The first time I went down the stairs, wondering, "Stairs here? Where do they lead?", I was amazed by the change in "world." To think that such a world stretched out behind AEON. Even now, every time I run here, I feel a strange sensation.
Beyond the rice paddies are houses, and further beyond, the chimneys of the Nippon Steel Kashima Steel Works can be seen. It's as if the original landscape of a farming village, before the industrial area was built, remains here like a "miniature garden." The stairs next to AEON are a gaping entrance to this secret world.
One early morning after a July rain, I reluctantly shuttle back and forth for hundreds of meters to avoid getting my running shoes wet in a large puddle.
Around this time, snails often crawl out onto the paved road. Some are as small as peas, seemingly just born. I have no idea what they're trying to do. I worry if they're heading in the right direction.
Their pace is so slow. Even if I go back and forth for hundreds of meters, they seem to have moved only a few millimeters. What kind of "time" do they live in? My day and their day are so different. In the first place, isn't "time" like a second, a minute, a day, just a measure arbitrarily defined by humans?
On the edge beyond the rice paddies, a gray heron stands majestically. It's probably aiming for tadpoles, but I'm somehow overwhelmed by its motionless presence. They too live in a completely different "time" and "world" from me. Unlike urban running, there are opportunities to contemplate such things everywhere.
In the lotus field, white flowers began to bloom in mid-July. Even the unadorned world of the farm road changes color with the shifting seasons. Raindrops remain on the lotus leaves, sparkling. The fresh green of the leaves changes daily, and then one day begins to lose its freshness.
Both humans and plants have their peak (prime). Probably, each has its most beautiful moment (day, time). That's what living things are like.
Since the rice planting seasons vary among the paddies, some fields have already started to bear rice. Scarecrows stand there. Bush crickets have started to cry in the thicket, but the great reed warblers that were loudly calling in the reed bed have disappeared without a trace. I remember that they too are migratory birds.
Running in Kashima-kō is also a time to face and converse with nature.
Text and Photos: Yoshida (Community Collaboration Team)