Christmas and the New Year are upon us. Among the good memories of my first year in my new house, are those of all the people from a variety of countries who’ve spent at least one night here.  I feel so blessed to have had so many bright-eyed young folks stay over—from Hungary, China, Sri Lanka, and Korea.

Yes, of course, we took them all hiking.

They didn’t seem to mind so much.

I’m also lucky to have the opportunity at my job to meet people from all over: Indonesia, Thailand, Slovokia, Viet Nam, Malaysia, Brazil.

A week or so ago, I hosted a lecture by a magnificent Japanese painter, Nobuaki-san, who explained how he had moved from painting still lifes to painting people’s faces. It was a fascinating talk.

Near the end, he told us that he couldn’t paint a person until he felt he understood who they were and what they were about. I asked him how exactly he went about doing that. After all, he was living in Ghana at the time he started focusing on portraits—and with ordinary spoken language, at least, could hardly communicate with his models at all.

He said it was easy, and just took a few seconds. He said he could see who they were by looking into their eyes. He said when he looked into their eyes, he could see their souls. At least with children and elderly folks, he said, it was usually pretty easy.

Some folks may think that sounds a little dreamy, but I think it is about as real as it gets.

I knew exactly what he meant. You can see people’s souls in their eyes. I saw it in the eyes of all those folks who visited my house, all those who have joined us on the mountains.

I sometimes read on Facebook how important it is for us (any us will do) to identify the enemy clearly. I wonder. It seems to me that that’s the best way to create more enemies. Look for something hard enough, and you’ll surely find it.

For better or worse, I’ll choose to keep looking into eyes—and meeting all those fellow souls.

And I hope to have more visitors in the year to come. And I hope to take them all up into the mountains, maybe along a ridge, or up a slope, where we can look over our shoulder and see, at any moment, our dear friend, Fuji, trudging along with us.

I haven’t met anyone yet who doesn’t like having Fuji-kun along on a hike. Actually, that’s one of the best times to gaze into their eyes.

A few days ago, I told Shizuoka Duo about these thoughts of mine. Here’s what they gave me back. I love those guys. I wish, though, that they’d stop using that recording studio  they keep in one of their back pockets.

Happy holidays.

WE

We’ve gathered here at Christmas time from all around the globe.

We look into each other’s eyes—we see no xenophobes.

Together we can feel so much hope.

Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope. Ho-o-ope.

In your eyes I see a light that really, really shines.

Makes me feel that all of us are something quite divine.

You’ve got me feeling mighty fine.

Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fi-i-ine.

Sri Lanka and Germany might be represented here.

Malaysia and Shizuoka’s spirit is feeling awful near.

What can you possibly see that anyone would ever have to fear?

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fe-ea-ear.

Maybe we’ve got some Christians here, a couple of Muslims, too.

A Buddhist, a Hindi, might be sitting next to you.

You are they, and they are you, you know it’s oh so true.

True. True. True. True. Tru-u-ue.

People from Indonesia might be here by chance.

From China, Florida, Vietnam, Ghana and France.

From Thailand and Slovokia, it makes me want to dance.

Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Da-an-ance.

Well, I’m really just so happy that you are sitting here with me.

So look into my eyes and tell me what you see.

I see you and you see me—and we are really we.

We. We. We. We. We-ee-ee.

The love was coming through the blue.

The trees were full.

The melody was delicious.

Visions of persimmon stars danced in my head.

And many of the neighbors were doing it. Hanging and drying persimmons.

Once a man on a mountain gave me two dried persimmons. It changed my life.

So if you’ve got a tree full of astringent persimmons and don’t know what to do with them, why don’t you hang them out to dry? Unlike some creatures, they don’t mind being hung out to dry.

For those of you in Japan, this is common sense.

And it’s simple. Peel the fruit. Sterilize it with alcohol or boiling water. Tie it to a string. Hang it up outside. Preferably, in a sunny spot with a good breeze.

Then wait. Watch the fruit grow translucent and sweet. For a couple of weeks. Depends on the weather—how dry or not. If you get some dark spots on the fruit, don’t worry. If you get a touch of mold, dab it with alcohol and all will be fine.

Don’t forget to massage the persimmons every now and then. Will make them less tough, a bit gummier. You can sort of flatten them out that way, too.

Soon, on any given day, you’ll need two shots, a frontal view and a side view, to see how things are coming along.

Cut the string. Put the persimmon in your mouth. Chew. Don’t swallow the seeds.

Know unbound joy.

At the foot of the trail up to the Jizo Pass, we greeted, as usual, Mr. Red-Coat Jizo.

“Dear Mr. Jizo,” we said, “Once again please let us borrow this trail  for the day.”

“Sure,” he said. He always does.

But being asked makes him happy. He’s glad to know that we know that the trail, the ridge, and the view from atop Aozasayama can only be borrowed.

Just above the pass, as we headed across the ridge, we came through patches of frost.

Ms. Six Pence (that’s what I’ll call her) and her friend Mr. Six Pence (perhaps, in the future, sometime in the not-so-distant future) had joined the Hearty Hikers for the first time.

“Oh!” Ms. Six Pence called out suddenly. “I’ve got something in my boot.”

“It’s probably a one-yen coin,” Mr. Six Pence said.

She pulled off her shoe—and what do you know!—she did have a one-yen coin in her shoe.

“How did you know that?!” she asked him.

They shared a look. Then Tamiko and I shared a look—we both knew what their look was all about. There was magic in the air.

But then again, in the woods, as the trees feel all that moves among them, as they converse with their buddies about all that’s going on, magic is always in the air.

“Well, that’s certainly something new!” she said.

Up we went, me and Mr. Six Pence a little ahead. He said to me, “She spilled a purseful of change as she was going out her door. But don’t tell her—I mean, don’t remind her. I wanted to tell you, though. I don’t have special powers.”

“Oh,” I said, “but I’m afraid you do.”

“Diamonds!” we heard Ms. Six Pence call out.

“Diamonds, already?” I said to Mr. SP. He blushed.

The two ladies scrambled up to where we were waiting.

“You didn’t see the diamonds?” Tamiko asked me.

Ms. SP invited me to look into her camera’s viewer.

“Wow, where were those?”

“Just back there! You walked right past them!”

Indeed I had. But it’s always this way. When you’re with someone new, you see new stuff. I’d seen all kinds of frost formations, foot-tall frost flowers, but never these cute little green fellows.

“Waaahhh!” Ms. Six Pence exclaimed. “Fuji. There’s Fuji. And look at all that blue!”

Indeed, there was our old, old friend Fuji. We’d borrowed him for the day, too, and all the ridges between us and him. All this was ours and ours alone—do you see anyone else?—though, of course, only on loan.

And she was right. It was mighty blue. It’s often really blue looking out from the Aozasawa ridge, but it seemed especially so this day. I’m not sure whether it was the sky, or Ms. Six Pence, or both, that made it that blue.

Regardless, up into that blue we went.

And soon we were atop Aozasa. Fuji had stayed with us the whole time. As old friends do.

And just like the winter branches, we reached for spring, up into that amazing blue.

There was something soft and peaceful about the journey back.

And as I drove back toward town, and imagined how much Mr. SP must be aching to take Ms. SP’s hand, I remembered that old song:

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue—

and a silver sixpence in her shoe.

On the way home, I took a little detour, parked beside a narrow stream, stepped out under the grey skies and into a light rain—and took a little walk. When it’s not so bright, things that are bright of and by themselves sometimes look a little special.

There were a lot of flowers growing in and around garden patches. And of course, the persimmons. And behind the persimmons, in the misty distance, our dearest of friends, Ryuso Mountain.

I wasn’t surprised, back home, that Shizuoka Duo showed up on my doorstep. Just one look in their faces—and I could tell they’d had a day pretty much like mine.

They’d sung this one for me before, but as you might imagine, on a day like today, when everything is so grey, it really touched me.

Mist fills the grey

Grey fills the cloud

Cloud fills the sky

Sky fills my eyes

Eyes fill our mind

Mind fills with dreams

Dreams make our world

World all so grey.

Grey is our play

On a day like today

Grey is just grey

As we go on our way.

I saw a girl

Turn a cartwheel twirl

Leaping through the grey

Laughing at the day

She calls out to me

Up soars my heart

But then she fades away

And all I feel is grey.

There was a lovely blue sky and we thought we’d take a stroll around the neighborhood. Just then, Shizuoka Duo showed up. They asked if they could join us—then asked if we minded walking out the north end, through the mountain tunnel.

It was a strange request. A few days ago, we’d enjoyed a hike together along the Opikkari Ridge. The trees had been lovely, the yellow beeches and red maples, and Shizuoka Duo had been in the highest of spirits. Now, though, they seemed distracted, to say the least. Geez, I thought, what’s got them wanting to step into a long, dark tunnel?

When we got to the tunnel though, I realized I’d read their expressions all wrong. They weren’t distracted at all. They were concentrating. They’d written a new song and wanted to hear what it sounded like in the tunnel.

Obviously, they must have liked what they heard (actually, it sounded better in the tunnel), because they kept singing bits of it the whole hour we walked.

LOVE UNBOUND

We can look all around

And we can make oh such lovely sound.

And we know our love is unbound.

So go out and find the things that can be found.

Look around

Lose the bounds

Share some sound—

See what’s found.

Nerves unwound.

Love unbound.

Yeah, all around,

The love is sound.

The mountain river runs with water pure.

Follow up, your path is clear and sure.

The deep dark green is one more sound allure.

Here you know the love will long endure.

Big allure

Water pure

Path is sure

To a cure.

Don’t injure

Love that’s pure

On our tour

Love endures.

Look up to the gold leaves of the beech

Think about the lives of each and each.

What they know is so within your reach

Hear the words with which they beseech

Each is each

Branches reach

Bright gold beech

Will beseech

Beeches teach

Lose your sneech

Each is each

All our niche

Climb the trail and see what you can learn

Find the things that might be of your concern

Feel the heat a distant planet burns—

When you gaze into a bright green spinning fern.

Unadjourned

Yearn and yearn

Feel the burn

Inside the fern.

Stay concerned.

Don’t be spurned.

Do discern

All to learn.

We can look all around

And we can make oh such lovely sound.

And we know our love is unbound.

So go out and find the things that can be found.

Look around

Lose the bounds

Share some sound—

See what’s found.

Nerves unwound.

Love unbound.

Yeah, all around,

The love is sound.

Hello, hello! What a lovely day! Why don’t we drive up to Umegashima—it’s only an hour from here—and take a walk in the woods. The trees should be gorgeous right about now.

All the Hearty Hikers are going.

Including those two guys, Shizuoka Duo, who fancy themselves as “homegrown folk singers.”

And you know what they like to sing:

If you have the time / To come along with me

The will to climb / To where you can see . . .

So come on, let’s go.

Okay, okay. The truth is we’ve already gone. We’re already back.

But we wish you’d been there. And we guess that some of you, given the fact that today is Nov. 3, 2016, are going to be mighty stressed out for the next five or six days. Some of you may even have some sleepless nights. A walk in the woods might help.

And we’ve got great confidence in these mountains that surround Umegashima, home, by the way, to some of the most soothing hot springs you’ll find anywhere. Soft, soft water. An hour soak for 400 yen—maybe $3 US.

Yeah, we’ll surely stop by our favorite tub on the way back.

We’re pretty sure that you’re going to love what you see. And we’re pretty sure (as long as we don’t talk politics . . . I’m trying to reduce your stress, not add to it), that when the day is done, you’ll think we Hearty Hikers are a mighty fine lot.

I must confess I’ve felt a lot of stress this election season myself—and I don’t even live in the U.S.

But I do read a bit of social media from time to time and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been called a “simpleton” or a “moron” or a “scumbag”—or (my favorite) a “f–king idiot.” No, people haven’t said to me directly, “Hey, Steve, you are a f–king idiot!” . . . but they have said that anyone who thinks xxx—which is exactly what I do think—is a f–king idiot. So I can’t help but conclude, having studied logical syllogisms in college, that they think I’m one, too.

Maybe I am.

But I still don’t like to be called one. You probably don’t, either.

So if you’re going to come with us today, we’d prefer that you didn’t ask us what we think about the election.

Because, if current polls are to be trusted, there’d be about a 50/50 chance of you thinking I was  indeed a f–king idiot.

Tough discussions are necessary sometimes. For sure. But if your “discussion” is going to lead you to call someone a f–king idiot, then I’d say it’s much, much better just to take a walk in the woods and look up at some trees. Better just to look all around.

Better to say together, with everyone, no matter who everyone is, “Man, that’s beautiful!”

Better to keep gazing out over the ridge at Fuji-san, with everyone, enjoying how majestically she sits on the horizon.

After fifty or sixty “Man, that’s beautiful!,” after five or six hikes, we might be able to talk a bit about government and social issues, but the election will unfortunately be over by then.

Okay, enough talk.  Let’s go.

Oh! I should warn you, though. Those Shizuoka Duo guys, they get giddy up in the mountains. If they could keep their joy to themselves, that would be one thing, but they can’t. Before you know it, they’ll burst out singing, singing really loud . . . AND — THEY — CANNOT — SING — IN — KEY!

But let’s forgive them. And let’s get going. I really have talked way too much.

The hour is getting late.

Beech trees!

A beech leaf!

Our dear friend Fuji!

Silver birches!

Maples!

Red maples! (With a touch of orange!)

Maples on fire!

The warm glow of persimmons!

I mean, the warm glow of maples! Embers in the breeze!

And what do you know! The southern Alps have decided to come to the party!

And there’s our dear friend Fuji again!

And more . . .

. . . and more maples!

Beech trees, birches, and maples!

The number of trees in the picture below is a bit difficult to discern, but you can see clearly the thick trunk of the tree with the green leaves.

It’s a pretty old tree and has rotted out a bit . . . and into the two big holes in its trunk, leaves have fallen and decomposed, and in those “garden pots” have sprung up a maple tree (look for the yellow) and a mountain azaela (look for the red). It has become three trees in one? Wow! Who’s your enemy? Who’s your friend?

A mountain azaela!

And Fuji!

Fuji!

Berries!

Fuji!

And of course, as the day winds down—yes, yes, I’m a little tuckered out, too—susuki. Pampas grass.

Okay! Off to the hot springs! Gonna feel mighty good!

余裕. Yoyu.

This is a wonderful Japanese word. A bit difficult to translate, but one my dear friend Henry Thoreau described perfectly—without even knowing it. It’s the word that best describes how full my heart became, and how it could become full, this past Tuesday, when I visited a high school in Aichi Prefecture, to give a little talk on cross-cultural understanding.

It had to be  a little talk . . . because I only had a little to say.

The high school was in Toyota City, which meant for me (he who does what he can to avoid motor vehicles whenever possible) two plus hours on three different trains, one way. At least I didn’t have to take a bus from my house. I could ride my bicycle to the train station. And from the third train station I could walk the mile or so to the high school.

I think it’s often a good idea—if you have the time—to give yourself a little leeway.

Leeway, that’s pretty much what yoyu means. It is most often used to talk about time, but it can be used to talk about a lot of things, I think.

Work a whole day in a factory so that you can afford a train ticket? Or take the day off and walk through the woods—a day’s pay unnecessary— to get to where you’re going? Which sounds better to you?

Here’s what Henry had to say about that.

One says to me, “I wonder that you do not lay up money; you love to travel; you might take the cars and go to Fitchburg today and see the country.” But I am wiser than that. I have learned that the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot. I say to my friend, Suppose we try who will get there first. The distance is thirty miles; the fare ninety cents. That is almost a day’s wages. I remember when wages were sixty cents a day for laborers on this very road. Well, I start now on foot, and get there before night; I have travelled at that rate by the week together. You will in the meanwhile have earned your fare, and arrive there some time tomorrow, or possibly this evening, if you are lucky enough to get a job in season. Instead of going to Fitchburg, you will be working here the greater part of the day. And so, if the railroad reached round the world, I think that I should keep ahead of you.

It was a great bicycle ride to the train station. The sky was blue and the persimmons, some of them, were turning shiny orange. Just a hint of translucence in the skins.

All along the way, orange cosmos were out sunbathing.

And then the trains. Well, they weren’t so bad. Nice views all the way, and I had a good book with me.

But what a pleasant surprise it was, to step out from Toyota City Station, and see what a lovely  blue sky the students had prepared for me. There was a lovely river to cross, too. From the highest point on the bridge was a spectacular panoramic view of  the distant mountains ringing the plain.

When I finally got to the high school, I was stunned.

The students had planted three enormous fields (each the size of a football pitch) with cosmos . . . all for me.

Yoyu.

I’d brought my lunch, so I walked out into one of the fields, plopped myself down, and had a leisurely lunch. I filled my lungs with their love.

They, the flowers. They, the students.

I was feeling so good when I finally walked into the classroom, I just up and changed around my whole talk. What a lovely environment they had to study in! How happy I was they invited me to share it with them! A few students may have thought I was crazy, but I think what I said made a lot of them very happy.

Well, we talked a bit about the risks of becoming an “international” sojourner–of growing beyond a home that you may love very much, a home that may seem quite different to you when you return.

Just for fun, we discussed how a fish, who’d never left his pond, might draw a cow—a cow that his old buddy, a frog, has done a mediocre job describing. Just for fun, we chose a boy to pretend he was that fish. Here’s what the boy drew.

That pink thing is the milk sac. Beautiful.

Somehow I started talking about how my mother felt about her son living on the other side of the world. It was a good talk. I think it was, anyway. For me. And for them, too. Sometimes that happens.

Sometimes, not always, but more than not, what you need (what I need, anyway) to have things go well, is to feel a little kindness—and to have a little yoyu.

Sometimes . . .

. . . you just need a little time . . .

. . . to sway in the breeze . . .

. . . and see what the sky . . .

. . . has in mind.

Back in the middle of August . . .

. . . we walked the wet . . .

. . . and misty woods . . .

. . . through the cedars . . .

. . . searching out the mottled leaves of our dear, dear friend—Chabohototogisu.

Everyone joined the search.

How to describe our joy when that demure yellow of hers finally came into sight?

We all love her, but Shizuoka Duo (yeah, those guys were there, too) seemed most affected by Chabo’s beauty. At one point, I saw them down on their knees, their backs curled, their lips nearly touching one of the delicate blossoms, and chanting (almost pleading, it seemed, to be honest) . . .   

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU! CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU! CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU!

I rolled my eyes once, then caught myself—for I, too, wanted to get down on my knees and chant with them, but, well, I’m just about as shy as Chabo.

Shizuoka Duo called me that night and said they had a new song. I told them to come on over to the studio. No, they said, they had to wait until everyone could come. All the Hearty Hikers.

So now it’s October—and they finally showed up just last night. I think everyone was there. There must have been seventy-five or eighty Hearty Hikers—maybe more.  They roared into the studio, a mighty river, their love for Chabo palpable.

By the way, Shizuoka Duo have been saying they’re going to help me buy some updated equipment—“once they make it”—but that hasn’t happened yet. So I took the old recording equipment from my pocket and said, “Let’s do it.”

The rest I leave to Shizuoka Duo—and all our Hearty Hiking friends.

I’m a lonely girl . . . sitting all alone

In a silent world . . . without a phone.

My pillow rests . . . on a cedar root—

My naps are tested . . . by your hiking boots.

My leaves are trodden . . . fifty times a day.

I’ve been forgotten . . . I’m past dismayed.

Do you even know I’m here? Do you know how I feel?

You’re so, so near . . . but don’t sense my appeal?

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

I’ll walk the woods . . . discover you.

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

Show you that . . . my love is true.

My green is mottled . . . with ugly black spots

Heart’s in a bottle . . . see how it rots.

When I finally flower . . . I’m demure yellow

I exude no power . . . can’t catch no fellow.

In this August haze . . . I’m nothing unique—

In a couple of days . . . I’ll wither, grow weak.

I wish you’d greet me . . . at least share a smile

That’d help me be . . . content for a while.

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

What are these silly . . . things you say?

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

It’s way too much . . . this nay, nay, nay!

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

It may just be . . . a single day—

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

But you will surely . . . lead the way.

Don’t like my name . . . it’s way too long

Who could ever frame it . . . in a song?

The red, red roses . . . they’re always praised

But who supposes . . . that I could amaze?

Are you sure you know . . . when I will bloom?

I’ve not much to show . . . I wear no perfume.

Do you really believe . . . I have a chance?

Can you conceive . . . of me at your dance?

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

We’ll take your hand . . . spin you round—

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

Until you feel . . . joy unbound.

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

I’ll walk the woods . . . discover you.

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

Show you that . . . my love is true.

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

I’ll walk the woods . . . discover you.

CHA-BO-HO-TO-TO-GI-SU

Show you that . . . my love is true.

At long last, the rain has let up, and everyone has come out to play.

It’s the season of the spider lily.

The spider lily loves it when the rice matures, when the ears of grain arc. He never misses it, year after year after year.

The rice is feeling content.  A job well done.

And the white heron appreciates the farmers cutting the rice. Easy pickings.

The spider lilies hug the rice fields—and the streams, too.

The yellow flowers wonder if Vincent van Gogh will be out and about today.

The spider lilies like to gaze, not only on the rice, but on Ryuso Mountain and the blue sky.

Ryuso Mountain and the blue sky love to gaze down upon the rice. A little bit, Ryuso envies the green and the yellow of the fields.   Me, too.

“Down” in this case is a mere direction. Not an attitude.

Who wouldn’t want to kiss it all?

The mikans bask.

The crows stay high—checking out all the hubub.

And what a hubub it is!

All the mingling and tingling.

Go ahead stretch your arms to the sky. Relish in it. Let loose a barbaric yawp or two.

Smile.