I've been struggling to write this post for a couple of days now, and although I'm finally sitting down and running my fingers over the keys, I feel no more prepared to tackle the great weight that hangs over my heart than I was when I first received the news; and so it's with a tremendous sense of sadness that I report the passing of a woman who meant a great deal to me.
Those of you who know me from our time in Japan will know what I mean when I say that Michiko Kata was my J-mom. Michiko was a woman of unparalleled kindness and generosity of spirit, and during my four years in Japan she and her husband were as much a family to me as anything else. When I was sick she brought me food and medicine. When I was lonely she invited me over to her house for dinner. When I was bored she told me which hikes were the best and which onsen were the most beautiful. Whenever I got angry or frustrated with life in Japan, she listened to me rant until I felt better. She was an avid mountaineer. She was a painter. She was a mother and grandmother of two.
It is easy to say about anyone who has passed that they were wonderful, that they were kind, that they were a good mother or father or husband or wife; but I am confounded -- not only as a writer, but as man choked with grief -- that I can find no words to say anything more than that. I can say nothing that will give deeper meaning to her life, nor more weight to her death. I can say nothing that will make anyone grieve with me.
But perhaps it's for the best that grief is such a peculiar and private emotion, that it strips us of our ability to be grandiose. No matter how eloquent our praise, no matter how sad and beautiful, in the end we say only that the person who has died was dear to us, and will be missed. It is this, the simple fact of our grief, the irreducibility of it, that is our greatest tribute to them.
And so I say simply, that Michiko Kata was dear to me, and will be missed.
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4 comments:
I went back to Owase for Michiko's funeral.
Everything you said about her was true for me too.
She and Nori were, and always will be, part of my family: two of the kindest people I have ever known.
John H (Owase ALT, 1995-8)
Here is something I wrote after Michiko's funeral; I'd like to share it with you, because it seems that our memories of her are so similar:
A Tribute to my Friend
My sweet, kind, gentle, wonderful friend Michiko Kata
passed away on January 4th at 9pm. She was 57 years
old. She fought with characteristic strength against
debilitating stomach cancer, but she died shortly
after I reached Japan to see her for the last time.
Those of you who have known me for a while will know
just how much she meant to me; those of you who also
met her will realize why.
Michiko was one of the most generous, loving, spirited
people I have ever known. During the time I lived in
Japan, she and her husband Nori were like my family; I
called her ‘my Japanese auntie’- at her insistence,
and to her delight.
Michiko and Nori looked after me when I’d foolishly
managed to break my leg, and from then on I was
treated like a something of a prodigal son as well as
a close friend and companion. They took me to
fascinating places like Kyoto and Nara, where Michiko
took great delight in sharing with me all her
favourite aspects of Japan.
We visited temples, shrines and hot springs, wineries
and restaurants, went to concerts together, climbed
mountains and shared many, many evenings just chatting
about anything and everything in the ever-welcoming
space of their home. Michiko and I studied Japanese
calligraphy together every week for a year and a half,
and I always enjoyed a delicious home-cooked meal
afterwards.
I have never much cared about possessions or
accolades, and most of the money I’ve ever made has
been spent on travelling and in gathering new
experiences. The real wealth in my life is in my
store of memories and the friendships I have made
along the way. So many of my happy memories of Japan
are tied to Michiko and Nori. They are friends such
as you meet only rarely, and if you are exceedingly
lucky.
I will miss Michiko terribly, and her passing leaves a
tremendous void in the lives of everyone who knew her.
The world was definitely a better place for her
having been in it.
John Highmore
I too was there for Michiko's funeral and, like John, for the difficult days beforehand. John pointed me and others who knew Michiko to your blog-site because your beautiful tribute to Michiko captured so much of what we too feel/felt about Michiko. Michiko was our J-Mum too. And while the two of us (i.e. you and I) may have been in Owase at different times (I was there from '96-'99), it was heart-warming to know that the same kindness, hospitality, and friendship that Michiko offered us was similarly extended to you and others who also called Owase home. She was central to my experience in Japan, as perhaps she was to yours as well. While I still have a deep affection for Japan and visit regularly, there is - amidst all the beauty the country has to offer - an inescapable sadness that Michiko is no longer part of it. At the same time, I can't help but feel that Michiko inhabits that beauty and therein continues to contribute to that special relationship that I share with Owase and Japan in general. She is missed, to be sure, but she will never be forgotten.
Adam Christie
Owase ALT, 1996-99
Our beautiful daughter Rosemary Michiko Amy Highmore was born on 5th March 2012. She is named in memory of Michiko Kata of Owase. My wife and I hope that she will grow up to be kind, gentle and cheerful, like her much-missed namesake.
John H (Owase ALT, 1995-8)
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