Tag Archives: Seasons

Cicadas, Typhoons and Gord Downie

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This week’s Sunday Reader was going to be about summer ~ about ways to live the entire year as though it’s still summer. It was a sunny little piece and the closer I got to publishing time, the more I realized that I wasn’t going to send it.

Seasons have been on my mind.

In Japan the cicadas are screech-singing at full volume. {This is the sound they make ~ like a million baby buzzsaws in training}. Recently a friend who’s lived in Japan for almost a decade said he finds the sound of the cicadas comforting. Me too. The arrival of the cicada-song in June signals the beginning of summer, a throwing off of order and routine. A loosening of strict rules. An expansion of spirit.

Mid-August in Yokohama is oppressively hot. Saturday was 28 degrees Celsius but the Weather Network reported that it felt like 43 degrees. The gap between what it was and how it felt is hard to wrap ones head around. I spend most of August in light cotton and slow motion.

Our school year is about to begin. The teachers have been back at work for a week but it always feels strange to be at school without kids. It’s not really a school without them. They are the essential ingredient… with their tans and their back-to-school hair cuts and their great yops of laughter and their insecurities and their epic curiosity. I’ll be so happy to see them tomorrow; to arrange my working life around the wild trajectory of their growing up and becoming.

On Sunday morning DP and I, still in our jammies, livestreamed The Tragically Hip’s final concert from Kingston, the city where we we went to university and where we met 22 years ago. The Tragically Hip are for Canadians like I imagine Bruce Springsteen is for Americans. Gord Downie, The Hip’s lead singer, is our unofficial Poet Laureate; I read that 40 per cent of Canadians say that they learned more Canadian history from Tragically Hip songs than they did in school.

Gord Downie is dying. He’s battling glioblastoma, an incurable and aggressive form of brain cancer. On Saturday night (Sunday morning in Japan), all across the world, Canadians gathered in living rooms and bars and on beaches and in town squares to say good-bye. To wish him God-speed on his journey. To say thank you for all his shimmering words. We also gathered to remember our own youth… to celebrate the nights The Hip played on the cd player while we danced and fell more deeply in love with our boyfriend, with our entire group of friends, with life itself.

In their song Ahead by a Century, Gord sings:
First thing we’d climb a tree and maybe then we’d talk
Or sit silently and listen to our thoughts
With illusions of someday casting a golden light
No dress rehearsal, this is our life.

No dress rehearsal. This is our life.

Tropical Storm Mindulle spent the night barreling across the Pacific towards us in Yokohama and Tokyo. It’s not personal ~ this is what typhoons do. It’s not helpful to expect a typhoon to act differently than typhoons act. Yesterday afternoon, as it became clear that we were in the typhoon’s path, we bought several days’ worth of groceries: eggs, bread, veggies, fruit. Sensible storm-groceries. It was after 11 o’clock last night when I realised that I’d forgotten to buy milk; there wasn’t another person on the sidewalk or another customer in the convenience store. Typhoons are a beautiful and devastating reminder that humans are not in charge.

As I write this, the typhoon is assembling itself from sideways rain and sea water and hot wind and it’s blowing itself onto the land like a greedy monster, all reaching and pulling. Soon, it will announce itself through the rattling of the glass doors to our balcony and the sound the screened doors will make as they slide and bang back and forth in their tracks. From our 22nd floor apartment, we’ll watch the typhoon like a production. Extreme Weather Opera.

Last night, Mount Fuji was astonishing; perhaps she was getting ready for her date with the storm. We haven’t seen her clearly in a couple of months but last night she emerged majestic in blue-grey and the sun set orange and purple, all in awe around her.

The Japanese staff at our school tell us that Autumn will arrive on the 23rd of September… that the heat will break that day. They are always right. A cool wind will blow in off the Pacific and we will dig out our sweaters and jeans. Summer will slip away, storing itself inside some bright pocket at the back of our mind.

Everything has its own season. School. Summer. Typhoons. They come and then they go. We get ourselves into trouble when we hold too tight to things whose season is over… when we try to keep that which needs to go.

Part of living fully is learning to let go.

Is there something you need to let go?

Do you know what’s stopping you?

Cheers,
Monna
xoxo

P.S. This was first published as The Sunday Reader. If you’d like to receive The Sunday Reader directly in your inbox every two weeks, you can subscribe here.

September 22nd

{Photograph by Damien Pitter}

Autumn will arrive on September 22nd.

This is how I imagine it happened
although I wasn’t there
to hear it.

Summer in Yokohama
sizzles like the tropics.
Temperatures soar and
dogs
unable to store their furry coats
as we do
pant
and pray for rain.
Even the Japanese
move slowly,
the women protected
from the sun
by designer umbrellas.

Public pools heave,
a hornets’ nest
of children
splash
and laugh
and do do not think
of Autumn.
They live
entire liftetimes
in each turquoise
moment.

Autumn will arrive on September 22nd.
The Japanese know things like this.
The exact day on which
humidity will lift
and temperatures will fall
like seagulls
diving towards the bay.

Japanese trains
always arrive on time
and so will

Autumn

A shaking off
of angel wings
that began to grow
in summer.

We store away
our childish dreams
of play
to concentrate on
serious matters.
School
and work.

We grieve
and get on with it.

When Europeans first arrived
in the inhospitable wilds
of Canada,
the fruits and vegetables of
their autumn labour
ensured their survival.
I exist because
my ancestors knew
how to
get to
work.

When a cool breeze
brings my colleague’s words
to life
on September 22nd,
I’m not surprised.
One season leads
to the next
and Harvest must begin.
As the pools are closed
by public decree,
mothers tuck away swim suits
and pull out sweaters and jackets.

Autumn will arrive on September 22nd.

A few days later
just to show she’s still in charge
Mother Nature sends us
several days of stinking hot.
Ultimately,
not even Japan
gets to boss her around.

{friday poem}

this is a friday poem

it’s about wearing my winter coat
for the first time
in Yokohama
and the feeling of encountering elastic
on the inside of the cuffs
designed to keep my warm air in
and the cold air out.
(i’d forgotten that they do that.)
this coat rocks.
(note to self:
always buy winter coats
in canada.
they know what they’re doing.)

it’s about giving some students
a little talk on monday morning,
some thoughts about respect
and responsibility
and how not to succumb
to their lesser demons.
and how many of them
have come to say,
“hello. ms. mcdiarmid.
i’m sorry for messing around.
i know i can do better.
did you hear i got accepted?”

it’s about conflict
and miscommunication
and vulnerability.
it’s about being able to say,
“i was wrong
and i am sorry”
and how this often
leaves two angry people
closer.

these are important muscles.
they don’t get stretched enough.

it’s about getting sad news
and glad tidings
and how they inhabit the same space
and sometimes you feel
like you can’t hold it all
but you can
because that’s what you do,
after all,
for a living
and because that’s what people do
for each other.

this is a friday poem
about flipping my hood
against the cold wind
and a hard week
as my sweet man
snaps this shot.