Otaru Food Juncture

The small town of Otaru (which I left behind in Hokkaido and yesterday's morning) is known for the freshness of its seafood.  The main tourist street is full of open door fish shops, with specialties in crab and different shellfish.  In one shop, it's possible to pick up an oyster, or scallop, or sea urchin from a small petting zoo-like tank and hand it to the person behind the stove who places it above an open flame, stirs in some sauces and hands it right back.  A standing counter and chopsticks with additional wasabi pastes and soy sauces fill the center of the store.  In another shop, we watched the workers pull a huge crab from the tank and lay it on the scale.  Its arms danced in the air as it was weighed on its back, the customer pointing to the desired legs.

It's eye-opening to see and experience this juncture, a moment in the exchange of life that I rarely have the privilege to witness.  So much of the food that we eat was once alive, holds the potential to live, or was created by a living being; it's difficult to eat something for which this is not the case.  And it's difficult to fully appreciate what this means and to be more fully mindful of it, especially when we are normally so far removed from it.  Yes, it is wonderful to have the opportunity to eat the fresh seafood of Otaru, but so is it a privilege to see its origins.  That I live because of life.  That the food that I eat is full of life and makes me live.  Does it change the ecology of one's health to be reminded of this?  Is there something different about the way that people in Otaru live from the way people in packaged and fast food societies live?  It struck me so strongly that I wonder how I would change if I were closer to this reality as the people of Otaru and other societies may be.  How would it change the way that I feel about life?  How would it change about the way that I feel about the food that I eat?  About respect for these things?