Rice and Fall encore

It seems my muse is somewhere in Alaska doing some soul-searching. To compensate with my shortcomings, I'll do a repost for those who have not gone here when I was just starting with the whole blogging thing. This here was originally entitled "Rice and Fall."

In the olden times, when the gods of bountiful harvest still walked the earth, legend has it that the Shichifukujin, the Seven Lucky Gods, hold their temple in every grain of rice. Thus, in old feudal Japan, rice is regarded as sacred. To finish off every grain of rice on one's plate during mealtime is regarded as grateful appreciation for the meal, for the harvest, and for life's continuity. Another equally popular belief which goes, "a drop of wine is as sacred as a grain of rice," has the same underlying concept. Sake, a type of wine still popular in modern Japan, is, after all, made by fermenting an agent derived from rice. A grain of rice for a drop of wine would thus seem logical.

I remembered the story while I was having dinner last night. It was quite late, a few minutes before the fastfood joint closes. I ordered a close alternative to what I actually wanted to have since I had to wait a long while for them to prepare the meal which I originally had in mind. With a bag of soiled clothes slung over my shoulder, I got my foodtray and walked towards the nearest vacant table. It was when I was taking my food out from the tray that I noticed grains of rice scattered about on the floor. They lay strewn under the table accross mine where the guard-on-duty was plotting the time when the branch's crew went in and out for the day, or so it was what seemed to me was keeping him busy. The rice-unfriendly culprit, I could just imagine, must have been shaking violently by the arms from a sudden and unexpected fit of Parkinson's or something similar in magnitude. Involuntary, unintentional, and helpless. I actually felt sorry for him had my speculations been more of a fact than downright B.S.

The guard seemed really busy. The crew were, too. No one paid the scattered rice mind. Come to think of it, no one seemed to notice or even care.

At home, when we were still little pains-on-our-parents'-arses, I remembered picking up each grain of rice which unintentionally flies off from my plate and onto the floor. That had been my automatic reaction from my first recollection of having a grain of rice flying unintentionally off of my plate and onto the floor. Cleaning up the mess is hygienic, for one. Personally, I find the sight of people who would either accidentally or intentionally step on cooked grains of rice (on the floor) rather repulsive. Like a mockery on my belief on a provider of good tidings and bountiful blessings. It struck me as an insult like blasphemy towards spirituality.

I finished whatever it was I was eating, took shots of the mess on the floor, and left the place. I made one last sweeping glance inside the store from the outside and saw the guard still writing down stuff, the crew doing their closing chores, and the rice still awaiting the final respect it deserves.

Click on the photo for a larger image.

posted by Fritz @ 2:24 AM