of my wits, not knowing what faced me.  I saw a quiet hell.  I lived among people who showed incredible strength as well as real vulnerability.  I struggled to find the words to describe what I saw and felt.  I failed.  I succeeded.  I came home.  I went back.  I tackled my personal demons.  I came home again a new person.

Throughout this process, you have been there with me.  You let me throw my pain out to you even though I don't know many of you.  You let me rant.  You let me complain.  You supported and comforted me.

 It was hard.  It was very, very hard but I would do this all over again without hesitation, although I would do things very differently.  I have no regrets in going.  I'm a better person for having gone.

I will continue to work towards reconstruction, renewal and healing in Tohoku.  This is my life.  I'm very, very convinced I will live happily ever after, and I will do everything I know how to make even one person's life better so they can say the same.

Thank you for taking this journey with me.   

And more...

Hello, Latvian friends!  It gives me great pleasure to add you to the list of people who have found this blog.  Thank you so much!

It's all about you!

It's not fair that I am the only who gets enjoyment out of knowing who all is reading these postings.  I don't know who you are individually but I can see through my blog site where you're from.  I want to share this with you because in many cases the fact so many of you have found me is due to you spreading the word.  I didn't do this.  You did.  For that, I want you to know how grateful I am and to have as much fun as I've had knowing how far this blog has reached.

Here are the countries where this blog has gone:  Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Belarus, Estonia, China, Japan, South Korea, USA, Canada, France, Denmark, Germany, Italy, Hungary, Poland, United Kingdom, Ecuador, Argentina, Viet Nam, Malaysia, Philippines, Indonesia, Singapore, Mauritius, Saudi Arabia, Israel, and India. 

In half of these countries, I know no one.  You some how found me. You spread the word.  You have been the key element in keeping the stories of Ofunato and Rikuzentakata alive. 

Although we will likely never meet, please know what a pleasure it has been to have you along with me.

Wrapping up

It has been almost four months since I started writing.  I am a changed person.  I liked the me from before but the new me is like a new shoe; it will take a few blisters for me to get used to the new look.  I can live with that.

I feel a very strong need, a pull, a calling to do something more tangible with the experiences I've had over the past four months.  For this, I've come up with two ideas.  I will be returning to Japan again in September, this time for three months.  Part of what I will do there involves continuing volunteer work, this time with many different organizations.  I'm not done with Tohoku.  I'm not done with Japan.  Second, I have decided to take the postings from this blog and the other (now defunct) blog to George Clooney and compile them into a book.  There are stories I didn't get around to writing.  These, too, need to be told.

The international media has all but forgotten about what happened on March 11th.  Certainly, much has happened since then.  What the world doesn't realize, and I understand why this is the case, is how widely the events on March 11th will continue to affect us.  All of us.  For this, and for many other reasons, I find it inexcusable that the media coverage has dried up.  I cannot single-handedly keep the focus on Japan.  I can, however, do my part.  It is with this in mind that I plan to publish my postings.

Neither of these projects will be completed quickly.  I am dedicated, though, if nothing else and once I commit, I'm in for the long haul.

So, today I write with gratitude and sincere humility for those of you who have followed this blog and for those who were active in spreading the word.  I am beginning the process of wrapping up the blog transferring my time and energy onto projects that I hope will continue to reach a wide audience.

Thank you for your friendship, words of encouragement and most of all, for your support.

"You look so....."

Having just come back from cursing at the ocean, I am all smiles.  Cliches are cliches for a reason, yes?  That's my excuse for interjecting one here:  I feel so much lighter.  Having said what I came to say to an ocean that doesn't care I honestly feel lighter.  Maybe it's that weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders-being-lifted feeling.  Maybe it's the overwhelming grief I couldn't express that's some how gone through me and is no longer stagnant inside.  It's almost frightening, this change in me.  I can feel the difference.  If I were 10, I would giggle.  Being, let's just say not 10, I grin instead.  A lot.

I make the rounds of the people I came to see in Ofunato.  I take gifts to people.  I show up unannounced and am warmly received.  I stop in and see Mr. S who runs one of the evacuation centers in town.  He put up a poster once which a included a call for locals to volunteer with the "group of foreigners."  This poster contained a sketch of a foreigner, large nose and all, which I later learned was me.  I chided Mr. S for weeks begging him to "do something about that nose" as I refused to be the poster child (literally, mind you) of all foreigners with big noses.

Mr. S was one of many people in Ofunato I saw over the next several days who commented on how I look.  This is good, you know.  I certainly don't mind comments about my looks, so long as they're compliments, of course.  What I heard from people over he net several days, compliments technically, made me realize how much of a transformation I must have gone through since having gone home and having just come from cursing at the ocean.

"You look so.....different," Mr. S says, and I rescue him from having to find he right words by quickly saying, "It's the make up.  You've never seen me with make up before."
"No," he replies.  "You look good."
Here, I laugh, which I shouldn't have but did.  He turns red.
"I'm sorry," he says and now I feel bad.
"It's okay.  I must have looked really bad before."
"You were," pause again, "tired, I think.  Right?"
"Oh, yes.  Most definitely."
"Well, you don't look tired now."
"Thank you.  I'm better.  I'm really okay."
"Good," he nods.  "It shows."

As I said, compliments are good.  I don't think much about this conversation other than to accept the fact evidently a). I looked pretty bad before, and b). I don't now.  I move on through town from shelter to shelter, group to group, person to person.  In a matter of a few hours, I realize this chat with Mr. S is not one person's opinion.

At the base, I run into Mrs. W who runs the office for the Ofunato Commerce Center.  We bow.  We say hello and exchange pleasantries.  I thank her profusely for letting us use the place, comment on how nice it looks, apologize for the mess we all made.  She nods and doesn't actually refute the last statement so now I know there was a lot of cleaning up to do when the volunteer group moved out.  We're silent for awhile and I wonder what to say next.
"You look nice," she says and catches me off guard.  I was looking at the boxes of relief supplies in the front office.
"What?  Oh, thank you."  I quickly throw in, "You've never seen me with make up on."  Never accept a compliment.  Give credit elsewhere even if it's to a giant cosmetics company.  Done.
"No, it's not that.  You look different."
Okay.  So, a few minutes ago it was "you look nice" and now that's "you look different" which means, again, I evidently didn't look so nice while I was here back in March, April and May.
"I'm relaxed," I say.
"You must be," and we let the conversation move onto other subjects.

I run into Mrs. W again later on in the afternoon along with Mrs. K who does the cooking for the volunteers.  I say hello to Mrs. K, kick myself for not bringing her a gift, and we stand and talk about life.
"You look so......" she starts, actually takes a step back and does the once over as if she's really checking me out, "different."
"Make up," I say on cue.  I remember my lines well, thank you.
"No," and her response is quite adamant.
"It's not the make up."
"It's her breasts," Mrs. W says, with a look of total seriousness and I actually guffaw.  This is a first.
"What?  What does that mean?" I can't wait to hear her response.
"You look healthy," is what I get.  What am I?  A cow?  Mrs. W is actually talking to my breasts.   This is seriously awkward.
"Oh, stop," Mrs. K looks at Mrs. W.  "She always looked healthy.  You've just never seen her in a t-shirt.  She was always wearing a jacket before.  She just looks..." and here she turns to me and says, "Well, maybe it's your skin.....or, well, you just look really good.  Happy.  Yes, happy.  You look happy."
"Refreshed," Mrs. W says.
"Yes.  Refreshed," Mrs. K agrees.

Okay.  My skin looks better, I look refreshed and I look different than before.  I continue to hear comments throughout my time in Ofunato about the before-and-after comparison and the general consensus is before = bad, after = good.  I accept the compliments as graciously as I can, making sure to give proper credit to the power of make up which of course, everyone deflects away.  The good news is, evidently I look more relaxed.  The bad news is, evidently I looked pretty bad for about seven weeks.  I suppose this shouldn't surprise me.  I make a conscious decision to look at the bright side.  These repeated reminders about the difference in how I look means I've come through the worst of it.  The fact I clearly couldn't/didn't cover up my stress during the time I spent in Ofunato is very potent and painful.  I'm glad the transformation I've just gone through is visible and positive even if that means I get compared to a cow in the process.

Blaming and cursing

I spent an afternoon on the beach in Ofunato getting drenched by the rain.  The ocean in front of me is the same ocean that blew giant waves onto the shores all along over 200 miles of coastline.  I'm angry at it.  I know the ocean doesn't care.  I know being angry at an ocean isn't a reasonable response but it's also very real.  I need to blame something.  I need to project my anger at some thing and right now, that thing is the ocean in front of me.

When the waves recede, it washes over small, black stones.  These waves, the ones that never stop, make the stones sound as if they're clapping.  This, too, makes me angry.  What are you applauding?  What did you do that deserves applause?  You, ocean, of all things don't deserve praise right now.

I see a large wooden door floating in the waves.  I look at it and assume it wants to come onto shore and rest.  The waves taunt it, pushing it forward towards the shore and then pull it back out.  The ocean is cruel this way.  Let the door be.  Let the door settle on these black pebbles that make this horrid clapping sound and let it rest on solid ground away from and out of the water.  No.  The ocean teases the door and the entire time I'm on the beach, it moves back and forth, to and from land.

The tsunami wall that was supposed to keep giant waves from crashing onto land did nothing.  One portion of the wall, a 8-inch thick concrete section, 6-feet by 6-feet rests near the edge of the water.  The waves moved it here and left it for us to see.  "See what I can do?"  Yes, I do.  You did this.  You want credit?  I'll give it to you in the form of blame.  This is your fault.

I see another larger section of the wall in the water, laying on the sand and rocks.  This one is larger, maybe 10-feet by 10-feet.  The waves tore this off the wall and brought it here for us to know just how much power it has.  I get it, ocean.  You're powerful.  You're so powerful you washed away walls, homes, bulldozers, people, trucks, boats and toys.  You feel no guilt because you can't.  That's simply not good enough.

I pick up several of the larger black stones at my feet and throw them into the water as far as I can.  They plop.  I feel ridiculous.  I didn't hurt the ocean.  I didn't cause it pain.  I want to, of course, but I can't.  It doesn't work that way.

I can't stop crying.  This is good, I know, but I feel stupid for being angry at something that on postcards is so beautiful.  I tell myself the water here is not blue, green or turquoise.  It's not pretty.  I don't need to feel stupid for crying.  My emotions, the ones I pushed down so deep for so long come out and my make up is ruined.

I curse at the ocean.  I call it names.  I tell it, "you did this" knowing it feels nothing.  I turn my back to it, making sure I intentionally snub it and walk away from it saying "I'll never feel the same way about you again."  It doesn't hear me, I know but I am blown away by how much better I feel.

This is what I needed.  This is the closure I came here for.  I feel different.  I'm soaked, having stood out in the rain for so long but am not bothered by how wet my shoes are or how messy I look.  I feel cleansed.  Between blaming something that can't accept fault, cursing at something that can't hear me and feeling a different sort of water wash me clean, I feel like myself again for the first time in a very, very long time.

I'm back.  The old me is back.  Not only that, this time I'm better than before.

The last four days: Part 5, No room at the inn(s)

When scheduling my trip to Ofunato, I asked some friends to help me find a hotel.  I wanted privacy.  I wanted to be alone.  I was willing to pay to get this.

Then came the answer.  There were no rooms available anywhere in Ofunato.  How is this possible?  I have no way of explaining this phenomenon.  I don't understand this but I'm also faced with the realization I have to find a place to stay.  I contact the volunteer organization I worked with previously and asked for a spot on the floor.  They agreed.  Then comes another realization.  I have no sleeping bag, no mat to sleep on and, of course, I forget my pajamas in Tokyo so I now have to decide whether I'll sleep in my clothes on the floor, alongside other volunteers (some of whom I know, others whom I don't) or come up with Plan B. 

There's always another way, albeit this time my thinking-outside-the-box ability failed me.  The suggestion came in the form of a carefully worded question from a friend:  "Would you be willing to stay in a love hotel?"

A love hotel, for those of you who don't know, is, let's just say, a place where couples go to get some "privacy" which, of course is code for a hidden spot to have an affair, or a place for a quickie.  In other words, people don't stay in a love hotel alone.  Rooms are rented by the hour, for several hours, or by the night and different rates apply for differing lengths of stay.

I ponder this suggestion.  I laugh.  I can sleep on the floor in my clothes or I can sleep in a bed in a room reserved for sex.  Swallowing my pride and definitely recognizing the humor in what I'm about to do, I find my way to a love hotel, and stay the night.  By myself.  Only me.  I watch television, looking around at the room, and laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

I wanted unique experiences?  I'm certainly getting them.