24 Hours Under a Strange Sky

I’ve been home to Yokohama, Japan for just over 24 hours. We are 234 km (145 mi) from the failed Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. We’ve had two earthquakes that under normal circumstances would have been more newsworthy but in context registered as insignificant. The streets are quiet due to the gasoline shortage, many people in the foreign community have left to escape the potentially long arm of nuclear fallout. For the moment, those that remain behind sit and wait under strange skies.

photo by S. Devadas

The light in Japan often reminds me of the amber sun hitting a Pinon Pine at the Grand Canyon or the clear morning light playing off the gold of the granite fishing piers of Rockport, Massachusetts inspiring the painters with their pallet and canvas. During winter, for days on end, the sky shines blue over Mt Fuji and warmth fills the air as futile photographers with expensive lenses try in vain to capture the full essence of the mountain. In summer typhoons fill the sky with plumes of violent storm clouds leaving us to take welcome refuge inside snug houses. In the spring Yellow Rain carries fine sand from Northern China, Mongolia and Kazakhstan and deposits this on our homes and most noticeably on our cars. It distorts the light and obscures the sun. We wait peacefully inside or go about our business taking care to minimize outdoor exercise for a day or two.

Since coming back home Tuesday from an ill-timed trip to Canada, the light outside has been strangely ominous. We are told that there is no imminent danger from the failing nuclear plant but not to use our air conditioners because they bring in the outside air. We are reassured that the radiation levels from a full day outside are equivalent to 1/200 of that we’d experience on flight to New York City. We have little choice but to believe and move about our normal routines, albeit only for essential business. Our true feelings are betrayed, however, as the parks are empty.

The sky, as seen in the above photo taken from our neighborhood yesterday, could contain yellow sand from Mongolia. There is fresh yellow dust on our car and if it weren’t for the looming fear of a meltdown it would probably be just a good day not to go for a run. Instead the light has been an incessant reminder of the unknowns of the current situation. Rather than the yellow light of the painter or the photographer, this is the yellow light of caution – the yellow light of waiting for fate to play out.

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