By Yuri Yamamoto

On August 7, 2012, I flew back to Japan from the U.S. to see my father die. After he was diagnosed with a myelodysplastic syndrome in June 2011, I traveled to Japan several times. These trips brought me closer to my roots I had abandoned in 1984.

I heard about my father’s terminal diagnosis while grappling with my sudden urge to connect with Japan and Japanese people after the Great East Japan Earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear disaster. I was reading and watching numerous Japanese news and commentaries, reaching out to my family and friends, volunteering to translate radio interviews, and organizing charity events for the victims. Almost three decades of denial and avoidance of my roots seemed to have vanished overnight. I also experienced a racial identity crisis, in which I realized that my dream of becoming a real American — white — would never materialize.

Finally, I decided to go to Japan to volunteer. Then, my father’s diagnosis came two days before my departure date. Hearing that my father had only about a year to live, my heart was torn. It was as though I was experiencing the emotional earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear explosions. I went to see him straight from the airport and told him that I wanted to stay there the whole time. But he told me, “Go to Fukushima. Follow your plan.”

On a slow train to Fukushima, I was reading a poetry collection my father’s company had published. The words of an unknown Fukushima poet became songs as I read them. These songs brought many new connections — the poet among them — and opportunities.

My father became my biggest cheerleader. He was a good listener, and I felt I was walking in his footsteps when listening to peoples’ stories. My father seemed to get from my activism a purpose to live his remaining life. Those fourteen months were intense, stormy, and deeply meaningful.

After his death, I felt like being in the middle of this world and another one. Everything appeared more vividly, and my ordinary sensibility was gone. I was angry that the world kept going while I wanted to hold onto this special space.

Feeling an intense need for vulnerability and intimacy, I traveled around Japan to meet relatives and friends to hear about my father. Those stories filled me, but I really missed hugs, because the Japanese people did not hug each other. On my last day, as we waited for a bus to the airport, I pulled my stepmother into a hug. But she smiled reluctantly and said, “That’s an American style.”

When I came back to the U.S., my seven-year-old daughter greeted me by the door. When she raised her arms to be hugged, I held onto her very tight and burst into tears. I still remember her scared face. My Japanese husband never liked hugs, so he was no help. When I went back to the church, I found that a real, tight hug was rare to come by, even in the U.S. I was lonely and frustrated, but no one seemed to care to see the brokenness within me.

In September, I went to a weekend-long 5Rhythms workshop, a freestyle conscious dance meditation. During the workshop, a facilitator guided participants through the stages of flowing, staccato, chaos, lyrical, and stillness. Subconsciously, I knew that my body needed intense chaos to express my grief. Initially, joy came out, but I kept dancing very hard, stomping, charging, and jumping, so that I could crack through the thick walls of positivity into where my raw emotions were hidden. Finally, I collapsed on the floor, screaming. Then, came the lyrical, a slow move of authenticity. In the stillness stage, I felt exhausted, incredibly open, and held. When each of us offered one word to the group at the end, I said, “serenity.”

After the workshop, I wrote a song called Meditation Dancers. I thought about a woman with her eyes closed and arms crossed as though to hug herself. She was a mirror image of myself who was closed up in my grief. We were dancing in the same space but alone. After we got through the chaos, we were reaching out and dancing together. Neither is right or wrong, just different ways of experiencing our feelings. But with courage, we can break through the hard shell to touch the tender hearts of our own and each other. This is where I find serenity.

Meditation Dancers by Yuri Yamamoto

You are lonely
You are beautiful
You are sacred
With your eyes closed

I am lonely
I am beautiful
I am sacred
With my eyes closed

We are lonely
We are beautiful
We are sacred
With our eyes closed

Too much pain is in my heart
Smiling in vain tears me apart
So, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the chaos
Until we get all the way to the other side!

You are yearning
You are lovely
You are seeking
With your arms flowing

I am yearning
I am lovely
I am seeking
With my arms flowing

We are yearning
We are lovely
We are seeking
With our arms flowing

With our arms flowing…

Yuri Yamamoto (they/she) is a board-certified chaplain, ordained and endorsed by the Federation of Christian Ministries. After coming from Japan to the U.S., Yuri was a scientist (molecular biology/plant biology) and a church musician in a Unitarian Universalist congregation. Their theological education is from Shaw University Divinity School, and after two CPE residencies, Yuri is serving as a clinical chaplain in a close custody state prison. Yuri and their husband have six kids, four kids-in-law, four grand kids, and one dog.