Thoughts from my first rice harvest
harvest is a time to practice gratitude
Thank you for your patience as I arrive back at this newsletter from an unexpected, but much-needed, writing rest. I return to this tiny home of a newsletter feeling ever grateful and excited to be present here again.
The autumn season is a time of abundance and loss, of beauty in the midst of decay, of moments of intense longing accompanied by feelings of letting go. The bounty of natural beauty that accompanies us in these moments of melancholy seems to be nature’s way of balancing the yearning for beauty and the ache of loss.
At the end of September, before the beginning of autumn, a large typhoon passed by Kamikatsu. Everyone in the village was safe, but the heavy rains and winds pulled trees and debris across from the edges of the mountains and onto roads. Electricity for some was temporarily stopped and it seemed that many houses were passing the days with candles. It was, according to many locals, one of the strongest typhoons that have passed Kamikatsu in the last decade.
Having never experienced a typhoon, I was unsure of how to prepare and what to anticipate upon its arrival. In the midst of all the brute forces of the wind and rain, I was touched by how many neighbours and friends in the village called to check up on me. Cleanup in the days immediately after moved swiftly and smoothly. After the typhoon passed, signs of the autumn season like morning frost and red dragonflies were ever-present.
With the cooler and drier air, I feel my appetite returning to full. Heartier vegetables and soups cooked over fire and dishes made of umami-rich broths fill me up to the brim with a feeling of satisfaction.
the season to harvest rice
Do you refer to the season between summer and winter as autumn or fall? I enjoyed this lovely piece about the history of the two words. Before the words autumn and fall were a part of our daily lexicon, this time of the year was referred to as harvest.
The word harvest has a whole new meaning now that I partake in the rituals of harvesting. Harvesting, although done all year round for various vegetables and fruit, has a particularly deeper meaning in this season as it’s the time of the year to harvest rice. This was my first year growing rice in my own paddy field. From planting seedlings to standing alongside the stalks to pulling weeds out of the earth, I have watched the rice grow and grow.
At the beginning of October, the terraced rice fields were all painted with a golden glow. The rice stalks in the paddies sway with the wind and their top-heavy, rice-filled stalks stretched toward the ground. Farmers know that the rice is ready to harvest when the stalks of rice no longer stand straight but bend from the weight of the rice. After six months, the rice fields beckoned us to return to do inekari, or rice harvesting, to reap what was sown the previous spring.
To harvest rice, the paddy fields are first drained to remove any remaining water. Rice can be harvested by machine or by hand using a curved sickle. We opted for the latter, choosing to do as much as we could by hand. Our rice field is small and with a group of five or so people, we were able to harvest in a day. Once cut, the stalks of rice are bundled and tied together using dried straw. The stalks are then hung upside down on a rack to dry under the sun. This method of drying is called hasagake, and it’s the traditional way of drying rice.
The image of rice basking in the sun and hanging upside down on bamboo racks is a sight that is slowly disappearing from rural landscapes as many people opt for more efficient ways of processing rice. Harvesting rice is backbreaking work and in many places in Japan, it’s an unprofitable operation. It’s understandable that machines help offset the many challenges of harvesting rice. Sadly, when these traditional methods are not passed through the generations, we fail to keep these ways of knowing.
It was wonderful to work with a small team of friends and family to harvest together this season. I intend to continue growing and harvesting rice, and I look forward to continuous learning and discoveries along the way.
matsuri, a festival of appreciation
In autumn, festivals known as aki matsuri are held to thank the gods for a bountiful harvest. Throughout the year, matsuri are aligned with the most essential times of the agricultural cycle. For several years, I was only a spectator of the matsuri, but this year I actually had the chance to participate in the matsuri held by my hamlet.
Twice a week for nearly a month, a group of local people gathered to practice songs that were to be played on the day of the matsuri. The most notable instruments include the taiko, which means drum in Japanese—a large and round drum-like instrument that demands passionate energy and control. Various other percussion and string instruments give the ensemble depth and harmony.
Nearly 8 years ago, the matsuri was in grave danger of disappearing. There were not enough local people who volunteered to put on the festival. One local was so worried that it would disappear, he recorded the sounds of instruments so that he could at least have it as a memory. The following year, perhaps not shockingly, but to many people’s dismay, the masturi did not happen due to a lack of volunteers. Instead, a recording of the instruments was played over the speakers. The recording undoubtedly could not rouse the same spirit of the matsuri.
Awoken from the haunting echos of a lost matsuri, one of the local leaders decided it was important to revive the festival and he called on everyone, young and old, asking them to join. He actively tried to create a warm and inviting place for all who volunteered their time. Newcomers to Kamikatsu had a chance to step into something sacred and in turn help support the tradition.
When I asked an elder the significance of the matsuri, he said to me ‘if we don’t show appreciation for things, they will disappear’. I realized that gratitude is not only a practice to honor the time and effort of those who were a part of the cultivation and harvest, but appreciation, much more broadly, is a catalyst for the preservation of culture.
to harvest, to eat
Recently, I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a steward of the land. In Japanese, the concept of satoyama prompts individuals and communities to take care of the land so that the land, in return, can take care of us. Through harvest, we are able to acknowledge and appreciate the reciprocity required for stewardship. To that same thought, gratefulness for a harvest is best understood in relation to the community and the land.
After all my rambling thoughts about harvesting, let’s talk about eating.
Shinmai, new rice, is the best gift of this autumn and harvest season. There is nothing more satisfying that a bowl of steamy, sweet, and nutty rice.
I recently had the opportunity to gather with the neighboring rice farmers to exchange and try each other’s shinmai. We all brought a couple of cups of our new rice and we cooked it over wood fires. In preparation for the event, small candles were placed inside glass jars and scattered throughout the field—it felt like stars had gently landed in the fields. We paired shinmai with various tsukemono (pickled vegetables) and for dessert roasted mikan (mandarin oranges) over the fire until they were charred black on the outside, creating an incredibly sweet and sticky candied-like fruit.
Exchanging rice and sharing in the glowing feeling of togetherness, I was so grateful for all the lessons of this season. Rice is truly a labour of love.
other updates
Japan is open! Earlier this month, border restrictions in Japan were finally lifted. Japan, after more than 2 years of strict isolation, returned to pre-pandemic travel requirements. This is wonderful news for those who have wanted to visit Japan. I urge you to visit the countryside where nature, food, and community, are interwoven and interconnected.
In the coming weeks, I will continue to partake in the harvest of different fruits and vegetables. I hope to share some recipes of my favourite autumnal dishes.
Thank you for being here.
Have a wonderful week ahead,
Kana
I absolutely love this framing of gratitude you describe. The rice is just now being harvested in South Korea too. Here, instead of the hanging bundles you describe, the stalks mostly seem to be laid on their side in square piles - making the entire landscape look like many golden patchwork quilts. Thanks for sharing!
My mother is from Iwate and is from a rural farming family in Japan.
Rice paddies surround their homestead and I have many memories of driving past the rice drying or watching the manual planting of the rice blades, one by one.
Thanks for taking me down memory lane.