Trash

One woman's trash is another's treasure.

I have a penchant for old things and am more than happy to scour secondhand and vintage stores for unique goods. Since my parents arrived from war torn Germany with little but a suitcase, and family heirlooms are few and far between, I think I like the link to the past that old finds provide. And, since manufactured items all look the same in stores today, I appreciate the distinctive dress from a consignment shop still with the tags on or the solid hardwood table from the used furniture store with nary a scratch. Yes, one woman's trash is another's treasure.

Of course, this wasn't always the case. I grew up in a working class family with six children in a Midwestern community of mostly middle to upper income professional families. Hand me downs and Goodwill outfits were a staple in my life. I am not complaining, but I would be lying that it wasn't a sharp contrast and difficult pill to swallow when I was also around peers who got brand new cars for their 16th birthday. 

And, thrifting back then wasn't chic like thrifting is today. I remember leaving Goodwill bathed in an aroma of must and mold and feeling dirty and a sense of shame. I hate to admit this as I have grandparents that barely scraped by in the Great Depression and parents that knew hunger, violence, and fear all too well as children in WWII. I give myself a break as I was only a child then. Now, the values of basic respect for food and monetary goods still form part of the foundation of my being. A penny saved is a penny earned after all.

More importantly, I must remind myself that in a world of over seven billion people, I am among the wealthiest and most privileged. This is due, in part, to my good fortune of being born in the United States. In part, this is also due to the work ethic instilled by my parents and the life my husband and I have worked very hard to create over many years. As such, I try to be a good steward of what luck and hard work provided. 

Since we moved into Nara in June, I have been slowly working my way around the yard, clearing out beds, walkways, and underneath bushes and trees of weeds, sticks, debris, and undergrowth. In the process (and I am so far from done), I have been shocked at the trash I have found scattered throughout the property. I decided to keep a list of items, many broken, that I have unearthed:

• Baseball bat
• Two arrows
• Numerous Lego pieces
• Multiple pens and pencils
• Rusty nails and screws of all sizes
• Hammer handle
• Two metal posts
• Nylon string in blue, yellow, red and white
• Birdhouse
• Dart
• Plastic toy shovel
• Canadian and American coins
• Numerous plastic drink bottles (hate those things!)
• Pieces of glass
• Duffel bag
• Aluminum cans
• Bricks
• Sock
• Balls of all shapes and sizes
• A dog's chew toys
• Various metal plates and parts
• Barbie accessories
• Plastic caps, ties, pieces and gizmos in every color

I have no idea where all this stuff came from. One way or the other, it was trashed. And one of my all time pet peeves is how people treat the earth like a trash can. I don't understand how someone can just throw a cigarette butt out the car window or refuse to recycle a water bottle or toss a half eaten sandwich into a landfill without a second thought. 

I am a product of the US Forest Service's campaign to protect the environment with the Woodsy Owl motto, "Give a hoot -- don't pollute!" I clearly remember the programming in elementary school in the 1970s. As a result, I am a big proponent of environmental stewardship, including recycling, composting and thrifting. After all, one woman's trash is another woman's treasure only when donated.

In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

Ted Kooser

In the musty light, in the thin brown air

of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,

beneath long rows of sharp footfalls

like nails in a lid, an old man stands

trying on glasses, lifting each pair

from the box like a glittering fish

and holding it up to the light

of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap

of enameled pans as white as skulls

looms in the catacomb shadows,

and old toilets with dry red throats

cough up bouquets of curtain rods.

You've seen him somewhere before.

He's wearing the green leisure suit

you threw out with the garbage,

and the Christmas tie you hated,

and the ventilated wingtip shoes

you found in your father's closet

and wore as a joke. And the glasses

which finally fit him, through which

he looks to see you looking back—

two mirrors which flash and glance—

are those through which one day

you too will look down over the years,

when you have grown old and thin

and no longer particular,

and the things you once thought

you were rid of forever

have taken you back in their arms.

Ginkgo

I read The Whispering Leaves of the Hiroshima Ginkgo Trees in the New York Times last week. The piece reminded me that the ginkgo has been found in fossils over 270 million years old. Ginkgo trees are survivors, and the author is right that they might have a message for us.

Now, I look at the ginkgo tree outside the kitchen window with more reflection and ever more appreciation. I have always loved the leaves which turn a beautiful golden yellow in the fall. Moreover, the tree still brings me back to Goethe, the writer of classical German literature and poetry, who wrote so eloquently about the leaves of this woody perennial plant in the poem Ginkgo Biloba.

I had to memorize the poem and share an analysis of its meaning in a class I took during my junior year abroad at Albert Ludwigs Universitaet of Freiburg, Germany. The course was on the classicists, Goethe and Schiller, and was taught by a professor who had escaped East Germany. The class (taught completely in German) of American students was both intimidated and enamored with the professor. He was brilliant, had been a world class athlete, and epitomized the romantic notions of a worldly professor, who modeled silk scarves, recited literature, and wore an air of mystery. I mean, he had lived on the other side of the wall, and he had escaped.  

In our extensive discussion about the course and the man outside of class, we jokingly called him Herr Gorbachev. And, in my nervous state during my presentation, I called him Herr Gorbachev to his face which resulted in peels of laughter from the rest of the class and my face washing in a deep shade of red. Clearly, he laughed it off as well as I remember scoring well on my work and the course.

Like the Hiroshima Ginkgo trees, I realize that Ginkgo Biloba taught me many things. It immersed me deeper into my love of poetry and strengthened my public speaking skills -- in a second language, no less. It helped me see two sides to a person, a piece of writing, an issue and an experience. It reminded me that humans are multifaceted, complicated beings and barriers are best torn down not erected. 

When we read deeply or travel broadly or interact with the once unknown, we see ourselves from where we were before the experience and then again after -- we can be the same person yet different if only we open ourselves to the process and the journey. A small leaf and a short poem remind me that writing and nature can survive to travel over time and distance and cultural/lingual differences and help us see ourselves and our surroundings anew. Every time I see a Ginkgo tree, I say to myself, "Daß ich eins und doppelt bin?" Those are the words that return to me over and over, etched in my mind and retrieved involuntarily. And, I couldn't be more grateful for their insight.

GINKGO BILOBA 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

German:

Dieses Baums Blatt, der von Osten
Meinem Garten anvertraut,
Gibt geheimen Sinn zu kosten,
Wie's den Wissenden erbaut.

Ist es ein lebendig Wesen,
Das sich in sich selbst getrennt?
Sind es zwei, die sich erlesen,
Daß man sie als eines kennt?

Solche Fragen zu erwidern
Fand ich wohl den rechten Sinn:
Fühlst Du nicht an meinen Liedern,
Daß ich eins und doppelt bin?

English:

In my garden’s care and favour

From the East this tree’s leaf shows

Secret sense for us to savour

And uplifts the one who knows.

Is it but one being single

Which as same itself divides?

Are there two which choose to mingle

So that each as one now hides?

As the answer to such question

I have found a sense that’s true:

Is it not my songs’ suggestion

That I’m one and also two?

~ Translated by John Whaley