Atomiyosowaka | Kikuko Ota (Dean of the Faculty of Nursing and Medical Care)

2010.09.07

The record-breaking heat wave has continued into September. Even so, I can feel the steady approach of autumn when I hear the chirping of insects from the grass and see the green persimmons growing larger day by day.

Summer vacation always brings homework to mind. As the end of the vacation neared, I was always in a flurry from my childhood, catching up on my diary, finishing workbooks, or completing some kind of project. There was even a homework assignment to compose a piece of music. At a complete loss, I decided to take a hint from the sounds around me and noticed a *tsukutsukuboshi* cicada chirping on a Chinese parasol tree outside my window. It was a good idea to choose the theme of "the end of summer," but its song was not a simple "meen-meen." It went "hoissho, hoissho," gradually getting faster, "hoissho, hoissho," then rising to a high-pitched "hooo" before breaking into a rapid "tsukutsukutsuku." I struggled to imitate this changing song, and the result was far from good.

You might think you would be free from homework once you finish your student life, but that is not the case. I am now in a position to give homework as a teacher, but my daily work is always and everywhere full of homework. Even if you think of homework as "tasks," there are those required by others and those you impose on yourself.

When I reflect on my daily actions, "tidying and organizing" remains a constant challenge. I was never good at it to begin with, and when I let it slide, using busyness as an excuse, I quickly find myself in the miserable state of being in the midst of clutter.

The novelist Aya Koda* lost her mother at a young age and was taught everything by her father, Rohan, from morning and evening cleaning, washing rice, doing laundry, to lighting a fire. Her formal training in cleaning began at the age of 14. Cleaning followed a specific order: carefully preparing the tools, first organizing, then dusting, and finally sweeping with a broom.

The way he dusted the shoji screens was amazing. Holding the duster's tassels short, her father, Rohan, would make its tips touch the wooden lattice of the shoji screen precisely, watching where the dust was, so as not to touch the paper, creating a light, rhythmic sound. On the other hand, when it was his daughter Aya's turn, she would put too much force into it, trying to use the tips of the tassels, making a destructive "pishiri, pishiri" sound as she hit the paper and missed the lattice.

Even if she was dissatisfied with her father's strict teaching methods, the correctness of the techniques and principles he showed her resonated directly with her heart. Furthermore, even when the day's training was over, as she was about to say her thanks and leave quickly, she was reminded to chant the spell "atomiyosowaka" and to look around and check everything one more time. This was how her training went.

I sometimes recall this story, and it makes me think about how to live, how to approach things, and my attitude toward life. "Tidying and organizing," while an everyday matter, is truly profound and perhaps a reflection of one's state of mind. Chanting "atomiyosowaka," I intend to start putting this into practice, beginning with what I can do.

(Published on: 2010/09/07)