I once performed Mozart’s “Laudaute Dominum” in Salzburg Cathedral with about a dozen high school classmates.

Mozart wrote that piece of music for the cathedral’s archbishop in the 1780s. It was to be part of evening vesper services. For us, it was a normal day in one of Salzburg’s many must-see destinations — groups of tourists bounded past our a capella performance in the nave on their way to visit the cathedral’s high altar.

I didn’t know it then … but that moment was the culmination of everything I’d learned up to that point about DYNAMICS in art — forte, piano, emphasis, subtlety, crescendo, focus, JOY, matching your voice tone with the voices around you, enunciating the Latin words, feeling the weight of history, feeling the elegant music bounce around the great church ….

Years later, this is the view from Sunset Beach in Oahu. This stretch of coastline is part one of the most revered places on earth among surfers looking for near-perfect breaks day after day after day. We are staying in a rental home a few blocks away — H and E can see the same surf from their loft window.

We are not surfers — but we came to this place to surf. Twice in the last three days, I have ventured out in to the blue with a body board or fins or just to swim … and twice I have turned back after getting caught between waves that were too big, too angry, and too confusing to conquer like we do back home. (Once entering the water with one of my boys, we were the targets of a beach-wide public address announcement from the lifeguard station calling “that man and his son” back out of the water because of too-strong currents.)

There have been better times in tamer waters for all of us … but the failed attempts brought REAL FEAR. Capital F Fear. I felt inadequate. I felt small, dwarfed by something bigger, better, stronger. I had come to touch the beauty and the glory and the power of this special ocean cathedral … but it seemed unreachable.

So today we faced that fear. Add Uncle Bryan’s Surf Academy to our recommendations list – we went out this morning along the same coastline and ALL of us got up on surfboards. Many times. Some of us looked so good, it was as if we were naturals.

We were taught some nuts and bolts about where to position your body on the board, how to stand up, and so on — but today’s surfing pointers were the same dynamic tools I’d enjoyed many years earlier in Salzburg Cathedral: feel it, go with it. Lean in to the power. Ride the strength. PARTICIPATE in the Glory.

Fear was part of both experiences, too. Will I forget a note to sing? Will that oncoming wave keep me under? “This is bigger than me.”

But what happens once the first note is sung or the first wave is crested? Forte. Piano. Lean. Let go. Crescendo. Focus. JOY.

My view this morning from a park bench in Seoul’s Sajik Park. As early walkers looped past me every so often, I considered my last morning on foreign soil.

Tomorrow, we wake up in Hawaii.

Today, on a bench — I read in the Old Testament about something the Israelites did after arriving in the land they’d been promised. They offered up the first, best parts of their new harvest … they recited together all the ways they’d been rescued by a Holy Hand … they bowed their heads in worship … and they celebrated.

It was the end of a journey and they marked the moment in a special way.

It was a moment to remember and re-tell their Story. Then, looking ahead … they claimed the same Rescue, the same Story, in the days to come.

Our round-the-world journey is ending, of course — and we’re so thankful for how we’ve been rescued and cared for and helped and guided and protected and blessed along the way. There is such fruit from this journey to be harvested.

I’m also thankful for the journey RIGHT NOW — for that couple walking past my park bench, for that woman’s radio in her back pocket blaring “Call Me Maybe,” for that man who walks past while shaving with an electric razor, for that pigeon resting in the dust of an empty clearing in the park. This is fruit for me, too.

My translation of the Old Testament passage that I read this morning in Seoul includes these CLOSING words for the Israelites to say together:

“So here I am. I’ve brought the firstfruits of what I’ve grown on this ground you gave me, O God.”

Those are my words now … as one journey ends … some journeys continue … and other journeys are yet to come. I claim Rescue and Story yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I mark these things.

So here we are.

Big mystery from today in Takayama, Japan:

At 1:30 in the afternoon, we heard music played on — it seemed — a loudspeaker mounted on every other lamp post in the city’s wide valley. Then … a voice began saying something.

Echoes from that voice bounced from loudspeaker to loudspeaker, valley hillside to valley hillside.

Here is a brief clip from the episode, recorded from the hilltop ruins of an ancient castle overlooking the town:

Years ago before a seventh grade math class, a newly sharpened pencil started rolling down my pitched desk. I moved quickly to catch it before it landed in my lap. I missed … the pencil landed eraser end down … and the lead tip dug deeply in to my left palm.

A mark has been inside the skin of my left palm ever since.

I was reminded of the story of that mark today as E was being interrogated by his brothers about the scars up and down his never-stopping legs. “That one,” he explained to his brothers, “was when I fell in a parking lot before a lacrosse game.”

His scars are like a roadmap of sorts. They chart danger and adventure from the twists and turns of his life — and the stories that are generated along the way.

Plus, these story scars trigger additional bits and pieces of stories. That parking lot he mentioned. The lacrosse team. Friends on the team. H, while talking about that day, remembered driving to the game with E and S.

Likewise, the mark on my left palm triggers memories of my seventh grade teacher, Mr. Davenport. He eventually became “Pete,” as S happened to teach with him after she and I graduated from college. Trigger more memories: our first years of marriage, our first apartment, our first dog ….

I love that.

So … our day began today in Takayama, Japan … flummoxed by an inanimate set of luggage lockers and the seemingly impossible amount of coins they needed in order to stow our gear. That’s the first picture in this post.

Then — the boys listened out for me as I hiked ahead, looking for the ruins of an ancient castle in the hills of a city park. That’s the second picture in this post.

Then — we had lunch — always food! Thanks, S! — IN the ruins of that ancient castle. That’s the third picture.

Then — well, we goofed on top of some marble markers that likely outlined where castle walls and rooms once stood.

ALL of these things trigger a million memories.

And I’m thankful to now wear them on my palms … and in my heart.

According to legend, the floors of Nijo Castle in Kyoto, Japan were crafted to squeak like the song of a nightengale — to warn the Shogun and his bodyguards of prowling ninja.

Here’s a brief clip of the that sound (presented here on the website).

H, W and I visited Nijo Castle this afternoon … in a new world record time of one hour.

Castle, castle grounds, castle wall, and garden in one hour. H bought a Coke Zero in a vending machine. The boys laughed about this and that. We discussed our own ownership of the property — where we would put our own stables, how we would play capture the flag, where Dad would build his recording studio, where we would construct a soccer field. (There was lots of eye rolling when I suggested we should install a library.)

It was a wonderful moment with two of my sons.

It was a moment full of all the beauty of any nightengale’s song — and a moment void of prowling ninjas.

This morning was lazy, unplanned — and glorious. I went for a long stroll along Kyoto’s central river walk.

It was unhindered time. Whole groups of falcons soared in circles above. I passed families eating picnic lunches. A cormorant came in for a landing next to me in the river, a slow glide.

Back at our rented apartment, I turned a hanging wall calendar from May to June. I can’t remember doing that at any other point this year. It was memorable, perhaps, because June is the month we return home.

Eleven months of memories, eleven months of seeds planted. A few weeks remaining for the same. It’s easy for me to be hindered by the fact that the end of our journey is coming … but, I also keep trying to tell myself that much of the Journey remains.

And the seeds, once planted ….

—

Another milestone of sorts this week: S made our FINAL RESERVATIONS … an apartment in South Korea … a rental car in Hawaii … and a hotel for one night in Hawaii (cashing in points!).

While riding one of Japan’s bullet trains between Kyoto and Tokyo earlier this week … S and I employed a tried and true parenting/teaching tactic to get some substantive schoolwork done:

If you write four haiku poems about ANY experience so far in Japan, you can play on the iPad.

Their work was impressive and delightful … though we’ve only secured permission to share some of it if the authors identities remain anonymous.

So, here are three anonymous haikus … with two additional anonymous haikus thrown in:

Creepy alley way

Inside, there is light and warmth

Cozy, little home

—

Subway exit stench

Fish market all deserted

Vendors cleaning up

—

Wind gathers off sea

Blows by boats heavy with catch

Reaches market, me

—

The atomic bomb

Destroyed Hiroshima town

Ended World War Two

—

Creased and tearing map

Tangled, jumbled subway trains

Ditch for iPhone app

When our Kyoto landlord asked W, H, and E this week about some of our trip traditions, they told him about what they have come to call “forced marches” — required journeys and hikes and walks through beauty or history or both.

Their description of the phrase got a big laugh … but the boys would be the first to admit that some of these forced marches have also been some of their trip highlights.

This week’s journey to Hiroshima is one of these highlights — for all of us. I wrote about the scattered emotions of the day in a post titled “Baseball in Hiroshima.” The experience from that city has stayed with me … and I pass along this second reflection:

Hiroshima’s Peace Memorial Park was overrun by Japanese school children during our visit. Wave after wave of chaperone-wrangled groups passed by our family in a wonderful jumble of Japanese-like order — school uniforms or colorful, matching hats on kids walking in single file or two-by-two … and the universal signs of field trip chaos — loud, irreverent chatter chatter chatter, groups of disinterested boys hanging back, and chaperones trying to keep a lid on the remnants of control.

It was fun to watch — and that’s how our visit to Memorial Park began … on a park bench, watching groups of children roll by. (The scene is pictured in the above panorama, with the preserved carcass of a building in the background.)

Our family conversation on that bench turned from people watching … to the atomic bomb … to war … to how war begins … to how war ends … to good, evil … to Presidents … to decisions … to life … to death … as we sipped bottled water and snacked on food S had packed in her backpack.

It was awesome — a small moment to discuss the past, present, and future … as a family … on a park bench … with snacks … without a schedule.

Seal that memory in gold.

Later — pictured in the second photograph, above — a Japanese school girl waves at my family sitting on another park bench. We’re all visiting the Peace Park on the same day to reflect on the catastrophic events of August 1945 … but we’re also living out our lives, now … together … in a wonderful mix of cultures past, present, and future.

Since last July, our three boys have lost a total of 13 teeth.

E lost our latest Wild tooth yesterday — after visiting Tokyo’s Sensoji Temple.

We celebrated with ice cream.

A memory of my maternal grandmother, who used expressive words and expressive gestures to carry everyday conversations so well:

Mama Liz often worked in references to music in her stories. She would say something like “Dah dah dah dah dah” in a particular rhythm, and her hands and arms would sweep back and forth … keeping time in the air like a conductor.

Her daughter — my mom — accompanies phrases like “careening onward” with a rolling hand over hand motion, keeping time with some great story symphony.

It’s interesting that I remember HOW these stories were told — and are told — more than I remember the stories themselves.

In the same way, this is largely how I remember our time today in Hiroshima, Japan. How else do you connect a visit to the blast site of the world’s first wartime atomic bomb … with a visit to a raucous Mazda Zoom Zoom Stadium cheering on the home team Hiroshima Carps … and everything else in between?

For me, it’s all connected by a memorable collection of words. Gestures. Emotions. Moments. Even sounds, like these:

In this clip, Japanese school children sing songs of peace, in formation, facing Hiroshima’s Children’s Peace Monument.

Hours later, a Hiroshima Carps batter belts a home run over the left field fence — about 20 seconds after the beginning of the clip.