Michiko's America

I played tennis in college.  Everybody else in the club was more serious about it; I only played for pleasure.  I was also not that good at it.  Much later, I learned that my poor eyesight meant that I couldn’t measure a distance well: my right eye was near-sighted, and the left far-sighted, both with major stigmatisms.

When I got my first pair of glasses in my mid-twenties, my eye doctor proclaimed with a slight hint of joy,

“You’ll never be able to play tennis in your life. Pick another sport.”

But tennis was the only sport I cared about.  After a decade-long hiatus, I found myself on the court, taking lessons from a Japanese tennis coach.  However, I became busy with work and children, and my tennis racket was disappeared into the far corner of a closet for another decade.

I now play tennis almost every week and feel very fortunate.  I owe it to my friends who pulled me into their tennis group.

Since I was very young, I have led a dispassionate life.  I didn’t really love doing anything.  Sure, I enjoyed reading and playing the clarinet, but I did those things as they were readily available to me.  Throughout my life, my first priority has been a sense of balance.  Equilibrium.  Avoidance of excess.  This is probably because my mother told me repeatedly,

“You’re weak physically.  Don’t go overboard.  Moderation is the key.”  And the Japanese proverb “too much of a thing is as bad as too little” became my favorite motto.

A few years ago, I met with my mentor, Professor Kichiro Hayashi.  After an hour-long discussion, he gave me his diagnosis,

“You have missions all right.  But you lack passion.”  It was an affirmation of what I know about myself.  However, it rattled me a little.  Surprised by my own reaction, I reflected about it and thought about several things about which I could potentially become more passionate. However, in the end, I yet again recognized that passion wasn’t my first priority.

I’ve found an expression “you need to find the passion in yourself” in many self-help books.  If you’re not born passionate though, how can you become passionate about becoming passionate?  You almost need to go against your own genes.  It’s like telling a short person like me to get taller.

Although I gave up on becoming passionate, I have discovered something lately; I may appear to be passionate about tennis based on some recent outings to the tennis court.  On a cloudy morning after several rainy days, my tennis friends and I gathered at our regular tennis courts, picked the driest one and wiped it off with rags that we brought from home.  That’s how we operate when it comes to tennis.  But it took me some training to learn what is written in the group’s operations manual.

Once, when it was raining, I showed up at the tennis courts in jeans. From my perspective, there was no way we would play that day.  One of my friends examined me from head to toe and rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t believe it.  Although we wound up not playing that day, one of the women reminded me of the guidelines carved in stone: come in tennis clothes, rain or shine.

Recently, there was a big snow storm and then the temperature stayed low for several days.  A day before we were supposed to play, the temperature warmed up and the snow in the streets melted.  Still, I was confident that there was no way we could play.  So, I showed up dressed as if I were ready to play but with funky fuzzy socks hidden underneath my long pants.  The four of us walked up to the courts from the parking lot, and it was obvious that we couldn’t play; the courts were all covered with melted snow.  Then the leader of the group said,

“Let’s have breakfast first.”  I ended up having a second breakfast.  I didn’t think I could move with a doubly full stomach, but I wasn’t worried; we wouldn’t be able to play anyway.   We went back to the courts and saw they were still covered with some water, as I’d expected.  Then, an unexpected thing happened.  The leader announced,

“Let’s have a walk first.  The wind is picking up.  It may dry the courts for us.”  She was the most analytical person among us, so we followed her to the walking trail and returned to the same place fifteen minutes later.  The courts were still wet, but the dry area had expanded.  “Let’s walk again.” We went back to the trail.  She was right about the wind; one of the courts was almost dry entirely.  We wiped off a few wet areas with our rags and played in the blustery wind.  We all felt a good sense of accomplishment.

I was not any more passionate about playing tennis than before.  I was actually more concerned about my safety and keeping my equilibrium going.  But I’m sure other people who happened to see us play tennis thought I was as passionate as the other three.  I felt a secret pleasure in deceiving the public.

We have also played in the court surrounded by ice.  Whenever the ball went out of the court, we needed to skate on the ice to retrieve the ball.  Other times we played in amazing winds; every time a violent gust of wind came at us, we stood with our backs to the wind and waited like penguins in Antarctica until it subsided.

I’m still my apathetic self, but at least I’ve become passionate about following passionate people.  I love the energy that they radiate.  Besides, this is much easier than making myself passionate.

And this is one of the lessons that I have learned in the U.S.: just because you’re passionate about something, you don’t have to be a master of it.  When I’m in the Japanese mode, it’s hard to keep myself motivated when I don’t see much progress over a long time.  However, many Americans are experts of enjoying themselves.  They’re passionate about doing the things they like.  Mastery is a secondary gift that is extraneous to their enjoyment.

Jacques Pépin, a French chef living in the U.S., said on his cooking show,

“Too much of a good thing is … wonderful!”

I still don’t agree with him whole heartedly.  But I’m getting there.