Kumano Kōdō X: Nakahechi

09/10/09

...the bus left the station at 6:30 a.m. and an hour later, let us off where we'd hitched out yesterday. One stop before, a young woman with a large camera had gotten down. Shortly after starting our own hike, we passed yet another lone woman on the trail. I'm often intrigued by these women who travel alone, as it's not done much here in Japan. I'll always remember the young woman I saw years ago at Koryū-ji, moving about with deliberate slowness as she quietly shot her photos. I was impressed to see so many women traveling alone out here in Kumano, though I wonder if they lose confidence when coming upon Ogin Jizo, dedicated to a Kyoto geisha killed by brigands. An hour after meeting the second woman, we came across another anomaly: a Frenchman sprawling across the trail, writing in his journal.

It was a delight to get on the trail early, to move across a forest floor dappled with light. We followed a stream for much of the morning, crossing bridges covered with moss. A long climb brought us to Mikoshi Pass and its rest hut. Along the way, we saw a deer at Yukawa, grazing lazily up the slope above the shrine, obviously unafraid of humans.

By late morning we arrived at Funatama, and its long boat with a figure of Jizo carved into the prow. Signs warned us off camping here, as it is apparently overrun with vipers. (While wondering if this were a ploy, I was simultaneously bitten by seventeen of the loathsome creatures and expired on the spot. Much better now.) Since dropping down this side of the pass, Mie welcomed us with a variety of signs commanding us to refrain from this or that. Far from the welcome feeling of yesterday.

We climbed up to Hosshin. Our passage through the gate a symbolic step into deeper realms of the spirit. We lunched here, smiling as the Frenchman passed by, in conversation with the woman walker we'd seen, neither no longer solo.

The next descent was through a series of villages and galleries selling veggies and wood carvings. One stretch of homes had wooden dummies lining the route, as if the locals were watching the tourists file past on parade. The tourists were indeed out in great numbers, as they'd take the bus up to Hosshin and follow the gentle slope for an hour and a half down to Hongu. The final reaches were almost anti-climactic, moving through a series of square, squat suburban homes out of the Ike years. Yet the actual arrival at Hongu changed that. Clapping my hands before the shrine, I felt happy, at peace. After years of trying to get to the Nakahechi, my feet had finally led me along this inner, mountainous passage of the Kōdō, the missing link of my now complete traverse between Kyoto and Shingu.

Kumano Hongu was quiet, having changed little since my 2005 visit, the same long steps, the same squat buildings rising from the gravel. One addition was the small stand selling kitschy character trinkets, including items of the JFA who'd adopted Kumano's three-legged crow as mascot. (For the next three days, any time I'd see a crow, my eyes would automatically check for that third leg.)

As on my last visit here, I sat near the base of the steps, eating ice cream and people watching. Both of my previous visits here had been during Golden Week, and today, the place was reasonably quiet. I smiled at my good luck with timing as three buses suddenly puled up to disgorge a large group of women, the older ones wearing sensible shoes, the younger looking like foals on those steps in their heels.

Out front on the new access road, we tried to hitch back to Tanabe, but without luck. I mimicked the facial expressions of the drivers as they passed, pretending not to notice us. On the bus later, I stretched out my tired feet along the back seat and read for the entire two hours back to town. There were a few other hikers on board, looking weary but rewarded. A group of school kids had gotten on at one point, peeling off into little groups as we edged toward town...


On the turntable: "The Rough Guide to Cuban Son"
On the nighttable: Aurobindo, "More Lights on Yoga"

Kumano Kōdō IX:Nakahechi

09/09/09

We crossed the Tonda River, marking the barrier of the Land of the Dead. And the monocultural sugi forest through which we climbed was devoid of any life; no birdsong, no scampering insects.

We'd gotten a late start. On the bus along the way, my eyes had traced the route I'd walked back in '03, a year after my son had died. (Prior to setting out that year, my son's mother was certain that I would find happiness in dying out there, amongst the mysterious peaks of Omine. I'm sure she'd been right.) I remembered crossing that high suspension bridge, and the almost magical wave of sorrow that had overtaken me at Fudaiji Temple. Where last time I'd been turned back by lack of food, today Miki and I fared better. After buying big onigiri from a very genki couple near the trail head, we passed through a narrow opening in the rock representing the Womb. Officially within the mandala now, we moved up and up.

This trail was harder than I'd thought, sure to turn off a large number of tourists. I wondered if anyone has died up here, after the publicity explosion in the wake of the UNESCO status, expecting an easy day out and getting caught unprepared. There are certainly sections that would terrify anyone, the trail clinging to forested walls dropping off sheerly into cedars.

We came to Takahara Kumano Jinja, surrounded by ancient and immense kusanoki trees. One had three trunks rising out of an an enormous trunk base. Nearby was a small village, the first of many we'd come to here on the Nakahechi. (Had I pushed on six years ago, I wouldn't have been more than two hours away from food, despite what I'd heard from locals.) Each of the homes had a spectacular view of the mountains rising across the valley, the autumn sky above striated with cloud. I find myself strongly drawn to the peaks of this region, and all the lore that they contain.

At a rest stop here, an unfriendly group of middle-aged hikers was just finishing lunch, some of their women reapplying fresh make-up. We hurried to get out in front of them, climbing from the village, past a small A-framed structure rotting slowly into forest. On the ridge above was the lovely Koban Jizo, marking the place where a holy man had fallen. Above him was a spacious clearing where we stopped for lunch, near an impressively green toilet with recycled water. Leaving this ridge, we found a man dozing on the trail, and on two occasions ran into a single woman hiker.

We dropped fast then, to meet the highway and a small rest area. A guide told us that the hiking group we'd seen earlier had taken an overnight ferry from Kyushu, would hike half the trail, then return by another night boat this evening. Express-lane pilgrimage.

Climbing up again, we startled a large viper with bright yellow head. He was pointed toward Gyuba Ōji, an impressive stone figure standing in perpetuity amidst a grove of tall cypress. On the same mound were diminutive figures of En no Gyoja, Jizo, and Fudo. This was like a personal Buddhist greatest hits package, my three faves pow-wowing together. There was an unmistakable feeling of peace here, and the idea of having to leave was an agony. After a long while, we finally got the feet in motion again.

The trail dropped into Chikatsuyu village, laid out across a wide valley. I slightly bemoaned the fact that we weren't planning to stay out here, to stroll her narrow lanes after dark and swim in her rivers. A foreign woman drove past, her car bearing those familiar beginner's stickers. This mere glance was all I needed to guess her story. She'd be the only foreign face in town, a recent arrival judging by the sticker. She'd go into Tanabe to party with the other JETs. I've seen her story played out dozens of times, in the lives of friends back in the 'Nog, most long departed. And it made me instantaneously miss the community I'd had back there, and made me face up to the fact that, in a matter of weeks, I too would be gone.

We moved up again, along a road that hung high above the valley. I was well into the rhythm of the hike now, loving the scenery, the remote feel. Tsugizakura completed this sense of wonder, its stone steps rising between trunks centuries old. One elder was hollowed out with enough space to shelter a VW, and may have been standing here when the very first Kumano pilgrim strolled by over a millennium ago. Close by was a beautiful example of the classic Japanese farmhouse, hanging onto the face of the hill. I longed to pass a quiet night here. A bit further on, another farmhouse clung similarly to the slope, its roof long given away to the effects of gravity. My eyes strayed to a handful of graves on the hill behind, and I felt pity for those ancestors who, now that their homestead had been abandoned, will also fade into the forest and out of living memory.

We reached Kobiro Ōji, and then the main road. Clouds were starting to come over the ridge in strange formations, as if heralding the coming of autumn. We had a bizarre moment where our out-stretched thumbs simultaneously pulled over two cars. We jumped into the closest, squeezing in with three young women. The driver commented on the clouds, saying that this kind usually precede earthquakes. And we drove further west, toward a sky a color more like New Mexico than anything I'd ever seen here...


On the turntable: Eric Clapton and Duane Allman, "Studio Jams"

Kumano Kōdō VIII: Kii-ji

09/08/09

We're back where we'd started the morning before. Well before the sun rose, I was awakened by the sounds of trucks loading up nearby. It took some time to give myself to sleep again, sleep that was plagued by dreams about tribes of monkeys coming down the hill to rifle through our bags. In reality, their calls turned out to be those of birds. At six, I was awakened by a completely different voice, that of a woman reciting a story, up on the grassy level above us. It took me a few minutes to confirm that it was indeed English that I was hearing, delivered in a strange and artificial radio announcer intonation. I went up the hill to find a middle-aged woman facing the rising sun and reciting her thing. What made her even more bizarre was the fact that she was standing rigidly still, holding her handbag stiffly at one side. She also had the biggest bust I've ever seen on a Japanese woman.

We hurried to catch our eight a.m. train, riding it with a group of students to the place where we'd finished the previous day's trudge. This day wasn't much better, moving up and around the concrete laden hills between plum orchards. The highlight of the morning was when the trail dropped into what was more jungle than forest, before opening onto the beach. The sand made for tough going, forcing us to take a long rest at a shrine shaded by palm trees. From here, we moved through tall grass up to a low pass, before dropping again to the 'Plum Center.' Once inside, we ignored the exhibits, staying busy by dodging a busload of Hong Kong tourists and raiding the free samples.

The road from here was more drudgery, along a single frontage road that alternated between trees and concreted hillsides. There wasn't a single trace of beauty here. After a monotonous hour of this, we had lunch at a shrine, the two of us weary and bickering. Just beyond the curiously named "Cow's Nose Shrine," we once again met Rte 42, its heavy traffic propelling us into town. We passed the birthplace of the founder of aikido, Morihei Ueshiba. It was a vacant lot, just as it had been six years before. (On that earlier visit in 2003, I'd trained a couple of nights with the Tanabe dojo, and had intended to walk the Kōdō for a week over to Shingu, in order to train with Hikitsuchi Shihan, 10th degree black belt. I'd been hoping to write an article, "In the footsteps of O-Sensei," but running out of food on the second day had put the kibosh on that. Hikitsuchi died a short time afterward.) The Kōdō split soon after, but we continued along what had become the Ō-heji, to the Buddha Guest House, our home for the next three nights. It was a lovely spot, run by a friendly young couple. The house was literally filled with incredible Buddhist art from all over Asia, the remnants of the stock of their previous shop. It was all still for sale, at very decent prices.

After dropping our bags and sorting out our upcoming route at the tourist info office, we split up, Miki to buy a few things, and me down to the sea for a swim. The water was perfect, absolutely refreshing after six hard hot days on foot. I lounged awhile on the beach near the Ueshiba statue, then went back into town for an iced coffee. I enjoyed strolling around Tanabe, this being my third visit. I find more to like each time.

I showered a rested awhile in front of the Guest House, satisfied that we'd agreed to a half day off. Then it was beer and dinner, toasting the completion of the Kii-ji portion of the Kōdō...


On the turntable: Sebadoh, "III"
On the nighttable: Pyle/Fass, "Lost Over Laos"

Kumano Kōdō VII: Kii-ji

09/07/09 (cont.)

...Shiori stayed on the train from which Miki and I disembarked. An unseasoned walker, she'd proven to be a good sport, in the footsteps of our folly as we did our longest day yet, 30 km in the what felt like the worst heat. (She told us later that she'd been footsore for the next 5 days.) We too were slightly battered, and therefore happy to be heading toward the sento, recommended by nearly every Gobō local whom we told about our walk. As I was stripping off my clothes, a worker at the sento walked up and told me that I couldn't enter with my tattoo. I very softly and politely told him that I'd had a long hot day, and wondered if I could enter the tubs for only 10 minutes. To my surprise, he reluctantly agreed, but moments later I noticed his form hovering over me, following from the washing area over to one of the tubs. As his attention was drawn away from me for a moment, I tried to lose him by heading to the outdoor baths. But a minute later, he was there again. I again told him I just wanted a few minutes, but he simply stayed lurking over me. This was no way to relax, so I glared at him and muttering "asshole" in English as I moved toward the dressing room again. While changing, a manager then came in and began to apologize. I stayed polite, saying I would respect the rules though I didn't feel that they still applied. Tattoos in my country don't have the same cultural stigma as here, and besides, don't many young Japanese people also wear them? He explained his position, and I again said I understood. While I'd had a tiring sweaty walk, and was sleeping in a tent, I'd go quietly. Provided he refund me the 1000 yen I'd paid. Here he said he couldn't do that. I explained that I'd been in this situation a couple times before, and had been graciously refunded my money both times, even after spending a significant amount of time in the water. He again held firm. I shifted then, my voice beginning to rise in frustration. (The irony was that in those other times I'd been booted from an onsen, I'd had an equally tough and tiring day.) I told him that the purpose of my walking the Kōdō was to write the first book in English about it (which at that point I was still considering), and that, considering his point of view, there was no way in which I could recommend this place. His face changed dramatically then, and I don't believe that I seen such a blatantly public facial expression in all my years here. (I could go into a rant about his young age, and the changing cultural mores, blah blah blah.) That expression betrayed his discomfort, (and the fact that he wasn't the top dog here, but was in the unfortunate position of being in charge at this moment, poor guy) yet he still refused. And my voice still rose in anger, and while I never lost my temper, it was temporarily misplaced. The manager's discomfort increased, as other bathers began to listen in on our exchange. And my final trump was that not only would I not recommend this place, I would defame it in print, thereby damaging a business at the crucial age of less than a year old.

So off I went, to cool down with a beer as I waited for Miki to finish her bath. I hid myself in a far corner of the dining area, but the manager still was able to find me to apologize, and stealthily return my money under the table. I too apologized, saying that I'm not a bad person, or an angry person, but that my weariness and disappointment had taken me over. But I felt like I was saying it to myself, as if in justification. Did I win? Nope. While I never yelled or exploded, I still publicly displayed behavior that I despise and avoid at all times here, that of the violently angry gaijin barbarian, prey to his own emotions. I had bullied a poor young guy in order to maintain my principles, as if they are higher than his. I still believe in those principles, that the situation holds more precedence than any inflexible rule. But I've been in Japan long enough to know that this isn't how order is maintained here, and that rules are necessary since, you know, 'you gotta have wa.' As a guest in someone's home, I'd never rearrange the furniture if I thought that the recliner looked better under the window. Better to sit on those feelings, and refuse a return invite, should it ever come again. Despite my shame and regret about this incident, I will never go to a so-called 'Super-sento' again, not because of this encounter, but because I find them the strip mall equivalent of bathing. Gimme a crusty old neighborhood sento anyday...

On the turntable: Jane's Addiction, "Strays"

Kumano Kōdō VI: Kii-ji

09/07/09

We rose at six-thirty, the heat at eight. We climbed up the hill to the shrine above our 'camp' in order to meditate and do some yoga. (We had intended to do this every morning, and little did we know that this would be one of only three days that we actually followed through.) Over breakfast we watched the village below us awaken.

We dropped our bags at Gobō Station, as Miki's friend Shiori go off a train just pulling in. With the addition of our guest walker, we'd decided to go light and train it back in order to enjoy the local super-sento and another night at our private and peaceful hilltop campsite.

This was the beginnings of what became yet another long trudge of a day. The heat continued to increase, but the scenery didn't, offering more of the same view of small factories and bland shops lining the prefectural highway. The river that we followed out of town lay in its concrete bed, the hills that made up the southern border of town sprouted with prefab homes. Not far from here is a place called Amerika-mura, a place that I visited about 14 years ago. At that time, I was struck by how well they'd done the California beach town look. Little did I know that this was the tipping point for much of the architecture that has come since. Having seen a lot more of Japan by now, I think they ought to change the town's name, as it no longer lives up to its original distinction. Like the Osaka neighborhood with which its shares the moniker, these interpretations of elements of American culture and design have themselves become, without any sense of irony, something distinctly 21st Century Japanese.

Cresting a small pass, we finally came to the sea. After four days of smelling her perfumes and receiving flirtatious winks from atop the higher passes, we were finally at her side. How better to celebrate than with lunch, in the shade of a temple just below a hiking trail marked with 88 stone Jizo, a forethought on a Shikoku walk still to come. The water before me looked inviting, but for the massive power plant less than a km away. A fisherman assured me the water was fine, and with his three eyes, he was certain to spot any bad stuff.

We followed the sea through a series of small villages. Where'd I'd been expecting lovely scenes of a fishing culture, I found instead more light industry. The villagers themselves were out of sight, but the cats were active. Crabs crawled about in the sewers, their claws out in that international symbol for massage. We stopped for a cold drink in a shop run by a guy who thought that Miki and Shiori were foreigners, and more bizarrely, spoke Japanese only to me.

We next entered Inmi, who at this point in the narrative, holds the lead for the worst trail markers yet. As in none. There were a couple of markers for Ōji, simply for the benefit of the car pilgrims who'd bring in more money. We left this stingy town by climbing a high pass up to Naha Ōji, a shrine which bore a legend about foot relief for walkers. From here it was a long descent through plum groves and rice fields bordered with curtains of drying rice. This was the only green spot in a long day spent on concrete. (Looking back, I think that this was perhaps my least favorite day on the entire Kōdō.) With so little scenery to entertain us, Miki and Shiori fell back on their friendship. Many times in this blog I've mentioned that I hate to talk about things other than what we were encountering immediately before us. I'm generally not interested in being anywhere but here. So while the two of them were engaged in conversations spanning great distances in time and place, I chose to stay a few meters ahead, with my own company. Here and there I would be drawn into conversation, and it was during one of these times that we unknowingly passed an Ōji. It was the only one on the Kōdō to which we didn't offer a prayer.

We finished at Iwashio Station, beside a small oceanside shrine that would have been perfect for camping. With small regret, I boarded the train back to our bags at Gobō. Little did I know that my day wasn't finished...


On the turntable: "Blind Melon"
On the nighttable: Michael Herr, "Dispatches"

Kumano Kōdō V: Kii-ji

09/06/09

...today was like yesterday, a day spent getting somewhere, rather than being somewhere. We had full packs again, Miki's new and riding well on her shoulders. Our comfort was important, as we needed to cross a 400 meter pass, supposedly the most difficult on the Kōdō. We didn't talk much for the first hour, except to curse Yuasa for having the most useless trail markers so far. Through the town center, there had been plenty of markers, but once away from businesses and shops, they disappeared. I'm beginning to see a certain pattern at work here. Signs erected by the municipalities are usually found in areas where money is likely to flow. Signs deeper in the hills or in the countryside are put up by citizen's preservation groups. The latter have eveb rebuilt some Ōji, which mark the length of the Kōdō itself.

We had met a fellow walker in front of the train station. He'd attempted and failed this same stretch a week ago, and had set out yet again from his home four hours away in Hyogo. We'd had a much shorter journey, having finally checked out of our Wakayama hotel base camp. Being Sunday, everyone at breakfast had dressed casually for a change.

We walked along a river with our new companion, hopping on and off Rte 42, which would be shadowing us all the way to Ise. No one spoke much, as if thinking about the mountain looming ahead of us. The guy from Hyogo stopped at an Ōji to eat lunch, but Miki and I continued on, stopping a short time later, right where the true climb began. As we set off again, a loud bang sounded just above us, its echo roaring down the valley below. A hunt had shot over our heads. We yelled that we were coming through, then passed beyond a gate written with the triple threat warning about boars and bees and vipers. (Oh my!)

There were quite a few dead snakes on the road, plus a couple of lizards, prompting me to dub it the 'Reptile Trail of Tears.' Lots of cold blooded bodies with the life gone out. Miki and I have a different approach to steep trails: she slow and steady as a turtle; me powering up to a long rest at the top. This road was covered by the debris of frequent slides, so much so that it was easy to forget you were walking a sealed road. Near the top, I scared something away, something that crashed largely and noisily through the tress. Probably a deer, as this was Shishigase Pass. There was a clearing where inns had once stood, and when Miki eventually arrived, we had a nice long lunch. The trail down was quite steep, over cobblestones that mark older sections of the Kōdō. The descent brought new trouble for Miki in the form of an open sore on her lower back, where the lumbar support pads of her new pack made contact. She'd be slow and quiet the rest of the day.

It was incredibly hot. We passed through more orchards, then entered a long valley which we'd walk throughout the afternoon. The trail was mainly on a wide, mercifully untrafficked road, though it would often lead us down small lanes between houses. In front of one house, a man was stringing together lengths of beautiful black bamboo, unfazed be the dozens of bees swarming at his house's opposite end. Once in a while there'd be a farmer harvesting his rice with a tractor, but much of this area's harvest looked to have already been completed, the fields dry and stubbly. Up north, they hadn't yet begun. Due to the heat, we stopped quite a few times, once in front of an old wooden post office whose vending machine dispensed disappointingly warm drinks. Another time, we simply plopped down in the middle of the road in the shade of tall trees. As a couple of kids played in front of their house, we quietly took water from a hose at the side. Later, while leaning against a tall wall, enjoying the shade, a farm woman came up to chat. The further down the valley we went, the further forward in time we traveled, until we finally hit a train line and some vending machines. We sat nursing our drinks beside an old shrine with earthen walls, which seemed to protest the tick of the clock.

I don't remember many details of the day due to fatigue and heat. There was a gateball court and a large fishing hole. A narrow path led through a dense dark bamboo grove to a small Ōji sitting with dignity in the silence. An ancient woman leaned against a wall where we'd left our packs, matching our weary smiles.

At five, we finally reached the park where we'd camp. It was on a hillside, out of sight of the road and houses below. I love Japan for these places, with toilets and tables and shaded patches of grass. We dropped our stuff and walked ten minutes over to Dōjōji Temple. The origination of the Anju story (later made into a famous Nō play), it was well visited, and had the obligatory row of shops and restaurants, most now closed. One place was still open, the owner happy to share tales of local history. I was thrilled with my beer and curry, despite the latter consisting of a mere three potatoes and a forlorn piece of beef. (My beer glass had a picture of a samurai supping lustily on a high class woman's nipple. I raised an eyebrow and gave Miki a particular look, but she pretended not to notice, head pointed down toward her domburi. Sigh...)

We paid a quick visit to the temple itself, the rice plants below taking on a gorgeous gold in the setting sun. On the grounds were a mixture of old and new structures, including a massive gate leading through the Edo-period white walls to the house of the main priest.

Near dark now, we set up camp back on our own hill, the row of windmills flickering on the adjacent range we'd climbed hours earlier, as if beckoning the late summer moon to rise red and full...


On the turntable: Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "Where'd you Go?"
On the nighttable: Jiryu Mark Rutchsman-Byler, "Two Shores of Zen"

Kumano Kōdō IV: Kii-ji

09/05/09

We picked up the Kōdō again in Kainan. Here it was a small trail through the hills, shaded with bamboo and lined with stone Jizo statues of extreme age. Each had different features. This enchanted path led us to the temple I'd visited toward the end of yesterday. Nearby, a modest home stood surrounded by a large overgrown garden. This is the origin of the Suzuki family, and at 403,506 members, is the most common name in Japan. Just beyond was Fujishiro Shrine, hung with a humorous banner written with, "Welcome Suzuki-san!" Nearby, a Kuzunoki tree rose to the heavens, each of its three interwoven trunks nearly the size of a van. Behind the shrine was a full-sized wooden horse, and beside it was a small hall that lit up on approach, revealing the impressive line-up of Buddhas within. One of these was the only physical representation of the Kannon deity that is specific to the Kōdō.

We moved into forest here, the distances marked off in chō rather than in meters. The view was of nothing but the factory below. I marveled that the citizens of Kainan had allowed such a immense structure to be plonked down on the outskirts of town, effectively cutting them off from the sea that gave the town its name. The hill rose and took us away. Midway up was a flat indented stone like a calligraphy inkwell. The legend that accompanied it goes back to the 7th Century. Atop the pass was a simple temple of dull wood, set against the brilliant blue sky. We had lunch here, followed later by a dessert of mikan plucked from trees passed on the descent. This completely made our day, eating fresh fruit as we walked along, tainted slightly by the sight of white chemical residue dried to their thick skins. This valley into which we were now dropping was surrounded by a Tuscan landscape of dry hills bearing colorful orchards. It was hot going, the sun straight above and offering nearly no shade. Midway across the valley, we found what is touted as the first mikan tree in all of Japan, ancestor to all that wonderful sweet fruit to come since.

We faced a long ascent up concrete poured along the steep pitch. Shacks marked the orchards through which we climbed, with winch cables criss-crossing the sky above, forming the expressways that the fruit commuted along on their way to the cities. Near the crest of this high steep mountain, we found a group of very old men singing karaoke in a tiny kōminkan. They graciously gave us water, but warned us that the taste might be off, as they'd earlier sprayed for termites. With the heat, thirst beat prudence. Further up still, large turbines were lined across the top of the ridge, whoop-whooping the air as they churned.

Down the other side now, then immediately faced our second 400 meter climb of the day, into a forest landscape offering plentiful shade. We plucked a kiwi from one tree, but it was too sour to eat. The following descent was of the knee-killing variety all too common in this country, as if trails of this type were designed deliberately by orthopedic surgeons. On the floor of the next valley, we stopped for drinks at a local grocery store, directly across from a group of kids unsuccessfully fishing in a grubby canal.

We made it across the valley quickly, over the Arida River and up into the next group of orchards. This was a lower hill than the last two, and a long gentle descent brought us finally to the town of Yuasa, whose main street had a look centuries old. We passed through a cloud of incense as we made our way to the station, ending a six hour perpendicular crossing of some of the hardest passes on the Kōdō, passes which seem to be competing for the most fatalities...


On the turntable: Soup Dragons, "Lovegod"
On the nighttable: William Warren, "Jim Thompson, The Unsolved Mystery"

Kumano Kōdō III: Kii-ji

09/04/09

We used Wakayama as base camp for a few days. The Kōdō bisected a series of train lines within short reach of the city, and it made good sense to commute out and walk light. The bath and bed in our hotel room weren't very big, but breakfast and the internet were free. Before setting out each morning, I'd potter down to the lobby in my hotel slippers, the kind that mental patients wear.

We took the train to Hoshiya, where we'd left off. The water in the rice paddies was alive with small snails and tiny fish, a unique and special biosystem. A temple near here looked somewhat Okinawan, all tiled roofs and palm trees. After a fire here, the temple's statue of Kannon had been moved to a new location nearby. Soon afterward, horses in the region began to die suddenly, unexpectedly, until the statue was returned to the rebuilt temple.

Today's scenery was much like yesterday's -- of villages and rice fields and the canals that bisected them with so much rushing water. Many homes were surrounded by stone shale walls, architectural testament to a tropical clime. Along the way, we passed a house of impressive size, which had once been the family estate of the local tax collector. Climbing Yada pass, we found a small cave cut into the hillside, it's own shale walls sheltering a statue of En-no-Gyoja. Over this pass, we soon came to another. Further down, a wasp was backing across the path, dragging the carcass of a spider three times its size. At the bottom of the hill were a cluster of homes, standing amidst grave stones of incredible age, hinting at how long people have inhabited this valley. The trees that shaded them also offered mikan nearly ripe, a nice thirst-quenching treat.

Beyond a street with some very old posters, we stopped for lunch on the broken stone steps of a nearby temple, beneath a beautifully aged gate. A few bites in, we noticed that we were sitting amidst a nest of caterpillars, each the size of my thumb. It took some time to brush them from our bags and clothes.

It was a hot day, the trail mostly unshaded as it passed between houses old and new. We found some respite beside a large Jizo and had some tea. Close by was Spider Lake, whose grubby water was simultaneously disgusting and inviting. The turtles seemed to have found peace with this, their forms breaking the surface again and again. One mother was teaching one of her babies to swim. She'd twist and arc her body in order to push it under the surface. When it attempted to climb upon her shell, she'd dive deeply, surfacing nearby a minute later. The baby would immediately sense where she was, and swim at great speed to her, and the whole process would begin again.

Toward the end of the day, we came to a large temple complex atop a flight of steep stone stairs. The main hall was flanked by hundreds of stone Jizo statues. Inside were dozens of paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. I wandered further up the hill in order to see the sea, but was frustrated by the large Sumitomo factory that rose up at the water's edge. Walking down now, past a few smaller buildings well on their way to ruin.

The final stretch to the station was along a street lined with old houses, each bearing a red plate written with "K.K." A loudspeaker came on to tell us that the local schoolkids were on their way home, and that we should all cooperate in keeping them safe. Japan these days has a hyper-inflated sense of danger. Just yesterday, those 8-years olds we'd met had shown us their cellphones, to be used in the event of a predatory attack. How depressing that children are being taught to be afraid of a big bad hostile world. Childhood ends early here. (I'm tempted to say that perhaps it never ends at all, based on much of the immature behavior I see around me.)

Again in Wakayama, we walked 20 unhappy minutes on aching feet to get Miki's bag situation sorted out. Then, a long expensive bus ride back to city center, followed by a lousy meal in a local eatery, with annoying radio BGM that consisted of nearly 30 minutes of voices nearly shrieking in incredibly high registers. "AHHH SOOO DESU KAAAAA?!!!!!" I de-clenched my teeth at one point to hear an announcement about an upcoming 6-hour Kumano Kōdō walk, limited to 200 people. God help me...


On the turntable: "Beat the Retreat: Songs of Richard Thompson"

Kumano Kōdō II: Kii-ji

09/03/09

It made for an awkward start, rushing to finish with the house, then dashing to make the train. We handed our keys back to the landlady at five past 10, boarded the train 20 frenzied minutes later. Once aboard, I couldn't believe that we'd made it. A few days ago, even a day ago, I wouldn't have been able to imagine it, what with all that had needed to be done. And after awhile this feeling was replaced by fatigue, by weariness. Sleep pushed in from the corners, but I pushed back. Just not nearly hard enough. We sat on the platform at Tennoji, nearly missing our train resting further down the track, which we had hardly acknowledged until its lights came on like the opening of eyes. A conductor on the adjacent platform had looked over at us, but hadn't been able to extend the courtesy of mentioning that the train we were waiting for was just...over...there. After all that would have meant doing his job.

We detrained at Yamanakadani, fiddled with our packs a bit, then set up the road. We'd finished here on a cold snowy January day, me with aching achilles. Today I felt good despite the recent sleeplessness and stress, despite the greater weight on my back. On recent walks my right hip had complained, but today it felt solid. More surprisingly, my usually griping knee had little to say.

Miki, on the other hand... She began to have trouble within the first half hour. The pack she'd chosen -- the one borrowed from me -- wasn't sitting right. The way in which it peeled back off her shoulders was hurting her back; the way it rode her shoulders dug into some pressure points there. We stopped quite a few times to adjust things in order to ease her pain. This worked for awhile, but ultimately she'd have trouble again. I tried to feel compassion, but there was an element of schadenfreude at work here. During the stress of the move, we'd bickered a lot, me growing weary of her comments and her opinions. She'd really pushed her 'go light' philosophy on me, attempting to make me give up most of my possessions. Yet this current situation was proof that throughout the process, her mind had been so focused on this that she had neglected to properly prepare for the walk. This entire first day was now punctuated by her regrets and complaints. Not that there was much to distract her. The road was a busy one, made noisy by being wedged in between a train line and a highway. This continued for nearly two hours. Conversation was difficult, though Miki had little to say, hunched forward over, eyes on the ground.

Osaka is separated by Wakayama by a narrow stream, the site of the final battle of feudal Japan. Further on, a construction crew was widening the road, on a steep and quick curve. A questionable need. A few days before, the LDP, who supplies the barrels into which such pork is usually tossed, had been defeated most viciously at the polls. Their construction friendly ways may be on the way out. As I passed an army of construction flagmen of advanced age staring off into space, I began to hum, "Your Time is Gonna Come." In this too, I am witness to yet end of another phase of Japanese history. Descending the hill, I thought about how different the DJP victory -- admittedly historic -- had been compared to Obama's win last fall. Here I felt no jubilation, no sense of future promise. All seemed business as usual on the streets of Japan. I fear history will prove me right.

As the road descended, I immediately recognized the vast valley of the Kii-no-Kawa, whose path I had partially followed in the spring. We entered a village at the valley's edge, houses spaced by rice fields, their stalks heavy and bending toward the dry cracked earth which had spawned them. We stopped on the side of the road, to have snacks and tea, to the amusement of the occasional farmer bicycling by. Across the fields was a large temple, where Ono no Komachi had died 1100 years before while on her own Kumano pilgrimage.

Further into the village, a trio of schoolgirls looked shocked at the sight of me. We were a little uncertain about the road that we wanted, and after asking the girls, I overheard one of them ask her friend, "Was he Japanese?' Miki and I moved down the road to their elementary school and borrowed some shade out front for a rest. Turned out the girls had been tailing us, and the bravest one walked up to ask if I were Japanese. We talked with them for a while, let them try to pick up our packs. Miki learned a new Japanese word from them, a term basically meaning "stranger danger," which saddened us that they'd need to know this. This sadness quickly turned to surprise at finding that they'd never heard of Kyoto.

We moved on, through a sea of rice fields straight out of 'Lily Chou Chou.' I liked the way the trail zigzagged from village to village. A beautiful shrine made of earth and stone sat in a small clearing. As we rested nearby, a man came out to offer us watermelon. The locals knew exactly what we were up to, encouraging us with smiles and greetings. It gave us a feeling that we were doing something important.

As the day went on, Miki was having a harder and harder time. Not wanting to add to her trouble, I ignored my usual curiosities -- that beautiful old house with a tea room built over the canal; a shrine with an intriguing tree-lined drive. We finally came to the long bridge across the River Kii. Crossing took about 15 minutes, with multiple rest stops. When we got to the station on the far side, I didn't see any relief on Miki's face, which was by now a mask of suffering.

We'd decided earlier to go into Wakayama city to get her a new pack. Just off the train, we were chatted up by some friendly Mormons, but they didn't know any hotels. Miki wandered off in search of a tourist information stand. I spotted a pony-tailed taxi driver, who I was sure would know a cheap place to sleep. We checked in, then walked over to WaraWara which promised 'new' izakaya fare, like mochi tacos and tofu lasagna. Plus the all important over-sized beers. I slept very well...


On the turntable: Ken Nordine, "Colors"
On the nighttable: Brett Dakin, "Another Quiet American"

The Way of the Mountain

I'm reading 'The Fruitful Darkness," by Joan Halifax and in its pages, I come across this:

"Viewing a mountain from a distance or walking around its body, we can see its shape, know its profile, survey its surrounds. The closer you come to the mountain, the more it disappears. The mountain begins to lose its shape as you near it. Its body begins to spread out over the landscape, losing itself to itself. On climbing the mountain, the mountain continues to vanish. It vanishes in the detail in each step. Its crown is buried in space. Its body is buried in the breath."

I'm immediately taken back to Fuji-san. I walked to her foot though a forest fog, past rotting shrines traditionally only seen by male suitors. I climbed her flank of constantly shifting shale. But I never saw her.

I spent a night in her embrace, breathed in her scent of chemical toilet sanitizers mingling with burning plastic. I stood on her shoulder, arms raised to honor the rising sun. But I never saw her.

Trains and buses took me past her. But she wasn't there. My plane flew over her head. But she wasn't there.

On a clear sunny winter day, she finally showed herself to me. And she's ever within.


On the turntable: Eric Clapton, "Rush"
On the nighttable: Francois Bizot, "The Gate"

Sunday Papers: Mikey Lambe

"I like you. You're stupid like me."

--at the end of a long night of beer and ukelele music


On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Bootleg Series 1-3"

Dueling Bentos

It's spring, and the blogs are multiplying 'round here like rabbits. (Even Miki's in on the act.) Cue the string music, Dueling Bentos has arrived. It will chronicle life in what's dubbed the 'City Different.' Things Japanese, or with a heavier Asian flavour, will continue to be served up here, hopefully twice a week or so. There will also be the occasional double post, where my two world collide in what I'm calling Culturophenia, being neither here nor there, but in some state of mind between.

So join me there, continue to join me here, but please join me. If you've followed me this far, then let's meet where paths diverge at May 1st...

On the turntable: The Latin Jazz Quintet, "Latin Soul"

On the Turntable

Back to sharing a living room with my LPs, I've found myself listening to a lot of vinyl again. There is nothing like the hiss as the needle finds the groove; the unselfconscious pop that irregularly marks time; the clunk of the returning tone arm amplified through the speakers. I've long forgotten how short the sides are. None of these packaged-by-the-hour tunes of compact discs. None of the 'bop 'til the batteries drop' of mp3s. Instead, every 20 minutes you have to get up, walk across the room, and flip the album over. I'm surprised at how much I've missed this manual labor.

On the turntable: "Lester Young" (Giants of Jazz series)
On the nighttable: Joan Halifax, " The Fruitful Darkness"

And Regrets? I've Had a Few...

These days, one of my favorite activities seems to cause me great pain. Every time I watch a Japanese film, I begin to badly long for Japan. No matter the film -- "Lady of Musashino," "Okuribito," or "Zen!" (exclamation point mine, due to all the drama)-- it causes me to doubt my decision to return back here. Now, I'm adult enough to realize that this is due to the fact that I have yet to establish any routine to ground me. Instead, I've passed my days in errands, tasks, and the simple act of waiting for life to begin. There is great peace for be found in meditating and gardening at Upaya, and on the yoga mat. But in 3 months, the only single fun thing I've done for myself was wandering the Tsankawi mesa. On that day, I was thrilled to be here. Most other days, I play the what if game.

Would another year in Kyoto have been so bad? Near the end, I was finally finding acceptance with the yoga world as it is marketed in Kansai. I could've gone back to simple teaching, forgoing the excess of workshops, and trying to ignore all the nonsense. I would've thrown myself more into translation. I would've spent less time in the hills and more time with friends in cafes or alone, strolling the city's narrow streets. I most definitely would've given greater priority to my training in Takeuchi and with the Omine Shugenja. These last two lost chances really sting when recalled, and serve as major sources of regret. Yet, that mantra of 'one more year, one more year' is self-perpetuating and can lead to an entrapment strongly bound by the laws of inertia.

Those who've followed me this far know of my great love for New Mexico, a love I expect will return. But for now it feels like revisiting an old flame who, though still a beauty, has lost some of her charm. And the mind naturally turns to the form of another, who, in times of better and worse, long warmed the bed.


On the turntable: '"Collector's History of Classic Jazz"
On the nighttable: W. Sometset Maugham, "The Gentleman in the Parlour"

Sunday Papers: Jiantung

"Studying the Way is like planting a tree -- if you cut it just when it branches out, it can be used for firewood; if you cut it when it's about to reach full growth, it can be used for rafters; if you cut it when it's somewhat stronger, it can be used for beams; if you cut it when it's old and huge, it can be used for pillars."


On the turntable: Bjork, "Post"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown Revisited

Last summer, I had planned to sort through the TSH posts and edit them into something of a guide to the hike. But time and life stuff got in the way. I was further urged on by a New Years email from Wes asking for more info. Finally, I got it together.

Most of the posts are the same, with some slight editing. I also tried to fill in the blanks here and there, since I didn't write up the North Kyoto parts that we previously hiked as the Kyoto Isshū Trail. Most importantly, I listed all the resources I used.

Overall, it still reads less like a guide than a cynical travel piece. But, as the only English information out there, I hope it is helpful.

Tokai Shizen Hoedown


On the turntable: "Backbeat" (OST)

Earth Day

Morning in short-sleeves,
Evening in the snow.

Even on her day,
Old Mother shows off some tricks.


On the turntable: "Sky Dancing"

Tsankawi

We sit on the edge of a cliff, watching the storm drift past. Once again I find myself atop a mesa on sacred native land, just out of reach of rain and lightning and thunder. Three of the four of us share Irish blood, so naturally our conversation leads us to that Emerald Isle, moving from there to Tibet, from the Bronx to Piedmont, CA. Across the ravine are the concrete towers of Los Alamos labs, birthplace of the bomb that flattened the city where my wife's people come from. I follow her eye line over there. Someday, we'll need to bridge this gap and complete the pilgrimage.

I later find myself alone, off-trail across this mesa topped out with scrub. It narrows to a dull, rounded edge, like the prow of a ship cutting across this ancient seabed. I sit awhile on a disembodied boulder, wondering what to call those peaks over there, still snow-capped this late in Spring. Brother raven flies over to check me out, squawking a greeting. The rain eventually drives me from this aerie, and I scramble down the rock face, leaping the last few feet onto the next shelf. There's far less wind on this eastern face. I follow a narrow white band as trail, passing beneath petroglyphs and yellow splashes of lichen. I find a cave and climb in, to meditate on the crystaline sand floor and dip into Nanao. I come across this:

Underground deep
fossil cave dark

you sit down
might be midday

someone comes in
you can't see him, hear him, touch him

still someone with you for sure;
is he friend or devil?

you don't care
all the same

you smile
he looks blank
I burst into laughter

no body
wave after wave

On the turntable: Julian Cope, "Rite Now"

Sunday papers: Yukio Mishima

"The law is an accumulation of tireless attempts to block a man's desire to change life into an instant of poetry."
--Runaway Horses


On the turntable: Built to Spill, "There's Nothing Wrong with Love"

Sunday papers: Andre Dubus

"A cliche is just an out, it just sort of hangs around and waits for someone to use it and when you do use one it saves you from having to think."

On the turntable: Rolling Stones, "Hot Rocks"

Weird Scenes Inside The Gold Mind

I'm not after mindfulness as much as knowing the self.

Obsession on Emptiness and Form. Astronomical black holes as tangible evidence of this duality. Spending a day in silence doesn't cover the cacophony of thought. The two Suzukis: D.T.'s emptiness of zen scholarship vs. Shunryu's form of practice. (Or vice versa perhaps?) Shunryu's sowing the seeds of practice in American soil, hoping some would blow back across the sea to Japan and germinate as revolution in temples there.

The way Americans overuse the word 'Master.' But who truly knows everything about something? No one I've ever met. We can't even master the fundamentals of being human. Breathing? Not from what I've seen as a yoga teacher. Eating? I see obesity everywhere. Defecation? The TV is loaded with commercials for irritable bowel syndrome, constipation, hemorrhoids. Let's save the word "Master' for golf, shall we?

Having children is an act of optimism.

Ken looks younger every time I see his photo, as if he is receding while I grow older...


On the turntable: Tounami Diabate, "The Mande Variations"

Notes from Upaya

I'm housed in a room called 'Tatami," which is a wide space over the offices. To enter, you need to express humility by ducking through a low door, then do a Quasimoto-like lurch beneath the 5 foot ceiling. The very first night, I smash my head into the metal latch that hangs down from the center of the doorframe. It takes over an hour for the blood to clot.

One night in zazen, I'm obsessing on my desire for popcorn. Just after we finish sitting, I go over to the Querencia kitchen to find that one of the priests has just freshly popped some. (Cue The Police.)

Throughout the month, I'm enchanted by the colorful birds, mostly hues I'd rarely seen in Japan. They are a living palate against the monochromatic winter desert landscape. One afternoon I go sit above the snow-obscured stream to watch them. Time, and the afternoon, soon disappears. At night I'm serenaded by coyote song, their yip yip yips awakening me. I aurally track their progress along the stream below. Some nights they are echoed by the barks of dogs, apparent frustration at a cruel twist of DNA.

One silent lunch period, I find myself staring down into my bowl of quinoa. The cooking directions say that they are ready when the white DNA ring is visible. But caught up as I am in the concentration of the retreat, I'm hypnotized by the sight of the atomic element on display before me, momentarily having penetrating into the heart of reality.

One afternoon, there is a wedding. The bride is in a beautiful, though unorthodox, white dress. Like a geisha's, her dress was dipping in the back, but it didn't stop at the upper shoulders. Instead it hung all the way down to the small of her back. Traditionally in Japan,the back of the neck is considered the most sensuous part of a woman's body. In seeing all the way from nape to waist, I felt like I was exposed to secrets I wasn't privy to, the dark mole set against white skin, the knobs of vertebra leading downward to softer, rounder, fleshier bits.

The energy rushing up my spine, swirling around my heart, softening flesh that has been like protective leather for so long. Healing.

At breakfast, I smear what I think is green chili on my eggs, then, while expecting the usual blast of huevos rancheros, my taste buds instead are numbed by the taste of tahini.

All month, sitting eyeball to eyeball with Green Tara's dog (which I later learn is named Dominga, and belongs to Roshi). On my cushion in front of the painting, every day I'd find my attention drawn deeply into a different detail. Like the mind. Like life.

When I first started sitting zazen at temples in Japan, I loved all the accompanying ritual. Here I find resistance to it, especially the English chants. The Japanese use the phonetically (Sino-ized) Sansrkit. Why can't the Yanks?

As the snow continues to build up, I'm beginning to get worn down by the lack of color. The sudden glimpse of a blue shovel leaning against a fence is the most colorful thing in the world.

Watching guests do their training brings to mind how attached we are to habits. One guy does zazen in his jeans, cell phone still strapped to hip. A women does outdoor walking meditation with sunglasses on. Another woman in expensive designer wear looks terribly uncomfortable pushing a mop. But who am I to judge? Most of these people have a stronger meditation practice than my own. (Where the dharma sideswipes my bad habits would fill an entire blog.)

During the silent retreats, I find myself doing zazen everywhere, eyes pointed down in that 50 yard stare, following a breath coming with ease.

Getting vibed by a few women after Eve Ensler's talk. It reminds me of how teen boys, after seeing a kung fu film, leave the theater jumping around and kicking stuff.

Outdoor kinhin, like a samba line of awareness.

During a meditation exercise, the difficulty I had in connecting with a childhood memory. The way my back softened when I looked into my partner's eyes. How hard it was to hold it.

Natalie Goldberg's comment: "Why would you write a memoir if you have no regrets?"

How anger can be fuel for powerful meditations.

The final day, a thunderstorm comes over violently. We keep to our cushions, sitting strongly, holding the space, the silence. I feel a connection with everyone then, and my eyes fill, feeling the love.


On the turntable: Midlake, "The Trials of Van Occupanther"

Sunday Papers: Karin Muller

"He has traveled halfway around the world to fulfill his life's desire -- given up his family, country, and language -- and accepted with equanimity the slurs and slanders of a system that cannot reconcile itself to the landscape of his face."

--Japanland


On the turntable: Geraldo Pino, "Heavy Heavy Heavy"
On the nighttable: Satish Kumar, "Earth Pilgrim"

Dust

I'm in Santa Fe, training for a month at Upaya Zen Center, and having a fine time, thank you. The hours of meditation, the long work periods, and all the snow are helping to ground me in this land of big skies.
Yesterday, while sitting on my cushion and polishing the mirror, a limerick showed up in my head like a surprise guest:

There once was a person of zen
Who pondered the now and the then.
He sat on his seat,
Losing touch with his feet,
Counting breaths that never seemed to reach ten.


On the turntable: Morcheeba, "Dive Deep"
On the nighttable: Michael Downing, "Shoes Outside the Door"

What Goes On

The theme of the three day drive was snow. But unlike the subsequent storms going on back East, this snow behaved itself by staying on the desert and off the roads. On the far-off mountains it looked like punctuation. This enabled us a beautiful ride, free of anxiety. Needless to say, it was a far cry from the tropical weather we'd left two days before, our companion during a two month clockwise circumambulation of Southeast Asia.

The snow began at Tahoe, coating the Sierras as they stretched south to house some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. We overnighted at Lee Vining, beside Mono Lake, in a motel whose roof threatened to calve icicles big enough to pierce the roof of our rented 4x4. Not far from here, beyond a Mammouth enshrouded in ground fog, was Bishop, CA and the western terminus of Route 6. This was Kerouac's famous Road, the ribbon he hitched -- or tried to hitch -- from his home in Lowell, Mass., 3205 miles away.

Out here in Nevada, there wasn't much. Besides Tonopah and Ely, there weren't any other towns, despite what the maps said. These settlements which had promised gas and food on paper were simply a handful of rotting shacks. And they had been empty for some time. The only life were animals scrambling through the white world -- elk, coyote, cattle on a drive of their own. When we eventually spotted Salt Lake City through a break in the hills, it looked like the biggest city in the world.

We braved gusts through a long canyon whose high cliffs were hemmed in with the spirit of indigenous people as vanished as those folks back in Nevada. The snow seemed part of the conspiracy. Colorado thrust up next, with moneyed ski towns showing an ignorance of history, masked as optimism.

Two nights in Boulder, and a parking ticket-tape return. Where Kerouac had been driven by his visions of Cody, I had mine in the form of woodstove pizza and delightfully hoppy IPAs. Southbound next into New Mexico, leaving Route 6 behind. Another trip for another day. Home, a concept poor Ti Jean never fully embraced, awaits.

On the turntable: Beatles, "Revolver" (2009 Remaster)

On the nighttable: Erik Fraser Storlie, "Nothing on my Mind"

Happy Nu-hu-hu-hu Year!

So Much Water So Close To Home

My last day in Yonago, I went to see a Doctor of Chinese Medicine about my knee. He told me that my body has too much liquid, and gave me some herbs to remedy that. But how can I escape all this water?

It is beside my train, in the form of a river along which a tug pulls a barge loaded with dirt from what was once a mountain. This train stops at Kinosaki, its passengers disembarking for a three day weekend soaking in hot baths. My next train follows the Sea of Japan, whose rocky shoreline is carved by more water, both serving as natural defenses against ancient enemies.

In Yonago, I spend a few days feeding on crab and other things that this water offers, as if trying to instantaneously recoup the 7 kilograms lost during a 10 week walk.

Another train struts along other water, trapped in rice paddies now plowed into hourglass shapes. At Gotsu I follow the Ko no Kawa south to spend a couple days with Jake. On one of these we watch the water leap and rush through the narrow Senjokei. A month ago, Kagura performers mimicked this movement as they danced in the surrounding shrines now quiet on this warm autumn afternoon.

Thumb south to Tomo no Ura and Sensuijima floating in the Seto-Naikai. I hike around what the locals call `kemono no michi,` or trail of beasts. Where there are views, I sit and squint at the words on a page in the glare of sunlight reflecting brightly on water. I`ve always had a great attraction to these waters, love to walk the desert-like hills high over the waves. I often escaped down here with friends long returned to their homes, far away where water merges with other water. And I too will be soon gone, and the sentimentality I feel is a weight heavy, like the Bizen cup from which I drink my beer. I toast these ghosts, and then again. There is always the feeling of aware in off-season beach towns, yet mine is compounded and I often feel near tears. Leaving this country is like a breakup with someone I`m still deeply in love with.

There is other water too: at the end of the narrow alleys of Tomo no Ura; along the waterfront of Onomichi, above which I wander the hills between old temples; forming the spread fingers of the Hiroshima delta; at the southern edge of an overly built-up town facing Miyajima, where I spend my final days.

And the sentimentality lasts, though it could be that I have far too many minor chords on my iPod, making up the nostalgic songs that themselves flowed through all the different lives I`ve lived here. As an English teacher well-enthused at an expat life. As the husband and father. As a hollow shadow, trying to pull myself from the wreckage of a life destroyed. As a person in reconstruction, rebuilding myself in a new city.

Escape from the water. Tough to do on an island. Today I will cross over it, to see where the flow goes once beyond its limits...


On the turntable: Beatles, "Rubber Soul"
On the nighttable: Robert Stone, "Damascus Gate"

Silent, But Readily

Deep Kyoto has published my write-up on the Vipassana course. What isn't stated in the article is that I didn't finish. Sitting more than 10 hours a day took its toll. I had a few moments the first day where I wondered if I'd make it, yet day two was a tad easier, and I had no doubt that I would stick it out. But my knee had other ideas.

I've been nursing a Baker's cyst for over a year, which had been a nuisance but hadn't limited my activities in any way. But for some reason, last August it began to really hurt, and by mid-month, I had to curb teaching certain yoga poses, could no longer sit seiza. It was fine during the Kumano and Shikoku walks, but hours sitting cross-legged brought about incredible pain.

One of the goals of the Vipassana technique is to realize that pain is fleeting, and will fade eventually if not given too much importance. I could deal with the stiff back and legs, but I thought to ignore an existing medical condition wasn't wise. I decided to watch it and see how it went; pain at the end of the day was understandable, but if I awoke with pain I'd have to reevaluate things.

That morning did come. I continued most of the day in meditation, yet was distracted by incessant thoughts. If I quit, was I weak? That was ego talking. But if I stuck it out to prove something to myself or others, wasn't that ego too? I looked at it from many angles, and found that any action, or its opposing action, were all driven by ego. My feet sank deeper into the sand on the bank of the Rubicon.

I also began to question the reasoning behind such long periods of sitting. Ten hours a day isn't the real issue. Two hour sessions are. To the best of my knowledge, the zen or yoga traditions never sit this long, usually sitting in shorter periods, with breaks or walking meditation between. (One hour zazen sittings aren't unheard of, but I feel that this is less about quality meditation than about 'building character.' Ahem.  Within the Zen world, I prefer the "Take It Easy" form of Soto to the "Take it to the Limit" style of Rinzai anyway.) I personally find that anything more than 30 minutes is futile. In the Vipassana meditation hall, there would be silence for the first half hour, then the remaining time was a cacophony of shifting bodies. It seemed no one was able to concentrate anymore. What is the point? (I invite anyone who knows the reason to explain it to me.)

The night before I left, I went for a late night pee. Stepping outside, I startled a large animal, which crashed through the forest somewhere out there in the dark. The high pitched bark that followed told me it was a pair of deer, one calling out to its mate. I was inspired to make my own dash. At the Vipassana center we were segregated by sex, and sworn to uphold silence. I spied my wife on her side of the fence, but couldn't get her attention. Unlike the deer, I'd go alone.

On the afternoon of the 4th day, I was standing on the train platform, not sure whether to go west to Yonago or east to Kyoto. A westbound train came in, and I took it. After days of deprivation my senses were alive, finding beauty in every sight, sound, flavor. The peace I'd felt during the course remained. Yet something nagged. My escape to freedom was a move in the complete opposite direction from what the Buddhists define as 'liberation.' I felt I'd made the right choice regarding the knee, but had the knee given my ego an excuse to get out of a very challenging situation? I continued to beat myself up as the train moved slowly along the Sea of Japan...


 

On the turntable: King Curtis, "Live at the Fillmore West"
On the nighttable: David Foster Wallace, "Girl with Curious Hair" 

 

Kyoto Vipassana Meditation Center

 

http://www.deepkyoto.com/kyoto-vipassana-meditation-center/

 

"Deep Kyoto friend and contributor Ted Taylor recently completed a two and a half month hike along the Kumano Kodo and the Shikoku 88 temple pilgrimage. Returning briefly to Kyoto before continuing his travels he stopped for ten days at the Kyoto Vipassana meditation center.  Today he sent me a report on his experiences there. Ted writes:

I found myself sharing dormitory space with six other men, none of whom would talk to me.  Which is no surprise really as we`d taken a vow not to speak during the 10 days which make up the Vipassana meditation course.  The Center is about 90 minutes north of Kyoto, at the end of a lovely drive into a remote valley.

The silence part isn`t really the problem (which may surprise those who know me).  It is the sitting:
ten and a half hours a day, split into 90 to 120 minute chunks.  In which to sit, and sit, and sit.  The body begins to fidget and whine like a two year old.  The mind begins to yell “Boring, boring, boring!” like Rick from The Young Ones.  Which is exactly the point.  The goal is to recognize that thoughts and bodily sensations, both positive and negative, are temporary and fleeting.  The only constant is Reality itself, which we`ve lost track of, as we gird ourselves with tasty food, cultural events, and the Internet. (No disrespect intended, Deep Kyoto.)

After the initial orientation session where we listened to a recorded voice telling us the rules (which I quickly dubbed, `The Dharma Initiative`), we mounted our cushions for the first time.  And did little else.  The recording had actually used the phrase, `confine you here`, and it did indeed have the feel of prison:  seemingly unending hours spent staring into space, with the main diversions being tasty meals,  long showers, walks in the yard, and light stretching.  We weren`t however allowed to read, as any reading or writing materials, (plus cameras, iPods, cell phones, etc) were confiscated on the first day.  The only reading allowed was the constant flow of thoughts, most of these being monotonous at that.

The one voice we did hear was that of S.N. Goenka, who created this course.   In the evenings, we watched videos of his dharma lectures, which were thought provoking, witty, and easy to understand.   During the 3 daily one-hour group sittings. we also heard his meditation instructions, which were spoken with a slow, emphatic manner, in this weird Bela Legosi voice, the words trailing off as if the sentences themselves were narcoleptic.  During the other meditation sessions, we had the choice to sit in the main hall, or in our dormitory room.  I found the latter to be greatly beneficial, as we were given permission to stretch our legs, or to lie down for a few moments if we chose.  To do so in the main hall, was noisy and distracting, detracting from one of the goals of the course, which was to pretend that you were doing the course in isolation.  In the true isolation of my room, I found my meditation to be much deeper.

The effects of the course became apparent quickly.  With no distractions, the mind grows quiet, and becomes more equanimous.  You don`t seem to be bothered by your dormmate`s snoring, or by the cold, or by the fact that you don`t get dinner.   And these positive effects remain.  The scenery on the train ride home was a study in beauty.   Every note of the music on my restored iPod was perfect.

With my background in zen and yoga, I do have some issues with the methodology of the course, but I put these aside as best I could and accepted what Vipassana had to offer.   To my  supreme benefit.   I highly recommend this program, though not to the faint of heart (or leg).  This course is the extreme sport of the meditation world, filled with hardship and pain, yet offering great reward.  Though that could just be my mind playing tricks on me.

Kyoto Vipassana Center is located in the north-western part of the prefecture, 90 minutes by train from Kyoto station. To find out more about the Vipassana center, check out their website here. You can read more about Ted’s continuing adventures on his wonderful blog: Notes from the ‘Nog."

 

On the turntable:  Jerry Jeff Walker, "Christmas Gonzo"

 

 

Feet Up

Off the road for a few days. We traced the distended belly of the Kinki Region, where it juts proudly into the Pacific, walking 300+ km along the Kii-ji, Nakahechi, and Ōhechi sections of the Kumano Kodo. Like the Japanese expression, "Hara Hachi-bunme," we pushed back from the table and saved the Ise-ji for leftovers.

Then a couple nights at Koya, which has become perhaps my favorite place in country, this almost alpine town with Buddhas, lots and lots of Buddhas. Oku-no-in at dawn is pure magic. It was here that we bowed to Kobo Daishi and asked him to watch over us as we walked his footsteps.

Shikoku 88. The guidebooks differ, but we walked somewhere between 1200 and 1400 km in 39 days. Maybe 90 percent of it over asphalt. Lots and lots of asphalt. A week finished and my feet still wake me with their complaining. Yet I can't think of a better way to see this country, on foot and sleeping out, fully susceptible to both the kind hospitality and the hostile looks.

In an attempt to disprove the laws of inertia, we will now arrest this motion and take part in a Vipassana retreat north of Kyoto, looking for a remedy for restless minds and aching feet.

(And for grateful stomachs, here is an article that I published over at Deep Kyoto in September. Bon Appetit!)

On the turntable: Jeff Buckley, "Sketches for my Sweetheart the Drunk"

On the nighttable: E. Annie Proulx, "Postcards"

October 14th Elegy