The story of how I arrived to the island of Tsushima doesn’t begin with me getting on an airplane. Or, rather, it does, but twenty years earlier.

I hadn’t originally wanted to go to Japan on the class field trip that was a rite of passage for members of the JMP (Japanese Magnet Program) at Richmond elementary. For as enthusiastic and downright bombastic I can be , I also have a habit of becoming stock still when uncomfortable. It led to me reactively saying “No” to things that make me uncomfortable. Which is ironic, because once I’m in that new scenario, I seldom have any trouble adapting or making new friends. Still, there’s a disconnect that lives within my brain between the vast unknown and the my meager experience.

This isn’t about my childhood trip however. Nor, is it a deep dive into conflicting character traits I possess (like the rest of humanity). This is about the momentous and oftentimes whirlwind past two years.

I had been thinking about the JET program on and off for a solid decade. My friend, Nevil, had been accepted a couple years back and was living down in Okinawa. I’d see his pictures and hear all about his adventures, and felt a deep envy. I had always planned on living internationally, but hadn’t figured out the right path to take. I’d cast as wide a net as possible, while knowing in the back of my mind that the most probable path was straight through Japan. A place I had fond memories, but a guilty relationship with due to my less than stellar returns of Japanese language ability even after thirteen years in an immersion program.

It was in the early stages of 2020 that I began to take an application to JET seriously. impeccable timing on my part right there. During the early stages of Covid, I still imagined that we’d snap quarantine and get back to a semblance of normal within maybe six months? This also came upon the heels of me finishing an anthropology degree during which I studied the projections of a global virus that would take the world by storm. I had bet it would affect thirty percent of the population, so a teensy bit off on the projections there.

And as with all of my stories as I’m beginning to sort my path out— a girl named Luna enters. During March of 2020 I met a girl who I fell for instantly. It would help that I’ve classically been a hopeless romantic, but it didn’t hurt that she was terribly clever— think Anne Hathaway as Cat Woman from Dark Knight Rises. I schemed of ways that I could envision myself remaining in Portland— as I desperately wanted to weave my path alongside of hers. But no matter how I calculated it, it kept coming up short. Which is how the relationship ended after she temporarily moved back to the East coast as she had been reeling from a bad breakup when we had met. The right chemistry at the wrong time— it became part and parcel of our intermittent relationship going forward— and one that’s shaped me personally and creatively in unexpected ways. But, we’re not there yet.

Following an enigmatic end to a whirlwind romance in which I was able to deliver the pithy line of “It be like that sometimes” when referencing the fact that I was being broken up with. However, I did ask her if she felt that gravity of the moment— of it being a moment in life where your path is dramatically altered because of what happened. She told me she didn’t feel that— but later I’d wonder if she did. I kissed her forehead, told her to be kind to herself, and walked three miles back to my parents house. The first song that I listened to was 4th and Roebling by the Districts— and my heart managed to swell without my eyes betraying me in public. I had told her I was going to marry her on my fifth day of knowing her. It was an unbidden thought that seemed to howl through my mind— and I let it escape into existence. She cried into my chest after asking if I was serious. And I’d like to doubt how serious I was— but I know the embarrassment I felt later when I recounted the story to a friend told me all I needed to know. That the feelings were immense, but I was still very much a boy. Trying desperately to figure out how to become a man.

For what would be considered a fling— for it was only two months. And only one of those months was spent in person, the other being spent over facetime as she had temporarily moved back East before the “final” reunion and break up. It had an outsized impact on my life. To this day I still talk with her on and off— and there’s still a deep affection and creative spark that comes from my relationship with her. But, I can pinpoint meeting her to a permanent change of character, and ultimately the beginning of the arc to taking my application to Japan seriously.

As Alec would say “Only you would end up dating more than one person during a full quarantine.” A simultaneously loving and damning statement— but true. What followed next was an experience that feels hard to describe at times. Whirlwind in regards to the previous relationship should be forgotten, applied to this next one, and multiplied by three.

I have a classic habit of deactivating my social media, but restarting my dating apps when I experience a break up. The person I met next made me question the validity of the last relationship, because of who serious it would become, and furthered my own shame when I also felt a desire to marry this next person, while being fully aware that I was not yet capable of such a commitment.

It began with a conversation about music. Indian Lakes, Wolf Alice, Mother Mother, and others were the first off the bat. Charlotte had an infectious energy to her and an insatiable curiosity. I did my best to remain distant, while attentive. Not wanting to believe that I’d be able to feel something of note for her. Especially since I found her stunning. Two weeks into talking and a couple cancelled plans, we finally met up. She came over to southeast Portland to walk around my neighborhood with me. I was trying to leave my house incognito when both my mom and sibling decided they were also leaving at the same time as me. This would be the exact moment that this new girl is standing on the sidewalk waiting to meet me for the first time— and it still being pre-vaccine part of Covid. Not only do I not want her to meet my family, because I haven’t even met her in person yet, but I didn’t want the menagerie of feelings- guilt, excitement, resent, etc to flare up when faced over comments on being prudent about Covid transmission.

All to say— my jaw was on the floor when I turned from my front door and saw her. She was wearing a white dress, and radiated this healthy, happy glow. I practically dragged her away from my house and family before we set off on our walk. It wasn’t until we got to the top of Mt. Tabor after meandering through the streets and our own stories that I kissed her for the first time. And in doing so, doomed my hopeful plans of applying for JET in 2020.

The bright moments were lost to the legion of shadows that plagued her mind. One evening we sat inside her golden Honda Accord with windows tinted too dark to be able to safely drive at night— and I watched her battle a crippling disease. She cried as she told me that it felt like an alien force had control of her— and that she didn’t want any of these thoughts that coursed through her brain. I did my best to calm and console her as we waited out the storm together. My hope of one day starting a family with her continued to dissolve as I couldn’t shake the image of a young child asking where their mother was— and how I wouldn’t be able to answer without crying.

I loved her fiercely— but I didn’t see the way through. By the time it ended I had nothing left to give— and I had wanted to give everything. I reluctantly handed back her heart pressure medication she had me hold onto during the end. I then wiped the laptop she borrowed of the google searches that confirmed my fears. There is a special, crystalized pain to loving someone that seems capable of leaving this existence at any moment. It’s a pain I could no longer bear— and I have mourned what could have been— by appreciating the joy and light that I got to experience before and amid the downturn. I wish her peace and love— and during quiet nights I imagine writing her a letter. But I’ve never been able to get beyond the first line.

I felt adrift after Charlotte— admittedly I haven’t dated anyone since with the same amount of seriousness. I learned at the peak what a loving partner could look like— as well as the opposite. I returned to the basics of my character and in doing so, I returned to soccer.

I messaged my sister’s friend whose husband was a big part of a local club and asked about any openings on the coaching staff. He told me “Yes” and I was hired within twenty four hours. It had been five years since I had last coached— and that was my first time around with the JV2 girls team at my old high school. It was simultaneously the most exhilarating and terrifying experience of my life— and it was something that I didn’t stop talking about for ages. I love coaching soccer. The fact that I’ve been paid to be on a grass field and kick a ball around feels ludicrous. But then again, if it’s there for the taking, why not?

I wanted to quit before I started coaching again. That’s how nervous I was. I wanted to quit because I didn’t think I’d be good enough— for the youth development program that I had been hired for. It wasn’t even teenage level competition and I had this deep worry that I would somehow mess this experience up for the kids I’d be coaching. So that’s why I couldn’t quit. Because even though it was youth development (small fry// small stakes) I cared enough that it seemed like the weight of the world briefly rested on my shoulders. After a chaotic first two weeks in which my brain did a hard reset and forgot every single drill I’ve ever done as a player and/or coach, I settled into my routine and found a semblance of peace.

I continued to pick up teams and during the summer I was contacted by my old high school head coach about possibly coaching the JV2 girls team again. I immediately said yes and made sure my schedule would squeeze around the opportunity. Five days a week I was involved in either practices or games with my oversized roster of twenty three girls. It was chaotic, exhausting, and undeniably brilliant. We rampaged to a 13-1 season and twenty one out of my twenty three girls scored. During this time I briefly attended a master’s of education program as I started to angle myself back to teaching— however online school has never been an effective tool for me, so I lasted all of two months before I called it quits.

However, as the summer began to wind down, I began to tackle the JET application with a previously unseen seriousness. I received recommendations from my favorite college professor and my favorite head youth program coach (shouts out E & T!). I was also asked at this time if I wanted to co-coach a 2009 boys team with my friend John, and I agreed. I had gotten to a level of peace where I felt okay with whatever the verdict I’d receive from the JET program. I knew that I had created a wonderful community in Portland. My constant movie & cocktail nights with Julius or the bar hangs with the boys. I had began to cobble together something that was comfortable. It was also why I felt confident in applying— because for once, I wasn’t running away from anything. If I didn’t get in, I’d continue to coach at some incredible programs— and do more of what I loved.

The next couple months went by in a blur— big highlights being the state title win for the varsity girls. I got to be on the sideline of an action-packed 4-3 win in which the head coach asked my advice during overtime on tactics (He had the same idea as me— but it was a personal win to be asked at all). I applied to be a substitute teacher in the public school system. I also began coaching the 2009 boys team with John.

Coaching and teaching gave me both confidence and peace— even though doing both led to some exhausting nights and weeks where I felt stretched thin. To add to the load, I started a personal challenge in 2022 called 365 stories (which you can find up above in the tabs) where I would write a story every day. Or at least a complete sentence (with some sort of idea attached).

I had spent so much time worrying about the identity of being a writer or coach or teacher— that I created a hodgepodge solution by slamming all of them together and then spending my “free time” grabbing drinks with friends and slinging stories. The anxieties I had attached to them in the past dissipated as I continued to add more to my daily docket. I no longer had the luxury of excessive time to lounge around and worry about what I should be doing— because I was out in the world doing stuff.

There’s a reflective side that does require a break from the constant go-go-go, but I’m learning how to balance that. By the end of the high school season, I felt like a used orange rind, all my energies spent. But by the end of this previous July, in which I had been at soccer camps, and trainings, and the winding down of teaching, etc— I felt in command of my energies.

My friend John told me that at the beginning of our friendship when we were both just coaching in the youth development program, we would both constantly talk about girls and dating— and that now, we would talk about our societal involvement and how to better the systems we were working with and in. It was a subtle thing as time continued to flow— but I saw the emphasis of my days turn towards the kids I was coaching and teaching— and how I could better help them navigate the challenges they faced.

At some point in early March I had my interview for the JET program— I felt calm even though it would change my life in substantial, unforeseen ways. But everything that had happened since the beginning of 2021 had helped give me the confidence to know that whether or not I got in, I was going to thrive. I donned a wretched tie and had a pleasant interview in which I felt I put my best foot forward. It’s easy to do well when it feels like the pressure is already off. I mentioned Kyushu was my top placement area— which drew a surprised reaction from the interviewers— and it was then that I knew I’d not only gotten in, but that I’d be headed to Kyushu. Which, in early June, I learned I was correct as I sat in my car during lunch break while teaching at a west side high school— I was going to Tsushima island.

In between March and June I flew to Atlanta, Georgia to drive across the country to LA with one of my best friends, Logan. He works in film and he couldn’t ship his camera equipment back— so we loaded up his Subaru and went on a grand adventure across the southern section of the country. We ate ribs in Memphis, outran a tornado in Oklahoma, got cursed out by a girl who drank espresso martini’s in Flagstaff, Escaped with our bumper intact after a semi- truck tailgated us through New Mexico and Arizona (We did move over to the right lane— he was just an asshole), got our room upgraded in Amarillo, Texas after the hotel clerk revealed she was a pagan and believed Logan to be one as well. We watched a pair of ravens fly intertwined over the Grand Canyon as snow fell in April. We had talks that only close friends have as the tarmac winds beneath your wheels and the miles fall away.

I stood outside at a trailer barbecue in the farmyard during a family/ friends engagement celebration while it rained with a man named Mark. He was the father of the bride and he could cook a mean lamb steak. We drank wine as we swapped stories about how Portland used to be along with a menagerie of other little tales and gossips. All told, three hours or so passed as we stood out there in the countryside— at a celebration I didn’t even plan to attend. The soon to be bride and groom were friends of the girl I was seeing, Rose— and while she’s a lovely human, my imminent departure to Japan had already begun to seal off my affections. I had debated ending things the week prior, but then her dog passed away and that would be characterized as a “real shit move” if I had done it then. So, I found myself in the fine company of Mark. After the meat was declared done— we moseyed inside with it. I stood around the kitchen island with a full plate of food and a new drink. Mark stood across from me as our conversation continued. His nephew was also involved in the conversation— someone asked Mark if he wanted a plate to eat and he politely declined. Citing his celiac condition— to which the nice person responded they had already accounted for that.

This led to a moment that has been burned into my brain— Mark accepts the plate— and takes a small bite of food. He pauses, as if unsure, and sets the plate down. I ask if he needs water or something— thinking there’s something caught in his throat. He wobbles a bit, and I turn around to look for what I do not know, but immediately turn around to see him crash to the ground. Another party goer jumps to him and begins to check his vitals and begins CPR (she was an off-duty EMT), I grab my phone to call 911 and find that someone else is already on the phone with them. I grab Rose and tell her we need to go outside— as everyone that’s left in the room that isn’t working on him or calling an ambulance is family. His wife, who had been outside for a portion with us, was on her knees with her hands pleading with him to get up— that he was still needed. I couldn’t feel anything at this point— but I knew it would live with me forever.

I stood outside with Rose as a soft rain drizzled on us. We stood between the front yard and the back— and inside my brain I felt like a hamster spinning on the wheel. Did we just leave? Did we stay? What do we do? There’s nothing to do. The man on the ground in front of me— separated by the walls of the house is already dead. I know this. I know he died the moment he hit the ground— it was too quick. Whatever had happened was beyond the skills of anyone in that room— and maybe anyone within a hospital.

The choice to leave or stay was made for me as the ambulance arrived and blocked the entrance to the property. I watched the red and blue lights flare upon the house as the rain continued— the family who witnessed what had happened were in the front yard somber and grieving. The family and friends who were still unaware were in the backyard laughing and drinking around a newly christened fire pit. The dueling scenes played out in real time as I struggled to feel anything but a deep numbness.

The mood turned when all guests were informed of the situation— we gathered mutely around the fire. None of us really knowing what to say. Some prayed. Some cried. Some walked into the forest and screamed like a banshee. I stood there— in shock that the man I had spent the last three hours with died before my eyes. That the light was snuffed out in an instant— and I frantically replayed the moment— trying to understand if there was anything I could have done.

Eventually Rose and I were able to leave. There weren’t many words shared on the long drive back to the city. The brand new “Pong Daddy” pin she had made for me that I wore especially for that night felt grossly out of place— just as I had felt as I stood around that fire with Mark’s family and friends. I ended things on Monday with Rose— knowing that the timing wasn’t going to get better or worse after an event like that. By the end, I had felt platonic affection for her. A wonderful human, but not someone more than a friend.

I had little over a month left in Portland after that— a month in which I threw myself into soccer camps and final goodbyes with friends and family. Into final food adventures and random odds and ends that I wouldn’t be able to sort halfway across the world. I went through this knowing that there would be a payment due for the numbness I felt that night. I knew that there were many things that had built over the past couple years that would unfurl in the width of new beginnings.

A final hurrah of goodbyes saw me get one hour of sleep and no food before standing in line at the Portland airport at three in the morning. I briefly left to go dry heave in the bathroom before returning to line and praying that I’d make it through security with my churning stomach. It felt like the worst time to impersonate uncultured butter while the airport played my Amish opponent. I found salvation in a Dramamine packet in Seattle— and settled into a semi-tolerable state as I left the US behind and crossed five thousand miles.

My arrival in Tokyo felt muted compared to years long past. I didn’t have the same giddiness or nostalgia, but I also had never been in Japan for work before. Still, I managed to press my face against the bus window in wonder as we drove through the outskirts of Tokyo. I had returned to a place that some part of me never believed I’d see again. I sat in my seat and read texts from Luna as I watched the lush green of the outskirts mesh with the metropolis. I felt the echoes of an older heartache as I said “I love you” and goodbye forty eight hours earlier. Darkly at the timing and wondering if I should stop wondering— but still stubbornly doing so.

The Shinjuku distract only saw me travel roughly six blocks during my first twenty four hours there before Nevil took me out to celebrate both my birthday and long awaited arrival. We drank outside of a tiny snack bar on a side street and ordered copious amounts of food while we marveled at our meeting place. We ended up going to the Golden Gai area of Shinjuku— a patchwork maze of tiny bars that are packed next to one another. We sat at the bar and smoked blueberry menthols while drinking Sake. The bartender was blasting SEXMACHINEGUNS— a Japanese metal band. It was the unexpected moment of realization that I had made it. That I now needed to look around at where I was at and decide how I wanted to move forward.

So— I ask myself that now as I sit at the low table inside my small apartment. What moments would I find important years from now?

I have lived many stories in my twenty eight years on this planet. And I hope to live many, many more. I write the stories that make me laugh. The ones that make me cry. The ones that make me stop and force my brain to whisper forgotten truths. The moments that seem to transcend the mortal— and take the essence of something I’m incapable of describing. The moments in which I feel like a roguish young child peeking ahead a page at the book your father reads you for bedtime. The recognition of characters upside down and slanted across a falling page—- just as we find meaning in dreams that slip the yoke of our conscious mind upon waking.

Mostly, I am trying. Trying to keep a gentle heart. Trying to both accept and better myself. Trying to share this positive energy I have within me with my communities. With my loved ones.

There is a peace to achieving a goal that has loomed over your other dreams like a stubborn storm cloud. It’s that it’s the beginning— not the end. I know have the task of figuring out what experiences I want to pursue in Tsushima and Japan— and which experiences will pursue me.

This life in this corporeal form is only coming around this once. That’s why I write. It’s also what emboldens me to speak with candor in many moments, but not all, as I still have fears. I still have my days of lacking. Of submissions too soon. As it always is— in the nature of humans. We possess that magic spark by dealing within the finite— and attempting to dabble with the infinite.