Japan's famed high-speed Shinkansen, traveling up to 170 miles per hour--
the very essence of punctuality
Wristwatches. I have three if you don’t count the brown-strap one that doesn’t have a battery and, therefore, doesn’t work. Bernie doesn’t have as many watches as hats—not by any means—but he has several for the wrist and two for the pocket, not counting the one on his cell phone since he usually forgets that anyway.
And clocks. We have at least one in every room of our apartment, even one in the walk-in closet that provides overflow sleeping when overnight guests exceed the capacity of our small place tucked away in the back corner of a church.
But there are at least three times a day I don’t need even one of these various time pieces to know what time it is—as long as I’m home, that is. Twice a day, at 6:30 A.M. and 4:30 P.M, we hear the somewhat mournful gong, gong, gong of the cast iron bell at nearby Kuhombutsu Temple. Rain or shine, 365 days a year, a dark-robed priest approaches the pavilion at these times, climbs the few stairs to its base, and comes face-to-face with the huge bell under which he and three of his colleagues could stand shoulder to shoulder and still have more personal space than if they rode together on a Tokyo train. But you wouldn’t want to do that. Some trickster with a bad sense of humor might just draw back the log-like mallet that is attached by a chain and let it go. From inside, the sound would be deafening.
I also don’t need a clock to tell me when it’s 9 A.M. The cheery voices of children calling out, “Sensei, ohayo gozaimasu!" (“Good morning, teacher!”), tell me that the four- and five-year-olds are eagerly awaiting the start of another day of kindergarten downstairs in the church. They are so prompt in arriving at 9 o’clock on the nose that you wonder if they’re being paid off with treats every day. Training that has produced such punctuality, conformity, and order in Japanese society certainly begins early in life.
Although I got a later start at it since we didn’t come to Japan until I was 21 years old, this emphasis on punctuality has had an effect on me, too. Most people I know comment on how fast I walk (or, in the case of my family, complain is a more accurate word). It seems I’m always running late since I try to pack in “just one more” chore before leaving the house. The result is a mad scramble out the door, down the street, and to the train station or wherever else I may be going. Interestingly, I usually end up arriving early since I’m so focused on not arriving late.
So, with all this talk about time, what time is it now? Time to slow down a bit, I hope. I’ve been in a frenzied dash against the clock all year with a major writing deadline facing me this month. Thankfully, I’m just about there now, which is why I’ve allowed myself to take a few moments to write this blog. I do wonder, however, if I really will be able to slow down after I cross the finish line. Wouldn’t it be horrible to discover that my internal mechanism is all messed up and I’m stuck on fast forward?
