Essay

Raising a glass to recovery

By Kit Pancoast Nagamura

In the aftermath of Japan's recent natural disaster, jishuku, or a stance of voluntary self-restraint, seems to me reasonable in many respects. Turn down the lights? Brilliant idea! Use less energy? Perhaps long overdue. Keep noise, consumption and ostentation to a minimum to demonstrate solidarity with those suffering losses? Sounds reasonable.

But the suggestion that Tokyo residents forgo ohanami parties this year gave me pause. Each human's life holds only so many chances to see cherry blossoms; gazing at them might help steady my shaky relationship with the earth and remedy my gloomy obsession with televised radiation reports, I argued. Feeling slightly guilty, I sneaked out one evening alone, to take a peak at the blossoms by moonlight.

The dimmed lights in Tokyo bathed flower-laden trees in an ethereal luminosity. As I strolled the monastic streets in my darkened neighborhood, I found myself subconsciously following a scent, an aroma of roasting meat and veggies, emanating from a pocket park near my home.

There, by candlelight, people I'd never met were holding a semi-jishuku ohanami. With subdued laughter, the little group was gathered around a modest spread of grilled chicken, red peppers, corn, buttered potatoes, onigiri and sushi, sake and wine (but no beer). In a Japanese impulse as powerful as jishuku -- that of omotenashi, or hospitality -- they invited me to join them. Gratefully, I sat down, and our talk eventually focused on Japan's struggles and how to face them.

My hosts, it turned out, were crafters of handmade glassware. Glassmakers, of course, are well acquainted with the fragile nature of things. To be eternally afraid of breakage, in their field, is to be doomed, they told me. Instead, every step they take in making their brittle creations is also a leap of faith and optimism. No wonder, then, that this group felt that life in Tokyo should go on as normally as possible. In their idea, celebrations of seasons should be continued, businesses run as usual, and the work of rebuilding begun immediately and with gusto.

I wondered briefly if they were in denial of, or unmoved by, the scope of the disaster. Not at all, the head glassmaker objected, but feeling bad doesn't achieve much. He then described a project he has initiated, convincing more than 50 glass artists and studios around Japan to design and hand-craft hundreds of unique glasses to gift to the people in Tohoku. These creations, made of silica sand that must be crushed and pulverized before being melted to form a vessel of transparent beauty, might be a fitting metaphor for human life. Each glass, like each human, is connected to the earth, a vessel lovely and light-catching, and undeniably frangible.

Aftershocks, mental and actual, are inevitable as Japan shoulders into the long process of mourning, rebuilding and monitoring fallout from the nuclear power plants. It may not seem like the ideal time to hold a party, but the glass artists I met started me thinking about how fire and joy might be part of the equation of recovery. To my impromptu park friends, thanks and cheers!

Shukan ST: April 29, 2011

(C) All rights reserved