A bowl of Annin tofu, otherwise referred to below as almond pudding
In Japan, children walk to and from school each day. Coming from this background, and with school comprising a large part of an individual’s upbringing, many of my own memories can be interconnected with the to and fro of commuting. It all starts on the very first day of school, which was in April of 2010 for me. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, and the sidewalks around the elementary school were interspersed with the sight of parents accompanying their six year old child to their very first “big kid” school for their entrance ceremony. The families could be easily spotted for being in formal wear: black suits for the adults, and a variation of pink, blue, and black small blazers, slacks, skirts, and dresses for the children. I myself was dressed in clothing of this type, which more specifically was a pink jacket and skirt combo that, of course, was adorned with all the lace and ruffles I could dream of.
My experience of the days leading up to this event was likely shared by many others my age, which included being taught the path to school by parents in order to prevent anyone from turning a wrong corner and getting lost. The route I learned to take was marked by community bulletin boards and big magnolia trees lining the sidewalks, one of these even being conveniently planted in the front yard of the house which marked the street I lived on. It was beautiful, and I quickly learned to love it even when the big city streets with which it was tangled were widely different from what I would have seen if I had attended the school in the rural district that I had been living in up until a week prior. This route, or more accurately snapshots of it, also make up some of the few scenes I can picture most clearly of the 2011 earthquake which occurred later in my first year in the city. That day, the sidewalks were dotted with puddles created from the melted snow of March, and it looked oddly peaceful despite the tremors shaking the ground every few minutes. On other days, however, it would take on other appearances. In the summer, the trees’ branches would hold what seemed like a thousand vibrant green leaves, and in the fall, they would turn golden and start to decorate the sidewalks, creating plenty of leaf-crunching opportunities for students in the morning and afternoons before and after school.
Funnily enough, what stayed constant throughout all the seasons in my elementary school years was the scent of almond pudding. It was a light and sweet scent created by magnolia blossoms, and even now evokes memories of singing with the trees as my audience, uncaring of whether passersby heard me. The trees would applaud my performance by calling a gentle breeze, and I would twirl around and sing another song or an encore of the first one to show my gratitude. This sensory experience did not follow me to Junior High however, most likely because the path to my new school did not pass by as many of the same blossoms on twisting branches as my last one did. Instead, it ducked underneath many non-flowering trees which I took to naming as a new ritual to replace my singing. When the days grew shorter and the after school club activities started to extend later into the evening, I started to notice classmates over the surrounding greenery. I would hear them saying “Bye Naomi!” or “See you tomorrow!” or even “Good job today!”, despite my being rather introverted and usually keeping to myself.
This particular instance, lit by the warm, dim glow of streetlights which did not even let me discern who said what, is perhaps an exception to the others mentioned in how it was one which embedded itself into my mind not through repetition but through the emotion it brought forth; a sense of belonging. Though both entries into my mind are equally valuable in their own ways, their existence independent of each other makes me think that perhaps the ways of savoring—the act of appreciating a moment to its fullest extent—was what separated them. What I experienced during elementary school were small moments which seemed insignificant at the time. I savored the breeze and the scent of almond pudding fleetingly, but for the most part I was simply enjoying my childhood and did not think that those walks home would turn out to be anything I would remember particularly well in the future. Only similar instances building up over time made it hold as much value to me as it does now. Conversely, what I experienced that one evening in Junior High was savored almost immediately for the way it made me feel at home in the place that I lived, and the school that I went to, and the people that I shared my days with.
What saddens me is how irreplicable these singular (unrepeated) moments are despite their tie with strong emotions. They are hard to replicate because the cause of the emotion is usually in reaction to an action or an event which is unexpected or not often encountered. I can take up an old routine or ritual for the nostalgia of it and imagine myself back to a time more than ten years past, but I cannot gather the classmates with whom I had those brief encounters with and make them say the words they spoke to me five, six years ago. Even if I could, the context would not be right, and the differences in the lives that we lead now would be too glaring.
There is comfort to be found however. Comfort in the knowledge that the objects and moments savored are truly tied to a place, and though these things are hard to physically recreate, the feelings that they invoked can easily be accessed through going back to the place their savoring occurred in. For instance, the feeling of being in Junior High, of being a newly minted teenager in Japan can be tasted again by going back to that place under the trees which I named. Similarly, the sole sight of the old community bulletin board (even without the context of seeing it while walking to my old school) can simulate the lightness of my elementary school years. Though I no longer live in Sendai, the city whose sidewalks I traced back and forth and back again, it will always be special to me for being home to so many of my different experiences of savoring. It is a place that will forever own a little piece of my heart, even while I learn to take myself with me wherever I go.
About the author:
Naomi Saito is a first year student who enjoys reading in her free time. Her favorite fruit is a custard apple or otherwise known as a Buddha head fruit, which she often shows people photos of when the topic arises (and sometimes even when it hasn’t).
