Hinamatsuri

It's about time for me to take out my Hina dolls.  It takes me about an hour to do it, though I only have the top two dolls - the Emperor and the Empress.  I climb up on a shaky stool to get the three boxes down from a high shelf - one for the two dolls, one for the screen, and one for the accessories like pretend food, lanterns, and hibachis.  I then clear a space for them in my living room on top of a persimmon chest, and begin unwrapping the tissue paper and smaller delicate wooden boxes inside.  I regret the many years when I chose not to set up the dolls for Girl's Day, March 3rd, because of the time it took.  I didn't do it enough times for it to become a ritual for my own daughter.

It's a ritual now.  The dictionary says that a ritual is "a religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order."  I don't really think of it as a "ceremony," but my mind does go to a serene place when I begin setting the process.  I recall memories tied to these dolls and to dolls belonging to other girls.  I think about my mother going to pick out the dolls, along with a clerk who spent hours with her who may have wondered why a gaijin woman was buying Hina dolls.

The first Hinamatsuri party I recall was when I was 4 or 5 years old.  A classmate who had been hesitant to have me over for play dates invited me, perhaps out of obligation since Mama had had her over for waffles but that's another story.  At her party we tasted special pastel-colored candies and sweet rice mochi in pink, white and green, symbolizing grown-up ideas like purity, health, fertility and long life.  Boys were not invited to this party. 

We assembled in front of the dolls displayed on seven steps covered in red felt as the girl hosting the party showed them off, pointing and naming each one.  The Emperor and Empress Dolls were positioned regally at the top, just above three “ladies in waiting” though nobody told us what they were waiting for.  On the third step sat five musicians with instruments, and the guards rested on the step below.  The mamas escorted us up close to get a good look, their hands hovering just over our shoulders, ready to restrain us if things went awry and we lost control, reaching out to touch – just once.  These are not the kind of dolls that you play with, especially the way that preschool girls play with dolls.

It was years later before Mama purchased for me my own set of Hina dolls – but not the whole set…just the top two dolls.  She looked for a long time, finally making a decision to really splurge, purchasing the nicest ones she could afford.  Many sets of dolls had been destroyed in firestorms of the war, so Mama joined other Japanese families as they re-assembled a collection for the next generations of daughters to pass down. 

So I will unpack my dolls again this year from their wooden boxes.  I will think about my mother, and the little girls in Japan who are unpacking and setting up their dolls.  I will sing the Hinamatsuri song from memory, about lighting the lanterns and placing peach blossoms next to them.  When it's all set up, I will take time to  inspect their serene and delicate hand-painted faces, the thinnest lines for the eyes painted with a brush that couldn’t have had more than two to three hairs.  The fine pink lips so tiny and dainty, it looks like they were touched by no more than a butterfly kiss.