The Lingering Warmth of Analog in Japan: A Father's Homecoming

Three generations living together in Australia - and the end

Three years ago, our little experiment began: three generations of our family, my father included, setting up home in Darwin, Australia. Naively, I envisioned our differences and minor irritations dissolving in the crucible of daily life, replaced by a deeper understanding. Instead, a quiet unhappiness settled over us, each of us perhaps clinging too tightly to an unspoken ideal. Looking closer, the air thrummed with unspoken frustrations, the friction of mismatched expectations, and the heavy cloak of not wanting to burden one another.

This subtle discord was the undeniable signal. The dream of our three-generation household in the sun had faded, and the difficult decision was made: my father would return to Japan. (The intricacies of this decision deserve their own story, which I will share another time.)

Back to the Homeland: Navigating the Labyrinth of Paperwork

The warmth of the Darwin community's farewell couldn't entirely dispel the apprehension I felt as we touched down in Japan. A daunting wave of procedures awaited my father, a labyrinthine process rendered near-impossible by his 89 years, failing eyesight, unreliable hearing, unsteady gait, and fading memory. There was no question: I would be his steadfast guide through every step.

For a nation lauded for its technological prowess, Japan's continued reliance on paper-based procedures was a stark and somewhat surprising reality. While the world increasingly embraces online and digital solutions, Japan seemed to be holding onto its analog roots. It was through navigating this very analog process with my father that a profound realization began to dawn.

visiting city council where humanity and efficiency co-exist

A Day at the Ward Office: Where Efficiency Embraces Humanity - Kindness in Analog

Prepared for a day-long expedition, I accompanied my father to the local ward office.

The first reassuring sight was the clear signage, large characters and numbers guiding us to the various departments – a thoughtful consideration for the elderly and foreign residents alike. Yet, the initial uncertainty of "where to begin?" lingered until a kind staff member approached, offering clear explanations of the process, the necessary documents, and their respective destinations.

The waiting room hummed with the quiet presence of fellow residents, each there for their own reasons. Though the wait was considerable, it fostered an unexpected sense of community, an indirect encounter with the fabric of this city.

The ingrained Japanese courtesy was evident: orderly queues, the unspoken rule of the escalator. This systematic approach extended to the ward office. Clearly numbered counters, a silent wait after taking a ticket – efficiency was palpable. Yet, this efficiency never felt cold. A staff member was always ready to assist a lost-looking individual, the counter staff rising with a gentle hand gesture to acknowledge the next person. Once a task was completed at one window, the next step was clearly communicated through a combination of numbers, names, and guiding hands.

What struck me was the seamless blend of methodical efficiency and genuine human interaction. The staff didn't launch into robotic inquiries but greeted us with a warm "How may I help you today?", an invitation to share the personal context behind our bureaucratic task.

Becoming a "Resident": A Process Woven in Paper and Patience

It was amidst the forms and the quiet shuffling of papers that a quiet epiphany struck me. Becoming a resident isn't an instantaneous digital switch; it's a gradual assimilation, a process woven through each document, each interaction with the city hall staff, each shared moment in the waiting room with fellow inhabitants – a tapestry of faces, young and old, local and foreign, each navigating their own path within the community.

It's more than just a change of address; it's an incremental acceptance into the fabric of a place. This slower, less automated system fostered small, human connections, brief encounters in the shared space of the waiting room. In a hyper-efficient, fully digitalized city, this subtle sense of belonging, born from shared experience, would likely be lost, replaced by the cold, impersonal click of an online form.

The Enduring Value of Analog: Preserving Our Humanity

Of course, I don't believe Japan is intentionally resisting digitalization. Yet, this experience made me ponder the unintended consequences of a complete shift. Would the convenience of online procedures come at the cost of these small, yet significant, human interactions, these moments of unexpected kindness? A part of me hoped that the tangible, the analog, would retain its place.

In our relentless pursuit of efficiency, have we inadvertently sidelined something fundamental – our humanity? In an era where AI is rapidly advancing, this "humanness," this capacity for connection and empathy, feels more vital than ever before.

Finding the Human Touch in Possible Worlds

This very appreciation for the analog and the unhurried informs our approach in the Possible World sessions we offer. We intentionally incorporate elements that encourage a deeper connection with oneself and the present moment: the quiet introspection of closed eyes, the tangible act of pen on paper, the space to navigate uncertainty without immediate answers, fostering a broader perspective.

Explore Your Inner Landscape with Possible Worlds

If you are intrigued by the potential of these analog experiences to foster a deeper connection with yourself, I invite you to explore Possible Worlds click here .