by Leslie Buck
The wind and the snow swirled around me, and gradually I sensed nature encircling me too. Nature in her most sincere form helped calm me down, and my tears subsided. A few minutes later, Toshi opened the car door, stepped out, and signaled for me to hop into the car. I climbed in the middle of the bench, between the two men, without uttering a word. I pulled out my Agatha Christie book, so that wise, elderly Miss Marple could help me to defend against these men and redirect my thoughts away from bursting into more tears.
On the drive back I kept my eyes open, but the rest of me had pulled inward. I stared at the passing vista. The mountains had darkened to charcoal green and burnt red-orange streaks. Smoke rose from burning trash piles on open farmlands. Whitewashed traditional wooden homes sat motionless under an amber waxing moon, more than half full. I like that, I thought, seeing things more than half full. I tried to hold on to the idea. Then I closed my eyes and allowed myself to hide in the darkness. When we reached the office, I fled in silence to the bus stop.
I stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken on my way home—my reward for having endured a particularly hard day—and sat on my futon bed, trying to comfort myself with extra-crispy chicken pieces, usually a very effective weapon against strong emotions. But each time I bit into a crunchy piece, I’d think of the soft snow falling on the truck. And with my soft biscuit in hand, I pictured an icy gray concrete curb. Once the tears returned, I could not stop them. I decided I needed to talk to someone. I could think of only one person who could understand how I felt without thinking that all Kyoto craftsmen must be crazy.
Rather than calling Taylor, I decided to phone a good friend from Berkeley, Ichiro. As has happened with many Americans I’ve met who have done much longer garden apprenticeships, the Japanese work ethic strains a Western relationship. Most Americans aren’t used to people working six days a week, sometime seven, for decades, running between jobs with a ten- to twelve-hour-a-day schedule. My relationship with Taylor had grown distant. He couldn’t understand why I worked so hard for a garden company. I felt a particular friend might understand my situation better without jumping to harsh conclusions regarding a traditional Japanese company. Ichiro excelled as CEO of an American Japanese corporation. He lived on and off throughout his life in the Bronx, New York, and Japan. His top karaoke act on business trips was singing “New York, New York” with an exaggerated Japanese accent. “Japanese businessmen love it!” he exclaimed. Ichiro was wise and full of good humor when it came to cultural interactions.
I couldn’t figure out the time difference, but took a chance and called him. He picked up his phone, sounding alert, telling me it was 5:00 a.m. and he had just woken up to get ready for work. For several minutes he just let me cry. Close to many women in his life, Ichiro knew how to handle emotions. I told him my story leading up to the snow day in almost incoherent emotional sentences, ending my tale vehemently with, “I’ll never go back! I only have about a week left before the end of my apprenticeship. I’ll quit. I’ll cause trouble for the new boss. He hates me! Do you think he hates me, Ichiro?” I asked, beseeching him to both agree and contradict me. “Do you think he hates Americans?”
I had nothing left to say. We both sat in silence before Ichiro began to speak. “Of course,” he reasoned with me in a soothing voice, “your three months of work in the company has been very trying. The hours have been long, with little time off compared to what you are used to.” He hesitated between sentences. “Loneliness, Leslie, has taken its toll. It’s cold.” He said this matter-of-factly, without indulging me too much. “You’ve been keeping all your emotions inside, while your subconscious knew the end of your apprenticeship was near. The Japanese push hardest right at the end, whereas here in America the last few days at a job can be the easiest. This was the extra push,” he said. “It just took you by surprise.”
I hadn’t realized Japanese push hardest in the end. In all my interviews with ex-apprentices and all my Japanese culture books, no one mentioned this fact. And Ichiro’s explanation sounded reasonable, I had to admit. At the end of an eight-year UC Berkeley job, I’d cruised through the last week and relaxed my last day at a going-away work picnic. “The dam holding all your emotions back wanted to burst,” Ichiro continued. “It simply cracked a few days early.” He spoke clearly and gently—half pep talk, half lullaby. “Most likely the boss doesn’t hate you. He was just pushing you very hard at the end of your apprenticeship inside the company. The ethics you leave with demonstrate to others the ethics of the company. They want to make sure you represent the dedication and sacrifice of Uetoh Zoen craftsmen.”
“So you think I should go back tomorrow?” I asked him feebly, taking a few gulps of breath, still hardly able to talk. I felt defeated by his logic. I didn’t want to return, but as long as he thought the boss didn’t hate me, I could possibly consider it.
Eventually I hung up. I crawled deep into my covers and pulled the blanket up just below the base of my chin so I could still breathe the fresh air of my dark room. A question from my mentor popped into my thoughts: “Do you understand the word gaman?” Dennis had almost dared us to understand this concept. “Gaman means to bear the unbearable.” It sounded romantic, courageous, even passionate at the time. My pruning classmates and I were sitting in a warm room when he gave us this speech. Was this what he meant? The struggles of others looked worse. Should I return tomorrow or impose my revenge on the new boss? I breathed in deeply, resigned. I knew I’d return the next day.
If I returned to work, I strategized cautiously, I’d bring multiple layers of warm clothes. If the boss asked me to do something difficult, I’d expect duties to become more difficult the next command. I would not let my guard down again. Trying to bolster my courage, I told myself, Whether you succeed or fail is not the point. Just do your best. The house sat still and silent.
Craftswoman Turns the Kaleidoscope
Wham! I transferred icy sections of neon green moss from plastic nursery flats onto the soil on the last day of my apprenticeship with Uetoh Zoen, New Year’s Eve, 1999. I lifted the shovel over my head and slammed it down hard on the moss, connecting the moss to the earth as instructed. It felt satisfying to pound Kyoto’s ancient ground cover, transferring the discomfort in my hands back into the ground. I’d been upset a good part of the morning. My regular crew would not be returning from their work trip in time for us to say good-bye, and tomorrow would be the first day of their vacation. We’d all be carried into the new millennium—separately. I could hardly believe I’d never see them again. If only Kei had told me they’d be working out of town more than just a few days, I grumbled to myself. He should have known.
“Uhhn!” I groaned like I might not be able to continue, allowing the craftsmen to feel extra macho. I told myself that I didn’t care anymore whether the men thought I was strong. I’d done my best. Even though I did care. Slam! The shovel smashed a thick slice of brilliant moss to a fourth its size, startling the songbirds into brief silence. The moss bounced back to its original two-inch-thick form, and the birds began again chirping away. Tweet, tweeeet, tweet. The transferred moss felt right at home in its new walk-in freezer home, with icy water leaking through its earth-blackened walls. I was the only one who still felt foreign in the beautiful Kyoto gardens.
We worked in a private residential garden with a little bit of everything during my last day. I walked under a wooden gate that had been shaved by carpenters to such smoothness I wanted to rest my cheek against it. I raked around a framed-in bench area that no one could sit in, as we had to keep moving. We picked up old bits of leaves along a curving streambed fed from a softly gurgling waterfall. One of the craftsmen shook dead needles from stylized pines, foot by foot. The conifers surrounded the scene with playful twisting branches.
What in the past would have looked like one of the more artfully rendered landscapes I’d ever witnessed now appeared commonplace. Only by looking back through photos of my work with Uetoh Zoen years later did I see how spectacularly desi
gned were the gardens I worked in day after day, and how rich my journey was, all the way to the end.
I cleaned and raked the garden with worn, stubborn effort and wondered if my new coworkers had heard about me breaking down in the snow several days earlier. My Japanese friend who taught ikebana explained to me a few years later that the craftsmen might not feel pity for the homesick Western girl but instead would admire my struggle. “No matter how fast I tried to prune, even timing myself to try to speed up, the men would always prune faster!” I told Shuji. “Of course the Japanese craftsmen pruned faster; they weren’t going to be beaten by a girl!” he responded, sending us both into a laughing fit. Shuji understood the play between the craftsmen’s reserve and my American openness because he was born in Japan and his husband was from Oklahoma.
Entering the garden that cold morning, I glanced around, and everything looked, well, already done. To my standards, the garden appeared perfect. The pine’s silhouette cut into the sky with perfect edges, the paths had already been swept clean, and the moss beds grew thick without a single weed. What else could we do?
Like all excellent Japanese craftsmen, we cleaned the garden more. Traditional New Year’s garden cleaning in Japan required cleaning in corners, under pebbles, and around rocks. Every part of the garden had to be tended to. The men shook the conifers, searching for dead needles. They used reverse blowers to suck up dust particles from the garden’s moss and pebble carpet. They emptied water basins, scrubbed them clean, and refilled them with clear, icy water. Japanese homeowners also cleaned inside their dwellings intensively before New Year’s Day. I loved the idea of a delicious cleaning, inside and out, once a year.
Sogyu, whose company I worked with at the beginning of my stay, invited me to an end-of-the-year party, which he said was “a symbolic time for all his workers to celebrate the previous year’s accomplishments and to leave last year’s resentments behind so everyone could start the New Year afresh.” I wished I could feel the same way toward my crew. In my weariness, I eyed my new boss and the others with suspicion. I felt I’d lost Kei’s friendship. Consuming my thoughts, the question grew, Who’s on my side and who’s not?
Toyoka, whom I hadn’t seen since my first month in the company, rejoined the crew. I trusted him enough to ask him the name of my new boss. Perhaps I worried too much my last week. But just in case anyone was within hearing, I silently pointed to the boss whom I suspected hated Americans, and asked Toyoka softly, “Onamae wa nandesu ka?” (What is his name?) I sensed that my gentle coworker understood my vulnerability. I heard years later that Toyoka left the Uetoh Zoen company to become a farmer. He responded quietly, close to my ear, “Toshi-san.”
It began to occur to me that certain workers indeed had heard about the snow day. They seemed to be protecting me from Toshi. For example, in the morning, I listened as the boss did a good morning reprimand of each coworker, and then listened more carefully as footsteps headed in my direction. I increased my raking pace. A craftsman whose name I didn’t even know showed up for no apparent reason, walking past Toshi’s line of sight. Distracted, the boss yelled something at him brusquely, then walked away and left me in peace. These may have been coincidences, but things like this happened repeatedly throughout the day.
Another time, I leaned a broom against a finely plastered garden wall as I raked sodden leaves into my tarp. Toyoka caught my attention by waving at me. No craftsman had ever warned me of an impending infraction during silent work time. He pointed to my broom and shook his head, “No, no.” I looked over at my broom, trying to discern the problem. I still didn’t understand the long-term delicacy of plaster walls. Not only was the garden’s plaster wall alive that December morning, planning to show its patina spots over time, but the wooden gate would also age and change color over the years in a manner Japanese woodworkers considered living. Carpenters avoid sealing up wood with stains for this reason, so the wood breathes naturally. No antiwrinkle cream for the wooden gates of Japan.
In the dead of winter inside the private Kyoto garden, the plants, plaster, wood, clients, and gardeners all pulsed with life. I moved my broom away from the wall and placed it on the ground. Toyoka returned to stroking his rake on the pebbles with calming, repetitive strokes. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The crew surrounded me that day. Whether I succeeded or failed, they’d succeed or fail with me.
I had a hard time focusing on my work that morning because of more than just concerns about my new boss. The previous day I’d finally received a note from my boyfriend. Just as I’d entered the house after my normal Sunday morning excursion to buy fresh fried tofu for breakfast, which was like eating bacon when I slathered it in sweet miso, my landlord handed me an envelope with Taylor’s scrawling handwriting. Finally, I thought, both anxious and excited that I held something in my hand that Taylor had held in his. At the beginning of our relationship, he’d written me long letters the old-fashioned way, even though we lived in the same town. I ran upstairs to my bedroom for some privacy and sliced the envelope carefully with my pruning shear blade. I loved reading letters.
I reached into the envelope and pulled out a single photograph. I instantly recognized the plant in the photo, a California huckleberry, my favorite native California plant. Vaccinium ovatum is known for its delicate leaves and tiny bluish fruit. It grows very slowly, some say only an inch a year. I’ve seen it on parched, windy slopes of Point Reyes, hugging the rocks for warmth and moisture.
Taylor had taken this photo on one of our hikes through Huckleberry Botanic Regional Preserve in the hills above Berkeley and Oakland. I remembered the shot because, without Taylor’s knowing it when he took the photo, a small bird had been hovering under the huckleberry in the shadows, probably scared to death of the two giants passing by. Taylor said the huckleberry plant made him think of me, sweet and tart, slow and sure in pursuing my goals. I teased Taylor that the little bird in the photo reminded me of him and his desire to hide from the world behind his camera with his natural reserve.
I turned the photo over and squinted at the writing. “Shall we meet in the preserve when you return? T.” Sort of a hopeful message. But a bit disappointing nevertheless. I searched for other meanings but found none.
I walked over to my window, and rested my head on the ledge. I stared out at the big cherry tree with all its bare, shiny branches, pulsing with life. Despite its aliveness, the tree just stared back, leafless and gray to my eyes.
“What do you think?” I asked the tree. A response came back quickly, right into my thoughts: Don’t worry, Leslie. I don’t know really where these responses come from. The tree continued, Have patience.
The conversation ended there, in brief, typical fashion. Years before I went to Kyoto, a garden craftsman from Japan, who led a pine pruning workshop in California, suggested this practice to me. During the workshop, a question popped in my head. I waited for all the other participants to talk with him first while I debated asking my question. I hesitated, and then still kept quiet during a period of silence at the end of the workshop. The question just wouldn’t go away. So with a shaky voice, I raised my hand and asked, with a translator helping, “When the weather is freezing cold or uncomfortably hot, when the pine is as prickly as sharp sewing needles puncturing your skin, why do you keep going? What is your inspiration?” He thought about this question a bit. After much quiet thoughtfulness, he responded, in a way I’d never expect from a skilled Japanese craftsman. He said, “Sometimes I tell the tree about my day, or about troubles at home. Sometimes I tell the tree, ‘I’m going to make you as pretty as my wife.’”
At first I didn’t know what he meant. Over time, I sensed that he was wiser than I’d assumed. I tried talking to trees a few times on blind faith. It occurred to me that perhaps he understood that I felt lonely in the gardens. And by talking a little to the trees here and there, I began to realize that I wasn’t alone, that in fact the trees were living beings. I’d never really given this much thought while I pruned.
I met another person who was willing to talk to trees. I met her at Tassajara Zen Mountain Center near Carmel Valley in California. Some people go to Tassajara to study Zen Buddhism, and others visit to relax with lovingly cooked vegetarian meals, hot springs, and nature. I like to volunteer at Tassajara, both to support the community there, who work hard to contribute to world peace, and to take a break in nature, with no computers, radios, or electricity, only a little solar lighting.