Hyacinth in Spring 2026

 

I wish to be the Jizo, 地蔵, the guardian deity, sheltered in blossoms. 

Reading for Kids (IX)

 Today, I read Ten Eggs in Taiwanese to a group of first-graders in the elementary school. I have read this particular book several times, especially if it is the first encounter between me and the children. I somehow improved my reciting skills every time, and managed to come up with more ideas about how to make the listening fun for the audience. 

This time I used plastic eggs as props. Whenever there is an egg flying away, I threw an egg to the audience. The first-year graders were very responsive, as other mother-readers have told me, and excited about catching the flying eggs, 10 in total. 

Y helped me make the last Easter egg the night before. 

Sophie Calle's "Exquisite Pain" in Hara Museum, Ikaho, Gumma, Japan

In May 2025, we went to Hara Museum in Ikaho, Gumma for a family trip during the Golden Week Holiday in Japan. 

The traffic on the highways from Tokyo to Ikaho was a hell since it was the prime time to travel for Japanese. Being the driver of the family, I did not mind the pain of being trapped in the traffic jam because I knew that at the end of the drive, when we finally reached the destination, it would be a entirely new experience for the children for sure. My husband does not like travel and does not enjoy natural environment, so if we ever go out on a holiday, the destination is always a city. Automobiles are probably the main culprits of global warming, but they take us to places where public transportation doesn't. I think somehow cars mean a lot to women at home when they provide precious mobility, a rare moment of being in control and therefore a rare moment of independence. I remember having a chat with my Japanese teacher, who told me that her late husband, like my partner, did not like cars and didn't drive either. He, like my partner, thought that it was good enough if he could visit wherever public transportation would reach. As for the rest of the space, it does not matter to them. My Japanese teacher and I, however, share the same interest in driving and relies much on the power of the technology of automobile. It is not a love for car itself but the addiction to freedom that the vehicle promises. 

As we reached Hara Museum in Ikaho, the open space immediately made us leave behind the fatigue and complaints that we experienced on the road. The children also enjoyed the regular exhibitions very much. A lot of questions were asked, and a lot of chuckles were shared over curious facts about artworks. 

On of the collections that Hara Museum owned really struck me to the core of my soul, Sophie Calle's Exquisite Pain (1999). It is an art project in which she progressed through a journey before and after her boyfriend broke up with her. The work consists of two parts: the first 90 days to pain to the day on which the artist and the boyfriend agreed to meet up in India, and the later 90 days after the day on which the pain inflicted upon her when the boy friend failed to show up and told her that he had fallen in love with someone else. In the later ninety days, she talked to people, strangers to her, who narrated to her about their pain and loss, until the last day when she could finally recover from the loss of love. Since the children were around, I was unable to savor every panel of the artwork while spending time cautioning them against touching the artworks, against speaking aloud, and against running around in the open space. 

Every panel is a story of someone's sorrow, and every word is embroidered on a piece of fabric. There is an explanation in the article about how the embroidery (a work of tremendous labor) was finally achieved in a embroidery factory in Niigata, Japan. The form of embroidering pain was so powerful to me to the extent that I felt my hear ached at the same time. 

Several weeks before the trip, a friend of mine lost a beloved family member. I thought of doing something for her, so I started looking for poems about mourning to send to her, imagining that perhaps poetry can help. One of the poems that I came across stunned me with its simplicity and precision. It is Separation, a poem by an American poet, W. S. Merwin, in 1962. It writes, 

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

The three lines are as simple as the the briefness of counting one, two, and three, but they narrate the most unbearable pain. 

The stories that Calle narrated about her loss and that she collected from other people in pain on the embroidered panels embody every moment and movement of pain that one has to bear in every step of life after the day of pain has begun. Any loss is irreparable, and even if the threads are removed, untangled, and the pain is left behind, the surface of the fabric remains pierced.

"Do you think you are the greatest person in the world?"

Around 4 pm yesterday afternoon, Y asked me if she could have snacks and watch TV. I gave her a negative answer, given that she had watched a movie with her dad in the early afternoon. Her TV allowance had been spent for the day. She was persistent, begging, nagging, complaining, and then blaming in the end. Our conversation went on and went astray as below. 

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Y: Why can't I watch TV? 

Mom: You've seen a movie with dad today, and the movie was about 2 hours. You can have snacks though. 

Y: Mom is stupid!!! （ママはバカ！）

M: I don't think so. I am probably the smartest in this household. 

Y: Mom is stupid!　（ママは「ㄅㄨㄣˋ」（笨）蛋）

M: Ok, let's see. Who can drive a car in our family? 

Y: Mom. (Emphatically.)

M: Who can cook in our family?

Y: Mom, and sometimes dad. 

M: Who can speak mandarin?

Y: Mom and I and T. 

M: Who takes you to ballet lessons? 

Y: Mom. 

M: Who takes you to piano lessons? 

Y: Mom. 

M: Who takes you to kindergarten? 

Y: Mom and dad, too. 

M: Ok, who has appeared in all of your answers? 

Y: (tearful) No, it is not fair!! You have only talked about what you do. You have ignored what I do. I fold clothes with dad, though it was not much. There are people out there who invent things, too. Do you think you are greater than them? You have ignored what other people do in the house. Do you think you are the greatest person in the world? 

M: Ok, I will stop asking. It's your turn to ask questions, and I will answer. 

Y: No, that's not what I am saying. Don't change the topic. I am saying that you only talk about yourself!

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"Do you think you are the greatest person in the world?" 

That is a good question. Do I think I am the greatest person in the world? 

Over the years of motherhood and wifedom, I have been struggling with my own emotional resistance to the overwhelming pressure of life. In actions, I prioritize the family; in thoughts, I complain hard to the extent that I assume a hostile view on everything and everyone around me. I pity myself all the time. 

Y is right that I probably have considered myself to be the greatest person in the house. The emotion of discontentment has "distorted" my view on my everyday life. "Distorted" means that my view is invested with a bias against others in the matter of everyday life. The distorted view is certainly mine for self-preservation, but is it really distorted? Is not the distorted version of reality actually the correct one that other people have unjustly created for mothers and wives and confine them in the frame for exploitation? 

Am I the greatest, or the most capable, person in the world/the house? That is a good question. 

Reading for Kids (VIII)

 

Surtout N’entrez Pas Dans Le Sac

In the regular events of the Reading to Kids group in the spring term 2025, one of the books that I read to children was a picture book in French, Surtout N’entrez Pas Dans Le Sac, or, Never Ever Should You Enter into the Bag, by a Togolese author, Gnimdewa Atakpama. 

The story is about a lion and a goat, both of whom want to build their respective homes on the same piece of land. The two animals, one herbivorous and the other carnivorous, resolve the conflicts by some violent means in the end. A perspective lens of the illustration helps distance the dramatic moment of physical force.

My audience, including the two classes of the 5th- and 6th-graders and their homeroom teachers, gasped at the resolution. Although the climax is meant to be witty, funny and surprising, each time when I read up to the moment of climax, I somehow felt that I was obliged to apologize for the development, so I made a comment, “sorry” (ごめんね!). 

Why did I have to feel sorry for the violence in the story when it is used by one character to restore justice? I reflected on my own simultaneous reaction after the readings. 

I came across the book more than 5 years ago in a nearby second-hand bookstore. The wittiness made me laugh when I read it through on the spot. But apparently T, around 5 years old at the time, found it scary. 

Shouldn’t the lion and the goat try to negotiate first? Can’t the story use a more civilized approach? The power of compassion and peace is the method most books for children will deploy. 

Civilized approaches do not usually work, I am afraid. Especially, in the case of the minority. There is this old question as to whether the subaltern can speak. They can, and they are encouraged to, but they won’t be listened to. When anger and dramatic measures are finally resorted to, the minors are usually considered to be uncivilized and rebellious, while the world has forgotten how they have tried to be civil without any avail. 

I remember once I tried to claim my rights on a certain circumstance, but the other party questioned why I acted “vengeful”.  In the end, my very normal act and wish became unfathomable and outrageous to the privileged power when it clipped their taken-for-granted interests. 

Of course, I did not develop this theory in front of the children, and it was satisfactory enough that they sat long enough to listen to the story, which was read aloud in a language alien to them, and chuckled when the story concluded. From time to time, I have doubts about the meaning of reading to children in other languages despite that I have set it a mission for myself. One fellow reader told me that it is a great opportunity for children to rely more on imagination to understand a story in a language unknown to them. The mechanism of imagination, and perhaps creative ability, overpowers a more restrictive model of cognition through language in a situation like this. I do try to perform the languages as much as I can dramatize it whenever I read. Several months ago in a city next to mine,  there was a cultural event featuring different languages other than English. Its flyer encouraged people to hear different languages to know their cultures, which are usually marginalized or stigmatized by mainstream languages. 

Reading for Kids (VII)

 

Today is the first reading-for-kids event this academic year. I did not go to T's class but ventured into a different group. 

I chose to read "Monkey Puzzle" by Julia Donaldson. The story has been a superb delight to me since I first read it. The twist in the story is a smart scientific turn.  I even gave it as a Christmas present to T's cousin, but I wonder if she and her dad appreciated the humor in the story. Just like today, every audience seemed to have followed along to know the fact that the kind butterfly continues to make mistakes, but I couldn't be sure whether the audience understood the reason behind the butterfly's mistakes.

Mattress Cover

 

I had kept this mattress cover for about fifteen or sixteen years. It was acquired in a traditional market near my maiden home, when I returned to Taiwan for the first time after my partner and I purchased our house in the current place. 

My mother and I went grocery shopping in the traditional market as we would do usually, if I was in Taichung. Traditional markets are wondrous places where one can get everything for his/her everyday life. It was a place where my mother would shower her love on me by answering whatever needs I had; it was also the only place where I could express my affection to her by accompanying her in the lonely journey that she made everyday. 

After my partner and I were able to settle down in a house, it was the first time for us to have a double bed. My mother and I went into the market and searched for some bedding fabric to furnish the marriage bed. My mother loves exuberant colors, and we agreed to get this set of a mattress cover, a pair of pillow cases and a piece of duvet of the same pattern. The seller emphasized that, as I remember, it was made in Taiwan by a factory, which manufactured for an international brand, too. He emphasized that the price was a good bargain.  

The set was brought to Taiwan, as if I could not get anything in Japan. In those early years when I just moved to Japan, I tried to compensate for leaving the country and leaving the parents behind by accepting whatever they would get for me. Those goods then travelled by sea to the new country. 

Today, I resolved to cut it to pieces and dispose it. The house now carries the lives of four people and is loaded with the belongings of four people. I sorted through things during the spring break, realized and decided that this cover had to go because there is not any space to store it in the house. 

Today, before I scissored through the fabric for disposal, I touched it and felt it with my hands. The fabric still felt very comfortable and silky (not silk). At the moment, I hesitated and began to imagine how to repurpose it, but all would take up a lot of efforts. So I had to stick to my original plan, and I said to it, "thank you for your hard work, and it is time to say goodbye." (お疲れ様でした。)

I knew well in my heart that the physical and mental spaces in me can no longer hold it. The color no longer speaks of my imagination about life and expectation. The physical space in the house no longer allows me to keep something whose practical use is not obvious. When I cut through the cover, the scissor also cut through me. 

Reading for Kids (VI)

 

5/March/2025

The Singing Mermaid, by Julia Donaldson

I woke up early to rehearse today's reading and had made efforts to perform the drama as much as I could imagine the way the performance should be. The twist in the story is a typical surprise of Donaldson's stories, and I have loved it. The twist is also the timing when the story becomes suddenly clear to an audience, who might not understand the language too much. I made efforts to engage their attention with different voices and acting. Perhaps it works. The simplicity of the drama still played the key, I think. A good story, when well-performed, can always attract readers. 

Reading for Kids (V)

 

24/Jan/2025

Zodiac Animals of Lunar Years, by Lai Ma

I am not very sure if this was a good choice this time. Listening to an well-known oriental folklore in a new language can raise the level of comprehension of young audience. However, I think I was somehow lost in the middle of the reading event this time, forgetting what I wanted to do through the monthly reading events. 

When I newly joined the group, I set the goal for myself that I would read to children in an unknown language, even if they do not understand, it is ok to just enjoy the sounds. However, when I read Lai Ma's Zodiac Animals, I was burdened with a cultural mission (the Lunar New Year was near) and constrained by the anxiety over the audience's comprehension. I added my awkward Japanese translation here and there, and I also gave a small quiz about different zodiac animals in different Asian cultures. All of these efforts went fine, but I felt quite lost and disappointed by myself somehow. 

Reading in a language unknown to the audience depends heavily on the performance and the plots. When I wanted to mean a lot, I forgot how it has to be fun first. 

Reading for Kids (IV)

 6/Nov/2024

I Want My Hat Back, by Jon Klassen

Reading for Kids (III)

 

July/2024

Reading for Kids (II)

May/2024

I joined a read-for-kids group in T’s elementary school last month. It is a group of parents volunteering to read to school children in the morning once or twice a month.

Last Wednesday, I read Ten Eggs, a picture book in Taiwanese, for my debut.

The choice was not casual; on both language and identity front, it was a thoughtful pick and a political one. I also wished to make the occasion a window for children to hear a world of many languages with a hope that they will develop a friendly awareness of a world of different people, especially people of minor languages.

Reading in a language that is entirely alien to a class of 9-year-olds was a challenge, so I told them to just listen to the sounds. The children were more receptive and welcoming than I had imagined, and their ears were not yet fossilized by the consciousness of meanings. They even started to imitate the sounds I made toward the end of the session.

Meandering through the languages in my linguistic repertoire, I have started planning what to read next. At some point, perhaps Middle English can be heard in one of the classrooms, too.

P.s. The book, Ten Eggs, came to my knowledge through Dr. Tsiȯh Bȯk-bîn’s post some time ago, when he reviewed the picture book for a book prize, Akhioh, on books written in Taiwanese.

Calligraphy on the New Year's Day

 

T began to practice calligraphy in elementary school this year, 2024. He is a third-grader now. 2024 is the year he had the homework of "the first writing" (書初め) for the new year's day. 

He was more excited about choosing a case for calligraphy kit than the writing itself. The lack of patience in whatever that requires time naturally renders calligraphy a torture to him, I feel. He did not know how much I had looked forward to the day that we would sit side by side, write calligraphy together and chat like two normal human beings. 

For several years in elementary school, I commuted to a calligraphy school in a home classroom near my maiden home.  I can still recall the smell of ink, the green space outside the house, and the sensory experiences of writing in a square space hearing the sound of rain drops. I remember the classroom was always quiet. It is never like the noisy chats and complaints that T made next to me. In those years when I was practicing calligraphy, I participated in several competitions and was awarded some honors for my handwriting. The small wish to teach T some basic strokes so that he could at least hold his brush still enough to write was cruelly objected when the boy just wanted to finish his homework as quickly as possible to hang out with his friends. I did not push further, and I told him that he only needed to manage everything within the long stripe of paper. 

I hadn't done any calligraphy for nearly three decades after my teenage years until last summer. At the time, my life was an entanglement of every family member's schedules. A desire to write neatly, to sculpture words, and to snatch a moment of silence in writing appeared in my mind. I purchased a simple calligraphy set inclusive of a simple brush and a deck of copy papers of a Buddhist scriptures. My plan was to write several lines everyday before I began to work. The plan stopped before it could become a habit due to the lack of time and the lack of persistence. 

Bringing everything back to my control, focus and concentration are what I longed to have when I only had to look at the squares on the paper. Every standard stroke is a reassurance of discipline, law and rule. These were needed for the chaos in the emotional turmoil I had. 

Perhaps I have an obvious wish to impose these disciplines on T as he has been too wild to my eyes. 

Seeing his writing, however, I realized that I did not really want him to write the way I wrote. I always appreciate the way Japanese calligraphy appears. There is not a particular style to follow, it seems. Calligraphy is more like a drawing an image on paper here. T told me that he was embarrassed by how well I wrote, but what I saw is that how it is difficult to be free. 

Venetia Stanley-Smith, A Herbalist in Japan

Obituary for Venetia

A few days ago, a news came to me, Venetia Stanley-Smith passed away in 2023.

I saw the picture of her in silver hair accompanied by her husband in the news and was really shocked at how much time has passed since then, and how many things have changed since the time when I got to know her as a life artist in the media. 

Neither have I really sat to watch TV for almost 10 years, nor have I had time to attend to the garden for an equal amount of time after the birth of my elder child.

When my partner and I moved to the current house nearly 15 years ago, I was enthusiastic about herbs. I devoted much time to planting all sorts of herbs. The garden is the focal point of my attention. Venetia Stanley-Smith, a British herbalist married with a Japanese, was very popular for her TV show, At Home in Kyoto. In the program, she showed the seasonal tasks that she would do with the herbs she’d grown in her garden, which surrounded her traditional farmer’s house. Venetia san, the way she was addressed in Japan, made her life style a brand. I was enamored of all floral details on the TV screen. I also remember I was jealous of her, too. I was envious that her nationality had naturally given her an air of authenticity of British life that she was showing, and that her ease with plants. When I began to live in Japan, identity crisis clipped every edge of my life. 

Herbal life is a marker of life style, but as reserved as I am, I rarely can appear as easy as Venetia san could in her lush garden. 

I read somewhere else that she spent her later years in a care home and was still visited and circled by her families. According to her husband, she had been talking about wishing to return to England in her latter days. This detail surprised me as she seemed to embrace the nation wholeheartedly and to be accepted warmly by her surroundings. 

What will become of me? What will I say and want to do when I will lose most memories?

Reading for Kids (I)

 

11/07/2024 A belated post but a necessary memo for myself.

My second reading for the Read-for-kids event is an English poem by Thomas Nashe, Spring, the Sweet Spring. An unseasonal choice of a season-specific poem in a rainy time (July 2024). Given that the young audience is not entirely familiar with this foreign language, my approach is to make pleasant melody of sounds to appeal to their audio memory. This poem serves the function to me.

I first came across this poem when I was seventeen when an English tutor "sang" the refrain to me. Since then the melody of birds' sounds in Spring has stuck in my mind even though it took me another 10 years to recall and identify the poet again. It has been one of my favorite melody of words.

In preparation for the reading to allow the audience to visualize the sounds, I tried to identify the kinds of birds participating in the line "cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!". They are cuckoo, nightingale, lapwing, and owl. But it troubled me as to which kind of owl it is. I went through a pool of recordings of different owls. Then I struck it lucky, when an owl in a recording hooted, "to-witta ..... wooo". The mystery was solved. It is a Tawny Owl.

Then the kids sang the line with me.

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Participating in the activity is fun, and it is a way to keep me feeling more alive in a stagnant muddle of oppressive feelings.

Reading While Housekeeping: April-May/2024

 Tolstoy, Leo. What Men Live By? Ronald Wilks, trans. How Much Land Does A Man Need? Penguin Books, 2015, 23-53. 

Reading to Heal A Traumatic Experience

 

A Terrible Thing Happened

By Margaret Holmes 

Illustrated by Cary Pillo

Y's friend in the kindergarten was injured in the forehead about more than 1 month ago. She recovered from the physical hurt but seems to have connected the horror of the injury to the ambulance that carried her to the hospital. She has been refusing to leave her mother fearing of the separation just like when she was taken to the hospital to get treatment. 

The mother and I had a brief chat about this last week. I feel very sorry to see the mother drained of energy because of worries. I have been wanting to help. At first, I thought picture books featuring ambulances might help but was unsure if the child would simply be scared by the images of an ambulance. Then I started to think about the situation in relation to PTSD. After a search, there are books about how to help children suffering from psychological wounds. 

A Terrible Thing Happened by Margaret Holmes is a book recommended to children during the time of COVID pandemic in the USA. It is more like a book to help children to start getting psychological therapy. The story itself charts the ways in which the raccoon protagonist reacts to the horrible experience he has seen, unusual and unconscious behaviors and emotions unknown even to himself. With the guidance of a therapist, he gradually sorts out what has been going on in himself since the terrible happening. 

T was also injured in the forehead before he turned one. He does not have any solid memory about the accident, while I, a mother, was more traumatized by the experience of witnessing one's own child bleeding and of being unable to find a place to treat the child because of my low Japanese fluency at the time. I have been wanting to turn that experience into a picture book, too. Maybe it is a time to begin the project of a picture book about wounds. 

Reading While Housekeeping: February - March/2024

 Literature

Italo Calvino, "The Dinosaurs" 

P.D. James, The Children of Men

Tolstoy, Leo. How Much Land Does a Man Need? Ronald Wilks, trans. Penguin Classics, No. 57. Penguin, 2015. 

Picture Books

Klassen, Jon. The Skull: A Tyrolean Folktale. Candlewick Press, 2023. 

Academic Articles

Potten, Edward. "The Library and Commonplace Books of Mary Booth of Dunham Massey (1704-1772). The Library, 7th series, vol. 23, no. 4 (December, 2022). 

Siegel, Kristi. "Italo Calvino's Cosmicomics: Qfwfg's Postmodern Autobiography". Italica, Spring, 1991, Vol. 68, No. 1. Perspectives on the Novecento (Spring, 1991), pp. 43-59. 

Home Pharmacy

 

Spring in Japan is the most dreadful season to me. I have been suffering from serious hay fever since I started living in the country. If the symptoms are combined with a cold, a situation that usually occurs, it simply turns into an unescapable hell in my case. Whenever I have a cold, I will develop a persistent cough that might last as long as 3 weeks. A cold induced by hay fever, as pollen is also full of germs, makes me sick of life, especially the spring break is usually the longest vacation I can have in a year when kids still go to school and kindergarten regularly and I can finally work on research. However, coughs just prevent everything from happening. 

What is worse this year is that, there has been an unbelievable shortage of cough medicine across Tokyo since last year due to the spread of COVID and influenza. Last November, I visited three pharmacies to finally get some cough pills, but it was still a substitute medicine and was only half of the amount that was prescribed. The pharmacy said that it could only give me half of the amount because they need to secure their stock for other patients, too. Last week, I went to get prescribed cough medicine, too, but there wasn't any. In the second pharmacy that I visited, the pharmacist contacted the doctor to change the prescription, but I did not know exactly what it was. A week's portion is never enough to help me recover, but something is better than nothing perhaps. I have been coughing to the extent that my collar bones ache, and the muscle on my belly starts to develop. It is also a season when there are many school and kindergarten events in which I need to appear. My coughs pain me and scare others at the same time. 

Therefore, after the prescription was all taken, I decided to begin a home pharmacy by concocting my own herbal medicine. Some childhood memory about the names of some herbal medicine for cough remain clear, and I collected whatever I could get, processed them into power, and swallowed my own concoction. They are helping, I feel. Perhaps it is just psychological effect, but I have nothing but trusting myself as an amateurish apothecary. 

I remember one of my wishes these years is to study the science of herbal medicine to prepare for my second career. There is probably a light shed on the career path. 

 

God Help the Child, by Toni Morrison

I came across this illustration by Olaf Hajek for a book review of God Help the Child on The New York Times. Immensely enchanted.