Not Meant to Be Mine

I happily wandered through the grounds of the Hilton Hawaiian Village, focusing my attention on the store windows. The walkway in front of the small establishments circled a garden with a small waterfall and a meandering brook populated by koi and a family of swans. It was designed to give the hotel’s guests a sense of peace and permanence, to make them want to return.

I wasn’t a resident of the Hilton on Waikiki Beach, even a temporary one. I lived in a studio apartment a few blocks away, basically one dark room on the second floor. The balcony at the back looked directly into a five-story parking garage. If I wanted to experience beauty, I had to look elsewhere.

I often went to the Hilton Hawaiian Village and daydreamed in front of the windows of the stores there. My special favorite was the jewelry store window. I didn’t look at the jewelry, at least not after I discovered something else on display in that window, something that fascinated me.

Ever since I arrived in Hawaii several months earlier, I had been drawn to the beauty created by the many cultures that inhabited the islands and gave them such vitality and variety. Music, dance and art abounded and enticed one to participate, or at least to appreciate.

The object that so effectively drew me to the window was a netsuke, a miniature sculpture used to secure a cord at the top of an obi, a sash worn by 17^th-century Japanese men. Traditional kimonos had no pockets, but the men needed somewhere to store small, personal items such as pipes or money. Containers called sagemono hung by cords from the obi. The fastener that secured the cord was a carved, button-like toggle called a netsuke, one to three inches high. During the Edo period, they morphed from plain, utilitarian objects into beautiful, intricate carvings.

The netsuke that drew me back to visit the jewelry store window every weekend was an ivory carving of a samurai. He stood, arms akimbo, looking every bit as arrogant and powerful as a real samurai.

I yearned to possess him. Maybe, I thought, if I could carry him in my pocket and touch him whenever my confidence needed a boost, I would absorb some of his self-assurance. The price tag by his feet said $75. That was $74 more than I could afford. He was destined to be admired from afar.

One sunny Saturday morning, he was gone. Hoping the store owner had removed him from the window and put him on display inside the store, I went in and asked. No, my tiny samurai had been purchased. My heart ached for the little netsuke that had never been mine. I hope the person who acquired him appreciated him as much as I did.