Two weeks without Kaneko-san and somehow today I hear him more clearly. Perhaps he speaks more slowly, or maybe I've accrued more vocabulary to piece together the foreign sounds. Thankfully our lesson was still refreshingly haphazard and unpredictable. Grammar comes from nowhere in sight, vocabulary arises as needed via a furigana-English dictionary that he keeps conveniently nearby. And maybe we are starting to have small conversations. Someday we will speak to one another, I can feel the temperature rising lest I watch this boiling pot too closely.
We had our second and final concert for the Dvorak Serenade for winds today and it's left me wanting more. More chamber music. More chamber music, it needs to happen.
At our post-concert konomiyaki in the Nishimomiya Gardens shopping mall, I sat across from the wonderful Mayumi, the bassoon player who will be travelling to Chicago later this month. And again we practiced English and Japanese together, with help from our friend Christy, the Rosetta Stone of the table. Not only did we learn new words and phrases–from Japan that a person is hachibunmei, 80% full, related to 8/10ths of Mt.Fuji–we also learned new gestures (from Japan, a hand gesture for crab; from America, the one for turkey). She has a wonderfully playful energy and never seems to get tired of learning new things. She returns to her home in Tokyo by Shinkansen tonight and we don't know when we'll next see her. Hopefully soon, hopefully she'll be well in Chicago.
The air is cold and clear, this wind is blowing. There is something crisp that really feels like winter. It seeps into my fleece as I bike and covers the night with clear stars, opening the bike path, loosening it from the numerous commuters and runners of the summer. They are still there, but we are sharing some empty openness that feels very sacred. And wonderful too to share it with another on a ride home, together illuminating the pavement just ahead.
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