I WISH YOU A BETTER EXISTENCE NEXT TIME

I WISH YOU A BETTER EXISTENCE NEXT TIME

Arachnophobia (or arachnephobia) is a specific phobia, the fear of spiders and other arachnids such as scorpions. People with arachnophobia tend to feel uneasy in any area they believe could harbor spiders or that has visible signs of their presence, such as webs. If arachnophobics see a spider, they may not enter the general vicinity until they have overcome the panic attack that is often associated with their phobia. Some people scream, cry, have emotional outbursts, experience trouble breathing, sweat, or even have heart palpitations when they come in contact with an area near spiders or their webs. In some extreme cases, even a picture or a realistic drawing of a spider can trigger intense fear. My name is Hayato Tokugawa and I am arachnophoic.

No, no — I don’t scream or cry or have emotional outbursts, but I get very nervous or uneasy. I had it pretty much under control. Just the other day, there was a small spider scurrying around the kitchen — I suppose looking for crumbs from the previous night’s pizza. “Ok, I was going to pour myself a cup of coffee, but I’ll come back in a few minutes when she’s done.”

They used to say that phobias were “unreasonable fears” but I think in the case of spiders they are quite reasonable indeed. I grew up in Mill Valley, California, a heavily-wooded area, and we had our shares of spiders, and from time to time I had to deal with dangerous recluse spiders. Although there were probably black widow spiders, I don’t recall ever seeing any. Growing up I did have a couple of “pretty good” spider bites” from unknown species but, hey…I was a tough kid! Nonetheless, I didn’t like them and felt uneasy around them, something that was partially relieved by taking Entomology 101 (which included arachnology) at the university. The end result was a certain “clinical” curiosity if encountered but otherwise spiders were to be avoided. Ok…they “creep me out!”

Over the years there really hadn’t been much of a problem as I did tend to avoid them and there always seemed to be a brave cat around to take care of the problem…until last week. Either the spider would run off when the cat’s play was too much or the cat made it disappear, doing whatever cats do to spiders. (I know, I just don’t want to think about it!) That having been said, it was early morning — a warm, peaceful morning — when I stepped outside, coffee cup in hand to breathe in the fresh pre-dawn air and to enjoy the sound of birds just waking up and saluting the day in song. Out the door and over to the gate. There in front of me, suspended in her web at the corner of the gate and the fence, was a large (not unreasonably, neurotically gigantic, but mature-large) black spider, her belly turned outward clearly showing her red “hourglass”, her arms and legs outstretched, waiting for something edible to come by and get caught up in her net. Well, I felt a bit uneasy — nervous but not terribly afraid — and rational enough to go back to the house, get my camera, and take a photo of her…which came out pretty well despite a certain amount of hand tremors. Admittedly I thought about killing her, but only briefly. Despite my uneasiness, she wasn’t hurting anything, she was doing what she does in nature; but more than that, I am a Buddhist and thus really reluctant to kill anything. I’ll even step over bugs just so as not to hurt them.

The next morning she was there again in her web, striking the same pose. She was fascinating and at the same time terrible. Yet, every time I walked by or through that gate, even in the daytime, I felt very uneasy and looked for her. The following morning she was not visible. The wind had come up and it was considerably colder so I decided that she had probably taken shelter. Fine! Good! (For me!) I thought a lot about whether I should “terminate” her “with extreme prejudice). I even consulted a scientist I know, an expert on animal emotions. “Are spiders sentient? I asked.

“Probably not,” was the reply. “Spiders, while they may have swollen bellies, lack the neural apparatus necessary for the evolution of emotions…so probably no. Then again, who knows?” I took that as a “no.”

I resolved that as long as there was no threat, the black widow could stay, with the hope that she would eventually move on. And she seemed to do that. I felt a slight uncertainty but was generally relieved when I didn’t see her for two more nights. Then…the weather turned warm again and there was no wind. I stepped out the door, coffee in hand about 5 am and walked out through the garden gate — no spider — I thought.

Suddenly I was aware of something behind me. Dropping down from the crossbeam — it was her in all her black splendor! She just missed me by inches! I turned and backed away as she lowered herself to the ground and then followed after me, in my footsteps. Maybe it was the warmth from my feet that she was following — warm prey — I don’t know. Then she stopped suddenly, returned to her silken thread, and climbed back up — suspended in the middle of the open gateway about a foot off the ground. It was warm but I felt chills as though it was mid-winter and very nervous. She watched me.

Crap! My way was blocked! The front door was locked. There was no way back except past her and that wasn’t going to happen. I waited. I looked at her, my hands shaking — she looked at me — waiting. This just wasn’t going to work. I really tried but my inner peace was coming apart, and I wanted to go home! With an “I’m really sorry,” I raised my foot (yes I was wearing shoes) and quickly brought it down on her, with the thought “I wish you a better existence next time.”

She lay on the pavement, curled up — dead. Shuddering and probably making some kind of primal sound of fear and disgust, I went back into the house. I was rattled. I hate killing anything but it really had come down to her or me. We had been at an impasse and I had to do something.

Later in the day, I swept her off into the grass, perhaps food for the ants. Just having her there, in the way though dead, I still felt uneasy walking through the gate. I’m still watchful going in or out of that gate. Could there be another?

© Copyright 2017 by Hayato Tokugawa. All rights reserved.

I CANNOT SLEEP

I CANNOT SLEEP

I cannot sleep. The time was 2 am and I am wide awake. Saito the cat is delighted — an extra, early breakfast and unexpected play time. “I might as well work,” I think and move to the kitchen to brew the coffee. While waiting, I step out the front door to breathe the morning air.

It is quiet with not even a sound from the distant railroad — not even a cricket. The street is dark and empty and nothing moves. No wait! Two figures, dressed in completely in black, with black hoods pulled over their heads, pass by on the opposite sidewalk. “Death and his intern on an errand?” I wondered. Perhaps not, but creatures of the night nonetheless. In front of me, a cricket makes his way across the sidewalk to a patch of green grass now gray in the early gloom. I smile. Another creature of the night but one I do not dread.

I return to the kitchen where a spider scurries about the counter, perhaps looking for crumbs from last night’s pizza. I decide to leave the kitchen to her for a while and come back for the coffee later. Musings of Lafcadio Hearn await on my computer.

A FINAL ACT OF LOVE

A FINAL ACT OF LOVE

     An unusual, horrible, yet at the same time wonderful and touching, took place on the coast of Germany on January 11th — a love story of gigantic proportions with a tragic ending. One of the characteristics of whales, as we understand them, is that when a female and a male find each other and mate, it is for life — forever together, perhaps even beyond this world as it should be.

     Off the coast of Norway, a female sperm whale had a freak encounter with an old mine left over from World War II. She was badly hurt, her lungs damaged, and she sought a sandy place to rest at least, if not to pass on in peace. As she swam, her mate kept company with her, rather than continuing on with the gam or herd on their annual migration.

No, he never left her, not for one moment and when his mate beached herself, he too followed onto the shore beside her and although uninjured, stayed by her side until he also passed on.

     We know so little about whales or for that matter the other “giants” that inhabit this world with us, the elephants. Who among us knew or even imagined that these creatures were capable of such courage, compassion and devotion to one another — yes, even love? Certainly not I, although I am beginning to learn. And who among us, who regard our species as the “masters of the world” are truly capable of a similar act?

FLOWER BLOSSOMS IN THE HEAVENS By Aoi Tokugawa

FLOWER BLOSSOMS IN THE HEAVENS

By

Aoi Tokugawa

     As was his habit, Takashi Nagai arose before sunrise, ate a modest breakfast, and then dressed in his kokumin fuku, his "national clothes," the quasi-military uniform mandated as standard wear for Japanese men, particularly those engaged in public service. After hanging the canteen of water, which his wife had lovingly prepared for him, over his shoulder, he slid open the front door to his home, looked out, and took a deep breath. The rays of the sun were strong, even in the early morning; seven o'clock and already it was hot and humid - a very Nagasaki summer's day. Even now, a line of sweat was forming on his shirt at his waist.

     "It's going to be so hot today," he murmured in a low voice and shaking his head, as if talking to no one but himself. Then he turned to his wife.

     Alright, I'm going now. I don't know what time I'll be back; but Midori, listen to me. If the air raid siren sounds, run away. I don't care where. I don't care if our house burns. I only care about you. As soon as you can, run away quickly."

     Midori, already dressed in gaily-colored monpe, comfortable, loose-fitting pants and a matching tunic that resembled pajamas more than the work clothes they were, and ready to do some gardening, simply nodded and grasped the white, Catholic rosary beads that hung around her neck. "I'll be just fine," she said, looking up at her husband with a smile. Remember my Christian name is 'Maria,' and Christ is with me. Really, I'll be just fine. Don't worry. Please take care of yourself."

     Takashi, a bit more pragmatic than his wife, and thus not quite as certain, simply smiled at Midori, touched her shoulder, then turned and headed for the bus station. All the while, Midori stood at the door and watched her husband until his form disappeared from view. She gave a small sigh, then turned, and walked back into the house.

     As he walked along the road toward the bus stop, Takashi looked around his neighborhood. Here and there, smoke drifted up from some of the houses along his way as families prepared breakfast; the aroma of cooking food riding on the hot morning breeze. He stopped for a minute and gazed at the skyline of Mt. Konpira and Urakami Village in the clear, early morning sunlight. Thin clouds drifted across the pastel sky, as if rendered in the style of the old prints and paintings: a view of which he never tired.

     Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived at the Nagasaki Medical College where he first checked into his small office in the Outpatient Clinic on the second floor, read his messages, and then left to teach his first class of the day as an associate professor. Shortly before eleven o'clock, he was back at his desk, just getting comfortable and preparing to sort through a stack of x-ray photographs, when he thought he heard a sound outside, somewhere in the distance. Takashi stood up, walked to the window, and peered out into the bright day. The sky was still the pastel blue of Japan, the same sky that one can see in countless prints by Hiroshige and Hokusai; but now a large, thick cloud hovered over Urakami Catholic Cathedral.

     He listened. There it was: a sound, which seemed to be coming from somewhere above the cloud. The noise then faded away. He listened again. Yes, there it was, a dull buzzing, which gradually grew into a low-pitched roar. "A B-29?" he wondered. "Yes, that must be it." He had heard them with increasing frequency during the past few weeks as they made their way north to Honshu: Osaka and Tokyo. He looked upward and squinted against the sun's glare; but he couldn't see the now familiar silhouette of the American bomber. There was only the drone of the approaching engines - growing louder - growing closer. Takashi remained by the window for another few moments, hoping to catch a glimpse of the giant plane.

     At 11:02, there occurred a sudden, brilliant flash of light - white light - followed in an instant by a tremendous blast. He was violently thrown into the air amid a mass of broken wood and sharp glass shards as the window imploded. As if in a dream, a surreal scene, he drifted in  slow motion through a sea of rubble; a bed, bookshelves and their contents, pieces of paper, chunks of galvanized metal, plaster, and wood danced through the air in random motions with a brontide, that unearthly, low rumbling thunder-like noise, caused by earthquakes so familiar to anyone who lived in Japan, throbbing in the background. Just as suddenly, the nightmare ended and both he and the rubble fell to the floor.

     Takashi was buried. His eyes were open; yet, he couldn't see, as though he were a blind person. As he lay there, beneath the wreckage, he wondered what had happened. He could feel something, as if warm water was inching, trickling down to his neck from the right side of his head - but there was no pain. Was he alive or dead? At that very instant of thought, all sound stopped. There was nothing but darkness and silence: the perfect silence of the mu world - the empty underworld of legend.

     "Takashi-san! Takashi-san! Takashi-san!"

     He heard a voice calling to him out of the dark void.

     "Takashi-san! Takashi-san! Takashi-san!"

     He could hear it clearer now - his wife's voice in the darkness.

     "Midori!" he called out - at least he thought he heard himself call out. "Run away!"

     "I am alright. I am with Christ. My name is 'Maria.'"

     "Where are you?" he called out. "Midori, where are you?"

     Fireworks burst across the darkness, like a chrysanthemum-burst of light; and there was his beloved Midori standing amid the beautiful lights, dressed in a blue monpe and white blouse: the same clothes she had worn so many years ago when they went to watch summer fireworks together for the first time. Behind her, beautiful colored flowers of light flashed and disappeared, only to reappear and disappear, again and again. A spark fell on her, but she just stood there smiling.

     "Midori! Watch out! Come here!" Takashi reached out for his wife, but she did not move.

     "Takashi-san. It's so beautiful here. Do you understand? The fireworks are for the repose of the souls of those who have died. I am here, waiting for you."

     Again, the fireworks flashed, and when they had disappeared, so had Midori. Takashi simply lay there, not knowing how much time had passed, if he was alive or dead, if it was day or night.

     "Nagai-sensei! Nagai-sensei!" It was the voice of his assistant. He strained to regain his consciousness. He felt hands on him - human hands; and he suddenly realized he was alive and being pulled from the detritus by his assistant and others from the medical school. Reality slowly returned and he realized that he was in trouble. He knew now a vein, at his right temple, had been cut. Summoning all his faculties, he ripped his own shirt apart and fashioned a bandage to bind it. Then, he stood up and set to work; there were other victims, much worse off than he was, who needed his help - he was alive, and he was a doctor of medicine.

     A day later, dirty, his clothes stained with soot and blood, exhausted and barely able to stand, Takashi slowly made his way home. The sun rose as usual from Mt. Konpira and gave its blessing of light to the earth; yet, there was no life left in Urakami Village to receive the benediction. With an effort, he eventually reached the burnt ruins of his home and called for his wife. There was no answer, only the terrible roar of silence. He continued to call out to her as he began digging through the destruction. It was then that his worst fears were realized. There, amid the scorched timbers, lay the charred bones of poor Midori, her melted rosary with its cross, still around her neck.

     He clutched the prayer beads in his hands and then slumped in grief over his dear wife's body. No one knows for how long he remained like that, until a neighbor at last pulled him away.

     Some years later, the poet Sato Hachiro would write:

My wife was called to Heaven by God.

She left me for that world.

As a memory of her, she left her rosary.

My white tears on the rosary's chain - 

Ah, the bells of Nagasaki ring.

Comfort and encouragement for Nagasaki.

     Takashi Nagai later wrote of the bells of Nagasaki [1]:

     These are the bells that did not ring for weeks or months after the disaster. May there never be a time when they do not ring! May they ring out this message of peace until the morning of the day on which the world ends.

     This year [2012], fire flowers will blossom in the night sky over Nagasaki, again to console the victims. It is the sixty-seventh summer since the bombings of the city.

     Takashi Nagai, even though ill and slowly dying from leukemia, a direct result of the radiation from the bomb that fell on Nagasaki, dedicated the remainder of his life to prayer and service to the other victims. He died on May 1, 1951. Midori and Takashi's son, Makoto, and daughter, Kayano, survived their mother and father, having been evacuated to another town.

[1]  The Bells of Nagasaki, written by Takashi Nagai in 1949, was refused publication in post-war Japan on the orders of General MacArthur and his GHQ administration until an appendix was added, which described alleged atrocities in the Philippines. This appendix was later removed.


Translated and edited by Tokugawa H.

COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Aoi Tokugawa and Shisei-Dō Publications. Japanese version Copyright © 2012 by Aoi Tokugawa and Shisei-Dō Publications.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States and Japan by Shisei-Dō Publications. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

SPECK OF LIGHT

speck of light flashes

rising, falling in the sun

just a speck of dust

Lying on my bed this afternoon, listening to Mozart, and looking up toward the ceiling through a sunbeam that descended from the window, I saw a small flashing light rising and falling on invisible thermals. It drew nearer and near, rising and falling, moving back ward and forward, but never too close, escaping closer inspection by riding on my breath. On and off, on and off, it flashed; and I wondered. Was it a speck of dust, or the light of some life, somewhere else in this time and dimension, or perhaps some other, telling me that it existed? A sparkling dot where no other dust drifted — a tiny beacon on its own.

And then it was gone.

Was that a life? My life? Our lives? Are we destined to flash and sparkle brightly and dance on the wind, only to suddenly find oblivion?

Someday I’ll find out.

BUSHIDO LESSON: ON ONE'S OWN DEATH

On One's Own Death

One who follows Bushido believes that it is of prime importance to keep their death in mind at all times. This means every day, every night: from New Year’s Day morning until New Year’s Eve night.

If one keeps their own death in mind at all times, and by this I mean an awareness or consciousness of ones own death (but not to the point of obsession) one will always be able to fulfill the needs of loyalty and family duties. With this “consciousness” one can also then avoid a myriad of evils, calamities, and hardships. One is likely to be more physically sound and healthy; thus, they may actually have a longer life. An additional benefit is likely to be that one’s character will improve and they will grow in virtue.
You may well ask, “Why?” All life, including human life, can be likened to the evening dew or to a morning frost; that is, life is something that is indeed quite fragile and ephemeral. This is true of anyone’s life, no matter what his or her station in life may be.
If a person blinds themselves to the inevitability of their own death, that is, if they take comfort in the belief that they will live a long time, that they will live “forever,” it may indeed be possible that something will happen to them. They may think that they have “forever” to do their work and to take care of their families. Because of this belief that “tomorrow will never come,” they may well feel that it is not necessary to work hard or to tend to their families with less care and intensity.

If one realizes that the life that is here today may not be here tomorrow, then when one is given a task by their employers or when they look at their families, they may have the sense to realize that “this could be the last time.” In doing so, one cannot help but to become more attentive to their work and to their family.

Be that as it may, if one unmindful of death and thus becomes careless or inattentive, they will have a tendency to be less cautious and careful in their lives. For example, one may be more inclined to say something that is offensive to another and get into an argument, which could itself lead to any number of consequences. One might find themselves in places or in situations that they perhaps would not have otherwise gotten into, again with any number of consequences for themselves or for those around them or for their employer, parents, siblings, or children. The consequences of our actions can have far reaching results sometimes, results that perhaps should have been easily avoided, had one kept in mind their own mortality.

With one’s own transience in mind, when one speaks and in replying to what is said by others, one is more likely to understand the substance and significance of every word. One will be less likely then to engage in pointless arguments.

People from all economic and social groups tend to excess, that is, they overeat, they tend to drink too much, and they indulge in their desires to a harmful degree, all because they give not even a small thought about their own death. This kind of behavior, this kind of “lifestyle,” over time can put a strain on their bodies. As a result, there is every possibility of their dying at a younger age or at the least, becoming sickly and weak. With the potential of one’s own death in mind, even if one is young and healthy, they will automatically know how to take care of themselves. They will be moderate and be mindful of food and drink, avoid addictions, and are more likely to be more sensible. The result is that they will tend to remain healthy and to increase the opportunity for a longer life.

On the assumption that one will “live forever” or that their passing is so far into the future so as to not be worth consideration, one will be likely to develop a money-oriented or acquisitive mentality. That is to say, they will have a tendency to become more desirous of things, cling to their possessions, and to desire more. When one realizes that life may be very short indeed, greediness, acquisitiveness, and materialism weakens and thus the character improves.

How does one keep death in mind? Well, certainly it is illogical and therefore wrong for one to simply sit there and wait for death, or for one to become obsessed with it. This may be all well and good for a monk but with such a mindset, one cannot function or survive in the modern world. To regard one’s death in that way is to turn one’s back on their duties to themselves, their families and to their employers and it defeats the entire purpose of thinking about it at all.

The idea is for one to go about their duties every day, and at some time when their mind is free of distraction, to give some thought to the transience of their existence. Perhaps, in the morning, before going out and about they duties is a good time to give thought to this matter, for the thought of life’s fragility will stay in their mind for the entire day. Perhaps also at night, before retiring, is another good time for such thoughts. Think about the day just past and recall everything that ha happened. Ask yourself questions.

“Did I do well today?” The answer will be either “yes” or “no.” “If I have another day to live, can I do better?” The answer will always be “yes.” And as your eyes close at the end of that day, take that thought with you and bring it on to the next.