By Ayreen Calimquim, Assistant Language Teacher, Kyoto Prefecture, 2002-2004
It has been two years and I am far, far away from Japan. Still, I am haunted by the mountainous countryside of Kyoto. A Maple tree grows in front of my apartment building on Ocean Blvd. in Long Beach, its billowy leaves spreading out in intricate detail like a fisherman's net, blocking out the endless traffic that starts at 5:00 am and ends at 3:00 am the following day. This lone single Maple tree reminds me of the Momiji that grew along the two-lane roads of Miyama-cho in Kyoto Prefecture. As a southern California native, it's hard to be aware of the changing seasons. I never really took notice of trees whose leaves and flowers changed color with each turn of the season. But my eyes were opened during the first autumn season I experienced in Japan. In the early fall, hues of deep red, vibrant orange, and effervescent yellow sprinkled the face of the mountain, eventually cascading into an avalanche of color along the sheer expanse of the mountain range. The solitary tree in front of my apartment is minute in comparison. But nonetheless, it helps to remind me of that brilliant scene along the Japanese countryside. Last February, during California's winter storm season, its branches were absolutely bare. The Maple tree stood naked, exposed to the traffic of Long Beach's urban sphere. Then spring came along and I was reminded of the season's power of renewal and strength. I know that the leaves will soon change its color again. There is something about living abroad that strips you of your senses...but then the experience regenerates a new sense of consciousness. Living in Japan, I couldn't help but develop a new awareness of nature. The Momiji in front of my apartment is a simple reminder of that experience. I like to describe it as a pleasant kind of haunting, but a remembrance nonetheless.
