WORDS: MARIA ROMANOVA-HYNES
I found myself a spectator in the theatres of nature and of man, listening to the song of forest chant, and to the symphony of city noises.
I never dream of grasping the spirit of one place, and never aspire to belong. What is it that makes one an insider of a culture, its historical warrior, parent and child? With one people I share the music of my native tongue, but the life of one tune, however rich in composition it is, is always limited. Some might say that this music permeates the very flow of time, going back to the roots of my nation when my soul was first forged. It is the music played at the funeral of my ancestors; it is my cultural memory formed long before I was born: my pride, my word, my inheritance. But in inheriting from my parents their flaws as well as their attributes, do I cherish those flaws or fight them? Do I wish to be of my parents, or to become I? Am I to join the choir of my kinsmen chanting the melody of a history, or to hide from its alluring sound, putting into sleep my very being? It is a sad wish to stay in the castles of the past, afraid that one day they might be flooded with alien waters. One must leave their abode, one must disappear in the oceans of human experience surrendering to their mighty currents. Everybody is born somewhere, but are we not given the legs to walk? Are we of our bodies, or of our national clothes? I emerge out of my dwelling, I stretch my limbs. Is my dwelling my home? My body is my home. I fold up my tent and I move. My mind has to learn about the ways of living, abandon its native tongue and speak the language of my own understanding. I leave the castle of my people. There are the houses of other nations on my horizon in which I shall lodge for some time. But I shall not grasp their souls, for the soul of one nation is an eternity, however insular that eternity might be.
What spirit carried me away that I found myself in Japan this summer? What spell did enchant my mind? The call of cicadas, the murmur of rain falling heavily on tiled roofs? The subtle wind in the summer blossoms embracing antique temples and shrines, the vigorous rhythm of continuous modernisation bringing on the tide of time multiple changes? It was the spirit of Japan revealing itself in the wondrous life of old Kyoto and new Tokyo, in the villages scattered in the laps of high mountains and the farms tightly cramped near the shore of an immense sea. It was the call of my desire to wander in the culture orchestrated by the strange drum beat of Noh drama and the hollow sound of a Shinto bell; to get lost in the ambience mirrored by the minimalist lines of poetry and architecture. Entwining the urban and the rural, the modern and the traditional, the contemporary openness to the world and the long history of alienation from it, Japan turns a stranger into an unaware participant in its rich play of polarities, bursting into life on the islands where I saw thirty four rising suns. It is one day, however, that I enshrine in my memory more tenderly than the rest, for its images unfurled before me a tapestry of the most colourful contrasts. Within twenty four hours I found myself a spectator in the theatres of nature and of man, listening to the song of forest chant, and to the symphony of city noises, while trying to discern to which of them my own voice responded.
I arose with the sounds of the awakening road, off which I had slept the previous night. My path ran toward the pristine tropical woods of Nagano prefecture. But first I intended to glance at the most densely populated area of Japan that flourished, wildly, mechanically, in the midst of the ridges and flat fields surrounding it. By the time my car was caught up in the web of highways that mantled the metropolis, I had walked the desolate beaches of Atsumi peninsula, contemplated the view of Mount Fuji, and rested by Kawaguchi and Yamanaka lakes, their mirroring surfaces covered with low heavy fog. I was entering Tokyo from the south-western direction, and gradually the quietness of my way was filled with the engine roar of vehicles passing by. The prelude to today’s journey was that of the business quarters of Yokohama, a city adjoining Tokyo, with a population over three and a half million. Its suburbs rolled out before me lengthy wide streets upon which men and women in suits streamed dreamily in the flow of a river to work. Tokyo was fifty kilometres away, and soon I hoped to break free from the grip of its neighbour. To my wonder, however, the troops of people did not cease after an hour of driving, neither did the white walls of the city’s buildings. It seemed that Yokohama never ended when Tokyo began, as one city superfused into the other, with no green island of repose in between. Miles upon miles of earth were clad in the concrete garment of urbanity, the land fettered in asphalt. It took me five hours to reach the centre of Tokyo, while the sun was climbing to its high zenith: the black skyscrapers of the capital refracting opalescent beams. The city was overwhelmed by crowds and cars, sharp sounds of horns piercing the air. It took me four hours to leave Tokyo behind; its restless spirit, wound up like a clock, setting everything in fast motion, did not resonate with mine. Within I heard the echoes of trains and the cacophony of human voices. What does this Ghost in the Shell pursue, what satisfies its hunger? Looking back at the city, I saw a Daedalean labyrinth that man has built so well that he can hardly escape its endless passages. The line flashed through my mind: my path is paved by the movement of travel, unreeling the world’s ravel, thus shall I flee.
As I was leaving the margins of the capital, the traces of its presence began to fade away. Before I knew it, I was driving alone on the road leading into the mountains. Rare travellers, besides myself, disturbed the countryside’s peace. It was there, ascending higher and higher, following the mountains’ curves, that I remembered once more where I was and what I dreamt of finding. The colourless face of the metropolis was succeeded on the stage of my imagination by nature’s festive dance. I clothed each of the hidden dancers, the wind, the sunset, and the beasts, with various masks, endowed the world spreading about me with distinctive characters. Everything was full of life and yet seemed to be suspended in a state of equilibrium. My soul started awakening from her empty slumber, invoked by the rattle of cicadas and the scream of so many a bird. Having left the main road for one of the narrow sideways, I emerged into my own solitude for there was nobody there but the full rising Moon, the monkeys coming down from the hills to watch the stranger, the whisper in the dark woods. I was amidst a vast tropical forest where quirky insects in the shape of a twig, or a leaf silently dwelt in the grass, where feathers of bright colours flickered in the trees’ foliage, where rivers waited for the rain to fill their deep bosoms. Following the rich odours of flowers and plants, I abandoned my car and went for a walk to discover the world of this unfamiliar beauty. I reached the peak of the mountain to greet the night and see many a ridge holding up the high sky. The vista bathed in the light of the luminous stars. I returned to the car and drove until I found a small paddy field near where I could rest for a while. In my tent, I listened to the sound of the night and the lush mirth of the forest until the lashing rain descended, feeding the land with its pure water. Falling asleep I dreamt of how I would wake up with the sun in the morning and see two old farmers working quietly in the field. They would not disturb my sleep, they would be too suspicious of a stranger to address me. Yet, when I would be walking away, the woman would bow her head slightly and I would wave back at them, returning to the track of the road. I shall travel to unreel the world’s ravel, to hear my voice reviving out of dead silence again. And a new day will come, and new miracles will call me.
