The Night Crossing

February 19, 2007 | Laughing Knees | 16 Comments 

The wind blows through this lit­tle town like a newly landed boat pas­sen­ger, all breezy with new ideas and pent up en­thu­si­asm, leg­ging across the gang­plank, scarf whip­ping about, and push­ing past the lo­cals with­out con­sid­er­ing them. From my apart­ment bal­cony I can look out across the tree­less rice fields to the line of trees along the coast, just at the edge of a morning’s walk, from where the salt air flies in and har­ries the metal ban­nis­ter of my apart­ment build­ing. On blus­tery days like this I can smell the brine of the sea and that fresh stir­ring of am­mo­nia, car­ried in by dis­tant seagulls.

I’ve heard that some of the high­est con­cen­tra­tion of birds gather along that imag­ined coast­line over there. Now that things have slowed down at work and I have sev­eral weeks to put the new apart­ment in or­der, I think I might take a bike ride out that way to see for my­self. Since com­ing to this area (north­east Chiba) of Japan four months ago birds seem to be my con­stant com­pan­ions, watch­ing over me dur­ing some of the bleak­est days of my life. Just when I feel that I’m just not go­ing to make it, some bright-​​eyed elf of a bird flut­ters into view and does his dance, ei­ther to dis­tract me from my, as one of my read­ers put it so hu­mor­ously, “tor­tured writ­ing”, or to re­mind me that even in the depths of self-​​doubt noth­ing is re­ally ever that se­ri­ous or self-​​important. And like an an­gel dressed as an over­worked waiter the one bird, the white wag­tail, that has al­ways fol­lowed me every­where, all the way since child­hood, daily I find one of their rep­re­sen­ta­tives wait­ing im­pa­tiently at the foot of the apart­ment stairs, call­ing out, “Hurry! Hurry! There is work to be done! No time to dilly-​​dally!” I’ve seen a ural owl and a wood cock, two mys­ter­ies that let their guards down long enough for me to re­ceive their blessings.

On other, cloudy days when even the birds take to the bushes or when night falls, I’ve found my­self out away from the wind­breaks and trudg­ing along dirt roads, some­times long af­ter mid­night, with the sky slip­ping along the heav­ens and me down here, be­low, mak­ing my way be­tween ditches and tele­phone poles. One night, hav­ing spent the en­tire day at my of­fice in the uni­ver­sity with­out an­other soul in the build­ing, I emerged onto the de­serted streets and couldn’t feel the draw of the com­pass that usu­ally beck­ons me home. I stood be­side a sleep­ing maple and lis­tened to a shred of cor­ru­gated plas­tic bang­ing against a wall, try­ing to make sense of the empti­ness that welled ei­ther from my own heart or resided as it was in the care­less­ness of these mod­u­lar houses.

What is it to need some­one, any­one, nearby, just to hear their voice, though you don’t know them, or to re­as­sure your­self that you are not just imag­in­ing those dark shapes flut­ter­ing at the pe­riph­ery of your vi­sion? Why do I end up whis­per­ing so much to my­self as days go by with­out speak­ing a word to an­other per­son? What is this need to speak, to reach out and brush your fin­gers against an­other soul, or to say, “Stay. Stay for just a minute. I need to see my­self re­flected in your eyes, to know that I am there.”

With her gone now the nights seem longer. I still have the habit of turn­ing over and reach­ing for her, my fin­ger­tips ex­pect­ing her smooth shoul­der and my ears lis­ten­ing for the soft sound of her breath­ing. The white mug that was paired with the blue one, which we both used to share a cup of tea to­gether every night, now sits un­washed in the sink. She had wrapped it in news­pa­per while pack­ing and when I took it out of the box in my new place the flood of mem­o­ries choked me. One af­ter an­other mem­o­ries came spilling out of the boxes, so many of them that I had to stop and go for a walk.

I won­der how you are do­ing, dear heart, over there, all alone your­self? Are you hold­ing the blue cup, or turn­ing over and pat­ting the mat­tress where my pil­low once lay? Do you have to go for a walk, too?

I guess I can say the worst is over and that from here on out it is the heal­ing that takes over. I’ve had some hard walks in my life, some­times the trail so bat­tered and strewn with boul­ders or the rain so bad that the mud made it im­pos­si­ble to push on, that I had to turn back and hope to climb the moun­tain again. What of­ten made those climbs eas­ier was a part­ner to con­sult with and call to through the thick mist. It’s easy to get lost when you’re on your own. These last few months have opened my eyes to the ex­is­tence of that door through which you might never come back. It didn’t know it was so easy to lose all sub­stance and turn into a ghost right be­fore your own eyes.

Yes­ter­day I took a train ride through the area north of my town and stood in the door­way of the train when it stopped at the next sta­tion. A quiet lit­tle place, with farm­houses guarded by bam­boo groves and side roads that turned off the main roads and took off into the hills. “Maybe this is where I can set­tle down.” I thought. “Maybe the thing is to go fur­ther and deeper than you are now, take the qui­etude a step closer to the birds and fol­low their lead.”

Along the edge of the field a wave of star­lings set­tles into the grass and soaks in the bright morn­ing sun­light. Azure-​​winged mag­pies swoop in and out of the per­sim­mon canopy, chuck­ling and purring to one an­other. A black tailed kite keens high above the fields, ris­ing on the up­drafts and dis­ap­pear­ing into the clouds. A white wag­tail cocks its head and bobs its tail. Then it is off scut­tling along the road top, peep­ing its satisfaction.

“Ex­cuse me, sir. I think you for­got your umbrella.”

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