Prayer to the commonplace
See also: one person's trash is another person's treasure.
I am learning that a month is both short and long. Never have I spent so much time in a place that I have not lived, and even so, this city’s routine will not have enough time to fully impart itself upon me before I leave it.
I let my feet lead me down a street that contradicts itself. Armed with a melon-pan from 7-eleven, and vaguely concerned that my eating and walking is a felony offense, I marvel at how everything here is fresh to my curious eyes, but steadfast in its tradition. That a crisp blue sky could exist on a day any less than 30 degrees (celsius) is simply novel to me, but to the residents of Tokyo queuing outside what seems to be a souvenir shop at 8:56am, this weather, this street, is a beacon of their routine.
My eyes pass over each of their faces, smooth like a song, silently presenting them with the age old question, “what are you waiting for?” They are doing so with the kind of passive patience equipped only by those partaking in an act of normality, with glazed eyes much the same as mine when I’m waiting for a coffee on my work break. However, it’s all I can do in this moment to stop myself from pressing fingertips, forehead, nose to window in utmost curiosity.
“What are they waiting for?” I wonder silently once more, peeking inside and catching a glimpse of the elaborately dressed within. I don’t know who to or why they do, but they seem to be offering prayers at the back of the shop. Lately I’ve been wondering if I should offer prayers to someone, something, so this is my prayer to the commonplace.
My senses continue to be overrun by the myriad of entities that have struck and surprised me since my arrival in Tokyo. The privilege of slow travel separates me from the other tourists that poke out both visually and sonically among the tides of locals. With a fearless leader at their helm, together they dance to the tune of Google Maps, cramming their short trips with the brightest of lights. Meanwhile, I delight in a trip to the supermarket, humbled time and time again by the hospitality, pride and peace offered to me there.
If I didn’t already know the Japanese word for “thank you”, I would have picked it up on my first grocery run.
“Arigato gozaimasu!” a chorus of workers pause the task they’re undertaking to call out to little old me, as I’m bringing my arsenal of delicious discoveries to the self-serve checkout.
“Arigato gozaimasu!” they reaffirm as I tap my card to pay.
“Arigato gozaimasu!” I hear once more as I finalise my transaction. I repeat the same sentiment to them on my way out of their shop.
The Western world that I am used to tends to look down on jobs such as these - a fact of which I am keenly aware at my own retail job - to such an extent that the workers themselves succumb to an attitude of complacence. Entering a supermarket in Australia, it’s likely for me to be served by a sullen teenager, who will scan my items in silence, breaking it only to grunt the total cost at the end, or by a cheerful middle-aged woman who will clock my susceptible face and overshare. I could choose the self check-out and do my entire weekly grocery shop without partaking in a single human interaction, but I stroll into a tiny supermarket in Tokyo and I am received warmly by every worker there.
At the supermarket by the guesthouse last week, the worker filling the shelves by the self-serve machine I was using offered me many bonus thank-yous. Arms overflowing with a variety of small bakery items, naturally one tumbled from her grip. I heard the plastic wrap crinkle softly against her uniform, and out of the corner of my eye I watched her break its fall by catching it between the shelf and her hip. I hesitated, unsure if my offering of help would draw unwanted attention to her, but I gave in to my instinct to help. As she laughed quietly, bashfully offering her thanks to me over and over, I realised that acts of kindness such as these negate the necessity of the spoken word.
It brings to mind another moment from my trip to Japan last year. I was walking through a narrow mall heading back to my hostel in Osaka, when a banknote floated out of the pocket of the tradesman walking ahead. I scurried forward, picked it up and called out “excuse me!” to absolutely no avail. This was the first experience of my life where not only was English not the predominantly spoken language, but the person I was speaking to didn’t react to my English at all. So I mustered up the courage and called out again, this time the Japanese “sumimasen!”, to which he immediately turned, and was so grateful to have his money returned to him.
I wonder if anyone in that souvenir shop queue later recalled the fascination on my face and chuckled to themselves. I wonder if the grocery shop worker went home and told her family over dinner how I caught a choc-chip melon pan for her. I wonder what the tradesman spent that money on. I wonder how tiny acts such as these ripple and ripple and ripple.
Notes:
I am currently in Tokyo, I’ve now spent almost a month here participating in the most inspiring writing workshop.
“Prayer to the commonplace” was said by one of the teachers in a class discussion and it’s stuck with me.
Wow maisie b!!! This was such a joy to read! Your delicate observations are so beautifully woven together here, and your tender, curious narrative voice is sooo delicious!
Oh Mais. Magic.