SHORT #39: Wolf in the Garden

We were scheduled to do a third story this week in the Beautifully Abnormal Japan series. That will come in two weeks time. This week, I confront some old memories and spaces, with the help of a cat named Wolf.

Just a minute or two after exiting the Kitakagaya subway station, I walk through our old neighborhood, and I hear Wolf.

It is not so usual to hear this cat before you see her. Despite her name, Wolf mostly keeps to her voice to herself, unless you clearly have food, and I do not. As I walk closer, Wolf scampers up to me. I guess it is for a pat. I oblige her. She looks up at me, but then darts away a moment later.

Now, usually when Wolf darts away from you like that, it means the old lady who feeds the neighborhood cats is nearby. I look around. There are several old ladies, to be sure — this is an old Japanese neighborhood after all. But Wolf does not run to any of them. Instead within seconds, Wolf is all the way down the block. She stops just before arriving at a narrow alley, and turns to look back at me. By now, I can guess what she is doing. There is no food that way. There is, however, a place she wants to take me.

Three years ago, just after leaving Kitakagaya, our garden here was turned into a slab of asphalt. At the time, we had tried to figure out how to save the garden. A small army of friends even stepped up to share in caring for this little piece of nature in the city. Somehow though, the urban garden gods would not allow this particular patch of green to be rescued. Since then, I haven’t allowed myself to even think about it. I guess it still hurts too much.

Though we had visited Kitakagaya a few times since moving, I have studiously avoided the alley where our garden used to be. The photographs that friends and would-be visitors sent me over these years was enough, and I got plenty of them.

I have no wish to face the place in person.

It seems however, that Wolf does not accept this kind of attitude. She looks back again, quickly, then runs out of sight, down the alley. I follow her at a lazy pace, in no hurry to face what I already know is there. When I arrive, Wolf is sitting at the threshold between the street and our former garden.

There used to be eleven species of herbs here, thirty species of wild plants, and ten trees. I can still picture the trees — Japanese Cherry, Wild Cherry, Asian Pear, Apricot, Lemon, a Palm, Flowering Dogwood, Chinese Tallow, Chinese Hackberry, and Heavenly Bamboo.

I bought the Asian Pear tree from the Home Center down the street when we started the garden. They say it takes three years for it to bear fruit. I remember the tree being attacked by hungry caterpillars in year one, and then during our second year it was flattened during typhoon season when the roof of a house landed on it. Twice. Somehow though, it survived all of that and bloomed the third year, just before we left. We never saw the fruit.

In the front of the garden, the Flowering Dogwood was a favorite of the locals. We got a lot of comments on the flowers of all the plants, but the most came from the Dogwood. It bloomed suddenly, with spectacular blossoms like giant white bursts of popcorn that almost always caused people to stop with open-mouthed smiles.

Wolf seemed to like the Hackberry. Maybe because it grew unplanned, strong, quick, and wild like her. Or maybe it was just the most convenient trunk to pee on.

As a truck barrels down the main street on the next block, the houses on this little alley rattle, and Wolf and I sit for a spell. We stare at the three new, empty parking spots where all the trees and herbs and wild plants used to be.

Wolf talks first. “Meoow.”

I respond calmly, “Yeah. Yeah. I know, Wolf. It’s all gone. It sucks. It’s not my fault though.”

In the summer, Wolf sometimes sat under the small canopy. More often though, she would use the back of the garden to take refuge from the throngs of hostel guests hunting for her shouting “Where’s Wolf! Where’s Wolf! I wanna pet the kitty!” Being a hostel mascot can get tiring. On the days when it was quiet enough though, Wolf would hide under the bench by the Geranium, playing the prowler, watching birds flit between the trees. I never saw her catch a bird, but she did kill a few butterflies. The garden was a place Wolf could do all of these activities, without a worry in the world about the hostel cat-petting army, errant bicycles, or speeding cars.

Still watching the empty parking lot, Wolf talks again to me. “Meoooow.”

I sigh. “It’s not the land company’s fault, Wolf. They only do what people want and, well, I guess this is what people want.”

Wolf turns around to rub her head on my dangling hand. I turn my palm over to scratch the underside of her chin, and continue talking. “But you know what, Wolf? The things that we want will change. In time they always do.”

Wolf purrs. She gives one last short “Meow” before scampering to roll around on the asphalt. She prances a bit. Rubs up against the tire of a van down the way. Then suddenly, she darts off again.

Just down the street, I see the old cat feeding lady has arrived.

—

With both the building and eventual demise of our garden in Osaka, I was reminded that, hidden somewhere within all of the difficult moments in life are both lessons and opportunities. If we take the time to see what is called ‘difficulty’ without judgment, we find those lessons and opportunities waiting for us, and we can apply them to new efforts. This is one of the good qualities I remember in my years of working with Silicon Valley folks, though they may not have said it in such words. It is also a seemingly good anthem for life in general.

Thanks to Wolf for her help with this one, and thanks to you, as always, for reading and sharing these stories.

On the theme of renewed efforts, next week we get back to the building process here in Daejeon, where we will unveil to you, a rather beautiful looking finished work from those shipping pallets!