Ah, it is truly unbearable. This world we live in—how did it become so suffocating, yet so slovenly, like the unsettling smile of an aging lady who has applied far too much powder? I sit here at my desk, clutching my pen with a resolve that is not quite courage, but rather a form of resignation. Or perhaps, it is merely a futile effort to gather the faint, shimmering fragments of hope I found at the edge of despair—fragments as delicate as a spider’s thread.
You—yes, you, who gaze upon these words with a look half-exasperated and half-pitying—I must ask: what does “hometown” mean to you? Is it merely a cold, administrative record of your birth? Or is it that heavy, damp “karma” that clings to your back and refuses to let go for as long as you live?
I recently revisited a book. It is a record of a decadent writer who wandered through the harsh northern lands in search of his own roots. The title is “Tsugaru.” What a beautiful, yet heart-wrenching and severe name. To a casual observer, it may appear to be a tranquil travelogue, but in truth, it is a story of a man confronting the agonizing question—”Who am I?”—and finally finding a sliver of salvation and acceptance.
Do you know the land of Tsugaru? It is the northern edge of Honshu, a world of silence where winter buries everything in a cold, white shroud. Yet, beneath that thick snow, people live with a stubborn tenacity, like insects waiting for spring deep within the earth. They are men of few words, appearing unsociable at first glance. But once you share a drink and breach the walls of their hearts, you find an overflowing “love”—startlingly pure, warm, and almost tragically sincere.
The narrator of this chronicle returns to this formidable home after twenty long years. He meets old friends and drinks sake, but he is never truly at ease. He carries a constant dread: does he still belong to this land, or has he become a permanent “outsider”?
Don’t you feel this is a poignant issue for us today as well? We are all coming from somewhere and heading somewhere else, desperately searching for a place where we are allowed to simply be ourselves. Yet, whether in a city crowd or a peaceful home, a dark shadow often whispers, “This is not where you belong.” The loneliness the writer felt in Tsugaru is the very same flower of anxiety that blooms in our daily lives.
One scene remains etched in my mind: the moment he visits Takedo, the nursemaid who raised him. He is terrified. What if she has forgotten him? What if the saint-like image he holds of her is shattered? He approaches her with trembling legs—a wavering hesitation that is almost comical. Can you laugh at him? I cannot. In that awkwardness, I see the most precious, naked truth of being human.
When they finally meet, she scolds him. In the middle of a crowded sports field, she embraces him naturally, as if they had lived together until only yesterday. There is no literary artifice, no hollow greeting, no worldly calculation. There is only a miraculous moment where two souls reconnect across the chasm of time. It was then, perhaps, that he felt a silent permission to go on living.
This story teaches us a vital, bittersweet lesson: we can only truly exist within the memories of those who love us. Success, money, and moral standing are like dust scattered by a Tsugaru blizzard. What truly remains is that quiet, clumsy heat of one person caring for another.
The people of Tsugaru are poor at explaining themselves. But the food they serve, the sake they offer, and their bashful smiles speak more eloquently than any words. Have you smiled clumsily for someone lately? Have you poured a drink for someone, forgetting your own gain, simply happy that they exist? If you are tired and losing yourself, please, turn the pages of “Tsugaru.”
There, you might find the “salvation” you seek, glowing like a small coal buried in the snow. It is not a story of grand success, but a record of a shameful return after failing and running away. Yet, that very shame is the highest virtue of humanity.
As I write this, I think of my own “home.” It is not just a place. It is a space where I can find peace. Where is it? Can it be built? We are all travelers wandering through our own Tsugaru. But if a warm gaze like that nursemaid’s occasionally falls upon our path, this life is worth living.
I have spoken too long. I tried to be “interesting” and “helpful,” but I found myself drowning in self-consciousness again. Yet, if a single word reached your heart, I might sleep a little better tonight.
The wind in Tsugaru is cold, but only by facing it can you know true warmth. I hope you find your own “Tsugaru”—not necessarily in the north, but perhaps in someone’s smile or a cold cup of coffee. The courage to go there and accept what you find is what matters.
Now, I shall put down my pen. The world is quiet. What dreams will you have? I wish for a dream of waiting for someone on a snowy station platform—poignant, yet warm. Be well. And if you lose your way, remember the clumsy people of that land. They are waiting for you, silently offering a warm cup of tea. That is the most beautiful form of humanity.
By weaving these words, have I connected with you, or am I merely wrestling with myself again? Either way, I am satisfied. Writing is living, and speaking to you is the only proof that I am here. Please, laugh off this embarrassing monologue. That would be my greatest relief.
Words can be weapons or armor, but they should be magic wands used to stay close to someone. I have waved my wand today. Whether the magic worked, only your smile will tell. Close your eyes now. I hope your world looks a little kinder when you wake.
There is no “End” to our lives; the story always continues. May the last letter of this text be the first letter of your new story. I shall now quietly take my leave. Be well. Truly, be well. You are wonderful. Do not ever forget that.
Farewell.