“Sorry I’m late.” She seemed exasperated as she attempted to navigate the door with too many bags in her hands. “It’s ok, but we’ll miss our lunch reservation,” I said trying not to sound like I was recalculating our meeting time and location for Mother’s Day. “I made us chicken sandwiches,” my mother said while still fumbling with two things at once. “It’s Mothers’ Day, you’re not supposed to make us food,” I said, while actually trying to figure out how we could keep our plan to meet my sister, stuck in traffic somewhere and my brother Bill who drove down from Maine probably more to show off his new truck rather than see his mother. We jumped in the car and decided the only way to keep on schedule was to eat in the car. Great.
After a further delay of searching for a spot we were all a little wired and you could feel it in our hurried greeting.My mother was surprised to see Bill, who quickly explained that he couldn’t stay very long. It didn't’ help that the museum was packed and everyone seemed to be in a similar unbalanced place. I led us to the staircase downstairs where the crowd was far more dense, yet surprisingly calm as we slowly made our way to the main event – the Samurai exhibit. The bright white walls upstairs gave way to a muted dark slate color, the lighting became more soothing too and the noise filtered down to a medium whisper as we rounded the corner to the first glimpse of a full samurai suit. Through the crowd of people I caught a glimpse of a radiant, rich color. It was chock full of the same people who just a few feet away were caught up in all the same hustle and bustle of this Hallmark holiday, but suddenly everyone seemed to be more civilized, respectfully patient and in awe of what they were seeing. I turned to look for my brother who was craning his neck to get a glimpse of the weapons, studying the detail of the swords. The crowd thinned out once past the opening and our little group separated where we privately and leisurely tried to absorb it all. We humbly stood before the most exquisitely handcrafted art that any of us could ever remember seeing. The work could only be done by someone who had dedicated his life to just one thing. Form and function seemed at perfect balance, and it was the occasional cold shiver I felt when staring at a mask designed to invoke fear that reminded me that these pieces of artwork were for more than show. The thought of meeting someone on the battlefield dressed like this, knowing that his sole profession was dedicated to one thing was beyond humbling. Imagine standing before someone who sees right through you, has pure and razor sharp focus and seems to have no fear of you or anything else. I felt like I was standing in front of a god, and the suit was barely 5 feet tall.
I couldn’t tell how long I had been staring at the same statue when I realized I was probably hogging the view for others. I looked around for my family; they were all in the same room but separately studying different pieces. Each seemed lost in the moment just as I was. Time was no longer important to any of us, at least for this moment. All of the useless chatter before the exhibit was replaced by a silent appreciation as we departed. Very little was said as we made our way through the Japanese gardens outside en route to a cup of coffee. Each of us had plans after the museum, but suddenly they didn't seem important and we enjoyed sharing a cup of coffee enjoying the simplicity and oneness of the moment. For once, none of us seemed concerned with the next moment. We said little (for a change) and watched the city move around us as if we were in slow motion. Finally, at least two hours past when we agreed to depart. We broke up and headed back in four different directions. I hope you won’t miss the opportunity to glimpse into another world. It’s only here until August 4th. Oh, and my brother’s new truck? They towed it. He was surprisingly calm about it too.
