10 a.m on this winter day was extrodinarily sunny. The sun daubed the land in broad swathes, but the atmosphere fought to keep noses and fingertips chilly. From the bridge above Kamogawa, it seemed as if the giant ghost of Louis Armstrong descended down and blew a zillion sequins atop the water. I approached the riverbank on bicycle and pedaled south.
I passed maple trees blazing hues somewhere on the color-spectrum where the red meets the orange and brown and mingles with the yellow. I passed clusters of ducks floating nonchalantly, while their long-legged brethren bobbed through the grasses and reeds. I passed homeless men below their hand-made shacks waiting for a tug on their fishing rods. Sometimes the water trickled along, and sometimes it made a perfect mirror of the sky and cityscape.
I read an article today about a Brazilian percussionist, Ivan “Mamao” Conti, who is quoted, “Every day when I wake up, I say, ‘Thank you Lord, for this moment.’” I stopped and thought, do I ever wake up and say that? And frankly, the answer is no. But on this morning, alone and quiet, this is exactly what I said.