The Water. . .an Homage to Japan

So how does it happen, I wondered, as I stood under the flow of warm water this morning, my muscles relaxing under its caress, how does it happen that this same water, this same brilliance without which there would be no life as we know it, how does it happen that it turns deadly?

As I absorb yet another village, now rubble, hear the death toll mount, shiver at our folly revealed by precarious pools of radioactive wastes, what do I do with the mysteries?  I watch, from the warmth of my intact home, go to the sink, which is still where I left it, to get a glass of water, which still flows calmly from the tap, as it did last time.

I remember Hurricane Fran, its brief, intense fury.  I remember looking out at our back yard in Wake Forest, NC and seeing a new vista, giant oaks now horizontal. Our neighbor's house, crushed.  Another neighbor's, they still in their bed, their roof in the next county.  The world as we knew it, stopped. No running water, except in the streets.  No electricity. Nearby towns flooded.  Yet that was nothing compared to this, except that it is over there, sort of.

It is over there and isn't.  I've been fortunate enough to have visited Japan, not that long ago.  I remember its intense beauty, its careful use of its scarce land, the sense of ancient wisdoms contained in its architecture, the spare bones of its people. Much of that land, now covered in debris; architectures ancient and modern now piles of used material, many of its people now gone.  How will their ancient wisdoms speak about this unfathomable event?

I remember that during the days and weeks following the hurricane, our whole identity changed.  All former expectations were immediately absurd, even the most mundane ones, that one would bathe regularly for example, or what one would and wouldn't eat.  All of us, as a community, ate what was most thawed, as power wasn't restored for weeks, and not because nuclear reactors were damaged, threatening far worse fates. We bathed rather randomly, as I recall, grateful for the chance.

I remember when my father was in the various hospitals, dying as quickly as we would allow, as we could comprehend his true condition and release his technological supports, one level at a time. I was no longer who I was previously. I was a person whose father was dying, and grounded there, was attempting driving, or ordering a coffee.

Maybe it is from here that I can connect with the Japanese people, their culture dazed by its most recent history, by the history to come.  Maybe it is from what I found to be true, from within hurricanes and death and the eerie quiet afterwards: that is, that stillness follows.  There is collapse into the essentials. From here, releasing my God-given urge to understand, I can be quiet instead, acknowledge both the power and the blessing of the water, send my check and ground my prayers into the silence.

Maybe I can start here. . .