The Tree of Life



The Tree of Life in Rikuzentakata



I’ve been awakened in the middle of the night by earth tremors for the past four mornings.  The building usually begins to gently shake, then gradually builds swaying back and forth with more strength before slowing to a simmer. There are close to 50 volunteers from all corners of the world and from all over Japan staying here at the Sakari base, which can make for very little room for much needed psychological space.  Life here is somewhat chaotic, but pretty basic.  We have a common sleeping space, a shared kitchen and outdoor portable bathrooms (I usually walk to the train station).  We take bucket baths and all of our work locations have solid evacuation plans for higher ground in the not so unlikely event of a tsunami warning. 

This is by far the hardest thing that I’ve ever done in my life.  Physically and emotionally, the work here is very strenuous.  Everyday my eyes sting with sweat and the muscles in my arms, calves and back burn.  After my first day, I really questioned whether I was strong enough for this.  When I dig my shovel into the sludge to clear ditches and canals, I find high school medals, photographs, shoes, and pieces of roof tile, twisted metal from screen doors, children’s barrettes and broken lacquered rice bowls. Ever so thin is the veil that separates us. I sometimes feel like I’m an archeologist excavating through a graveyard of memories.  There are shards of glass and they permeate everything.  The enormity of the destruction here is just indescribable.  I often find myself deep in silent prayer with every breath as I’m digging, cleaning, scraping and shoveling.  The unforgiving heat of the late morning sun and the echoes of the lives that were swallowed into the sea often leave me spinning.

There is a tree in front of the cemetery in Rikuzentakata that I refer to as the tree of life.  When the tsunami slammed into the town on March 11, there was a family who had been swept away in their home as it was pulled from its foundation. As the waters receded, the house caught onto the top of the tree just long enough for the family to escape and cling to its branches.  The house was soon washed completely into the sea, but the family survived. In the past 120 years, the town of Ofunato has been hit by four tsunamis and they are still standing.  Everyday, it’s the shared stories of life, inspiration, survival and strength that enable me to persevere much further than what I think my limits are.   がんばろう　東北…..がんばろう　日本！(Ganbarou Tohoku….Ganbarou Nihon!)



A thank you poster in a local shop