Oh, I am spittin’ cat mad.

I have moments where I feel trapped on this island.

Like I’ve found this backwater patch where I can’t touch the rest of my life no matter how hard I stretch.

But that’s all an illusion.

By the end of the night I’m laughing. I’m brushing my teeth and thinking of how many hand-rolled cigarettes I shared at Landmark saloon or the boozy walks through the canopy covered streets in southeast.

Everything that’s happening now has ridden on the back of those moments.

I signed my signature to the contract agreement for 2024-2025. I signed the section where it says “No, I will not be renewing my contract.”

For being a smug son of a bitch a decent amount of the time, I still hold daily moments where I go “maybe I’m wrong about all this.”

So I waited before signing. I thought of all the tally marks for both positive and negative.

I had anxieties of the job market, housing, and general livelihood plague me as I looked at that contract offer. I get paid a decent wage for the work I do over here in Japan. If you’d really call it work. It might be more generous to call it an extended cultural experience.

But then I received a message from one of my close friends and fellow soccer coaches— it was one of appreciation and kinship. And even for a clever, but oft blind to subtle hints from the universe, the giant neon flashing light that said “Go where you’re loved,” stood out to me.

I laugh as I lay down to bed (on my doubled futon that’s still too thin to safely ignore the firm tatami mat below) as I remember that I’m doing all the things I set out to do by coming here.

It was never going to be for forever.

That wasn’t the point.

And if someone had thought it was— I’d wager they’d never seen me in my element.

Away from an energetic environment where I can express my love and appreciation in a buoyant manner— I’m not the human energizer bunny I’ve been characterized as in the past.

I’m quiet. Flashing to light like a pocketful of magnesium, but returning to a dull state quickly without extra stimulus.

Instead I’m reading or scribbling in a notebook.

I’m running over lines of ridiculous encounters I’ve experienced or imagined.

I’m making the five hundredth lap on a matter I’ll never actually revisit.

It’s not bad— but it’s not the flourish that genuine interaction brings about. The type where vulnerability can be present.

I’ve been vulnerable at many times during my time on Tsushima— but often not outwardly.

There’s a language and cultural barrier that keeps me from 99.9% of the island.

I’ve got one good friend on the island— and I thank my lucky stars for that.

Even still, that’s a weekend respite most times.

Each day is an individual thing.

A journey that has allowed for an inquest into my own values.

Into my ideas of the future.

Into my ideas of who I am as a person.

That’s the incessant digging that limited genuine interaction can do to you— a liability to overwork the dough.

The biggest discoveries I’ve had on the island haven’t been of anything new.

Rather, it’s the humility to accept what’s been present this whole time.

And the grace to keep it at the forefront of my mind as I continue this journey.

Someday I’ll tell stories about the cedars and silence— the winding roads to the southern orange groves and the prickle of goosebumps as I walked through centuries old shrines.

Someday I’ll see the marks this place has put upon me in a clearer light.

Just as I see the signature Portland has stamped on me.

Along with all the other places I’ve lived and people I’ve loved.

And as I lay on my futons with the aircon blowing for maybe the last time of the year— I wonder if I’ll even think of this a year from now.

When I’m back stateside— maybe sitting outside at a bar with friends. Smoking a single hand rolled cigarette and laughing about a ridiculous story— one where I walked through cedars and silence.