A THOUSAND CRANES CARRY LEARNING ON
THEIR WINGS
by Ruth Hanna, M.Ed., LPC
A couple years ago my husband and I didn't know we would be developing expertise in a form of ornithology, the study of birds. We certainly didn't suspect that by now we would be sharing space with a very large family of them.
August 2001 marked the beginning of what became close contact with one bird in particular, the crane. Specifically, origami paper cranes. Over a period of 17 months, ending in January 2003, the population explosion of the cranes that inhabit our home reached the goal we had set – one thousand. It's quite a colorful flock.
Some of you may have heard of the young Japanese girl, Sadako Sasaki, who was two years old at the time of the bombing of Hiroshima in 1945. When she was hospitalized at age 12, having developed leukemia as a result of radiation exposure, she resolved to fold origami cranes as a way to maintain hope during her illness. She wanted to live, and that desire was symbolized by her plan to fold 1,000 paper cranes.
Why cranes? Why a thousand of them? The answers lie in her Japanese heritage. It was part of Sadako's cultural tradition to view the crane as a symbol of longevity, since legend holds that cranes live for 1,000 years. It is also believed that anyone who folds 1,000 paper cranes will live a long and healthy life.
Sadako's desire to survive her illness was not fulfilled, though she did indeed complete her project of folding a thousand cranes. A children's novel about her tells otherwise, saying that friends completed her thousand cranes for her after her death. More importantly, though, her short life and the dedication she gave to folding the cranes, despite her illness, became the impetus for the creation of a Children's Peace Monument in Hiroshima, a popular site for visitors.
Her story has inspired many other children around the world to themselves fold paper cranes in her memory as a statement for peace. In doing so they fulfill the epitaph engraved on the statue at the Hiroshima monument: "This is our cry, this is our prayer, to create peace in the world."
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My introduction to origami paper cranes came not through the story of Sadako, but from another book, My Grandfather's Blessings by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D. Like her earlier bestseller, Kitchen Table Wisdom, the true stories in her second volume are inspirational accounts of hope, healing, life, and love.
I came across Dr. Remen's book during the summer of 2001, when my energies and attention were focused on healing from breast cancer. For six months I had been pursuing a wide range of alternative treatment protocols. But healing isn't a matter of just attending to the physical body. By August of that year I was fully engaged in addressing the subtler themes, exploring matters of the mind, emotions, and spirit. From a metaphysical perspective, these underlie a cancer diagnosis even more than do environmental or genetic or dietary factors.
As I sat beside the swimming pool reading Dr. Remen's story of a man who began folding a thousand paper cranes on behalf of his wife's healing from cancer, I was very touched. Tears came spontaneously, right there while kids frolicked, parents basked, and lifeguards kept watch.
Later at home I shared the story with my husband Robert. Tearfully, I expressed to him my gratitude for his support during my encounter with cancer. He had been instrumental in helping me zero in on effective alternative treatments, in asking friends to lend their support for my journey, in assuring me that a sabbatical from work was right and necessary. But now, I said to him, I needed something more, though I didn't know just what I was asking for.
The next morning, Robert came to me, holding something in his hand for me to see. It was a white paper crane, just like I had been reading about in Dr. Remen's story.
"I went online last night and followed the directions I found there," he said. "Do you want me to show you how to fold one too?"
Yes, I did. I really did. And so he did.
At the beginning, Robert had to repeat the step-by-step directions often. I wanted to learn it right, to have a little bird that looked like the diagram showed, but cranes aren't a beginner form of origami, and I wasn't very skilled that first week or so. More accurately stated, I felt just like a small child learning something big and important, but not very easy to do.
That feeling of being like a child was significant. So was having to ask for help often. So was Robert's patience and encouragement. Maybe even more significant was that the cranes I was learning to create were just-for-me. Why? Because those were among some of the inner issues needing attention at that point in my healing journey.
For most of my life, I thought of myself as a problem-solver, someone who was able to figure out what to do to fix something, a person capable of handling the situations I faced. Those skills are admirable, and often required in one's life. As a therapist, I help my clients develop their own inner and outer resources and cultivate their necessary strengths.
But emotionally, and spiritually as well, being overly self-sufficient is limiting. The invisible wall that gets erected can shut other people out. Needing to have the right answers at the ready so as to take care of every detail discounts the possibility of alternate ways of learning and growing and being. Plus, it thwarts sharing and spontaneity and serendipity. Creativity doesn't have the opportunity it deserves to birth and blossom into something new.
Many metaphysical and spiritual paths teach the wisdom of developing a conscious habit of asking for guidance and direction from what is beyond ourselves – whatever name we may give to the Higher Power that is greater than own limited level of perception and understanding. We need practice in learning how to ask, and ask, and ask again. What comes out of asking is often wonderful.
As adults we may balk at the thought of "becoming like a little child" and admitting we don't know everything. But a child knows they don't know, and so they ask. Perhaps family influences in my particular childhood led me to believe I was "supposed" to know what to do, and so my asking got curtailed in deference to figuring it out. But I couldn't do that when faced with a small square of origami paper.
In those early days of folding cranes, I was confused, the little Ruthie inside feeling like she couldn't ever remember how to turn that piece of paper into a crane, no matter how much she might want to, even with a page of directions right beside her. She knew for sure she needed help. Fortunately, that assistance was available.
The inner learning for me was not only about asking, but also about believing that help would be there ready and waiting to respond. Every time I forgot which fold came next, I would ask Robert to show me again. By patiently demonstrating each fold as many times as I needed, his encouragement fed my sense of confidence, building a more authentic and solid sort of self-sufficiency.
My ability grew. Day by day we folded cranes together, usually one apiece, every one duly numbered, dated, and initialed on the underside of its wings. The little child inside was delighted with her growing family of small bird friends, and quite pleased to have this new project to do with her husband-playmate. Both inner child and adult woman liked having each crane dedicated to life and love and healing – her own especially, but everyone else's too.
As our collection of cranes began to fill shelves and baskets and other places of honor in our home, their many-colored coats of origami paper looked quite festive. Most of the wingspans ranged from two to four inches, though Robert made a large one of red posterboard with wings reaching 18 inches across. The wings of the smallest crane measure barely half an inch from tip to tip. I made that one.
Robert was impressed when he saw it. "I don't know how you did that," he said. "I couldn't do it myself." Inside I felt the little girl grin with pride and a sense of accomplishment about her tiny bird.
Now, our goal of folding a thousand cranes has been achieved, and I am healthy and happy. The day on which numbers 999 and 1,000 were completed, we piled them all on the dining room table for photos. You can see me with the whole flock by visiting www.1heart.com. Their creation was primarily meant for my own health and well-being, but now we're getting them ready for the next stage of their life adventure. We'll keep some here (especially that littlest one), but others will fly to the homes and offices of family, friends, and holistic healing practitioners near and far.
Our origami paper cranes carried lessons on their wings even beyond those that came to the little girl who needed to learn more about asking for help. It's not possible to do any purposeful activity every day for months without all manner of inner shifts occurring. I'm grateful for every learning, and I trust the heart lessons these thousand cranes have brought will continue to bless and heal – at least a thousand-fold.