Up, Up, and Away

I’ve started and stopped this blog many times, unable to focus long enough to eek out more than a few lines at a time in a painfully slow trickle. I don’t know what it is; I suppose old-fashion writer’s block. I haven’t written much this summer.

The only way I know how to untangle writer’s block is to keep at it, failure-after-failure of a time sitting in front of my screen, thoughts coming and going, focus nowhere near my writing but somewhere in the pile of laundry or dishes to wash or answering emails or watching old clips of Ozzy Osbourne. Then I remember that I wanted to write, so I’m back at it in front of the screen fighting the good fight, the wall of writer’s block between me and the screen growing wider and taller and thicker the more I avoid the very thing I want to do. Isn’t it odd that the things we want are so often the very things we push away? 

I’m not sure if my method is the most efficient one, but it’s the one I know works…eventually. Try again. And again. And again. Just keep at it; eventually the dam breaks and the river of productivity will flow again. It always does. So here it goes, this essay. Written bit-by-bit, swimming upstream.  

My first night escaping on my own, I found myself in the library on the cruise ship that was floating back to Tokyo. The library had several big desks, walls covered floor to ceiling in bookshelves filled with books, and it was my idea of paradise. I set up my writing materials and faced the entrance, where live music played and people gathered. I had grand plans of being productive, which is something I hadn’t been on vacation. Between long days exploring in the heat, and then getting sick the first day of the cruise, I didn’t feel like writing. Gnarled writer’s block grew in my head, fed by too tired, too sick, too hot, too much, and lethargy seeped into my bones against my will. I had visions of writing in cute spots on this trip, maybe with a latte, next to a window with a view, inspired by culture, surely about to write the next great American novel. I always dream of writing when I’m traveling, as if a new location will somehow instigate something brilliant.

Alas, I did not write the next great American novel in that library. Not even a paragraph of a crappy one. 

In the library of the cruise ship, I was distracted by the dancing and music in the grand plaza. Our cruise—75% Japanese—had Japanese people dressed in tuxedos, formal dresses and kimonos, slow dancing to Celine Dion and John Mayer songs crooned by the band, while others sat nearby with glasses of champagne and watched the night unfold. I was fascinated by how different cultures have fun (their slow dancing was at more of a physical distance than what I am used to), but also my attention on the gray-haired men waltzing with their wives. I thought of Kenneth. I don’t think of him as much as I used to, at least not in these moments. Not in a sad way. But I felt a pinch of it at that moment, remembering the part where I will not be able to see him grow into a white-haired Japanese man with wrinkles and a stiffer gait. That naturally leads to thoughts of whether or not I would grow old alone, wondering if I would die alone, then remembering how he never went on a cruise and also he never stepped foot in Japan, his ancestral land, which then leads to thoughts of how sad it is to have your life cut short and everything he has missed since he has been gone. 

Of course the sad realizations were not new. They’re old and should be expired by now, if only grief worked like that. We carry the weight of grief every day, for so long, that we mostly don’t notice it. We get used to it and the load feels lighter, vacillating between invisible and attached-at-the-hip present. I often wonder if we make it look effortless to others, because while we know it is there, it often feels like so much of the rest of the world forgets. But sometimes, once in a while, the weight feels extra heavy and we have to put it down. Look at it. Remember. Marvel at how we have carried it this far when it seemed like an impossible feat. Sometimes we might share how heavy it is with others.

And if those thoughts weren’t enough rattling inside of my head in the library—clearly preventing me from writing the next great American novel—the crowd in the grand plaza erupted into cheers, and I couldn’t help but get up and see what the commotion was all about. I saw a young Japanese man dressed in a tuxedo holding the hand of the woman who he had just presumably proposed to, and I guessed she had just said yes to him, because the crowd cheered wildly and people held up their champagne glasses for a toast. 

I was struck by the contrast: older people dancing and enjoying what was left of the night, younger people just beginning. Me: left behind somewhere in the middle. Not upset about the proposal. And not exactly upset about the senior citizen dancing; I know it isn’t all rainbows and unicorns growing old together. Many of us will die alone even if you’re married for 60 years. I just needed to put the heavy load down for a second. Inhale and exhale the weight of life, let myself be stricken by how fleeting life felt. How I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger self to be more present. To be able to fully wrap my mind around the importance of these milestones, since they can not be duplicated. You can’t recapture a moment. You can have different moments and new milestones, but you can’t re-do the same ones. You can try, but you’ll never feel the same. In this way, every moment should be cherished, even sitting in a library alone, recovering from being sick on your grand vacation, writing absolutely nothing.

A Psychology Today article said it’s hard to live in the present moment because it requires a perfect blend of mindfulness and mindlessness. That’s difficult to do. Our minds are already thinking about what will happen when the happy moment is over. It’s always a scramble to the next thing. There isn’t time to linger in a moment. We can’t quite grasp the reality of time and moments until they are over, so we squander them like greedy fools. You have to lose something forever to truly appreciate it.    

The day before we left on our trip, my youngest slipped at a pool party and we spent all night at urgent care getting x-rays and figuring out what to do next. As we waited to be seen, a transient woman came in looking to use the bathroom and then inquired about care for her hurting leg. She gave her birth date out loud, and I recognized it as exactly the same as my deceased sister-in-law’s. Same month, day, year. This is either a good sign or a really bad sign, I whispered to Peter. I was so stressed out I was now believing in ominous signs. 

We got put in a room, Peter’s arm hurting badly, him shivering in his damp bathing suit trunks. There was nobody on site who could operate the x-ray machine; the tech was on vacation. They could have told us that as we waited for two hours in the waiting room to be seen, but that would have been too practical. We had to leave for the airport the next morning at 5AM. We needed answers. I debated in my head whether the next move was for us to go to the emergency room. And then, one of the health techs whispered that she was on medical leave from operating heavy machinery, but if someone helped her she could make it happen for us. Hope! And here we began our summer of ups and downs. 

X-rays were taken, Peter crying in pain as they did them. I was sure it would be bad news by the way his arm hurt, and when they returned, the doctor let me know that he indeed saw something on there, but that the radiologist needed to read them to confirm. Since it was late, that wouldn’t happen until tomorrow at the earliest. I was told surgery was a high probability, but when I asked about canceling my trip, or what my options might be taking a kid to Asia who needed surgery, they wouldn’t give me an answer. I just had to wait. Except I had a 5AM flight. There would be no waiting.

I chewed on the decision I had to make. Stay or go. Stay or go. (This is another crappy part of only parenthood. You have to make all of the big decisions without the father to bounce ideas off of.) We were stopping in Hawaii on the way to Japan, so I thought financially, let’s just go. I’ve already paid. The worst that will happen is we turn around if necessary…hopefully before we leave the country. It was going to be a gamble. I’m not a gambling woman, so it would be mentally painful. Another down-down-down for anyone keeping score of those ups and downs. 

They put Peter into a hard splint, and off we went. I remember waking up the next morning and physically feeling ill when I realized I was no longer sleeping and back to reality. I did not want to deal with reality. This was supposed to be a joyous time. I’m a teacher—summer vacation is the most glorious time of the year. I had spent a lot of time planning the trip and invested a lot of money. Now I was consumed with the unknowns and whether or not I was being a bad parent for taking a kid who might need surgery out of the country (although a part of me whispered that they probably had better health care in any of the countries I would be visiting). 

I didn’t mention that my daughter already had a broken leg. She fractured her tibia playing soccer in April, so we looked like a motley crew at the airport with one kid on a scooter in a boot, and the other kid’s arm in a splint. Yes, we were asked what happened by several people. 

The icing on the cake was in the hustle and bustle of situating everyone into their seats on the plane, I realized after take off that my bag was open. And my wallet was gone. I spent the next hour of the flight searching everything over and over again, but still no wallet. Fortunately there was free wi-fi, so I was able to send a message to my mom to call the airport. The last time I used it, I bought overpriced children’s tylenol for Peter’s hurting arm near our gate. No wallet. 

I sat there wondering how much more terrible life could get. Going to Hawaii with broken bones, no cash, no credit cards, no license to rent a car, no health insurance cards in case the kid with broken bones needed medical attention there, the list went on and on. I felt stupid. Defeated. Angry at myself for even taking this vacation. Finally, when the flight attendants had finished their rounds, I was able to tell one of them about my situation. She immediately got on all fours and began looking under the seats, which was very encouraging because it seemed like I wasn’t the first knucklehead to lose their wallet on the flight. She didn’t find it, but as she walked off, I heard her telling the rows behind me to be on the lookout for somebody’s silver wallet. She disappeared to the back, and I heard my neighbors around me talking about the missing wallet. I felt even dumber. After a few minutes, a lady behind me announced, “I found a wallet!” 

And my life was saved…at least in that moment. Up-up-up!

It’s so interesting, because when my son slipped at the pool, I thought that was the worst thing that could happen. Then when my wallet disappeared, I thought I’d do anything to go back to the reality where it was just a son with a broken arm. If I could just have my wallet. It was like a silent negotiation with the universe. What we think we want and don’t want changes. Our perspective is constantly shape-shifting. 

The relief was short-lived. We got to Honolulu. I originally rented a cool mustang, but when my daughter got hurt, I knew our luggage and scooter wouldn’t fit into one, so I had to cancel and find another car. Rental cars were pretty sold out by then. I ended up renting through Economy. A boring minivan. We had to go off site using a shuttle, but that didn’t raise any red flags. I’ve done that before. A little annoying with two kids moving slowly and unable to help with their luggage, but we made it work. 

When we got there, the place looked like a run down used car lot. And the van they gave me for $70/day was the dirtiest van I’ve ever seen. Dirty carpet and seats. Food shellacked to the dash, missing buttons. I mean, I had a minivan when the kids were younger. This was dirtier than our van, and that says a lot. I had a bad gut feeling about the people there. My teacher spidey-senses told me they were acting shifty. It felt like a scam, and their ringleader was a bald man who thought he could talk his way into anything, telling me that this was Hawaii and I was being too picky. I called the booking company, and they told me I was right…there shouldn’t be food and dirt in the car. I sat there in the disgusting car for twenty minutes, unable to move. My gut feeling was screaming at me. Finally I unloaded our luggage, got the disabled kids out, gave the bald man his keys back and ignored his pleas to consider another vehicle, and then his threats that I would most definitely not get my money back, called an Uber, and went to Pearl City to rent from Enterprise, at the closest location that had availability. This was not an easy feat. I was silently cursing myself for thinking a stop in Hawaii was a good idea. Down-down-down. 

At this point I’m feeling like I’m on a trip that is just going to keep packing punches. I’ve traveled a lot in my life, and I’ve never had so many problems. They would indeed keep happening, including at the end of my trip, when I was sick for the entire duration of my cruise. 

The interesting thing about a series of unfortunate events, or bad luck, is that it does have the propensity to pull you into a mindset that everything is stacked against you.  I certainly felt that way. You start to wonder: when will the other shoe drop? 

On our last full day in Oahu, we attended service at Mo’ili’ili Hongwanji. We were staying in North Shore, so we made the 50 minute trek south to find the temple. We should have been there in plenty of time, but there was no parking. I circled around a few times, and by then I was starting to panic; service should have started already and we still couldn’t find a spot. Finally I found one across the street, but it wasn’t going to be an easy feat because Eloise was getting around with the scooter and we couldn’t easily dash across a busy street. We’d have to walk further to use the crosswalk, and then be even later. There were also several steps to get to the main entrance of the temple, another problem for us. I was upset by now, because I had been juggling so many things and trying to clear so many obstacles, and coming to service was the one thing I wanted to do while we were there. Now we were late. My kids took too long getting ready, the parking wasn’t easy, there was a lot of grumbling. I was mad. Nobody could do one thing for me. It all seemed like more signs that the universe was conspiring against me. 

Miraculously, they were just ringing the bell to start service as we parked the car. We were able to slip into a pew in the back just as they were about to start. I took a breath. We were there. And of course my kids thought I overreacted about them being late again. I hate when that happens.

If you asked my kids, they would tell you it was the best dharma talk they ever heard, which is pretty good for kids who wanted to go to the pool instead. They were impressed because there was lots of talk of pee and farting. Those are always winning topics with them.

I thought it was a great talk because it was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. Rev. Fujimoto talked about every experience being an opportunity to grow, and how we can learn to choose a response—cultivate emotional resilience. He talked about how he was going to a concert with his wife one time in Honolulu, and how they circled the area for two hours looking for parking, his wife becoming mad and the situation feeling extremely stressful. I thought back to a few minutes before, when I was losing my patience with my own household over parking. 

Rev. Fujimoto said that the Buddhist path emphasizes kindness and empathy, and that a compassionate response helps others too, because it minimizes stress and encourages others to extend compassion. I failed at that one too. I had been extending compassion for so long. It’s hard to not break when you don’t feel the compassion given back. 

What I found interesting is that Rev. Fujimoto talked about our daily routine teaching us humility, and that humility is a strength. He said we are all on the journey of learning and growth, and by acknowledging our own imperfections, we make space for growth. Each moment is an opportunity to build these virtues. 

This is a re-frame. In any given moment, when times are tough, you can flip the script and tell yourself that it is actually a teachable moment, and that you are building your resilience and humility. It’s not pain for nothing. It’s an opportunity to get better. This is all part of the experience. It’s not just about the good moments or the highlight reel of life. 

Rev. Fujimoto talked about these stressful situations being opportunities to reflect on impermanence. The stressful circumstances do not last forever. The terrible parking always resolves itself; a spot becomes available. Our lives move on. You’ll even forget about it eventually. Having compassion and humility is the only sensible response for the well-being of yourself and others in any given moment. 

And here was the best nugget of wisdom I got from that talk: Rev. Fujimoto recommended that we detach from the highs and lows in life and find balance. That center or middle way. Good moments are great, but they don’t last forever. The shoe drops. We have to be able to weather the lows too. To not lose ourselves in those moments. To be able to keep ourselves grounded and level-headed no matter what happens.

As I kept encountering obstacles, I tried to remind myself of this. Don’t be too attached to the bliss, don’t be too attached to the suffering. Take each day at a time. Find the good in it all. 

At one point, I made a list of bad things, and a list of good things that happened on the trip. Again, our minds trick us into thinking everything is negative when we are stressed and dealing with problems. However, when I made this list, I realized there were more good than bad things on the trip. We had a lot of great moments. Written out, you are able to center your perspective when your emotions start to go astray.

In your daily life, I encourage you to shift your focus on what is going right. I’m going to assume you are like me, and that you have plenty of things going wrong. But when we focus on what’s going right, it opens up more joy, and we can be present in the happy moments and bring perspective to the stressful times, knowing that every single experience is temporary, fleeting, impermanent, and the best we can do is to do our best. We’re not going to have joy 24/7. However, prioritizing it will enable us to approach stressful moments with more ease and confidence with less doomsday and despair. 

When I came home, I felt pressure when people asked how my trip was. They saw my social media posts. I felt like they expected me to say only good things about the trip. After all, I did a lot of cool things! I also posted a lot of cool things. That’s the problem with social media reels, though. It doesn’t tell the complete story. And then I feel like people are shocked when you start telling them the truth….yeah, it was a great trip, but it was also kind of torturous at times. Nobody wants to hear that. People want to escape on vacation. Vacation is supposed to be blissful and perfect.

But the reality is, this is real life. The good and the bad. If you think you’re going to have only a perfect moment, you are setting yourself up for extreme disappointment. 

So here I am, with one and a half weeks left of summer vacation left before I report for duty for my 22nd year of teaching. I still get the first day of school butterflies, but my goal is to enter this new school year full of joy. I have weathered ups and downs in my personal life, and my colleagues and I have weathered the ups and downs professionally in education. I know we got this. 

And as always, this time of year my mind goes back to Kenneth, who died during his 17th year of teaching and did not live to experience retirement. Our classrooms were next door to each other. We met at school. I think about our rituals we had before the start of a school year. The joy he had for teaching. I remember the sadness of me having to go back to work after his death, with him not there, and having to feel the pain of his absence in every facet of my life. I can’t help but think what a gift it is to go to work and teach when I remember that he can not. 

The other day, I went for my skin check at my dermatologist. The doctor told me everything looked good and left the room. Still robed after just being naked, the nurse told me she was sorry for my loss, and hesitantly told me that Kenneth was her 7th grade teacher. That he was a very good teacher and one of her favorites. She said she debated whether to say this to me.  I reassured her that it was great to share those stories. We love to hear them. I love to hear them. To me it is an external confirmation that he was real! After so many years, you begin to feel like it was a fever dream. Maybe a story you made up in your head. Not tangible real. To hear others speak about him makes me feel less crazy. 

It reminds me that everything we do in life matters, even if we can’t see it. Even if we never know how our impact landed on others. If we live for 100 years or 5 minutes— our presence matters. What we do matters, even in the most mundane moments. Our ups and downs are inextricably part of the matrix that connects us to everyone else’s ups and downs, and I am in awe of how interconnected we truly are. How we can continue to feel the impact of another person even years after they are gone. 

One great aspect of being a teacher is this reset. No matter how many ups and downs we have during a school year, we go to summer, come back, and we start fresh. It is an opportunity to bring a new perspective into the school year. Try new things. Meet new people. New markers. Clean room. Rinse and repeat, 22 times for me. 

Maybe that’s the answer for writer’s block and a streak of bad luck and the other problems we inevitably encounter in our lives. In the midst of our ups and downs, give yourself permission to reset.