winter: relationships

THE RELATIONSHIP THAT SUFFERED THE MOST during my short stint as a stay-at-home mom turned full-time employee was the one with my husband. At the lowest point, he broached the possibility of finding his own place to live, and I was so far gone in my illness and in my attempt to stay in the corporate rat race, his words didn’t fully register. His mouth moved, words came out, but all I heard was a jumbled, incoherent mass of slow-motion sounds. We were unhappy with each other, that much was clear. Ours wasn’t some star-crossed pairing from the get-go, but after fifteen years, we had a finely tuned secret weapon to carry us through even the harshest of moments: we could always laugh together.

But for the first time, we weren’t able to joke our way out of the discomfort and problems. I didn’t know why. To me, it seemed like we’d gone through worse in years past and survived. Yet something had severed and cracked, and I felt broken. We are natural contradictions: his extroversion to my introversion; his ability to see the big picture to my detail-orientation; his unreserved machine-gun wit to my reticent straight man. At the core, I believe we have the same values about loyalty and honesty and integrity and all the lofty ideals. I often think of us as paddling a two-person kayak, piloting a rickety craft together. In order to keep the kayak afloat and moving ahead, we need to paddle with our synchronous values. But to turn, tandem kayakers need to paddle in opposite directions, and this requires some finessing to effectively negotiate the turns—sometimes our extreme innate differences cause us to spin in circles.

It seemed as if our imaginary kayak had split in two, and we now passed each other in stony silence, mirthless. There were moments when we managed a strained smile.

A close second in terms of damaged relationships was the one with KoKo. But with her, as soon as I was back in stay-at-home-mom mode, albeit bedridden for a good while, she quickly forgave me and rejoiced in my return, showering me with endless hugs and kisses.

Some reparations were in order. With the holidays around the corner, I was determined to make this one extra special. I didn’t grow up in a religious household though my parents dabbled a little bit in both Buddhism and Christianity. I have vague memories from when I was very small of a Los Angeles temple with a lot of Japanese folks eating mochi and noodles, and of my dad joining a Bible study group for a spell. But the thing I remember most about those early holidays was that my mother always gave my brothers and me those dollar store Advent calendars with chocolates nestled behind numbered cardboard doors that flipped up. I looked forward to them every Christmas, and my mother still adores them to this day. In the hopes of establishing a similar tradition for KoKo, I decided to flex my crafting biceps for my own version of an Advent calendar that winter. A quick search yielded instructions for a lovely set of gem-shaped boxes, so I cut and folded and glued twenty-five gems in gold, silver, and sparkly white paper. I filled them with treats and strung each on baker’s twine, then glowed in my Martha moment. KoKo did a happy dance when she saw the Advent calendar, of course, and we started off the holidays with a bang.

I also busied myself sewing up gifts for my friends, whom I’d sorely neglected. They had been patient with my repeated cancellations, the constant e-mail checking in their presence, and my despairing requests for last-minute childcare. For several friends, I made pouches filled with tea and other relaxing goodies; and for others, I whipped up tea towels made out of the highest quality linen I could find. Over several evenings, I industriously decorated the tea towels with tiny understated Sashiko stitches. Batches of homemade caramels wafted their sharp sweet scent throughout the house as I packaged them into small waxed paper bags for neighbors. I was grateful to be reconnecting with the small groups of people who had unfailingly supported me, despite the distance I’d created.

But with the husband, I knew that he wouldn’t be easily won over by paper crafts or handmade goods, so I didn’t even try. Instead, I waited. The quotidian punctuated our days, and the currents of trivialities smoothed over the crags and shards of disappointments. I found solace in those seemingly boring, unglamorous moments when it felt like we weren’t on the offensive or defensive. We resumed our weekly Saturday brunches. We took turns to kiss our daughter good night. We created new routines now that our roles had shifted yet again. It took a long time for us to navigate to a place that looked sort of like peace, or at least détente.

Matters weren’t helped by an unexpected relapse on my part; my health had started to decline again. Perhaps it was the stress of the season and the high expectations that come with it. I’d also become lax about my daily exercise and diet routines, which definitely had an impact. A profusion of sweets filled our cupboards, and I snacked on them mindlessly. And as the temperatures dipped, I was spending more and more time loafing about and avoiding physical activity. I was still sleeping enough for the most part, but did sacrifice quite a few nights to get gifts done in time. It was so easy to slide back into a less than healthy lifestyle, I almost didn’t notice.

Luckily, or not so luckily, my hyperthyroidism serves as a clanging alarm, and my body was now quick to react to mistreatment. As soon as I stopped taking care of myself, I started coughing and my energy levels depleted. Oh, I remembered, the basics: sleep, walk, chop. It was time to get back on the health wagon.

As I refocused on my physical fitness and nutritional needs, the short-lived days of December and January gave way to February. For Valentine’s Day, I wrapped a handmade gift for my husband and proffered it to him tentatively. I had sewn a pair of boxer shorts out of turquoise cotton with small colorful circles that looked like abstract Japanese lanterns. He scrutinized them for a minute after clumsily tearing the paper apart. He immediately tried them on, but oh, they were too small! I was so used to sewing pint-sized outfits for KoKo and couldn’t gauge adult male sizes properly—they got stuck mid-thigh, and he made an off-color joke and then he smiled. I laughed and laughed. I felt something give. A gust of tense air loosed. We just might be OK.

In Japan, gift-giving is prompted by giri, or obligation, and is a cultural imperative. One must never visit someone without a present in hand, and the Japanese have made the practice into a commercialized art form. Stunningly prewrapped gifts are available everywhere you look, and each prefecture and city has iconic items of renown. For a couple of years I lived in the city of Matsusaka in Mie Prefecture, and this particular region was known for beer-fed beef and indigo-dyed cotton. Cleverly packaged Matsusaka beef and indigo handkerchiefs graced the storefronts of many a train station vending area. For other regions, it might be buckwheat noodles. Or mandarin oranges. Usually, the iconic item is food. I grew up with this mentality and to this day still feel compelled to be at the ready with a gift.

But now, gift-giving is an act of love and compassion. I revel in thinking about what would make the recipient light up, and what would not only be aesthetically pleasing, but also useful. I kept these guidelines in mind when creating the following projects, which are quick to make (to avoid losing sleep as I am wont to do when ensconced in gift-making) and highly customizable.