Little earthquakes

Roughly two or three times a day, Japan experiences some kind of earthquake. Most are miniscule and barely noticeable - for the first month I just thought there was something in the water making my knees sporadically wobble - and some are slightly bigger. Now and then, though, there will be a shudder that is so severe and lasts so long that you end up crawling shakily down your bedroom ladder in the middle of the night and screaming crossly 'I don't have a bloody doorway to stand in' at nobody in particular (I live in a studio apartment).

Last night was one of those nights. There was a shudder that woke me up and left me staring at the ceiling and calculating - for at least twenty seconds - exactly what was positioned directly above me. And then, after I had done that, left me calculating for the following twenty seconds just how I felt about being crushed to death by my upstair neighbour's toilet.

"Did you feel it?" a friend asked me this morning at school.
"Of course I did," I said. "My flat is made of origami paper."
"That one freaked me out. You know The Big One is on its way?"
I nodded. I don't need to answer that: my friend tells me at least once a week that The Big One is on its way. It's seventy years overdue, actually. I know this because she also tells me at least once a week that it's seventy years overdue, actually.
And then she dropped the bombshell.
"What would you save?" she asked, prodding at her rice ball as if she hadn't just turned my life upside down.
"Eh?" I replied.
"What would you save? I mean, if - sorry, when - The Big One happens, what will you grab? I've already got my route all planned out, via my ancient teddy bear and laptop."
I stared into space blankly and tried unsuccessfully to think of something - anything - that meant anything to me.
"Nothing," I said in a small voice.
"Oh." She licked a grain of rice from her finger. "Ok, I guess you've not been here that long. What about if it was in England? What would you save then?"
I stared into space even more blankly.
"Nothing," I said in an even smaller voice.
"Nothing?" My friend stopped picking at food and looked at me. "Nothing? At all?"
"I don't really have anything to save," I said, and put my own rice ball down.

I don't. I have absolutely nothing I own - either in Japan or in England (which is lucky because I believe that everything I left behind got thrown out two minutes after I left) - that I couldn't lose in a moment and never, ever think about again. Not one thing. Not a piece of art, not a piece of jewellery, not an item of clothing, not a piece of technology, not a sentimental toy, not a diary, not a small scrap of blanket from my childhood: nothing. In fact, if my laptop got squashed it would arguably be deemed a mercy killing, considering its current age and state of health (and the same certainly goes for the contents of my wardrobe).

If the ground shook last night in real terms, it felt like it shook again for me this morning. I'm 28 years old, and I live like a nomad who doesn't actually travel anywhere. I live out of a suitcase, and if - say - my suitcase got lost in transit, it wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference to me: there's nothing in it that means anything to me at all.

"Wow," my friend said eventually. "You're, like, so non-materialistic." She paused. "I wish I could be more like that. I have twenty five pairs of shoes."

But she's wrong: it's not about being non-materialistic at all. It's about the opposite. It's about being too scared to have anything I care about in case I end up losing it. It's about refusing to allow myself to feel close to anything, in case I have to learn to live without it. It's about taking massive risks with my life all the time - quitting my career in PR, moving to Japan, writing a book, jumping off mountains - and yet never really taking the tiny, daily risks that mean that anything really touches me. It's about refusing to build anything because it means that I can't run away if I need to, and because it might all fall through to the ground in a mess.

Little earthquakes are good for Japan; they release the pressure that would otherwise build up and create The Big One, and they remind everybody that the ground is always, always moving and to be aware of just how fragile what they have built is. But, at the same time, it also reminds them how precious the things they have are, and how much they want to hold on to them. And, so, I think little earthquakes might be good for me too.

Because they've made me realise that it might finally be time to start building a life around me that I really want to save. Before I end up with a toilet on my head.