The lights on the stone shimmered as rain fell on the Kaminarimon Gate and Senso-ji Temple, wind blowing through the city canyons as I shivered against the gale. It was early in the evening, maybe 9:00 PM, and I kept trying to grab a shot.

My camera fought me as the rain splashed drops of water on the lens making focusing hard in the dim, wet light. I tried again, holding the camera in front of me to capture the feel of the night: windy, cold, wet. I couldn’t focus on the scene and the shot looked stupid. I pulled out my phone and tried to grab a shot more quickly. The wind pushed me slightly sideways, and I had to take a small step with my left foot, my shoe plunging into a puddle, the water soaking my pant leg. I groaned and tried to steady against the pressure coming from the Sumida River not more than 500 feet from where I stood. I shuffled, took a picture, turned slightly, and took another. These were grab shots, off-kilter moments of photography that had become too common on these first days in Japan.

As I grabbed another, I wondered at my luck – or lack of it. I’d planned a solo trip to Japan, a trip I’d wanted to do for so long and here I was failing at photography at every turn. My shots were pedantic, frozen, and lacked any kind of sense of place or reality. Since I had arrived just a couple of days ago, it all felt silly; nothing was working out and I wondered why I was even here. What WAS I doing?
Tears came to my eyes as I felt a wave of deep, dark sadness. I questioned everything in my life up to this moment and it all felt so pointless.

Waves of sadness splashed over me as the wind whipped around and through me. The worst part, the very worst part in this moment, was my failure at photography. I’ve been taking shots since I was a small child, introduced to photography by my uncle Henry. My first camera, a Kodak 110, I used all the time. I took photos of the dumbest things and Henry insisted that I use only Ektachrome or Kodachrome for my shots. I still have piles of tiny slides from the days I used that plastic Kodak.

Thoughts about Henry and photography flooded my mind, and I was transported to a conversation we had about using his Nikkormat camera. Henry was particular about how I used the camera and was worried I didn’t have the understanding or skill to make it work. We talked about it and I brought the camera to my eye. It was heavy and holding it up was a chore. We were at an old lumber mill that was collapsing near the Oconee river in Georgia and I was trying to capture the strange patterns of wood in various states of decay all around me. Because I had trouble holding the camera, the shots that emerged were slightly blurry. I only got one good shot out of the six or so he let me shoot. The rest of my photos were from the 110 and we walked around the area, the smell of rotting wood strong in the moist Georgia air.

I gave into the rain there on Kaminarimon-Dori and started to walk to Ichiban Ramen just around the corner. This famous ramen shop was downstairs off the sidewalk, a tiny spot popular with tourists and locals alike. I held the handrail as I walked into the bowels of the building. Water was running down the stairs from the outside as no door was closed to the inclement weather. I made it to the landing as a short line of people gathered to purchase their ramen from the machine in front of me. The machine took Yen and I inserted the bills into the machine and chose my selections – spicy, thick noodles, no pork, and extra onions. I shuffled forward filled out a form confirming my choices and was directed toward a seat – only one available in the tiny, crowded space. I sat, my bulk occupying more space than two people in this restaurant. Most folks were half my size and the spaces were small….the seats were much smaller than ones in the U.S. and sitting here was more like perching on a wooden stool rather than seated in a comfortable wooden chair. So, I squirmed a bit as I waited the four minutes for the food. The noise was a constant drum of sound with an occasional tight laugh. Everyone in the room on this night was Japanese and the tones and sounds were muffled. It was a relief to be in the space and among people who were generally quiet and contemplative.
I looked around and rose to get some water from a container. Squeezing through the space between the tables and chairs required me to move sideways, a practice I was comfortable with. I made my way, got two glasses, and returned to my table. Once I sat down, the ramen bowl was brought to me and I offered my thanks “onegaishimasu” and then a more quiet, “Iradashimasu” in gratitude of the hot food on this cold night. It’s not common for folks to linger in restaurants in Japan and so I ate efficiently. Not quite cramming the food but eating. It reminded me of reading Zen Mind, Beginners Mind years before with the statement, “When you are eating, eat.” So I ate. The warmth of the ramen and the chewy noodles comforted me and I left behind my sadness for a moment and reveled in the fact that I was sitting in the restaurant, a place I visited not more than nine months before, enjoying the moment in Japan. A sense of well-being settled over me and I sat, for just a minute, in the awareness that I was so lucky to be here now.

I didn’t want to leave this space but the tiny seat and the constant flow of people into the restaurant made me move my things…camera, umbrella, rain jacket. I rose, slowly, and donned the jacket as a few water drops fell to the ground around me. I steeled myself for the upcoming storm outside and made my way up the stairs, a slippery mess from the water on the slick, maroon linoleum.
I stepped under a roof that sheltered me from the deluge and I walked a few feet to the crosswalk. The streets were relatively quiet and I walked across the street as the light shone giving me a series of dots marking the time to make it to the other side. Wind whipped between the buildings in my face and I turned a corner toward the Sumida and across the Azumabashi bridge over the river. As soon as I got ½ way across the bridge, the wind was brutal. My umbrella was no use, and I pulled my hood down around my face and pushed across. I was staying in Taito City in a small hotel called Rakuten STAY. It’s off the beaten path and as a result the cost is reasonable. I walked past the Asahi Brewing Company headquarters. A few people passed me headed home after work. I found my way between buildings and to the Hotel. The rain had subsided a bit and I made it into the lobby with iPads that summoned employees via video. I headed up to 606 on the top floor and got ready for a blast of wind that I was prepared for this time. The doors of the hotel rooms faced outside, and rain and wind pounded the walkway. As the elevator doors opened, the wind hit me and I walked quickly to the room, pressed the code on the door, and entered the room. As the door closed, the quiet of the room was noticeable and I grabbed the remote for the heater and punched 74. Within minutes the room was warm.

Inside the doorway I removed my shoes and placed them in a small closet with my jacket and umbrella. The sound of the storm, a distant hum outside my room. As I took a single step into the space, I noticed why I chose this space: cartoon pandas painted on the walls next to my bed. The space made me feel light, less heavy, less taking myself so damned seriously. I sat on the bed and took off my pants and shirt (wearing layers against the wind) and headed into the tub/shower for a quick, warm douse of water. I dried off and dressed for bed even though it was only about 10PM. I snapped on the TV and watched Japanese Variety shows in their grand silliness.

As the sound of the Japanese jokes spilled over me, my mind went to work, trying to make sense of the day, the trip, my life, and just about everything else I could cram into my head in this tiny room. I quickly settled down the mess by breathing deeply a few times and relaxing into a meditative state that came easily. I lay there (no real space to sit comfortably on the floor) and let the thoughts rise as they would. The sadness quickly took over and I wondered at my choices. My self-criticism was strong, and I was so frustrated by my photography. Judgment raged for a moment in my head, and I told myself to slow the fuck down….to relax into moments rather than seeking them out. The photos would come to me…gradually. The thought dissipated and another arose: what am I doing here? What is my purpose?
Before I decided on this trip last year, I made myself a promise: I was not going to go to Tokyo with a purpose. Aside from taking photos, I did not want to DO anything…I planned to wander through the city hitting parks and streets, letting photographs come to me, and deliberately not being any more purposeful than that. No touring, just seeing.

I lay there in my mental struggle, those thoughts came back to me, and I let these feelings wash over me…it was OK to not have a single image to share or hold. It was OK to just be in these moments in this massive city.

My mind cleared, my thoughts collapsed, and I was in a meditative state. The energy of the mental struggle exhausted me and I slowly dozed off to sleep, turning off the TV as I lay on a buckwheat shell pillow, the crunch a kind of murmur in my ear.