As the inner pendulum swings, springs out a poem
(essay published in the Asahi Shimbun in 2002)
I wanted to see the world with my own eyes – so I left my country. I was 22. It took 2 weeks by boat to cross the Pacific Ocean from Yokohama to San Francisco. The world seemed so huge to me then.
Later, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean by plane; it took a shorter time. But I felt I was running away further and further, until I found my new home in a cold northern country, Holland, the Netherlands. All those years my heart swayed like a pendulum between Japan and Holland. At the age of 40, I started to write – desperately - wishing to be understood by someone. The gap between cultures and peoples seemed so deep to me then.
When was it that I suddenly became aware that a pendulum is only a part of a clock? The clock on the wall that ticked day and night, holding in its arms its swinging pendulum. What is it, the inside of the clock? I started to write – with heart and soul – wishing to understand something.
Then it happened. A strange discovery. The one who writes is not the one who wishes to understand. The writer in me just goes on, freely, as if she already knew. The person in me who complains and doubts, reads what has been written, and is deeply impressed by it. When I ask myself 'why?', I shall find the answers, one by one, co-incidentally, for example on a page in books that were co-incidentally given to me by my loved ones.
How lonely I have been, the life of an expatriate. I wonder if my loneliness might stem from my own state of mind. I must have built up a huge wall, a deep moat around me, in order to defend myself in a foreign country, in order to protect myself from feeling the pain of old wounds. The intense loneliness, I wonder, must be the state of being cut off. I tried to cast a bridge between Japan and Holland, between others and me, between me and the gods above, in vain. As long as I and the world within me are cut off from each other, I think my pendulum is swaying off balance.
My clock tries to tick regularly. A pendulum should keep swinging, so that the clock in this world continues. Now I hear every day subtle sounds all around me echoing in silence – events occur orderly, things settle exactly in their places, people I need to meet come to meet me. My emotions are becoming more and more complex. As my inner pendulum swings, springs out a poem.
For a long time, my eyes could see only black and white. Perhaps the world is not big nor small. If I go on listening, quietly, patiently, I might be able to hear the finest tunes my heart can hear – in this world full of bombardment and screaming.
A night of frost –
my Dutch-English dictionary
almost falls apart
I wanted to see the world with my own eyes – so I left my country. I was 22. It took 2 weeks by boat to cross the Pacific Ocean from Yokohama to San Francisco. The world seemed so huge to me then.
Later, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean by plane; it took a shorter time. But I felt I was running away further and further, until I found my new home in a cold northern country, Holland, the Netherlands. All those years my heart swayed like a pendulum between Japan and Holland. At the age of 40, I started to write – desperately - wishing to be understood by someone. The gap between cultures and peoples seemed so deep to me then.
When was it that I suddenly became aware that a pendulum is only a part of a clock? The clock on the wall that ticked day and night, holding in its arms its swinging pendulum. What is it, the inside of the clock? I started to write – with heart and soul – wishing to understand something.
Then it happened. A strange discovery. The one who writes is not the one who wishes to understand. The writer in me just goes on, freely, as if she already knew. The person in me who complains and doubts, reads what has been written, and is deeply impressed by it. When I ask myself 'why?', I shall find the answers, one by one, co-incidentally, for example on a page in books that were co-incidentally given to me by my loved ones.
How lonely I have been, the life of an expatriate. I wonder if my loneliness might stem from my own state of mind. I must have built up a huge wall, a deep moat around me, in order to defend myself in a foreign country, in order to protect myself from feeling the pain of old wounds. The intense loneliness, I wonder, must be the state of being cut off. I tried to cast a bridge between Japan and Holland, between others and me, between me and the gods above, in vain. As long as I and the world within me are cut off from each other, I think my pendulum is swaying off balance.
My clock tries to tick regularly. A pendulum should keep swinging, so that the clock in this world continues. Now I hear every day subtle sounds all around me echoing in silence – events occur orderly, things settle exactly in their places, people I need to meet come to meet me. My emotions are becoming more and more complex. As my inner pendulum swings, springs out a poem.
For a long time, my eyes could see only black and white. Perhaps the world is not big nor small. If I go on listening, quietly, patiently, I might be able to hear the finest tunes my heart can hear – in this world full of bombardment and screaming.
A night of frost –
my Dutch-English dictionary
almost falls apart