On wednesday after work, I couldn't find my bike key. Not in my purse, my pockets, in the bike lock... nowhere. It was 9 pm, and raining, and you may recall that I live several kilometers from work, so I was not exactly thrilled at the prospect of walking home. Luckily Dan offered me a ride, and so I bid a fond sayonara to my blue Crispy and took the ride. I wasn't overly concerned about it, simply because I have a spare key at home, and it gave me a chance to talk with Dan; he'll be heading back to Australia soon, for good. So I soaked up as much advice and information as I could on the short ride-- a good place for Yakitori, how to make certain lessons interesting, which people that used to work at Nova were real Bitches, how the sale of his various accumulated belongings was going. It's amazing to me how many shards of humanity I come in contact with-- all of these random pieces of information, mundane and otherwise become lodged in my brain like shrapnel. Joe got his tattoo in Amsterdam in 1997. Bo thinks Asian women have skin that is as soft and smooth as marshmallows. D really wants to meet a guy, but she just isn't attracted to Asian men. This woman here used to be married to a Yakuza, that guy there had a three bedroom apartment to himself in Kansas about 15 years ago, and he only paid $150 a month for it. You see? What do I do with all of this random samplings of life?

Today I walked back to my Crispy bike with my spare key. It took about an hour and a half, and the day was bright and breezy, my favorite kind of weather. I wore my baseball cap (it says 'boogiiiieeee' and has a funny surfer picture on it) and big dark glasses so that I could stare at whomever I wished to stare at. I meandered; stopped to smell roses and peer over walls into secret gardens. I decided to cut through the Shikoku University campus, which I usually zip around on my bicycle. I'd never actually been on the campus before. I almost couldn't breathe; the liveliness of the colourful students was so thick and tangible. Everywhere were groups of laughing beautiful girls in tights and rainbow flats and scarves in their hair, everywhere were posturing young men, slim and carelessly elegant, calling out to one another, sitting on the grass, the benches, the low walls. The sound of Awa dance music reverberated from a hidden practice hall-- I felt the throb of the big drums, the high cry of the flutes and tamborines. At that moment I was stunned by a feeling of enormous regret; one life is not enough. I wished I could be young and beautiful and intimate with every culture, every country of the world. I want to dance all the dances, I want to fall in love over and over and over. In my heart I know that there is nothing better I can do than to fully inhabit this one life, to remain completely present and grateful for what I have, and to gracefully accept the inevitability of the passing of all things. To give thanks for what is, and what has been. To have enthusiasm and courage for the future, and the changes it will bring. But today I cried. Today I was unable or unwilling to be graceful about the passing of time. I wanted to hang on to the raw, optimistic power of youth, and never let it go.

As I passed through the campus and over the last of the three bridges I cross on my way to work, I opened my arms to the world and decided to accept it all. This is Me, this is Now. This is Japan, and I am halfway to 28 years old. I don't know what's next, but I am not afraid. Because right now I feel right and good and strong. I still have raw optimism and deep wells of power. And no-one said I had to let these things go.