"What are your impressions of your time in Tokyo?"
Several friends have asked me this question at different times—when I first arrived, after a few months, and even recently. The question surfaces now and then, and I often ask myself too. This question (and its answer) is like the sound of waves I once heard at a pebble beach on Taiwan's east coast: waves rolling in one after another, and as they retreat, white foam sweeps up small smooth stones, their tumbling creating a flowing rhythm.
"The sense of seasons, I'd say."
In my time in Japan, the passage of time leaves visible traces. The changing of the four seasons manifests in different ways, leaving marks of varying density, like tree rings.
In spring, cherry trees line both sides of the road near my home. A small truck speeds by, stirring up a flurry of pink petals. During the sweltering summer when hydrangeas bloom everywhere, I joined a festival carrying a portable shrine, shoulders covered in sweat. My shoulders still ache with faint bruises when the cicadas gradually fall silent, and the faucets in department store restrooms begin dispensing warm water instead of cold.
The distant view I never noticed when looking out from my apartment entrance—Mount Fuji occasionally emerges through the autumn clouds, revealing itself.
These past few days at Nansho-so in Morioka, the crimson maple leaves against the Japanese architecture seem to pause time itself. My hands and feet begin to feel the cold of the season, and when sunlight slants through the windows, I unconsciously stretch my limbs toward its warmth.
In my days in Japan, the sense of seasons washes over me like the rhythm of rolling waves. If I carefully fold, write down, and preserve these memories, they will eventually become my own tree rings, recording the traces of life lived on this land.
