I had a fleeting memory today of an incident when I was 9. It was January in Tokyo, where we spent at least 2 weeks every year visiting my mother’s family.

My birthday was in a few days, and my grandmother was taking me to buy a gift, my very first watch. It was a thrilling outing; both and the promise of the watch and the journey itself – taking not one but two different subway lines, transferring amidst the mass of humanity at Shinjuku station – had me bubbling over with anticipation. I attributed the queasiness I was feeling to my excitement.

That queasiness grew as the subway kept rocking and the minutes ticked by. I remember feeling a bit lightheaded and almost outside of myself, that un-bodied feeling you get at the top of a rollercoaster, just before the fall. As we exited the subway car and up the platform, it turned to full nausea, and I doubled over and threw up.

My grandmother lived through both the Great Kanto Earthquake and World War II – the former she survived by standing in the moat of the Imperial Palace while the raging fire burned down much of Tokyo, and the latter by taking her 5 young children to the countryside by herself while her husband, my grandfather, drove an ambulance in the city. Her small stature and outward gentleness belied an indomitable spirit; she had seen a lot, lived through a lot.

When she saw what was happening to me on that subway platform, she swiftly took my hand and led me to the nearest trash can, where I retched again. After it appeared that I had finished, she wiped my mouth with her handkerchief and walked over to a newspaper stand, where she purchased two newspapers, which she spread over the vomit I’d left on the platform. I have such a vivid memory of that moment, her diminutive figure kneeling down as she cleared the floor of the contents of my stomach. I don’t remember how we got home.

I realize now how Japanese it was of her to bother cleaning up my vomit off of the floor of a subway platform – an action that’s probably anathema to most other cultures. But what struck me in that moment, and even more in retrospect years later, was the calm competence with which she took care of the situation. Neither fussing over me nor disturbed by the rush of passengers on the platform, she did the things that needed to be done.

Contemporary culture somehow misplaces value on the announcement of things – it’s as if making a big deal about something makes it more important in itself. It’s connected to the preponderance of virtue signaling that seems to have overtaken the cultural conversation – and perhaps to the whole social media-based notion that if no-one knows about it, it’s almost as if it didn’t happen.

And that takes me back to this memory of my grandmother, who had seen more of life than I can fathom, who didn’t need to draw attention to herself, who just did whatever needed to be done. It reminds me that we shouldn’t take action merely for the need to appear to be virtuous, or because we want acknowledgment of our goodness, but because the action is meaningful unto itself. Just doing the things is the most important part.

I realize it’s been ages – ages! – since I’ve posted. I’m trying to get back into the swing of things, and to make writing a part of my life’s journey again. So here we go!