As some of you know, I am now back in Minnesota. On September 16th, I met the day that I dreaded--my last day in Sapporo. I had spent the past week trying and failing many times to pack all of my belongings and take apart the room that had become my home. After the first attempt, I panicked, found a night bus to the peninsula of Shiretoko (the most uninhabited part of Japan) on the eastern side of Hokkaido, and fled. It left at 12:30AM, drove through the night, and I arrived with a vague plan to climb the mountain known as Rausu dake. I arrived at about 6AM, to learn--as I had roughly anticipated--that there were scant buses into the Shiretoko national park. To my great fortune, two French travelers had also disembarked with me, and after asking them if they knew of any buses and learning that they were simply going to hoof it (about 3 miles), they invited me along! I spent the rest of the day hiking along the roadside, seeing a bear within the first few hours, reaching the mountain hut, helping the two French travelers translate, climbing Rausu with them, spending the night with them, and hiking part of the next morning with them. Although I had planned on traveling alone, it was really a welcome and wonderful experience to hike with them. They were so friendly! I hope that our paths will cross again. My mind was often clouded by my dread about my upcoming departure from Japan, but for a time in Shiretoko I found calm. I swell with gratitude every time I think of the beautiful land of Ainu Mosir (Hokkaido). I was only in Shiretoko for one night and two days, so I could not do the entire traverse of the mountains. Coming back into the town of Rausu in the afternoon, I managed to catch the last boat tour. I was left in awe. I had not realized how high and incredible the cliffs around the coast were, or the deep admiration I held for the ocean as we glided through the waves. I was honored to see another bear and her cub eating salmon. I could have cried, gazing out at the rocks and trees--dwarfed by the the magnitude of the cliffs--and the seabirds swirling in the skies above each precipice. I thought to myself, what need have we of fantasy? This world is more fantastical than even the most creative human imagination could ever conjure. I am so grateful to live in this world, on this earth.

In my last days, I bid farewell to my lab and Koike-sensei. Saying goodbye to Koike-sensei was perhaps the most difficult thing I had to do. Afterwards, when I was alone and biking back, I immediately broke into tears. Koike-sensei has acted with such generosity towards me. I think of him much like a father! He has taught me, helped me, and supported me selflessly. I have learned so much from him and his dedication and hard work will always inspire me. I desperately hope that I will have the chance to meet him and the many lovely lab members and post-doc students who helped me.  I hope in some way I can return his kindness in the future. I also said goodbye to the wonderful professor Jeff Gayman, whose trust, kindness, and continued assistance opened so many doors for me to meet and learn from Ainu communities. I owe him greatly for this gift. The last few months that I was in Hokkaido were absolutely brightened by these experiences. I will always send my strength to the many Ainu people working hard to find ways to revive and protect their culture. Iyairaykere. Iyairaykere. Iyairaykere. ('Thank you'). Lastly, over my last few days the Hokkaido University track and field members gave me so much joy and so many smiles. The middle distance/distance girls took me out to a desserts buffet for lunch, and then a couple days later a group of sprinters took me to a cake buffet! Needless to say, I had quite a few sweets over my last week. I was absolutely touched. I appreciate it so much. I am generally a shy and quiet person, and so I am often surprised by such warm acts of friendship. On my very last day in Sapporo, it poured all day. I frantically wrapped up my last bits of packing, mailed my last packages, tied up my last ends. My fellow Fulbrighter Becca and my friend Kotaro ate Hara (tofu flour) donuts with me one last time, and then I went to the train gates at 6:30PM...where half of the track and field team was waiting for me!!! I laughed and smiled talking with them all, then they all bought 100yen tickets and came out to the platform with me!!!!! I was shocked! Before the train arrived, we all circled up, arms interlaced over shoulders, and they sang the school song to me. When they finished, eyes turned to me, and I did my best to string together the heartfelt thank you, friendship, and deep gratitude I felt for them all without breaking into tears. A few tears slipped out, and my voice wavered, but I was surprised by my own ability over my last days to hold together. I will never ever forget their kindness. They turned the day I had dreaded most into one of my dearest memories.

Once the train doors closed, the tears began, but they were tears of both happiness and sorrow. At the airport as I sat waiting for my (2 hour delayed) flight, tears fell unabashedly down my face. Because of a typhoon, my flight was extremely late and I finally reached Tokyo around 1AM. Then waited in a literal 2 hour line for a taxi (since it was so late that there was no other form of transportation) to a hotel were I slept a few hours (from 3:30 AM~6:30AM). On the morning of September 17th, I ate my last Japanese breakfast, ran for my last time in Japan in the same place I had run for the first time 1 year before, went to the Fulbright office to say goodbye and thank you, then to Meiji Jingu shrine to give thanks once more. Although my last day in Sapporo had been grey and a downpour--of course brightened by the kindness of others but wet nonetheless!--my very last day in Japan, in Tokyo, was beautiful sunshine. I am grateful to whatever forces conspired to grant that gift. I closed my phone account, and then caught a train to Narita airport. I gazed lovingly out the window at the landscape and cityscape of Japan. I tried to soak in every minute, like the last rays of warm sunshine. At Narita, I picked up my bags, checked them, and went through security with my banjo and backpack, with a deep, deep breath. I was saying goodbye to my home all over again. And it was more painful than before.

On the flight, I was very lucky (thanks to the help of the Japanese airport worker who checked me in for my flight at the kiosk) to have a window seat AND no one sitting next to me! My luck ran out when there was an announcement that there were mechanical problems with the plane's navigation system and after more than an hour of sitting and waiting on the plan as they tried to correct it, we all had to disembark, wait for a NEW plan for another hour or so, and then re-board. At least I still had two seats to myself. My flight had been scheduled to leave at 3:50PM but it was about 7PM by the time we finally started towards the runway. I remember that the sun was setting. I took another deep breath. And then I was in the sky. I watched the lights of Japan's coast until they disappeared. Then steeled myself against my sadness and tried to keep my head held high. I will be happy forever, for that one year in Japan.

While flying, I became more and more encouraged by the thoughts of seeing my family and friends. 12 hours later, gliding over the familiar cityscape of Minneapolis, it felt as if I had hardly left. It felt as if I was waking from a long dream. My family met me at the airport, and I was genuinely happy to see them. But I think I will never be the same, and my heart will always feel torn in two when I think of Japan, and Hokkaido. And it is always on my mind. There is not a day that my thoughts do not wander through the mountains and forests of Hokkaido, the streets of my neighborhood, the Shinkawa river widening out towards the ocean, the climb up Teine and Moiwa mountain , the agriculture building and mainstreet of the university, the shrines and temples of Honshuu, the bright, beautiful sidewalks of Tokyo, the hills of Nara, the cedars of Koya, the trains and stations, and many other places I was fortunate to see. There is not a day that I do not remember.

Now, I am in Minnesota again. And I am certainly glad to see the familiar fields and the city of Minneapolis, to run again around the lakes and to see family and friends. In particular, I am happy to see my dad again. I am struggling to course my future from here. I am planning to reapply to graduate school for forest sciences, but I continue to feel naive and lost when it comes to choosing a program. I also need desperately to find work here in Minnesota, as my student loan payments are a constant worry. BUT, there may be some hope for some excitement and a new chance to learn this year even after the disappointment of not being able to start my graduate school plans at Yale. It is still not certain, but I may be written into a grant by an amazingly generous and kind professor in Australia, where I will be able to help with a climate change research experiment for a few months! I am so indebted to the professor for working with me to create this opportunity. Even if it does not come to fruition, I am so grateful to him!

     I find it impossible to express the full depth of my gratitude for the year I have experienced. As I look back at the person I was at the beginning of my adventure, and now consider myself again, I am overwhelmed by the growth I have made. I think that perhaps the clearest evidence of this transformation is in the very fact that, when I first arrived, I counted the days until I would return home. Now, I wish they were beyond count, for I have found a home in Japan that I do not wish to leave. This is something shocking to me--not because I did not expect to enjoy Japan, but because I have always been in love with Minnesota. It was unfathomable to me that any place could match my own birthplace in my heart. Yet I have been proven wrong. Now faced with returning to the United States, I find myself undergoing the same painful parting as when I first stepped onto the airplane all those months ago waving goodbye to my family. To quote Shakespeare, parting is indeed “such sweet sorrow.”

    I will take some time to look back at all that has occurred for me over these 12 months. When I landed in Japan, it was the first time I had ever left the United States. It was the first time I would ever live more than an hours drive from my family. It was my first international flight. It was my first time traveling alone, period.  It was the first time using my passport and my first time crossing an ocean. It was a host of firsts. I can so clearly remember my fear as I sat, nearly unmoving, for 13 hours on my flight. I joke that I never succumbed to jet lag (which is true!) primarily because I was so petrified. Arriving at Narita, I had little idea of how to even take a bus or train by myself let alone navigate one of the largest cities in the world. I was overwhelmed, and secretly terrified--and likely outwardly more than I wished to show. Yet I found comfort in deep breaths. In the assurance that new experiences are good experiences, and that I should welcome the incredible opportunity to find my own strength. I often compared myself to characters in my favorite Tolkien novels, in the Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit. By and large, I was a hobbit out of my element. Like the character Sam in the Lord of the Rings, I was the farthest I’d ever been from home and in my naivety was bound for all sorts of mishaps. Like the character Bilbo in the Hobbit, I had been quite unexpectedly swept onto the road from my doorstep--questioning my own strength, stumbling along, longing for the comforts of my home, yet all the while harboring a spirit waiting to be awakened. A spirit that craved adventure. And now it has been so powerfully awakened! As with any adventure, no character emerges unchanged. I, too, have been profoundly changed.

My first months remained defined by my uncertainty and adjustment to the newness of being on my own and across the world. I absorbed everything with fresh, wide eyes. I remember becoming lost daily, being caught in downpours, and being pushed and pulled and frustrated by all sorts of complicated processes of settling in. Yet I was lucky to be welcomed into my lab, and I could never have asked for a better advisor than Professor Takayoshi Koike. I had feared I would have trouble finding a chance to visit the forests outside of Sapporo, and I need not have worried so. Professor Koike almost always found opportunities to take me along, or to involve me. Still, finding my footing as far as my own research took a lot of time and patience. As is the experience for many Fulbright Fellows, the course of my research proposal transformed over the year. It is subject to change, and alteration, and requires flexibility. I had originally intended to study the decline of mountain birch. However, I gradually discovered that there would be little contribution I could make to this research. It was well underway in the hands of a graduate student, and while I may study and assist as need be, if I wished to conduct more independent investigation it would need to be different than planned. Yet again I am grateful for Professor Koike, as he recognized my enthusiasm and promptly decided I should research elevated CO2 and seedling regeneration in shade conditions. In the end, this project turns out to be far more fitting to my larger goal of studying successional patterns due to global warming. The decline of mountain birch appears to be most closely related to anthropogenic industrial emissions of ozone, whereas seedling regeneration in this context involves multiple layers with regard to forest sustainability and succession and CO2. However, soon after seeing this glimmer of hope--this much-desired sense of direction--, the snows began. The beech, oak, and maple seedlings I had tenderly planted were soon buried beneath literal meters of snow. Thus began the long winter, and the long wait. Of course, I had Japanese language courses, HUSTEP science courses, and lectures from Professor Koike, and a host of incredible cultural experiences to productively occupy my time. Still, I felt anxious and that I was not accomplishing my research. Looking back, I do wish that I could have done more research during this time.

     On the other hand, I also realize that over the winter I learned an incredible amount. The opportunity to prepare myself before jumping head first into my experiment has probably been what has kept me to date from drowning in the complexity of that same research. It also gave me a chance to expand myself, and to participate in activities like the Hokkaido University track and field club. Among the decisions I am most grateful for during this year, joining the track club I hold very dear. Not only did it give me a way to continue running, to keep me mentally and physically healthy, but I met some truly wonderful people and found myself gradually integrated into the everyday life of Japanese students. The observations and interactions I made during this time--the chance to compare sports, teamwork, hierarchy, friendships in the U.S. and Japan--have been invaluable. They have made me more flexible, and more open and accepting to different strategies. They have reminded me again of the need for patience, and that there are many ways of achieving goals, many methods, many philosophies. They have shown me passion and dedication towards these goals transcend cultures. And of course, how could I ever forget the group of middle-aged men and women urban bee keepers who have adopted me? The members of the Sappachi Sapporo urban honey bee keepers, and their hives of honey bees on top of a tall pachinko building downtown, have brought me so many smiles and so much kindness. In particular one older lady, Takushima-san, who single handedly organized the entire group to come cheer for me at the Hokkaido marathon waving signs with my name surrounded by hearts.

     Slowly, as the grip of winter lessened and the ice began to melt, so too did my research pick up pace. Now, at the end of the summer and the growing season, it is at a furious, almost unstoppable race! I find I have no time for anything but research, in fact. After my week long boot camp with the Li-Cors machines measuring photosynthesis, I had the profound realization of just how complex my research had become. I took a step back and looked at myself, carrying around an expensive infrared gas analysis machine and realized, “my goodness, I look like I know what I’m doing.” Of course, I still have little idea of what I’m doing! But the confidence I received from even attempting these measurements, and from being trusted to do so, hit me like a welcome if intimidating, wave. I feel as though I will have such a huge head start over masters students when I pursue my degree in forest sciences. Not only have I been introduced to the processes, I have done them, and done them independently.

I believe comparisons to the faces of the seasons here in Hokkaido rather accurately reflect the progression of my own experiences. The winter was long, cold, and hard but also perilously beautiful. The spring was messy and slow to start. Then, suddenly, the land overflowed with splendor. In the past three months alone I have seen everything coalesce. I have been graced by more incredible experiences than I could have asked for in a lifetime, and no small amount of serendipity.

A long-harbored frustration concerning a lack of opportunities to become involved with Ainu communities was at last eased by meeting a Hokkaido University education professor originally from the United States. Because of his initial introduction, I have now had the chance of a lifetime to visit the Ainu-led Chikoronai reforestation project in Nibutani. I was overjoyed to find out about this project, and I am still unbelieving that I was able to visit not just once but twice. If only I had more time, there is so much to learn from this project. I find that my “scientific” research is only of any use if it is in a broad conversation with communities, with culture, and with history. There is little point in toiling away studying leaves or photosynthetic rates--compiling reams of data and numbers--if that “science” is kept so sequestered from the overlapping, connecting, cris-crossing web that is the world. It is a failure of many scientists and scientific institutions that they believe “science” can be made to stand alone outside of this web. The information, perhaps, can stand but there will never be “knowledge” without broader communication and recognition of the beautiful and varied expressions of the earth. This has been made all the more clear to me over the course of this year. For I have witnessed, on occasion, this very same self-centered, arrogant science and wish to have no part in it. I have also witnessed passionate researchers and environmentalists, who I wish to join. I wish to help change the way research is conducted--indeed, to abandon the concept of “research” in favor of the wonderful humility of “conversation” and “learning.” My chances to visit the Ainu community of Nibutani, to meet individuals and receive their endless kindness, and to learn has absolutely defined this last part of my Fulbright year. I shudder at the image that exchange students form of Ainu communities and the history of colonization of this land based solely on the museum displays and perfunctory, cursory introductions provided in lectures or tourism advertisements. This image is hollow and ingenuine compared to the actuality of present day Ainu.

Lastly, I should speak of my experiences directly with the land. For in this growing love, I have also found the most drive and dedication. When I first arrived in Japan, I was not connected in an ecological sense to the land, the plants, the creatures, the soil that make up these islands. They were unfamiliar to me, and I regarded them with curiosity. I had yet to take root. As the year passed, this land became as dear to me as my birthplace. The overflowing green of Hokkaido’s growing season has ensnared me, never to let go. It is always on my mind. As I study, as I perform measurements for my experiment, when I fall asleep at night, and when I wake in the morning, my first thoughts fall to the land. To gaze upon the mountains and varied landscape of Hokkaido is to walk in waking dream. It is far from pristine--no land on earth is “pristine” and we should rejoice in the interconnectedness of human beings and other organisms and the stuff of this earth. It tells an unfortunate story of destruction in the name of mindless development. There are many scars. Yet despite these scars of development and industry, Hokkaido appears so incredibly strong and verdant. There is much to be done to heal the land. But curiously, it is in the negligence of the land that I find some hope. Perhaps, left to its own devices, and vary delicate, tentative human responses, it can recover immensely. As a result of the profound love I have found for Hokkaido and for Japan as a whole, I am now devoted to the protection of this earth with such passion that I will never give up. Because of the experience that Fulbright have given me, I am a great leap closer to doing so. I will never, ever forget the grace that has been this year. This year, for perhaps the first time in my life, I have found true happiness, wonder, and strength in myself. That is a gift beyond all riches.