Kindness

I'm living now in what's called a "guesthouse" here, more or less a long-term hostel; my own bedroom and then a kitchen and bath shared with six other boarders. There's a television in the common room, and I turned it on while cooking up my dinner of udon with mushrooms, tofu and vegetables. There's only a few non-japanese channels: CNN, BBC World, not much of substance, standard boilerplate news material. But there is one station that's commercial-free and generally has something good on, mostly german and french films, and for some reason, not infrequently, some odd claymation shorts.
While I was cooking I had the BBC World on; background noise to accompany the quiet sounds and smells of cooking food. Raining in the night, dark and cold and wetness surrounding the light and warmth of the small room. When I'd turned off the stove and filled my bowl I sat down on the couch and turned to the movie channel and found that it was about ten or fifteen minutes into The Straight Story. It's a movie I've seen a few times, based on the true story of an elderly man named Alvin Straight, who travels for over 400 miles on his riding-lawnmower to visit his long-estranged brother after hearing that he's recently had a stroke. It's a work of art that has meant a lot to me, that I've seen more than once for a reason. Just happening to come across it as I sat down with my bowl of home-made food, alone and thousands of miles, an ocean away from my home; as soon as I saw the familiar shots of rolling sun-lit wheatfields and felt myself recognize what it was, I also suddenly felt my heart; felt, suddenly, the full enormity of the gift and burden of being alive, of being able to love and be loved.
The movie is a simple paean to the kind of American life and character that moves me, that I sometimes lose hold of when I am angry with, and afraid of, the kind of monster that my country has in many ways become. It is a document of guileless sincerity, of acts of basic decency and kindness, and several times as I sat there alone I found my eyes filled with tears, my heart filled with the ache of sadness and wonder. I forget; the bustling multitude of the city, the stress of where I am and what I'm trying to accomplish, it accretes and piles up and I forget, lose sight of myself. And then something suddenly reaches straight in and touches it, suddenly fills it with light; and it's both the sweetness of remembering, of the clarity, and the sadness of the blind alleys I wander in when I get lost.
Alvin just wants to see his brother again, after ten lost years; to just sit on the porch with him and look up at the stars as they did on summer nights when they were young and still free. I just want to be able to close my eyes and remember that they are there. To remember that even as the city gazes inward, lost in its own wonders, the stars are still up there shining; even if invisible, the rain of starlight is blessing this place all the same.