Skip to main content

The Snow and the Price of Comfort

Northeast Kyushu is cold this time of year.

Winter in Texas is in a constant state of flux. One cloudy, cold day in the 40s will often be followed by a warm day reaching into the 70s.

Living in Japan for only six months, I’m still not used to these weird things called “seasons.” What do you mean, the weather gradually changes and stays relatively consistent for a period of two or three months?! Why must I suffer through a solid three months of cold? Can’t I have at least one unseasonably-warm break?

I used to hate Texas winter roller coaster - I thought I wanted “true” winter. Sleepy, dreary, frigid, like in Thomas Kinkade paintings.

I was a fool.


At first I turned on the heat, until stories of high heating bills shocked me into turning it off. I have a kotatsu, but it’s dangerous, and not because it’s an electrical hazard. I’ve spent many evenings in its warm embrace, letting my responsibilities escape through the cracks of my drafty, poorly-insulated apartment.

The start of 2019 has come and gone, and soon January will be over. The start of a new year means a lot of problems I have yet to face. In a perfect world, coming to Japan would let me hit pause on my obligations in America - taxes, car inspections, student loan payments, the like. But this isn’t a perfect world. And the quiet of a cold winter makes the anxiety of the loose ends that need to be tied ahead of me ring loud in my mind.

It’s probably not as hard as my brain tells me it will be, but fretting is embedded in my DNA.

Luckily, I have some time between now and when it all finally needs to be done. For now, it’s too cold to worry about any of that. For now, I hibernate under the kotatsu, praying for an early spring. 

And next winter when I’m back in Texas, I won’t complain about the unseasonably-warm days.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Beach, the Breakdown, and the Last Thirty Days

In one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen, I had a breakdown. Miyazaki is beautiful this time of year. The tropical prefecture is stunning no matter where you go, but I can’t imagine a beach more beautiful than the one I went to. It’s on a private resort in a cove, walled in on all sides by tall mountains covered in banana plants and palm trees. Schools of long silver fish swim around in the emerald-green waters and roll along in the gentle waves.  Standing in the surf and taking it all in, I started to feel the first inklings of the darkness to come. To be fair, I don’t know what actually constitutes a “breakdown” - a lot of googling led me to WebMD articles and armchair psychiatrists who gave me mixed examples of the symptoms to look out for. All I know is, something inside of me snapped once the sun went down, and I ended up in bed for the rest of the night. I went there to have fun. Instead I ended up sobbing into a futon until I fell asleep. In the midst ...

The Big Decision and the Long Road "Home"

I’ll never forget the first thing I did when I got to my tiny inaka apartment. When I woke up in Tokyo on the first day of orientation, I felt a scratchy feeling at the back of my throat, and for the next four days it didn’t go away. The rest of the week was a progressively-worse haze as I faded in and out of lucidity during long lectures and sucked down vitamin C drinks in vain. When I finally got to my placement, I buzzed around town finishing up some minor things, before finally being shown to my apartment. As the doors thudded closed, the silence settled in. It was the first time I’d been truly alone in almost a week. The apartment was still a bit dirty. The power had been switched off, and consequently I couldn’t turn on the air conditioner or fans in the sweltering August heat. I tried opening the windows, but there was no air and no relief, just a symphony of cicadas in the bamboo thickets surrounding me. My throat was still burning, and I was covered in sweat. I collapsed...

Somehow, I got here.

Like a lot of assholes on the internet, I like to call myself a writer. Still, I’ve never been the “blogging” type: structuring my thoughts into well-organized paragraphs and sections is much less appealing to me than screaming my thoughts and feelings into the ether that is social media. I’ve done copywriting for previous employers, but it was always purposely impersonal; there’s only so much personality to be injected into an article on best practices for maintaining a web presence for their business or the best apps for last-minute holiday shoppers. I’m a writer of fiction. I say this, of course, having never published my work and showing it to only a handful of people. That’s for a lot of reasons. As a teenager, I wanted to be a published author before age 20. That didn’t happen. At the start of 2018, I decided that my goal for the year would be to have a working manuscript for a fantasy novel ready to send to potential literary agents. That likely won’t happen. I vivid...