Good morning. Good evening. Good afternoon.

How are you?

For the last 10 years or so, I’ve been going to this hair salon with two chairs, run by a couple. My hairdresser and I rarely talk while he works on my hair (we feel it’s more relaxing this way). But today, he really wanted to engage, and we had a deep, quiet conversation about my spontaneous remission.

We mostly talked about what contributed to the healing, and we agreed on the importance of honoring who we are and what we like, plus whom we surround ourselves with. It felt good to have that kind of connection. But it was so out of character for him.

Walking from the salon to the train station, I was still wondering about that. Then I remembered the time when I fainted in the middle of the street (because illness) and hit my head on the pavement.

I had a hair cut appointment later that week, and he had to witness what my scalp looked like. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face…horror? Of course I couldn’t see my own scalp. I had no idea what color or design ¯\(ツ)/¯

He is one of the few people who really knew I was ill. One of the surprising ways someone knows you intimately. I had a good day today.

[Image: storefront of an old tea room in Ningyocho, Tokyo, which serves only two items: tofu and plum sweets. I didn’t go in there though that day. Maybe next time.]

Ningyocho is an old neighborhood in Tokyo I would like to take you to when you come visit. There is a tiny patch that wasn’t burnt down in the Bombing of March 1945. More than 100,000 people perished in one night, over one million homeless. It’s absolutely insane our government didn’t surrender until August of that year.

That same night, my paternal great-grandmother led her young daughter-in-law and three toddler-baby grandchildren from one location to another, running from fire and air bombs.

When she came to the foot of one of the city’s great bridges over the Sumida River, she decided to stop. Everyone else was rushing towards the other side of the river.

Then the air raid came and burned the bridge with all the folks.

She set up a home where she stopped and hired a farmer from a few towns over to teach her family how to grow food for themselves. A few days after her son came home from the war zone that fall, she suddenly died.

So much heartbreak and then relief.

I collect stories of life during the war (in my heart) from books, relatives, strangers, even YouTube.

Tell me, what do you collect in your heart?

Be you~~~
Ayuko

today’s special

something new: Tokyo University of the Arts Doctoral Program Final Exhibition 2024
something read: Marion Franklin “What Would a Wise Person Do?”