Taking note

It`s easy to make me ashamed of myself. The shame is usually there anyway, lurking somewhere just below the surface with its eyes poking up like a crocodile, so just the smallest prod and I`m overwhelmed with it and want to beat it with a stick until I`ve forgiven myself and you`ve forgiven me too. Which isn`t particularly healthy or normal, admittedly, but at least it means that I`m not consistantly obnoxious. In fact, it means that I`m not really consistantly anything at all (I`ll be predictably neurotic about that another time).

Last night, however, I was made extremely ashamed of myself by a little Japanese lady who has been hired by my employer to sort my life out for me.

I managed well enough in Tokyo - I just didn`t pay anything until whatever it was was covered in red ink and three inches high on my doormat - but apparently I`m either a little more precious in Miyazaki (what with there only being one of me, and not 10,000), or the bills are a little more important (what with there only being 20,000 of us and not 1.5 million), so this time they`re looking after me and my health and my money. Last weekend, in fact, I got the following, enchanting phone call:

"Hello? Holly speaking."
"Hello Horry-san! I am Yuki. I call from your work."
"Hello. Is everything ok?" (I always deal with conversations from any employer I have as if I`m about to get fired at any moment.)
"Yes. Is raining."
"It is, yes."
"We are ... worried."
"About the rain?"
"No, about you."
"Ah. Why?"
"Because it is raining."
"Well it`s not very nice, but I`m sure I`ll be okay."
"Rain heavy in Nichinan."
"Yes." (Nervous laughter from me: still convinced this is very polite and standard Japanese lead-up to being sacked.)
"House okay?"
"Oh, it seems to be doing well, yes."
"Roads okay?"
"Apparently so."
"You ok?"
"A bit wet, but okay."
At which point Yuki bursts into the most enthusiastic, genuine laughter I`ve heard in many months.
"Wet, yes!" he says, almost incoherent with mirth. "Bery, bery wet."
"Yes, very, very wet." I laugh too, because it seems rude not to.
"Well, I go now. Be not wet!"
And then he hung up, comforted by the fact that I am dry and obviously still in possession of a sharp and powerful sense of humour. The fact that I have no idea who Yuki is - or why he thinks the rain might hurt me - makes it even sweeter.

Yesterday morning, as Part Two of the Looking After Holly programme, a timid little Japanese lady took me to the Post Office to sort out Boring Stuff I`ve not been bothered (or capable) of sorting out for myself (driving licence, bills, visa; you know, the grown up stuff that lets you stay in a country and work there). At the end, she took an envelope of money my grandparents gave me as a gift many months ago, and took it to the bank to change it to yen because it is only open when I`m at school and so I can`t do it myself. Last night she arrived at my house to give it back to me (after tapping on the window behind my computer while I`m writing which everybody does and which really, really freaks me out).

"I got the money," she said, handing me an envelope.
"Thankyou so much," I said. Then she handed me the envelope the money had come in: signed Much Love Grandma and Grandad.
"I bought one," she said. "For me."
"Really?"
"Yes. It is very, very beautiful."
She reached into her handbag and pulled out the note. I frowned at it, but it looked very much like a purple, British 20pound note to me.
"Mmm," I said, unconvinced.
"I gave you more for it, because it is so beautiful." And she meant it: she gave me quite a lot more. If she was my exchange rate, I could make quite a hefty sum, buying and selling British money to her.
"Golly. Thankyou."
"I shall keep it. It is a gift from your ba-ba and ji-ji?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then when you leave, I shall give it to you back."
"Why?" I said, somewhat bluntly. "There are lots of them in England."
"Because" - and here her eyes actually welled up as she struggled to find the right words - "it has your grandparent`s love inside it."
And then, wiping away the tears and smiling, she put the love carefully back in her handbag and patted it gently.

When she had left, I looked at the floor for a few minutes - red cheeked and mentally whipping myself for being so unsentimental in only seeing the gift in terms of what it could buy me - and realised that yet again I had been made ashamed of myself by the kindness of a complete stranger (and the kindness of my grandparents, obviously).

Every time somebody does something for me for no reason - checks to see if I`m dry in the rain, or looks after my grandparent`s love for me in the shape of a 20 pound note - it makes me feel like I need to be better. That, on the road to being a good person, and a caring person, and a wise person, I`ve only just started.

And it reminds me that - in learning of kindness and compassion - I should always be taking note.