Consider Others

Airplane travel always seems to offer up something to endure. Though I am not a business traveler with frequent trips and upgradeable mileage benefits, I have endured plenty enough miles in the cattle sections of various air lines- slept on a nun, drooled on a few windows, sat pinned between enormous bodies, and have given up personal comfort for sleepy heads and feet. This trip offered up a large video screen at least ten rows forward which required plenty of neck stretching to view the inflight movie, however, children have to sit on a lap or stand pulling at the seat in front them. Midway through the flight a passenger kitty corner to me begins belting out tunes. It penetrates my noise canceling headphones, interrupting All Creatures Great and Small as I try to focus on the narrator's unfamiliar British accent. Turning slightly to my left, I look behind me to verify that a real person would consider this appropriate behavior on an airplane. It seems slightly shocking. The singing continues unabated and loud. My son, on the verge of sleep, arises and looks around saying nothing. I turn and say, "There are people trying to sleep. Could you please stop singing." She ignores me and continues.

On an airplane headed toward America, I am reminded that self-indulgent behavior is not unusual. The left side of the plane is dark. The right side of the plane is awash in sunlight. Eight rows of window shades are open. There are over forty seats saturated with a harsh brightness. My fellow passengers's desire to see the view seems selfish and greatly lacking in consideration. I travel with eye shades, a hoodie, and a scarf for these moments. The airline stewardesses do not enforce any social considerations. No, they blankly hand out the chicken or beef and remind us that they are here for "our safety." I am feeling an eye roll.

I had been thinking of compassion earlier; specifically the idea that we should meet each other with compassion in our hearts. My compassion apparently can't even work itself up to merely tolerating rudeness. As usual, I have a long way to go. That pleasant half smile that the Buddhist recommend, would be a start.

Grooves, Alien, & Conversation

Grooves form when we revisit places. Before meeting my husband I generally saw a movie once- Star Wars being the exception but all of those viewings took place in a movie theater. I rarely watched reruns or even read the same book twice. Songs would get stuck in my head and so I would listen to them over and over, but stories were not revisited. He, however, watches anything he likes again and again. At first I resisted, but if he likes something- makes him laugh or entertains him in some way- it is a keeper and eventually it is played again. I came to think of this as a groove. Surprisingly, if a story is funny or scary or thrilling or sweet, the first time, it remains so upon many viewings or readings. History or other information rich stories reveal new insights with continued interaction. Listening to the same music is relaxing and eventually I think about the lyrics or something different. In childhood I was fond of eating the same foods again and again, but I had never applied it to stories.

My husband began watching the original Star Trek series in childhood. Those afternoon viewings were a way to unwind. Over the last thirty years, with the luxury of reruns, videos, DVDs, and downloadable files, he continues to relax from time to time with these same stories. He knows them well, and this intimacy is comforting and pleasurable. He often sees connections in science fiction movies that either were inspired by or inspired an episode of the show. From time to time, he pulls out films from the past. Recently we revisited Alien, the first one, and Anatomy of a Murder with Jimmy Stewart. It reminded me yet again, a good story is worth repeating.

Some mama friends were over this week for a leisurely afternoon lunch- with six children playing in the house leisurely may be a stretch- but it was pleasurable and unrushed. Revelations related to a broken rice cooker and a Japanese husband's dislike of microwaved rice stuck with me and made me think of the pleasures of revisiting grooves.

In Japan, mothers often lay down with their young children to help them go to sleep. This practice seems fairly widespread amongst Japanese friends I have, Americans refer to this idea as co-sleeping. Mothers are also usually the first ones up to prepare breakfast and make obento lunches so when they lie down in a dark quiet place, sleep descends upon them. The younger the children, the sleepier the mother. Many mothers mention that they mean to get up from these early bedtimes when their husband come home from work- somewhere between nine to eleven o'clock at night, but many concede that sometimes the sleep through the night. This can go on through yochien preschool and the kindergarten years and into the start of elementary school.

My mama friend's revelation was that instead of falling asleep with her children, she is now able to stay up and spend time with her husband when he arrives home. In my mind's eye, I see her sitting at a table, watching her husband eat his dinner, squirming a bit as they navigate conversation anew in the evenings. Mamas do not always want to talk about children, but it is what they do all day. Dadas do no always want to talk about work- enough time was spent there already. Finding pleasurable conversation at day's end that is not limited to children and work is an admirable aim.

Finding mutually pleasurable conversation in many long term relationships while navigating new interests and daily developments means sometimes one party has a greater interest in a topic than another. Friendships formed in youth may stem from a shared passion with a sport or experience. Parental relationships form through home and school life.

Grooves such a favorite movie, a dish from one's past, or a beloved song, can connect an old pleasure to the joy of sharing something anew. A line of dialogue, a queue of old tunes, or a favorite recipe is a simple way to get to an enjoyable place without reinventing the wheel. Once upon a time, I rolled my eyes at the repetition of stories told around the table or movies being played again, but their value is in the comfort and happiness they bring to all even when introducing something new. Not that all conversation should be safe and happy, but who wants discord at day's end in one's domicile?

I don't want to talk about politics with anyone anymore mostly because it is pointless and unpleasant. American media spins political issues with discord and sides. Most political conversations are about sharing sides or maligning the other side. American politics is divided over political issues that are irrelevant to the actual person spewing them- the working man protests taxes which in reality are about corporations and the rich. At the end of my day, it changes no thoughts. Occasionally, there is a segue into a thought that challenges my thinking but it often comes from a more complex story as in Dead Man Walking and not the belabored fireside chat.

Religion and spiritual life are fettered with labels and meanings that make sharing thoughts and experiences tricky. The live and let live philosophy though often said is rarely walked. Money? Sex? Same things- too much judgment and personal experience involved. Regurgitated day? The blow by blow of one's day often does pass for conversation. Perhaps an offshoot or thought will result, but this is more monologue than conversation.

Watching Alien again, I recalled seeing it the first time- with my dad; he rushed me out shortly after the "alien" came out of the guy's stomach. He also told me about his first horror film, King Kong which even as a kid I did not consider it a horror film. He explained he hid behind the couch trying to watch it as a child as the ape terrorized the town and his imagination. For my husband and I Alien brought up a new conversation about the timelessness of the workers' grumblings and the dialogue reflecting the tension between the corporation, compensation shares, and personal interests.

A known enjoyment is a nice starting point for mutually pleasurable conversation. We can skip along on the surface of interests that don't draw us in or go deeper into things that do. There is always more to mine.

The Sleep Struggles

It's 5:00 a.m., a warm body crawls into bed with me saying, "Bad dream." A blanket then covers me, the fleece feels too hot with the addition of the body heat. I hate being in the middle; my feet are on fire. I ask, "What did you dream about?" He replies, "I was mad and I broke a lot of plates." He falls back to sleep. I am too hot. I get up. The sunrises at 4:37 a.m. here anyway. I stayed up reading until 12:30 a.m. It could be a long day.

Summer break means that the children are with me all day. I suggest we pack for our trip tomorrow. One packs, the other makes a small pile. I sort through stashes of old shampoo bottles and toothbrushes collected from other travels. There are four toothbrush kits, six different razors- three kinds of disposables, one old fashioned straight blade, and two different Gillettes. There is a bottle of perfume from 1998- why do I still have it? It strikes me that it is time to toss this shit. Thoughts like, "It might be useful," or "Next time I will take it," caution me to keep things, but it just clutters the space in my closet. There are little pieces of debris hogging up space everywhere I look. I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of the dress I haven't worn in ten years, the jacket I haven't worn to an office in thirteen years- a tailor made it for godsakes. Still I feel the closet, despite it's four shelves and one rack that hold my things actually only holds two shelves worth of useful stuff. Of that stuff, a few of them don't even fit properly in the waist or the length. I have removed the sweater that needs the button resewn and the shirt that won't stay closed, but there is the dress with the spaghetti straps that are broken. Really, why am I thinking of these things in my closet instead of packing? Why does packing start with me inventorying my closet and pulling out baskets stuffed with razors and old mascara? I found my DC Metrocard; I saved it, again- it might be a good souvenir. I am not packed. I have a few hours in the morning before the flight.

The door opens. I am reading by the light of my iPad so the bright light is in my eyes, but I know that quiet, coy approach. I say, "Yes?" She says, "I can't sleep. I keep trying, but I can't sleep." Why is it when children are the most tired, they can't sleep? She says, "I'm like you- when you are up, I am up." I grumble, "I am trying to have some quiet time so I can relax. I am reading a story." She says, "You can read me a story. I will stay quiet." I respond, "I already read you a story an hour ago. Go to the bathroom- go pee, have a drink. I'll put you back in bed." "I just need mama to hold me," she says, but she goes and does as I suggest nonetheless. I hold her and take her back to her room. Kids are tough- they work you over night and day. All that talking during the day wears me out. They had a swim lesson as well. They must be tired and yet they persist. I once put that kid to bed forty-two times in one night. I know to minimize the positive reward for pulling mama out of her bed and getting one on one time, but I also know her pain. I struggled to fall asleep as a child. She knows this. "Tell me a story about what you thought of when you were little and couldn't sleep," she asks. My brain pauses and sort of drifts back. "I used to think about being Greek or Egyptian, like the Moose, but I thought of exploring the pyramids or walking through temples," I tell her. I really did- I have no idea why, but I used to like to think about wearing a white tunic in Greco-Roman style and exploring Cairo. I have never been there, and I can't remember any books particularly about it, but somehow it was a pleasant adventure. I tell her, "You think it is fun to explore your imagination at night, but if you don't sleep then it is hard to have adventures during the day." She responds, "What is forty-seven million plus forty-seven million?" Knowing she is lost in her mind, I reply, "Good night. I love you," as I leave and pull the door shut.

Summer vacation takes time to adjust too- everyone is at loose ends with the sudden schedule changes. The value of a longer break is that you get used to it and then you are free to pursue your own interests. It takes time to get used to free time though.

4 Bicycles & 1 Gardner

Today's plan consisted of getting a bit more of the shukudai summer homework assignments done. The Moose is down to two drawings and two essays while the Mule has only one drawing and one essay. They will await inspiration from their summer travels to finish those.

The afternoon bike trip to the grocery store offered up a twist. Riding home, the Moose, on his own bike, took out four parked bicycles and one gardner on a ladder. No one was injured, but apparently we parked our bicycles in the employee lot. While I picked up the fallen bikes, the Mule and Moose took off leaving me without a translator just as a woman approached the scene and proceeded to give me an earful in Japanese- the word police was used. The gardner happened a few minutes later. The munsters had waited for me. We took off together. The Moose, weaving along the road, took out a gardner and his ladder. The ladder was about eight feet high and had four substantial feet on the ground. The gardner was up about four feet off the ground whne the Moose struck, dragging the ladder with dogged determination to keep moving and not registering the reason for the drag. Fortunately, the gardner seemed to have a sense of humor or perhaps a little boy at home. Realizing the ladder was making a nosedive, he jumped off. He even asked the Moose if he was OK after the Moose apologized. Needless to say, I could use a drink.

I am sufficing with a cold glass of mugicha barley tea and with the Mule doing my hair- at least I can type. The Moose has been enamored of his father's Fuji-san hiking stick with bells as his pike, a wooden sword for slicing the air, and the laundry hamper lid as his shield while chanting some song by Basil Poledouris he has repeatedly admired on Youtube (Ancient Armies) - imagine the Greek Army attacking your living room. Between the bike ride and the living room attacks, "I need a vacation," to quote Arnold.

Interestingly, Mr. Poledouris was a Greek American. He wrote music for movies such as Conan the Barbarian and many others you likely know. I can't identify the particular song that the Moose is obsessed with, and it does not appear available for download because it is owned by a movie company. I sampled all of Mr. Poledouris' available songs on iTunes for the Moose, within three beats he could say, "No, no, it's not it Mama." It seems insane to me that yet another song he wants cannot be purchased legally. Instead, it can be listened to over and over again on Youtube. There was another Youtube video song that he liked which was also from a film score. The soundtrack to Troy by Gabriel Yared was rejected so a movie company owns the rights to the music and has never released it. The Moose seems to have an ear for stories and songs.

I really meant to post about Bill's Ricotta Pancakes. I followed this recipe and found it amazingly easy to replicate. I first tried making the pancakes on the stove top but after switching to a griddle, it worked much better. I won't give up going to Bill's but this recipe is probably the basis for his restaurant success in Japan. It is worth a taste. We had them for dinner along with Navy Bean Soup and salad. We eat a lot of hodgepodge around here when I'm in charge of dinner.

Bill’s Ricotta Hotcakes

Adapted from bill's food by Bill Granger

Serves 4

These are good with a side of bacon and roasted tomatoes, but the restaurant always serves them with Honeycomb Butter (recipe at bottom).

Ingredients

Eggs, 4, separated

Ricotta, 1 ⅓ cups

Milk, ¾ cup

All-purpose Flour, 1 cup

Baking powder, 1 tsp

Salt, a pinch

Butter, 2 Tbsp (~50 gm)

Banana, 1 sliced

Maple syrup or Powdered Sugar or Honeycomb Butter, garnish

What to do

1. Separate egg yolks and egg whites.
2. Beat egg whites until stiff peaks form.
3. Combine ricotta and milk with the egg yolks. 
4. Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. 
5. Add the sifted mix to the ricotta mix and stir until just combined. 
6. Fold egg whites through batter in two batches, with a large metal spoon.
7. Lightly grease a large non-stick frying pan or griddle with a small portion of the butter and drop 2 tablespoons of batter per hotcake into the pan (small batches are best). Cook over a low to medium heat for 2 to 3 minutes, or until hotcakes have golden undersides. Turn hotcakes and cook on the other side until golden and cooked through. 
8. Transfer to a plate, stack 3 hotcakes, top with bananas, garnish with maple syrup or a dusting of powdered sugar.

Honeycomb Butter

Unsalted Butter, 8.8 oz (250 gm), softened

Sugar honeycomb crushed with a rolling pin or a Crunchie bar, 3.5 oz (100 gm)

Honey, 2 Tbsp

Place all ingredients in a food processor and blend until smooth. Shape into a log on plastic wrap, roll, seal and chill in a refrigerator for 2 hours. Store leftover honeycomb butter in the fridge for up to 24 hours, or in the freezer-- great on toast.

Bill's Ricotta Hotcakes in Shichirigahama

I Visit an Old Haunt of a Sort

Parenting: a War of Attrition
I went to the library today. It has been a long while since I have been there. The munsters checked out at least twenty books- from braiding hair to Alexander the Great to Vikings to Fancy Nancy. We also managed some park time which should have expended a fair amount of their energy, but alas, somehow they always have more. Their ability to exhaust me is limitless. If parenting is a war of attrition then I am doomed. I think I am supposed to wear them down over time, but instead, daily they use me up and spit me out. They are getting major assistance from the heat of summer as well.


Library Walks
After selecting books, the munsters sent me on my way to find some books so that they could play computer games. I happily complied. I haven't wandered much in a library for a while. It is a sign that even the Moose is gaining some independence at least when a computer game is involved. Before munsters, I spent a lot of time in libraries. Not just as a student, but also because I just like books. As a teenager, upon moving from Spain to Southern Maryland I found myself at the local library daily. I can't remember how far it was, but I'd guess it was about a mile from my house. I walked there most days after school. I can't say I was in there doing any in-depth reading, but I know a lot about eighties supermodels from all those issues of Vogue magazine I read.

In my senior year I got strep throat back to back which took me out of commission for two months. When I had resumed my walks to the library people came out of the woodwork to ask where I had been. I had had no idea anyone had noticed.

The library today reminded me that I used to spend a lot of time there. It was nice to roam the aisles and read the book titles if only to imagine that it would be worth staying up all night to read this book or that book.

There was a time when I watched two movies in one day, when I stayed up all night reading novels, when I could sleep until late afternoon, when I had no idea what time it was when I walked out into the night from the darkroom happy with my photos and into my house where my mother was livid that I had been gone all evening.

With kiddos in my life, I do a lot of things for others, and I can't sleep in even when I try, which isn't often. I never thought that could happen to me. I wouldn't trade the new for the old times, but I miss some of those parts of me that I haven't seen in a while.

I will return to the library soon.

Hodgepodge & Pineapple Jam

A Matey Slap
One aspect of life in Japan is that I chat a lot with men. It is more often the foreign men who stay here, marry, and manage this complicated balance of life in another language. They also usually speak English. I don't think they wrestle with their choices as much as I do or maybe they accept their choices better than I do. Life happens. We make these little choices, tiny life altering twists of fate, and then we move along. There is living to do. The other day as I was making my way down the sidewalk on my bicycle, an Aussie friend riding up the road on his bike, held out his hand for a nice matey slap as he rode by. I was too preoccupied to process it in the moment since, well, I am a chick and few people offer to slap my hand as I cycle about, but it made me smile.

Travels
Reading a bit of Marco Polo's journey to China, I was struck by how long the journey lasted, 24 years, and that once he returned to Venice and got out of prison, he never left again. Part of the reason Marco Polo was gone so long was his exotic Latin appearance- Kubla Khan would not permit him to leave the court. Travel gives a different view, another way of seeing. You don't go back to the old world and see it in quite the same way. I do think it makes you appreciate home in new ways too.

Sometimes I marvel at how comfortable an uptight white person can feel in Japan. My husband says Japan is "egosyntonic." It is comfortable once you learn the way. As once the way, always the way, even for us clueless foreigners. No one here has ever aimed at making me feel bad, show me the way, yes, but only because there is a way and you must follow the way.

Intentions
Some lives pine for what will never be, some lives churn up waves of discontent in every direction, and some lives help all they encounter. I have known of all three. It is because of the entirety that I know the value of the helpers. My children have at times asked me for an explanation of good guys versus bad guys. It came to me in one of those moments, "good guys help others (even when it isn't convenient) and bad guys hurt others (even when there is no benefit)." Sometimes I even ask myself, "Was I trying to help?" when I feel I might have hurt someone. My intentions are usually good even if my aim is not. Sometimes my intentions are not pure. Sometimes I am just tired. I wish that I could ask when someone is unkind if they think they are being helpful. I really wonder at some of the help we offer each other.

Pineapple Jam
The homework pile at Casa Kamakura is dwindling. The pineapple jam was made at last. I can't say I was happy with the pineapple cake, but I am willing to try again. I didn't follow the recipe for the jam- it seemed it would be too sweet. I used half of the sugar. I am thinking to try some kind of pineapple jam muffins. 

Pineapple Jam- good for yogurt, toast, cake, muffins, etc.  I boiled jars and lids and then poured boiling hot jam into the jars, fill to the top, tap jar wearing a hot pad on the counter to evacuate air bubbles, and then place on the lid. Clean off the jars and label. I suggest consulting a cookbook for more authoritive descriptions of the process particularly if it is your first time, but nothing beats homemade jam.

Cut up one pineapple and weigh on scale!

Add half of the weight of the pineapple in sugar

Mix sugar and pineapple. Let it sit about 30 minutes to get juicy.

Cook over medium heat and skim the froth as it forms

Blend the pineapple for a smooth consistency- I used this.

Cook the jam about 45 minutes, thickens as it cools

I used 2 pineapples so it made a lot

Consult a jam book for canning tips

A Summer in Memphis

In troubadour fashion, my husband has taken to serenading us on these summer evenings when he is home early enough. In summer his work load tends to decrease as many of the children he works with depart for the States on vacation or move along to new duty stations. For now, we can enjoy him strumming the guitar while wandering about the house goading his own children from bath to story time to bed whilst singing songs from Neil Young, Bob Dylan, and Jerry Garcia's songbook. Our children may one day revolt at our mutual love of folk rock, but for now they know most of the lyrics since they hear the songs frequently, whether it is their dada on guitar or their mama on iPod. The Moose is getting pretty good at Dylan's Hurricane. This is how he sings his favorite line, "had no idea what kinda of ship was about to go down," for now.

I contemplated summer thoughts today after yet another long homework session this morning. I definitely detest summer homework as much as the Moose does. My friend said, "Just thirty minutes a day is all you need." She has all summer. I have this week. The slave driving will continue at Casa Kamakura.

A particular summer spent in Memphis, Tennessee, where my dad had a temporary assignment stands out for the little that we had to do there. He drove off with the car for work while my mom and I were left with where we could walk. A library was nearby and it had air conditioning- Memphis is hot in the summer. This was the library where I first fathomed the idea of non-fiction in response to my dad's comment, "All you read are stories. You should read about something real." I followed his suggestion and found a biography on Beethoven- who went deaf and used his teeth on the piano to feel the vibrations. Real stuff remains as interesting to me as stories. I read over eighty books while we were there- mostly from the children's section. We also walked to a ceramic studio once a week. We made a lot of Christmas presents that year- soap dishes, jewelry boxes, and even a bust of Darth Vader. We even drove out to Graceland to pay our respects to Elvis. There is a picture of me in front of the gates of Graceland from then some where. I think it was 1978. We hung our clothes on a line- they dried fast and would feel crunchy. While checking to see if the clothes were dry, I stepped on a bee. That night I slept with a tube of Ben-Gay and awoke smelling of it and feeling tingly all over. Standing barefoot in the kitchen, I watched baloney curl up as it fried while my mom read in the other room, my daily lunch ritual. Ah, to live on baloney and wear crunchy clothes again.

Normal life is never that slow. It helps to have lived slow so you can recognize when you are living too fast. That summer also marked me as a reader. There was no place to go but my imagination. There is something about a hot day and sitting quietly with a book in hand. I like hearing the breeze and watching bees bumble. It is in these quiet moment that I feel peaceful. I rarely have music on during the day. I prefer to work in quiet. The world is full of noise. Life is full of activity. I like to save the music for the evening when my husband is home; there is always music when he is around.

I don't think we're in for a slow summer with international travel and buying a house on the horizon, but as Charlotte says to Wilbur, "never hurry, never worry." Here are the lyrics to Hurricane, I bolded the Moose's favorite line:

Pistols shots ring out in the barroom night
Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall
She sees the bartender in a pool of blood
Cries out "My God they killed them all"
Here comes the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For something that he never done
Put him in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

Three bodies lying there does Patty see
And another man named Bello moving around mysteriously
"I didn't do it" he says and he throws up his hands
"I was only robbing the register I hope you understand
I saw them leaving" he says and he stops
"One of us had better call up the cops"
And so Patty calls the cops
And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashing
In the hot New Jersey night.

Meanwhile far away in another part of town
Rubin Carter and a couple of friends are driving around
Number one contender for the middleweight crown
Had no idea what kinda shit was about to go down
When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road
Just like the time before and the time before that
In Patterson that's just the way things go
If you're black you might as well not shown up on the street
'Less you wanna draw the heat.

Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the corps
Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowling around
He said "I saw two men running out they looked like middleweights
They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates"
And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head
Cop said "Wait a minute boys this one's not dead"
So they took him to the infirmary
And though this man could hardly see
They told him that he could identify the guilty men.

Four in the morning and they haul Rubin in
Take him to the hospital and they bring him upstairs
The wounded man looks up through his one dying eye
Says "Wha'd you bring him in here for ? He ain't the guy !"
Yes here comes the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For something that he never done
Put in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

Four months later the ghettos are in flame
Rubin's in South America fighting for his name
While Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game
And the cops are putting the screws to him looking for somebody to blame
"Remember that murder that happened in a bar ?"
"Remember you said you saw the getaway car?"
"You think you'd like to play ball with the law ?"
"Think it might-a been that fighter you saw running that night ?"
"Don't forget that you are white".

Arthur Dexter Bradley said "I'm really not sure"
Cops said "A boy like you could use a break
We got you for the motel job and we're talking to your friend Bello
Now you don't wanta have to go back to jail be a nice fellow
You'll be doing society a favor
That sonofabitch is brave and getting braver
We want to put his ass in stir
We want to pin this triple murder on him
He ain't no Gentleman Jim".

Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much
It's my work he'd say and I do it for pay
And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
And ride a horse along a trail
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse.

All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance
The trial was a pig-circus he never had a chance
The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums
To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger
No one doubted that he pulled the trigger
And though they could not produce the gun
The DA said he was the one who did the deed
And the all-white jury agreed.

Rubin Carter was falsely tried
The crime was murder 'one' guess who testified
Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied
And the newspapers they all went along for the ride
How can the life of such a man
Be in the palm of some fool's hand ?
To see him obviously framed
Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
Where justice is a game.

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell
That's the story of the Hurricane
But it won't be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time he's done
Put him in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

Report Cards, Homework, & a Typhoon

Summer Break
Yesterday was the last day of school before summer break here in Japan. However, due to a typhoon bearing in on us, it was cancelled. We still had to go to the school to pick up ayumi report cards and shukudai summer homework assignments. There is much homework for the summer break even though the break is fairly short by American standards- six weeks off instead of twelve. As a mother, I resent the homework probably more than they do- they are unaware that in my childhood, I had no homework in the summer and my summer was infinitely longer. Forcing them to get their homework done requires staying on task by both me and them every morning. Frankly, we could all use a break from the demands of others whether it be school, homework, or daily routines. Yes, it is to make them smarter, but play and free time are essential too. There is little enough free time for play in daily life in Japan.


Shukkudai Homework
This year I scheduled our annual trip home for a shorter time period in part due to homework. The Mule, a more diligent soul than her brother, struggled last year; it was barely completed an hour before school- too much stress on all of us! The Moose does not work well under pressure so the longer time at home is to insure he has time to complete all of his assignments before we go. The worksheet pages are long, the assignments are difficult, and the Japanese is not something I can help with. They have math problems to include adding and subtracting numbers from one to ten for first grade and double and triple digit numbers for second grade. Sustained attention is at a premium around here and so it requires the assistance of a mama to insure a quiet environment, a non-distracting work space, a continuous presence at the table, and occasional nudges to return to the work at hand. Perhaps the Japanese way accepts this amount of work more graciously because of their own childhood experiences. It certainly strikes me that this is why the Japanese place in the top ten in international comparisons of educational outcomes for math.

All of this focus tests the Moose's temper- sixty-six challenging math problems are enough to drive this particular six year old a bit crazy so I try not to hold it against him. Half way through I let him take a "Playmobil break." Forcing him against his will to sit infinitely at table takes forever as well and in the end the break is the shorter route.

I can only hope this investment of time in math and Japanese will result in some ease when the children finally attend school in their native language on the fronts of math and on sustained focus in doing homework. I really don't remember having such complex homework. The Mule has graciously offered to help the Moose with his Japanese reading. The translator will have to help with her difficult bits.




Ayumi Report Cards
The ayumi report cards caused a bit of consternation for the Mule. The notes in the report cards are in Japanese, however, she was able to read them. Her report card noted that she has room to improve in "writing sentences in Japanese" and "in using her measuring stick." Her awareness of praise and interest in earning good marks is a sign of her growing maturity, but I cautioned her to consider that she, unlike any other child in her school of over eight hundred children, is the only one with both an English only speaking mother and father. This cheered her up as she could ascertain the veracity of it herself.

The Japanese ruler and I had already had a round or two of confusion- it is a bamboo measuring stick without numbers, merely hash marks for the metric system. Again, poor kid is asking for help from a disadvantaged mother. I have ever more respect for immigrant mothers as I confront yet another challenge due to culture and language. It is all good, but it is not easy. She agreed, she does have room to improve, and it is not the end of the world. She happily told the Moose that he needs to improve in "listening to his teacher." He was momentarily dejected, but soon agreed that he could practice at home by trying to listen to his parents- that would be nice and it was of course no surprise to us.

The typhoon at first consisted of warm, sticky weather, but today it has brought cooler weather as the rain continues. The parking lot garden is perking up with the rain and so the sunflowers smile at us. I hope the cool weather stays a day or two as it feels lovely.

5 Miles & 1 Rice Ball

Today was a holiday (Marine Day) in Japan which might account for the all day hike the scout troop here in Kamakura planned. It would also account for the many fathers on the hike since they were all off from work, except for my husband- he works an American schedule. It was my children's introduction to scouting, their first time to meet and participate with scouts. I had been thinking to have them join for some time, but we had to put it off for various reasons. My friend mentioned an upcoming event for new scouts so though I knew little of what to expect, I committed to attending. I was interested because in Japan both girls and boys are in the Scouts- both wear the blue boy scout uniform familiar to Americans. Yesterday, I got this email:

What you need to take tomorrow are much water to drink and ONIGIRIs to eat lunch.Our scout have the rule of taking only UME-ONIGIRI or ONIGIRI to have nothing inside,that is you must not take the other foods.
Beaver scout will hike about 5miles tomorrow.

Yeesih, five miles of hiking the first time out for a group of six and seven year olds with one rice ball! My husband read the message later and thought it was great. I grumped he thought it was great because he wouldn't be the one dragging the Moose around for five miles. The Moose could medal in complaining if there was an event for it in the olympics.

This morning I frantically got all of the backpacks together, filled thermoses and camelbacks, grabbed sunscreen, bug bite medicine, sweat towels, sunglasses, and made four plain onigiri- I made an extra one for the trip home, in case. We had to be at my friend's house early. The kids were up, unusually both of them. The day before they had started playing a computer game, Mini Ninjas, they really like but had not played in months. They had such fun that they had asked last night if they could get up in the morning and play again. Surprisingly, they were up by six to play. By eight we were at the bus station and by nine we were on the mountain hiking where we remained until late afternoon. The Moose found sticks galore and other boys to goof around with. He was mostly in the rear of the pack- he is always stopping and looking at stuff, but he chatted and sang and seemed to be happy. He didn't complain about his one rice ball either. I did notice that the other children generally had nori seaweed wrappers and sesame seeds in their onigiri rice balls, but the kids had no additional snacks hidden away. The group leader, at a mid-morning bathroom break, passed out one piece each of a hard candy flavored with ume- think sour plum. Neither of my kids ate it.

Hiking in the hills did at least mean shade along with an occasional breeze, but it was a sweaty affair. We were dripping wet: the kids, the dads, the one other mom, and me. No one really spoke much English, but everyone was nice and shared a word or two. I am used to the lack of chitchat by now. In my own way I am somewhat like the Moose when he is going to school- I get lost in my own thoughts and that is good enough. Truly, on the hike though, I had few to no thoughts. If I thought too much about resting or sweating, I might have wanted to stop so I avoided the thought. I did like it as it was good to be outside, but it was long.

A friend from the Navy base was a boy scout leader with the American kids. I distinctly remember him saying he took his mixer on a camping trip so he could make homemade pasta for his troop. Someday, I am going to do things the easy way, but for now it seems I am going to do them the Japanese way and keep things slightly difficult for myself. Of no surprise, once we departed company with the other children, the Moose immediately launched into "woe is me; I'm tired; I'm hungry" mode. I managed to get him to Mister Donut at 4:00 p.m. where he piped down long enough to eat two donuts and drink a cup of milk.

I think I am allergic to my own sweat. Once we stopped moving at day's end, and I got cold in the shop, I began to itch. Or maybe I am allergic to hiking? I was really hoping my husband would do more of the scouting thing with the kids. Well, if I can get them to bed, they should sleep great tonight.

Perfect Day

Saturday was a perfect day. I went to Ginza with my husband on the Green Car which means we had a seat the whole way there and back. We had lunch at the Mariage Freres tea shop. We shopped for kitchen gear in Kappabashi the kitchen district in Tokyo. Meanwhile, our children were home with the babysitter. We had no time rush, no extra bathroom trips, nor twenty questions about the state of being done yet. It was marvelous. We might have to try that again.

Arriving at home, I showered and headed out to meet some girl friends at a yakitori shop. Yakitori is charcoal grilled meat or vegetables or a mixture- read awesome beer food in tasty quantities which means no absurd American portions. My favorite was the bacon wrapped mini-tomatoes. It was coincidence that date day and girl's night happened on the same day, but it made for a pretty good mama break. My friends and I sat outside, drank beer, ate yakitori, and chatted. There were two stories of tears on honeymoons, a future plot for getting together, and general chatting about stuff that when I drink three beers I kind of forget exactly.

On the walk home, my friend told me that she had recently turned forty. When I turned forty I asked everyone to go out to lunch with me. At first I was a little concerned that I didn't know it was her birthday, but then I realized she was thinking about what she wanted for her birthday. This is what she wants for her fortieth birthday. She said, "I don't need diamonds or pearls. I don't want jewelry. I want a custom kendo protector set." God, I love that woman. She wants her husband to buy her specialized kendo gear that is customized to fit her so she can whack at folks in the budo or dōjō hall with a wooden sword. "Men! Doh!"

It was an only in Japan kind of day.

Two Pineapples

After unloading a bit of angst on a friend about my husband refusing to contemplate the possibility of my early departure, he wisely said to me, "At least he wants you stay! That is a good sign. I mean really what would you think if he said, 'Sure! Go, I'll see you in a year!'" It wizened me right up- it didn't hurt that when my husband came home from work this evening and I declared a "chocolate and toast emergency" he suggested I go immediately to the store while he bathed the children. I am now free to move along to an emerging interest in pineapples.

I recently asked one of the cooking mamas about the abundance of cheap pineapples in Japan. Her response struck me as humorously Japanese, "Well then they aren't Japanese pineapples. Pineapples from Okinawa cost about 800 ¥en." I nodded appreciatively wondering what a $10 pineapple tastes like if I am salivating over a $2 pineapple. Seriously, I ate the whole thing! I have been buying a pineapple a day this week. I keep meaning to make pineapple jam, but we keep eating the darn things. I am also newly impressed with jam making. I have made jam maybe five times in my life- all of those times here in Japan- so I am no expert, but the results are so divine that I can't help myself. I want a rack of jam jars, full of tasty ripe fruit made into jam, so I can make cakes with it or just eat it on my toast. "Jam and coffee or tea and jam?" that is a beautiful thought to have in the morning.

I have given some thought to the idea that jam making could be seen as a waste of time since you can buy a pretty fancy jar of jam for less than five bucks in the States. All I can think: you haven't made your own jam. It taste so good! I bought a tome of a book on making jam, The Blue Chair Jam Cookbook, but I have yet to read it- it's big, and beautiful, and it feels complicated. Luckily, my cooking sensei demonstrated two tasty jams that I adore, and so I have cooked them up a few times- marmalade and apricot. I want to try making pineapple jam because it is in a cookbook, Warm Bread and Honey Cake, mostly because I want to eat the pineapple cake that is on its' cover. Step one is to make fresh pineapple jam (recipe included) just as I am in the throes of jam making; it is as if the fates are calling, except I keep eating the pineapple. Maybe tomorrow I will just buy two pineapples; it's still just five bucks for the cheap ones.

A Pineapple Frappe from Bill's

I was also thinking about Bill's pineapple frappe so I mixed one up tonight except I erred on the ingredients- it is supposed to be pineapple, melon, and mint, but I made it with pineapple, kiwi, and mint. Happily, my husband made mojitos with the mint, and I have now forgotten about the frappe incident. Perhaps though I learned something of use. The Bill's frappe may be made with a simple syrup infused with mint because after seeing my batch in the blender, I remembered that at the restaurant it did not have kiwi seeds or pieces of mint leaves in it; it was sublime. I must do more research very soon.

Stay tuned, tomorrow could be a two pineapple day.

Desire Vs. Enough

Yesterday, the Moose needed help with his homework, and despite all of us trying (including the Mule), we came up empty. This afternoon, I asked him what his teacher said about his incomplete homework. He replied, "I did it at school Mama, don't worry." So I am on the fence- a part of me wants to dwell on what I can't do here- the language thing and with two kids in shogakko it is more and more of an obstacle, and the other side is that things work themselves out- I just have to let go. As a lover of words and stories it is painful that my children speak another language to each other and yet can't spell basic words in English and read at a much lower level than their American peers. I have much in common with immigrant mothers- I am illiterate, and I have little comprehension of the cultural experiences my children have at school. My husband thinks all of this is fabulous and praises my perseverance to give them this immersion and language experience. The truth is that I am thinking, "time is up, let's pull choks and go home." Home ownership and the lack of a viable renter are part of it too.

Letting go of my desire to leave is tested daily with interactions that have me feeling like a buffoon as I pantomime and blurt out a few words to get through. Today, as I was getting out of my car, the elementary school children were making their way home. There was a small gaggle of them in front of our "garden." This amuses me because of the attention the garden gets despite it's small size- it also reflects the value of location. The boys were pointing to the cucumbers, and the girls were telling them, "no," as if they had threatened to pull the cucumbers off the vine. My faith in the Japanese culture is great- I never thought the cucumbers would be picked. I did think about the crows eating them though.

As I passed by, I told them to look for the "shiso" and the "mini toe ma toe" as the Japanese say. They found them and nodded appreciatively. One of them pointed to the not so good looking basil plant and identified it correctly. The other boy said he didn't know what basil was. I said, "Basil toe toe ma toe, oyshi!" which is a rough version of, "Basil and Tomatoes (implied together), (are) tasty!" This prompted one boy to tell the other children about how I don't speak Japanese which he fleshed out the week before when our paths crossed. What could I say. "So so so." It is disheartening to be out chatted by a six year old.

These things wear on me now. Before they did not. I am tired of being confused, and in some ways, stuck in an infantile existence of depending upon the kindness of strangers to help me. I used to laugh that we had to find the Mule to speak for us- even at five she could do this. Now, I just feel frustrated. To me the answer is to go home, but home is still here for another year. Pulling up and heading back is thinking of me, honestly. There is much to be said for being together and the munsters aren't as put off as I am with their immersion. They pushed back when I pushed forward in yochien, and, now, the tables have turned. I don't want to think of the reasons to stay as much as I want to think of the reasons to go, but there are others in my life and so I think of them and their happiness, and it is enough, at least until we don't find a renter.

Summer Rolls with Recipe

To some degree I dread my cooking class because it is all in Japanese and not being an experienced cook, I don't have much to fall back on when I am confused which is all of the time, but I always go, and I am always glad. My cooking sensei's daughters help with a rough translation of the recipes from Japanese to English, fleshed out with a bit of help from my cooking mama friends- we try to go to the monthly classes together. I take a lot of pictures both because I am making a cook book as a gift for those who help me so much and because it helps me write the recipes later. Yesterday, was Thai inspired, and I found a new summer favorite. I had thought of them as Garden Rolls, but perhaps Summer Rolls is a better descriptor.

Summer rolls are made with dried rice paper which is sold in packages in the Filipino section of the commissary here, but likely found in Asian sections of most grocery stores wherever you are. I have eaten these at many restaurants and even once at a friend's house, but what I realized yesterday when I made them for dinner was how great they are for children too.

I was late in getting everything prepared so I put all of the ingredients on the table and had everyone help make their own rolls. It was a hit! You need a big bowl of water, a tightly knitted dish towel to lay the sticky rice papers on, and finely chopped ingredients such as shrimp, avocado, Tillamook cheddar cheese, shiso leaves or fresh corriander, lettuce, and cucumbers. I also had chopped pineapple on the table which was meant for dessert, but ended up in the rolls as well. I made peanut butter dipping sauce- see recipe at the bottom. The kids loved dipping the rice paper into the water, loved picking out what they wanted in the rolls, and mostly they skipped the dipping sauce. It was healthy, cool, and tasty all the way around for them, me, and my husband.

Here are some of the photos from our class that show the steps to making the rolls. Be creative with the ingredients- use fresh summer herbs and light vegetables. Think of it as a summer burrito. The rice paper seems to get sticky as it sits out so I don't recommend making these too far ahead and they don't work as leftovers. Eat them fresh.
Itadakimasu I humbly receive,
Kim

Lay the wet rice paper onto a towel & smooth it out

Add shrimp & shiso

Add lettuce & avocado

Add cheese & cucumber

Fold bottom over roll & turn sides up

Fold over other side & tuck into roll tightly

Roll up

Serve & Enjoy

For Dipping Sauce mix together: Peanut butter, unsweet kind, 3 Tbsp; Vinegar, 2-3 Tbsp; Sweet Chilli Sauce, 3 Tbsp; Garlic, 1/2 clove, chopped; Fish Sauce, 2 Tbsp. Add a bit of water if it is too thick.

A Zen Master Moose Lesson & Thoughts on Wasted Energy

Knowing What You Value

As the Moose departed for school this morning, I noticed him standing at the top of the steps that lead down to the road, as if holding himself back. From the kitchen sink where I was filling a bucket with water, I was able to lean over a bit to see some of the boys waiting for him down on the road. One is a friend from his yochien days, he was holding out his hand, beckoning the Moose to come and join them. Still the Moose held back. As my bucket of water filled, I wondered at the Moose not joining them with thoughts of perhaps unkindly treatment by the other boys or some other mama fear. As I walked out to throw some water on our fancy parking lot garden that is happily blooming with sunflowers, tomatoes, cucumber, and more shiso than I know what to do with, I caught up with the Moose. He was dragging his feet to stay behind the boys who had given up on him and started on to school. I asked the Moose, "Why don't you walk with those boys?" The Zen Master Moose replied, "Because I like to make up my own stories on the way." It reminded me that it would do good to remember what we like to do and not give it up just because something else comes along. Some people seem to know what they like and some don't. I hope he doesn't forget his own likes and priorities as he moves along the path of his life.

I wantonly wasted reading and searching the internet. I need some kind of shock treatment to pull me out of these internet trances. Sorting out what is useful information is hard. There are interesting ideas and good basic information, but little depth or breadth that can be found. I suppose for this reason books will never go away.

One particular jaunt I explored was a note that the first Amazon.com writer has sold more than one million ebooks. The writer  attributed his success to selling his books for .99¢ of which he only gets thirty-five percent (he also wrote a book for $4.99 about it). I was a bit surprised by Amazon being able to get such a large chunk of the money by offering up the platform, but it is where the buyers go for content. A few days back I saw a stat somewhere on Seth Godin's Blog that only five percent of the population regularly buy books. I didn't realize I was in such a minority with my love of books. I haven't read many of those .99¢ ebooks as I have mostly gone for the free classics, but still have I have a lot of those that remain unread, unexplored too. There is also a fairly high stack of books next to my bed as I generally read from several books at a time at least until one grabs me. Part of the problem is having enough time blocked off to indulge in my stories. I also want to write one of those .99¢ ebooks, but I seem to be having trouble blocking off time for that too. I really do need to listen to that Zen Master Moose.

There was a discussion at my kitchen table over the weekend about the costs for energy to fuel the U.S. troops in Iraq and Afghanistan with part of the discussion centering on the types of buildings being used. My husband recollected his fabulous hut and office in Iraq with it's metal walls and roof that baked you like an oven unless the air conditioning was on full blast, all of the time. There was no insulation and no thought to the materials chosen for the desert surroundings. There was also a total absence of solar panels, but there were fuel trucks and thus the news worthy mention of the costs. It is "business as usual"I suppose. Meaning, for that someone in charge it is easier to order the known metal buildings, fuel, etc., instead of considering the overall costs and resources being wasted. Solar panels and insulation, might require a different kind of effort and learning something new. A known effort is easier than an unknown one.

As I think of so many tax dollars being consumed inefficiently on energy, housing, and transportation in the Middle East, I wonder, "Wouldn't it be nice if something good came from the war?" Something we could learn from such as increased use of solar power (in the desert mind you) and possibly improvements just because of the higher usage, or experiments in the use of building materials and insulation in an area where those things could in the future also be put to use to improve communities and lives? I wonder at the legacy these wars will leave behind: the usual waste and suffering, improved trauma care and rehabilitation for injuries, and with the overly long and repeated deployments, stress. Even veterans would be better off using and learning about solar power because when their time is done in the military, they would be familiar with bringing this kind of energy back to the States. Perhaps another side benefit would be reducing our reliance on oil in the first place and our reasons for being at war, ah, it comes full circle.

I don't recollect seeing any solar panels in Bahrain either. When traveling up north here in Japan, I have seen a number of solar water heaters on roof tops. Energy is expensive here and with the sudden loss of nuclear capacity, energy prices will likely go a bit as well as be in short supply. Surprisingly, there is not much insulation, geothermal, or solar power in use around here either. Perhaps this will change as Japan seems to be moving toward a nuclear free energy plan, but don't quote me on that.

On another note, I remember a Navy pilot in Bahrain who was quite happy with himself because of his garden. Bahrain is hot and sunny with little rain most of the year. The Pilot had a local horse farm deliver a truck full of poop to his house. He used his newly enriched sand as the basis for a small garden. He had basil the size of a bush growing in weeks. We all marveled at his basil at the time. Which reminds me our parking lot sunflowers are beginning to bloom. We are marveling at them now.

Help from an Obaasan on a Motorbike

A Summer Festival
Yesterday was about every reason I love Japan and every reason why I want to go home. It was the Omachi Matsuri as I call the portable shrine procession for the neighborhood children. Kendo Mama obtained the happi coats for the Mule and Moose, telling us, "Wear tennis shoes and be at the shrine at exactly 1:35 p.m." Not wanting to leave too early, we headed out with just enough time. We immediately encountered six other neighborhood children so I knew we had left at the right moment.


An Old Woman Interrupts
Suddenly an obaasan old woman, on a motorbike (I am not making this stuff up) pulled up and stopped us just as we were beginning to thread around the corner to the left. She countermanded my instructions to the children to go left, telling us to go to the right. The children, all Japanese speakers, looked at me and then complied with her instructions and began going to the right.

With only seven minutes to get to the shrine, I protested, and the children politely translated for my benefit, "The obaasan said we need to go this way (pointing right) to meet up with the mikoshi." I wasn't sure what the obaasan meant, but it was not where the kids' mikoshi portable shrine was. My husband said, "We can get there either way," so I trudged after the kids steaming with frustration about the wrong direction, my inability to speak Japanese, and stewing about being late. Here is what we saw:

Tengu

Gion Mikoshi

A Procession
I immediately realized that the obaasan was well-meaning. She had redirected us around so that we would see the Kamakura Gion Omachi Matsuri Owatari mikoshi tour that was just entering into our neighborhood. As soon as we cleared the procession, I sent the the kids running. Of course, we made it, but you have to appreciate timeliness in Japan- the trains run on time, things start on time, and so the pressure to be punctual has a consequence. My fear of the kids missing their mikoshi procession was for naught, but both the thrill of finding Tengu coming around the corner and my frustration with not being able to speak Japanese collided.

Kids carrying the portable shrine

Shrine Shaking
The kids did a great job of carrying the mikoshi. It was a hot, humid, and sunny day, but with lessons learned from year's past we were super hydrated, had sweat towels, and in my case a parasol. The kids did a bit of mikoshiburi or mikoshi shaking- a kind of dance with the mikoshi- at the rest home for the elderly as their grand finale. I remember the first year we went to the rest home, four years ago, I was shocked to realize such a big rest home was so near our house as I had not noticed it. We are packed like sardines into our neighborhood so surprises await around every corner.

The Elderly Audience

The Performance- mikoshiburi

Love the cultural clash

Dressed for a Matsuri
After showers and dinner, we headed out for the matsuri festival and mikoshiburi. I don't have any pictures of myself in my fancy yukata, but there is one that I particularly like taken just after the kid's mikoshi finished. It is of a neighbor and me talking. I got a few of the Mule and Moose in their yukatas and even some of Dada in his happi coat and handako white short pants as he was dressed for the main event that evening.

When he got home later that night he told me, "You were the toast of the evening when they found out you wrote the English translation for the website. You looked really good in your yukata too! I was Kim-san's husband tonight!" It probably didn't hurt that they were all drinking sake to celebrate the end of the matsuri event.

I still want to go home, but I do love the richness of our experiences here which are so unlike those at home. Besides, we are part of it all here too even if I can't speak Japanese- thanks to all of our friends (and even the obaasan on her motorbike) who help us.

Zen Master Moose Lesson #256

My zen master moose taught me something last night. The volley started with the Moose asking, "Can I watch Youtube?" The response was, "Did you do your homework?" I knew the answer, but I am trying to train him to understand that work is done before play otherwise it hangs over your head in an uncomfortable way. The amount of frustration that exploded forth was unpleasant to say the least. I am not well equipped enough to know what to do with all of that anger and frustration. I'm hoping for the "good enough mama" award at the end of my children's childhoods. Perhaps I am selling myself short, but I want wiggle room for mistakes. I tried waiting it out by sending him over to the couch to chill but it was merely a platform in which to launch a nuclear strike. The fuel rods were hot and there was no immediate way to cool down- he refused to take a deep breath; he wanted to be angry. The highlights: he threw the nearby ABC cards all over the living room; I ignored him; he picked up a pillow from the couch and whacked at the Mule and me. Finally, in a barely controlled voice I said, "Go outside." I know I am supposed to model control, but it is hard. Being outside proved to be the straw that released the flood of tears and frustration in him at last. I then opened the door and asked him to come inside. I told him, "I'm sorry. I love you, and I don't want to yell. Do you think we can be calm and eat dinner?" After a long hug, he told me he was sorry; we then focused on eating dinner. Later when my husband arrived home, the Mule launched into "The Moose Situation." I stopped her and said, "It is the Moose's story; he needs to tell Dada what he did." The Moose had a surprising response to this, he said, "She can tell him. I am too ashamed." I was a bit surprised, but I insisted he tell his dad what he had done. I said, "Telling the truth can be hard Moose, but it's important to do it." In his dad's arms and with a bit of coaching, he was able to tell of his loss of self control. I went up to take a bath. His fits exhaust me both for trying to control my own temper and for trying to help him control his.

Today I was thinking about making mistakes. What do you do when your mistake hurts another? I may have stumbled yesterday, but in one direction I feel sure: you have to say the uncomfortable, "I'm sorry." You have to learn to accept that sometimes your behavior is less than you would like it be, "I messed up by ...." It goes such a long way toward repairing a hurt heart, shameful as it might feel to admit to a flaw in our actions or in our judgment. It doesn't absolve responsibility, but it is a place from which to begin the repair.

When the munsters were in yochien Japanese preschool (age 3, 4, & 5), I was surprised to find that formal apologies were both given and expected in many circumstances. The offender had to say, "Gomenasai" a version of "I'm sorry," and the offended had to say, "Eeo," to acknowledge the offender as in "It's Ok." It is a beginning, a way of starting a practice that is helped by expectation, reinforcement, and over time, hopefully, insight.

Have you noticed, we don't stop making mistakes just because we're grown-ups? They may get more expensive or more difficult to extract ourselves from, but they continue. We are making plenty of mistakes at our house, but I hope that we are also learning from them. I was darned impressed with my six year old for being able to identify that he was "embarrassed" to say what he had done. Sometimes I wonder where he gets this insight and sometimes I think God sent a zen master here to challenge me- I am not done growing yet.