Category Archives: Stuff I Want to Tell You About

Adventure #7: As Luck Would Have It

23 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by in Stuff I Want to Tell You About, Tokyo and Aomori

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My bad luck started in a cemetery – a very old one, in which emperors from centuries ago are buried. I’m one of those weirdos who believe cemeteries to be beautiful, reverent spaces (though a useless waste of land space) and typically, I seek them out when in foreign places, but this one gave me a feeling of unwelcome, as if I had absolutely no business being there. Not a bird chirping. Tall trees standing at attention in utter silence. A ray of sunshine, muted, peeking through.

Just one person is enshrined in this building, and more individuals in several like it in a row to the left.

These ancient tombs lay like scrolls I wanted to be begged to unroll and read. Instead, they whispered “go away”. So I did.

This ominous feeling followed me to our next stop, a pagoda and shrine at which I bought a tiny little rolled up piece of paper that housed my life fortune. Why did I do this? Because I’m an optimist and a buoyant believer in creating one’s own luck,and hadn’t planned to put stock in what it said, thank you very much.

Said pagoda.

But dammit. My fortune declared me quite unlucky indeed: a #3 (not as bad as a #1 but nowhere near a #10.) A three? Really, Fate? A three. I’ve been luckier than a three standing in the pouring rain/freezing sleet at a train station in Korea when I found a beautiful pair of leather gloves on the ground which were: you guessed it. Just my size. So THERE. #3 my butt.

Still. I couldn’t shake it. I didn’t even allow Patrick to read the fortune part. Instead, I attempted to leave it hanging on a string outside the shrine, as one does in Japan when one, in essence, puts a palm in the face of Fate and won’t hear another word. That’s right. Fate turns we unlucky people into teenagers.

You’re supposed to unroll the fortune, gently tie it in a loose little knot and leave it — creating time for Fate to reconsider. But when I went to gently tie my little paper in a tiny little knot, it tiny little ripped. Like the space/time continuum itself. Again, dammit. Now I knew Fate would not reconsider. Fate was to hold me to my #3.

Which seems silly, doesn’t it?

But in Japan, luck is a big deal. There are six ways to say “luck” for crying out loud. When I returned to my host family that evening, they had already heard about my slip of paper. WHAT I’M SAYING IS: this news preceded me. How, I didn’t know. But rumor had it, I was, big inhale, unlucky.

Only one person in my family thought it funny, rather than a curse. At first I felt relieved, but then he was the one who suggested I go to a shrine the following day to leave an offering and pray for a change in my fate! In fact, he insisted on it, though he wouldn’t be the one with time to take me. What made me nod my head and oblige? I have no idea. Nothing unlucky had happened, unless you count receiving the #3 to be the thing.

But off we went, at 7am, after the hot springs and before the Sakura Festival. Hitomi drove a total of 45 minutes just so I could have a chance to reverse my #3. I took pictures of this outing, but deleted them later, as they were blurry and dark and I think Fate put His finger over the lens.

Anyway. I brought water as an offering, took my shoes off, washed my hands properly, and, at this point, genuinely prayed for my luck to return as I would be boarding a flying piece of metal in less than 24 hours and, whatever, I’d take all the luck I could get.

That night, after a lovely goodbye banquet at city hall, Ka-san and Hitomi led me into the worship room in their home and closed the door. This had not happened before, I noted, this closed door thing. They silently lit incense, kneeled before each of the Buddhist and Shinto shrines, and murmured prayers. Then it was my turn. They handed me matches, encouraged me to light my own incense, and pointed to the sand in which to place it. “For your luck,” Hitomi said, seriously. Then I understood. So I lit the incense and matched her somber tone. “For my luck,” I repeated.

This visit to the public shrine and this lighting of incense at the private shrines must have worked. I’ve had exactly zero bad luck since.

Knock on wood.

 

 

 

 

I Had No Idea

08 Monday May 2017

Posted by in Beauty in the Dishsoap, Can't Categorize, Stuff I Want to Tell You About

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My friend Susan and I have a running joke about Dick’s Sporting Goods. When we’re there, we’re completely sucked in by the marketing ploys, the fancy equipment, and the brand spanking new clothes. Dammit, doesn’t that place make us feel like we could be sooooo good at golf? Or fishing? Or wrestling? The whole place makes you feel, not only like you could be a super athlete, but that, holy cow you already ARE! You just have to purchase these clothes! And these clubs and that glove right over there.

Which reminds me (somehow, obscurely)…WHY are people in my life keeping the secret of the amazing Gillette Stadium from me? (Dave and David, I’m looking at you.)

We drove down to Foxboro, Massachusetts on Saturday. I left three hours later feeling like a Patriot. And I don’t mean a patriotic American. I mean a football playing, end zone slaying, defense dismaying New England Patriot. Kind of like when I hang out at Dick’s. If I only had the field. And the locker rooms. And the uniform. And the perfectly deflated balls. (I did NOT just say that.)

We were invited to Foxboro to a celebration of Hood Sportsmanship Scholarship recipients. Garrett, facebook people know, became a finalist because of their dedication to voting daily for our boy. It’s an odd way to choose the finalists, but he also was interviewed at length, and came out a winner! To which we say HALLELUJAH! (And thank you coaches, teachers and family for the millions of ways you helped prepare him.)

We are very proud. He impressed us.

Equally impressive though, is the stadium itself. Sorry, Garrett. You’re a shining star, really. But HAVE YOU PEOPLE SEEN GILLETTE STADIUM?

She’s breathtakable.

We had a tour. We saw private dining rooms, and hung out in box seats (with restaurants attached. They have private phones for everything from “if the toilet breaks” to “you want refills on chicken wings”.) Did you know there are huge hotels attached to this place? And a shopping mall? Several bars? It’s true! We were this close to the fake grass upon which the legends play. Sigh. I love you, Julian Edelman, for this catch right here. I really do.


I don’t think the people at Gillette did it just for our group (about which, more in a sec), but as we walked around the stadium, the ending and extra minutes of Superbowl 51 played on both the Megatrons. Our small crowd slowed until we all merely stood, mesmerized by those history-making plays, calls, and outcome of that epic game. I still ask myself whether the whole thing really happened, and more to the point: how did I convince myself to stay awake for it?

I shall never doubt again.

The kids. The kids. We were there for the kids. Eighteen of them, actually, Garrett among them, chosen for their sportsmanship and dedication to athletics in their chosen sports. We met vibrant young men and women from the New England states, some of whom will go on to play in college and some of whom won’t (Garrett won’t.) They were confident, outgoing, eager students who unabashedly showed how grateful they were to be held up and honored in this way. It was special, indeed. I was happy to spend an afternoon with the future of our world.

Unlike for me, it wasn’t being at Gillette Stadium (or being inside Dick’s Sporting Goods, for that matter) that made Garrett feel like he could really shine. It was someone objective thinking about him as an athlete, a sportsman, a scholar, and saying Hey, man, you work hard. You do good work. You’re a good person. Keep it up. It really made him take notice of what matters in life (from someone who doesn’t share DNA that is.)

The tallest man, the day’s guest speaker, in the above photograph, is Gord Kluzak, of the Boston Bruins, circa 1984. He said it best, I think, when he explained that though he’d been a standout athlete (first draft pick in ’82), knee injuries at age 19 took his career in a direction he hadn’t foreseen. He still played after several surgeries, but it was his dedication to service (in his case to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation) that gave him purpose. In other words, regardless of what kind of an athlete you are, it’s important to be a good person. Which we tell our children all the damn time.

GO US.

So. To recap: I love Gillette Stadium. I love the Patriots. I love Julian Edelman. And I also love Dick’s Sporting Goods.

But I love my son Garrett because he’s a good person. And it was nice for him to be recognized for it. Thank you, Hood Scholarship Foundation, for seeing him.

 

December Thru March Was Madness

02 Sunday Apr 2017

Posted by in Beauty in the Dishsoap, Stuff I Want to Tell You About

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I haven’t written on this blog site in months. Tell me: where does the time go?

It’d be an interesting short story to personify Time. He resembles a tall, hairy Italian man in a speedo, who wears gold chains, I think. I could bring to life the places Time actually goes while a secondary character (fine, it’s me) is busy working (a simplified way of saying spending her days completely overwhelmed by work responsibilities), spending time with her family, planning a trip to Japan and generally trying to keep her head above water. Time, meanwhile, could be, maybe, floating along on a soft current in Maui listening to dolphins’ underwater communications or something, cocktail with a little colorful umbrella in hand. He’s doing something esoteric and much more important than bending to my will. He’s just gone.

As long as we’re agreeing to personify Time for a minute, I declare that Time would be an immovable, arrogant, untouchable being. Not mean, but a little obnoxious, unconcerned with the plight of any other force. Time, after all, does just whatever the hell it wants while I hang on its coattails like a small child begging please don’t go.

Time goes anyway, and sometimes you don’t realize Time is gone, and then, suddenly, you’re aware of him, like a 7-foot tall center on the opposite basketball team who subs in and scores twelve points before your feet move to play a little defense. Because you’re 44 and you have no coach to yell at you to hustle it up. Plus you’re fooling yourself that you can play basketball in the first damn place. You’re 5’2 on a good day, and Time, as I said, is 22 inches taller. You are never, ever going to win, no matter how fast you are. Time takes six steps and he’s down the court. You, not so much.

It’s an excuse, I know. Time passes too quickly for us all. Friends and family of all ages tell me that’s true. Lately, though, Time has returned from the vacation I thought he was on, and he’s doing a great deal of blocking shots and dunking the ball I mistakenly thought was in my possession. In short, he’s kicking my ass.

When I feel like this, I question everything. Is it possible to have a mid-life crisis at 44? I think it is. I don’t want a convertible or a motorcycle, but I do find myself thinking about that list of things I’ve always wanted to do. Here are three:

  1. write for a living
  2. live in a warm climate
  3. get paid to travel

The time has come when I’ve stopped wondering if Time is on my side. He’s wearing the opposite colored jersey now, scoring points against me, and it’s time to switch up my game. It’s a losing proposition, I know, but that doesn’t mean the game can’t still be fun, that I don’t still have a few moves left in me.

I’m inspired by people who zig when you think they’re going to zag. They change things up at a time it would be easy to get comfortable and enmeshed in routine. I can’t lie: too much routine bores me.

I’m restless, can you feel it? I’m seeking new adventures.