We are Made of Water

 

 

During the Covid summer of 2020, my daughter was enrolled by her mother in a class of traditional Japanese swimming.  I often accompany her, to sit and alternate between watching her instruction, and simply enjoying a book read beside the lake.  It was a beautiful setting, the hills rolling down to the far green shore, the shakkei immaculately groomed as part of a golf course built for the GIs after the war.  

I realized from her very first lesson that I was watching Nihon Eihō, which in actuality was traditional Japanese combat swimming.  I'd had an opportunity to do a one-off workshop in the art about 20 years before at the Budō Seminar that used to be held in Chiba every March.  I'd thought ever since that if the opportunity for further study ever presented itself, I'd jump in with both feet.    

Throughout the subsequent winter, I repeatedly kicked myself for staying on shore with my books and not taking part in the lesson myself.  So it was in the summer of 2021 that I enrolled, despite my daughter's lack of interest in continuing. Back during my summers in the 'Nog, I was blessed that the beach was a mere 15-minute bike ride away.  I envisioned a similar thing here, but this time the cooling relief of water would be enhanced by learning something unique.  Thus, these lessons set the framework for the summer, not only the swimming, but the trip up and back as well.  It formed a triathlon of sorts, as I would bike the 20 minutes to the northern reaches of the city, then hike up and over a small steep hill to the lake itself.  The return journey would be inevitably marked by exhaustion, accompanied by a great hunger. 

While I am glad I had the opportunity, I found the experience somewhat of a mixed bag, as the teacher's primary focus was on teaching the kids.  We adults were more often than not left to ourselves.  All the others had been practicing for 20 years or more, and admitted to rarely getting much instruction.  Every few sessions, Sensei would throw me a bone, and I would work on these new techniques over the following weeks.

Unfortunately he only offered the lessons during the summer, so there would be no chance to continue in smaller groups over the rest of the year.  As these summer sessions dwindled, I did something I'd usually never do in Japan, which was to pester him for a little bit more.  It wasn't that I was chasing a rank or trying to acquire a grade, but simply wanted to learn as much technique as possible in the limited time available. Luckily he wasn't offended by this stereotypical, pushy gaijin behavior, and gave me a number of exercises in the waning few days.  

But how lucky I was to be learning this in a lake rather than in the chlorinated sterility of a pool somewhere.  It was wonderful to feel the variability of water:  the tepidity of the hot August afternoon, or the frigid shock of entry during summer's bookends.  Since most of the strokes were of the sidestroke variety, I loved to face the far shore, and glide past all that rolling green.  And as I do every year, I immerse myself in films and books about the Pacific Theater, over the days leading up to the anniversary of that war's end.  As I swam, I thought that many of those sailors who entered the water as their ship went down under them prolonged survival with these very same strokes.  A funny thing to reflect on, as the clouds drifted peacefully above.         

Sadly the summer of '21 proved to be the rainiest I can remember.  Many days, I found myself obsessed with the weather forecast and the look of the sky.  It seemed a cruel joke that about 15 minutes before I would set off, the skies would open and pour until just after lesson's end.  This happened more often that not.  I found myself getting more and more angry, more and more depressed, being held in check in my own house rather than be allowed the freedom of the water.  As a result, my spirit was as a low as it ever was during the entire pandemic.  Finally I said screw it and made my peace with it, heading up to the lake regardless of the weather.  The spirit of the art is to essentially harmonize and not resist the water.  How ironic then the strength of my resistance to the rain, which of course is simply water in another form. 

On days without personal instruction, I would basically lap swim, maybe 100 meters each way, building to one kilometers, one mile, two kilometers, resting after every couple of lengths in the chest deep water along the muddy bank.  I would be immersed for two hours or more and in time forgot about the water altogether.  It was a reminder I suppose of our amphibious tendencies, for we all spent the earliest days of our lives in the water, and most of us find great delight and comfort when we are able to return.  

On the turntable:  Andreas Vollenweider, "Live" 

On the nighttable:  Gene D. Phillips & Rodney Hall, ed.  "Francis Ford Coppola Interviews"  

 

Retained in Memory

It was a cold snowy night when Lord Kira's head left its body.  That tale is one oft-told, in puppet plays, kabuki, thirty-four TV presentations, and numerous films (I lost count at fifty).    I will start my own tale as it began during the hot summer of 2003, a time when I was just emerging from a shell of grief, and thought it would be a nice distraction to spend a summer in Kyoto interning for Kyoto Journal.  Little did I understand that the magazine was put together remotely, a collaboration by like-minded individuals spread across dozens of postal codes.  The work I was given for the special Streets issue involved little more than internet research, leaving me free to pass my days bicycling the city and visiting its sights.  Off the bike, I prepared myself for my third-degree blackbelt examination in iaido by practicing cuts behind the trees of Yoshida Jinja, the Imperial Palace grounds, or the forest of Shimogamo.

I based myself in a small subtemple of Daitoku-ji, which disappointed somewhat in not offering daily zazen meditation.  For most of the summer I had a small six mat room to myself, but as the heat of August built up, so did the visitors to the city, and for one week I was asked to share a room with a quiet, unassuming man from Tokyo.  It turned out that he was staying at Daitoku-ji for the same reason as I.  Gary Snyder, a hero of his, and of mine, had studied at a nearby sub-temple for a time.  (We found to our dismay the following morning was that there would be no zazen in August, as the internationally renowned priest was busy giving teachings in Europe.)  So that left us time to discuss other things, the most memorable being that he was the caretaker for the graves of the 47 Ronin.  I had visited these graves a number of years before, probably on one of my first visits to Tokyo.  I don't recall what time of year it was, but I do remember a thick haze of incense burning from the offerings of those moved by their sacrifice.  And like the dissipating nature of that smoke, the caretaker too drifted away and I never saw him again.  

I moved to Kyoto full time a few years later, and did eventually make it to zazen.   And being based here, I began further explorations, but never seemed to make it to Ako for December 14th's Gishisai, held on the day when the 47 loyal retainers finally got their revenge.  (I did however pass through Ako itself one afternoon, and found myself on the receiving end of a road-rage incident with a flash-car-driving yakuza whose low status seemed to correspond to his stature.  If you know your Chushingura, you'll be amused by the fact that what he was most upset about was that I didn't show him the proper respect.)   

This year, the weather and my schedule collaborated to allow me to attend.  I mentioned above that the night that Lord Kira's head rolled was a cold and snowy one, which offers great dramatic tension to the story,  the weather acting almost as ronin number 48.  In contrast, I stepped into a warm morning, under bright blue skies and leaves reluctant to do their duty by falling from the trees. 

And the samurai were nearly upon me before I even left the station.  A half dozen were shouting threats at one another before slashing and whirling within the narrow confines of the station hallway.  After the long train ride out here, I really needed to pee, but unfortunately the samurai were between the toilets and I.  I was reluctant to pass as they were obviously mere actors, with little of the tight control of the well-trained martial artist.  When the flailing temporarily ceased to allow for more swearing and snarls, I scooted past to go about my business.  

I only saw one more group of samurai that day, posing for photos and unable to defend themselves from the onslaught of off-key enka coming over the hedge.  What I did see was a Japanese festival at its most relaxed best.  The broad high-street of town had been closed to traffic, allowing a modest sized crowd to stroll along merrily on an unseasonably warm day free of work or school.  Food stalls of an incredible variety lined the street for the full kilometer to the castle ruins.  Access to the castle itself was barred due to the preparations for the procession about the begin.  I liked the idea of of a group of blue-pated men hunkered down within the walls of the castle, plotting something unknown to the rest of us.  So I walked the perimeter of the castle's walls, around to Oishi Jinja which eponymously commemorates the leader of the 47.  The narrow confines were busy but uncrowded, with people queuing to pray for the fallen men.   

Back on the main street, the procession had begun, kicked off by a series of elderly women clad in bright blue yukata, spinning parasols as they went.  The next few groups were also dance teams, and a glimpse of other groups further awaiting their turn revealed more flashily dressed elderly female participants, or young kids whose heights would be temporarily stunted by the weight of mikoshi.  I knew that the samurai procession would come much later, climaxing in each retainer having his name announced as the crowd roared.  

That would have to wait.  I enjoyed myself to the extent that I'd like to return for the festival in the future, and would certainly time my return to later in the afternoon in order to see that final ronin roll call.  But this day had felt just about right, and as I was weary from a recent trip abroad, thought I'd rather read of the exploits of others than to actually experience them.  So what followed was a slow and leisurely amble back to the train station, with plenty of food stops, beneath the character 'Aka' (for Ako, 赤穂) carved into the hills above.


On the turntable:  "Roots of Reggae II"

Yoshinaka and Tomoe at Rest

Visiting the graves of Kiso Yoshinaka and Tomoe Gozen, who rest quietly in a small forested hillside just off the Kiso Road. Tokuonji is a quiet temple, offering pleasant views of rice fields and a small river that narrows at it lengthens toward the upper reaches of Koma-ga-take.

There are four ancient graves in back.  Beneath one rests Tomoe, who in later life became a nun after the death and defeat of her warrior lover.  There's a stone for him as well, although his body is buried between Lake Biwa and the famed poet Basho.  Yoshinaka's head is reputed to be buried at Hōkanji in Kyoto, near the tall pagoda that punctuates the hilly streets leading up to Kiyomizudera. 

The graves overlook a small shrine, and a bronze statue of Tomoe on horseback.  It is easy to imagine her racing through a rain of arrows, her naginata twirling behind.  Modern archers practice in the kyūdōjō attached to the temple, shooting through the swirl of dragonflies, the rice stalks beyond bending toward autumn.


On the turntable:  The Yardbirds,  "The Very Best of...
On the nighttable:  John Dougill, "In Search of Japan's Hidden Christians"

  

Ancient Capital

This weekend I began to re-read Robert Pirsig's "Lila" for the second time.  (Though I can't really use "re-read," as my first exposure was as a book on tape with which I passed the time on a long 36 hour ferry ride from Kyushu to Tokyo back in 1995.)  Any one who knows the book knows that it a treatise on categorization.

Thus it is that I find myself looking at my life, and the subtle shifts that are defining this return to Japan.  I find that Kyoto v2.0 is about history overriding aesthetics.  I feel that my 20s and 30s were about the latter, pursuing beauty as a means of getting at truth. I am tempted also to look at this as the intellect superseding the physical, which though reasonably close to history and aesthetics, is slightly off.   In a few weeks I turn 45, therefore placing me firmly in my own Middle Ages.  So it seems natural that to move away from the body as it slows down.  But in my case as an incredibly active person, it is more about a change in emphasis rather than a question of waning abilities.

Previously in Kyoto, I had been interested in hiking and walking as an aesthetic activity, of exploring the beauty in a place.  Now the history of this place is far more fascinating to me. I'm enthralled by the villages and culture which developed out of some ancient's choice to become part of this landscape.   These days I photograph explanatory signs far more than I do the scenery.  My work as a walking guide of course bears some responsibility, though the opposite may be equally true.  Also, my connection to my Kyoto community has taken on renewed importance, to be a part of what this place is at this point in history.   

In my current phase of yoga teaching, I am happier teaching workshops and teacher trainings than I am doing regular classes.  With the former, there is more room for an intellectual understanding of the mysteries and mechanics of the body, rather than simply putting the mechanism itself through its paces.  In my martial arts training, this too applies.  While younger, I was looking more to explore what my body could do, to affix it as firmly as possible to a relationship with the ever-revolving world around.  Later this summer, I intend to return to my Takenouchi training, though here my initial motivation in training had always been less for the opportunity to develop skills to keep me safe on the street, and more for the chance to connect with something whose roots go back nearly 500 years.

I would argue that Kyoto's patina has some miles on it, and even if this weren't true, Pirsig himself would be the first to mention that 'beauty' itself is subjective.  (Which will make more sense if you've read the book.)  Though it is obvious that history too can be viewed subjectively, written by the victors, as the oft-quoted cliche goes. Yet what is most intriguing to me about Kyoto is how it is continuing to develop, in ways that the tourist board itself hasn't a clue.  And at this time in my life there is no greater beauty than to be a living part of this history, to be present and engaged in its unfolding.       

On the turntable:  Duran Duran, "Rio"

On the nighttable:  Robert M. Pirsig, "Lila"

Groups

Drifting into Umeda by train, bluegrass in my ears, the rhythm of the picking moving us forward.  The banjo player on this old classic, 'Lonesome John,' picks as if playing a bodhrán, and is thus the engine of the piece, navigating along a line that extends back to the old country.  And the train is thus propelled into Hankyu Station, above a shrine squat and angular against all that towering glass.  A block away is the Toaster building, with its thin squinty windows.  

Out on the city streets, I have a Ferris Bueller moment when The Smiths enter my ears.  "Good times for a change."  I'm not alone in finding refuge behind the music.  One girl is singing as she strolls up the street.  Here is another difference I've noted upon my return.  Two years ago, young women were criticized for putting on makeup on the train, the current generation's means of blurring the lines between public and private, lines that give definition to this particular culture.  These days, already dolled up like their favorite pop stars, they've taken to singing their songs in front of everyone, the "i" in iPod threatening the wa. 

I too feel a desire to perform, to whip my furled umbrella out like a sword, using some of my finest iaido moves to knock the cigarettes from the mouths of those smokers who walk past.  And the lines again undergo a further blurring, as iai (居合) means literally to, wherever you are, whatever you're doing, "fit in" to your surroundings. 

On the turntable:  Brendan Perry, "Eye of the Hunter"

On the nighttable:  "Forty Stories of Japan"

Shoot Your "I" Out

I remember meeting a Shambhala kyudo practitioner a number of years ago. She was pretty adamant about the shot not being important, in keeping with the teachings of that particular style. And I get it, the Zen mind thing. Hey, I read Herrigel's (problematic) book too. But the way she went on and on, as if working on some actual shooting technique was wrong somehow, was getting frustrating. Now, I'm a pretty modest fellow, and held my tongue, but what I really wanted to say was, "Well, comparing your 6 months of practice with my 8 years, I'd guess you're far more proficient at not hitting the target than I."


On the turntable: JBT Scare Band,"Rumdum Daddy"

Kumano Kōdō XVI: Ōhechi

09/16/09

...it had rained all night but the morning was blue and clear. I looked out the window at the inlet just below, the tide dropping by the minute. In the bathroom, I noticed a small shrine to Fudo. He is the god of immovability, but the toilet is the one place where I most hope for movement to occur.

We checked out and within minutes are out of town, threading hills bathed in mist, as the trees slough off the night's moisture. There is a Zen training center out here, as well as a charcoal processing plant. The fog creates an otherworldly atmosphere to the morning. We move through it to a low pass, watched over by a small Jizo, as is common. It isn't long before we're in a village, long and open and lit by the sun. As we walk out of it, a farmer pulls over in his truck, warning us that the next pass might be tough going after all the rain. I tend not to heed these warnings too much, as much of the worry is usually over-exaggerated. The Japanese can be such world-class worry warts.

At the base of the next pass were a tall Jizo flanked by two stone giraffes. There was also a proper traveler's rest house here, containing a sofa and a cot. A house stood above it all, and in the front entry way, an old woman sat with her scruffy dog.

We went over the pass and on the way down, met a construction crew. They'd spent three weeks constructing what looked like a long rollercoaster that transported the telephone cable that they'd eventually lay across the hilltops. We stopped to talk to them a bit, one guy saying. "The mountains of Nachi sure are beautiful, aren't they?" I strongly suppressed the obvious refrain of , "They are, so why are you guys so gung ho about fucking them up?" Just a short while later, we surprised a tanuki on the trail. If you've seen the film "Pompoko," you'll get the irony of finding one in the section of the Kōdō where man has done the most damage.

The adjacent parts weren't much better. During the bubble, they'd built a series of bungalows around a man-made Edo-period lake. Now abandoned, the cabins are still in good stead if you need a place to sleep and are into a little creative B & E.

We rested atop the next section, beyond where both our guide book and frequent trailside signs warned us about the vipers that we never saw. The trail began to descend, and a moment after Miki said, "this isn't so bad," it shot straight up those frustrating faux-wooden steps, traversed a very narrow path over a high cliff, then dropped down a stream bed. In bad weather, this section would be very tough indeed, and I can now understand our farmer friend's warning.

Where the trail ended, we had lunch beside a quiet river. We circled around a pair of lakes, then moved up the final pass of the day and--for us--the Ōhechi. Each pass we'd crossed over the last five days had been a little lower than the last, making this one a mere baby, comparatively. At its top was a Jizo that supposedly had healing powers, and the high tech A/V system beside it told us so.

Dropping next into Kii Katsuura, moving through town past the old sake brewing factory toward Nachi station. This section was a mess, far too many roads built with tourist money, in the hopes of luring even more. What I saw before me completely justified the internal Kinsellan voice I heard when I first learned that Kumano got World Heritage status: "Before they build it, you should go." Miki noticed posters put up by a resident's group opposed to a proposed nuke plant down here. I feel that if this plant is built, UNESCO should not only repeal the World Heritage status of Kumano, but should never reward it to anything in this country ever again.

We paid a quick visit to Funarakuji temple, which housed a marvelous collection of statues and faded paintings, all shaded by majestic trees 800 year old. Beside the temple building was a model of an old sealed boat. Upon reaching the age of 60, certain monks would be sealed inside and set adrift, faithful that they'd reach the Pure Land. Of the twenty who attempted it, only a single monk returned. (Would this then be considered a success or failure?)

A bus took us to Shingu. Along the way, I tried to find those sections I'd walked back in 2005, and noticed immediately the damage that the construction industry had done, especially near the port. We dropped our bags at the station, where Miki ran into a friend she hadn't seen in 6 years, now working at the Tourist info center.

Salutations complete, we walked through town to Kuragami Jinja. The rocks leading up were jagged and wild, befitting a place where yamabushi train. A young, thin woman appeared from out of the forest, then turned in prayer toward the mountaintop. Something about her resonated something in me, some power she emitted. Miki and I walked on toward the source, over jagged steps, scaring off a viper in the process. In front of a large tree was a stone the size and shape of a Jizo. Thought lacking any distinct features, it had a collection of small white stones around its base. When we came down later, an old woman was standing before it deep in prayer, causing me to wonder about what secrets it espoused.

The shrine at the top was equally powerful, built into an immense boulder. Behind this was a gap--the typical passage to rebirth found in Shugendo. We wanted to pass through, but a couple of men were standing there talking, one obviously rich in knowledge about the Kumano region. Leaving them to their talk, we walked over to Hayatama Jinja, passing Hikitsuchi Sensei's aikido dojo on the way. As Miki and I walked and talked about whether this had been a spiritual experience for us, we both agreed it hadn't been. Sure, we'd suffered some and had learned a handful of things, but overall, it just felt like an especially long hike.

This feeling changed once we got to the shrine, and that feeling of spirituality came on in a sudden rush. The trees, the quiet dignified buildings, the quality of light, all contributed to a great feeling of peace, of not wanting to leave its sacred precinct. I'd been here twice before, but hadn't felt it then. But today, this place, a major source of Japanese folk spirituality, had drawn me in. I want to make this my life-work.

A group of bus tourists tried to ruin it. As the tour conductor was purifying her hands before her in worship, one middle-aged man interrupted these ablutions, complaining that he didn't want to wait an extra hour until dinner. Then he and his three buddies pushed in on me as I prayed before the main shrine. I moved away, bowing in thanks before all the gods, and with that, my Kumano pilgrimage was done.

Miki and I scouted out the castle ruins as a place to sleep, but finding it less than ideal and too trafficked with dog walkers. Miki's friend instead directed us to a cheap hotel. The hotel clerk in turn lead us to a good izakaya. It was a small place, just a counter with six stool, all filled by a group of men in their sixties, local men and friends since childhood. It was funny to hear them talk about old school days. The master was a handsome man with the immense hands and powerful chest of a judoka. By day he caught the fish that he'd serve at night. I neglected to ask if he'd personally 'rassled the whale on the menu. When I did ask about the 'namero,' he brought a whole serving--basically an entire bonito, bones and all, ground into mince and served raw, seasoned with vinegar and chili. It is the type of thing that only fisherman could eat, and believe me, even with all the beer, it was tough going. That mission finished, we walked up Shingo's main shopping arcade, stomach churning and head abuzz. Closing my eyes that night was closing the chapter on this part of the trip.


On the turntable: Hootie and the Blowfish, "Cracked Rear View"

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"

Book of Wind

As I leave Yonago Station, I see Vanilla Man. The Japanese call him Waito Ojisan, or White Uncle. He is a man in his fifties, who wears all white and takes great delight in flirting with schoolgirls. He appears to be completely nuts, but has a brilliant mind and speaks near perfect English. He also has fantastic control over his body, and can often be seen doing tough yoga poses or high kung fu kicks to impress the girls. Seeing this bizarre character somehow brings closure to my Yonago visit.

I follow the coast toward Tottori, where I'll hang a right and move south toward the Inaba Kaido, a portion of which I hope to hike today. On the way, Daisen reveals some late snow on her northern face. Over the Miho Bay, three planes are moving in unison toward the airport. A fighter jet and a big troop carrier escort a passenger plane carrying some VIP. This explains all the cops around the station earlier.

It's late morning now as I get off the train at Ohara. I follow a stretch of road here that is lined with Edo period buildings, including the obligatory sake seller. (No irony in that these shops always seem to have been cherished and protected.) The road gives way to fields, which lead to a large concrete structure that wears what looks like those old hats by the Shogun's police force. The place is an eyesore, this giant pile of grey amidst the beauty of the hills and rice. It is the Musashi Budokan, dedicated to a man most certainly anti-establishment, who would have scoffed at such cops, these hollow men with no real strength but what was delegated them. Yet again, this country's rebels are brought into the fold by those who write history. Heading toward the Budokan, I pass under a new road that will bring in more tourists to this village, the birthplace of Miyamoto Musashi and his clan. I don't remember any of this concrete on my last visit here in 1996. Any character that this place had has been bludgeoned to death by the tourist industry. As if on cue, I hear what I think is a temple bell, but it is merely a worker dropping a wrench on a sheet of metal.

I come to the village of Mimasaka proper now. At least this part is as I remember it, except for the signs that I might have found useful back in those days when I didn't read kanji. I go into the museum building. The lobby is filled with photos and memorabilia for the 2003 NHK drama that is mostly responsible for this tourism. The museum used to be a small humble building in the shade of the large trees of the shrine across the road. Now it has had a park built around it. (I think someone should build a restaurant here and call it the "Gorin Shokudo.") A narrow road takes me to Musashi's birthplace, closed, with the unmistakable kanji stating that a death has occurred recently and they are in mourning. I notice a middle-aged man building a roof to shade the benches beside the road. I ask him about the Budokan, and want to ask what the locals think about having such a massive structure in their midst, but he launches into a long tale about all the kendo groups who come through here. He even knows a few local foreign martial artists that I happen to know. I ask him if he does kendo as well, and he says 'just a little.' Obviously the modesty of a high ranking practitioner.

I move farther up the road to the shaded hill where Musashi is buried. I sit in the shade of the shrine and have lunch, as a huge black crow rests near the grave of his father. I remember that the previous headmaster of the sword style Musashi started died a few years back, but can't remember his name. The names on the few newer graves don't resonate. I move up toward the trees and here beside a spring, the road becomes trail. It is quiet and pleasant. At the pass, a farm house lies in ruin, beside a cage large enough to hold, what? Bear, boars, a few dogs? It is lonely up here, and I try to image what life must've been like. I'm startled from my revery by the song of frogs which, in chorus, sound like the panting of a large dog.

The trail brings me to pavement once again. The highway I'd passed earlier pops out of the forest to run above a small village. I feel sad for the residents here, their landscape suddenly altered after unchanged centuries. Not only will the road bring a constant hum, but many of the homes now abut high concrete walls where forest once stood. Again, I want to talk to the locals, but the only person I see is a woman out walking in her rice field, moving through the water with the high steps of a heron.

It's a lovely day for walking and I'm in no hurry. I figure I have a good couple hours until I reach a train station again, so decide to try my chances with my thumb, hoping for a opportunity to talk to someone. There are very few cars passing by, and none seem to want to stop. This is strange, since it is in the countryside that rides come easily. Again, I'm in no hurry and am enjoying the day. I 'm finally given a ride much much later, and only for the last couple of km. I finish my walk down another single road bisecting Edo period buildings, sitting beneath the ruins of a mountaintop castle. At the town's far end is a shaded area where six jizo stand. I wonder if they watched Musashi kill his first man here, at the age of 13.

The train pulls up just as I do. I'm the only passenger, so I sit up front and talk with the conductor as he pilots this single car south. The busier Sanyo line is next, and once moving at greater speed toward Kyoto, I get a clue as to why I had had trouble with rides. At least eighty percent of the passengers on this train wear masks. While I was out of news-shot, swine flu hit Kansai hard. But I still don't know this yet, and feel like an extra in a bizarre sci-fi film. The train moves me faster and faster away from the ghosts of my past, and toward a future uncertain...

On the turntable: Howling Wolf, "The London Howling Wolf Sessions"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown VIII and IV: Twice Walkin' & Twice Rockin'

Flying in over the mountainous spine of the Chugoku region had made me long to get walking again. It took only a few days for me to lace up my boots and head upward. Miki and I picked up the TSH at Kasagi following the road through the village, then climbing the path to Kasagi Temple. There were quite a few folks about, braving the chill wind while picnicking under momiji full blown with color. We walked past the ancient temple buildings, beneath tremendous rocks cut with Buddhist deities. You had to feel a little sorry for the men--presumably men, in those days-- who had carved these figures, since their labours inevitably go unrewarded. As if often the case in Asia, such incredible feats are often labelled with mythological hyperbole. "Kobo Daishi rested here for a meal, then using his toothpick, carved these Buddhas in a single afternoon" and the like. Miki and I too rested for a meal, sitting on a boulder at the highest point of the trail. But the only feats we did were to take somebodies photo.

We headed on along the ridge to Yagyu Village. I hadn't been out here for years, since the summer of 2003 when NHK was showing that "Musashi" program in which the Yagyu family played a prominent part. We poked around the old manor awhile. I was especially taken with the old wooden bokken and kenjutsu gear, the ancestors of today's kendo bogu. In one room were a series of photos of the village, comparing shots of certain locations taken both recently and back in the day. As usual, the newer came off the poorer. We walked up to the old dojo next, and sat on the steps to have tea and rice crackers. The Yagyu graves looked much as I remembered them, though I hadn't then noticed that Munenori's grave marker (teacher to the Shogun) was bigger than his father's (founder of the school of swordsmanship ). Typical how people with political clout are often more rewarded than those who create. We followed the trail past the tea fields to the mysterious grove where I'd had my bizarre encounter with a serpent. This time too I was mesmerized, at the stones and the trees and the silence. This is a magic place still. And a magic still place. Miki pointed out a carved Tengu on the hillside which I hadn't noticed before. This is easily one of the most amazing places in this country.

We wanted to follow the mountains back to Kasagi station, but found that the trail was closed. We went anyway, with the agreement that if we encountered any true peril we'd immediately double back. It was a mere twenty minutes until we met open trail again, but my mind reeled the entire duration. From the practical (a landslide) to the impractical (this is a forest thick with bears or boars) to the supernatural (this is the realm of ghosts or other beings of which the villagers know but we don't). We crossed a small area that looked to have had a landslide a few years ago, but was passable today. That was probably the reason for the closure. Not long after, near a thicket of high grass, we heard the sound of some animal moving just off trail, which gave Miki and I a good spook, both of us repeatedly looking back over our shoulders. Basically, this was a lovely stretch of mountain that seemed untouched and pure somehow. Back onto the road, which we followed alongside a stream which fed a few small yet impressive waterfalls. In fear of missing our train (A modern fear of the lack of control over that man-made construct, time), we hitched a ride with a surly middle-aged couple smelling strongly of the hot springs they'd just taken, though had apparently not enjoyed.

The train took us one stop backward to Kamo, where Roman Rhodes and Tim were playing a gig. It was in a tempura restaurant, small but with a nice family vibe. I hadn't seen Roman play in a few years, and I liked how at peace he is on stage, his confidence endowed by being a damn fine musician. Tim clowned about as usual, pulling absurd rock star poses whenever I aimed my camera. During the show, at one point I looked up to see a poster announcing this very gig. On the bottom, unmistakable, was my name, though misspelled. Oh man... I had been expected to play percussion at some point, but my train was leaving in less than an hour. Next time fellas...

The following morning, Miki and I trained it to Ishiyamadera, to continue another section of the TSH there. Just off the train, I opened my mouth to say something, only to take a full blast of smoke from some guy walking a few steps ahead of me. I appreciated neither the tobacco, nor the other bits of black sludge that he'd just expelled from his lungs. Truly foul. Today's walk, and the day itself, offered little to better my spirits. It was a long 22km over paved roads. Aside from the pleasant Iwamadera, where Basho supposedly heard the

Old pond's frog splash

(Voila! Revisionist minimalist haiku!)

and the subsequent long steep descent over slippery leaves, we rarely left the hard stuff. Not many cars, but the feet do ache after awhile. Plus curve after curve of garbage laden hillsides. Having recently taken part in the clean-up of a similar hillside, I know how much work it will take to restore this area. Really depressing. We quickly and nervously went past a gun range, and the only real open space we found, where we'd hoped to rest and lunch, was being used as a landing zone by a gang of remote-controlled helicopter pilot otaku. At the very end of the walk we were rewarded with another short bit of forest, but it was the verge of dusk and we lost the light quickly. This is the first time this has happened to us. On two occasions we passed a single lone man walking without a torch, both acting shady. At the end, we were rewarded by a beautiful night view of Uji from atop the mountain behind Ujigami Shrine. Overall, it hardly seemed worth, as we'd done most of this walk already a year ago, though in reverse. If we'd known this this morning, we wouldn't have bothered. Multiple experiences have shown that any hike in or out of Uji involves long stretches of asphalt. I recommend the train...

Later on at Hill of Tara, some Guinness and Trad restored our spirits. Tim and the Welsh fiddle-player from Matsue were in town, and the session was rounded out by that amazing Uilleann pipe player's group, plus myself on bodhran. The gig was good, though I was tired from the walk, and my stamina flagged a little on some of the faster reels. Quite a few times, we really got cookin'. As we were finishing, just bringing the last song in for a landing, I went through the head of my drum. Luck of the Irish...

On the turntable: Dylan and the Band, "Tree with Roots"

On the night table: Greil Marcus, "Invisible Republic"

On the reel table: "I'm Not There" (Haynes, 2007)

Cows Coming Home to Roost

My martial arts training predates my yoga practice. In fact, I started the latter because I found that Japanese budo training doesn't have much in the way of warm-ups. (The strong emphasis on stretching in US dojos I figure to be more about liability than flexibility.) After I began teaching yoga 4 years ago, I found myself growing worried about injury. My budo training has thereafter suffered, being too afraid to really put myself out there. This anxiety about injury has become self-perpetuating. A couple years ago, I began to feel a twinge in my right elbow, ironically caused by yoga, albeit in the Extreme Sport Style of Ashtanga, as taught in Japan, usually by former fitness instructors who get their "license" after a mere 2 week course, with their knowledge of the body seeming to go no further than "heads, shoulders, knees, and toes." (Knees and toes.) The elbow had been fine awhile, but around Golden Week I began to feel the twinge again. So I gave myself a couple weeks off before going back up to Takeuchi. And of course, I badly injured it on the very first technique, within minutes of arriving at the dojo. Then I wisely continued to train for 2 more hours, feeling the hyper-extension getting more and more hyperer. The next day, I felt like lead weights were hanging off my arm, with a decrease in mobility of about 20%. Well done. This further feeds the fear. I love budo, and my move to the Kyo was initiated by the chance to train here. But the nagging voice in my head has grown more confident. Can I train in a way that avoids injury and still allows me to teach? Or are the two mutually exclusive? As my odometer rolls toward my 41st birthday, my doubt grows.

I did teach this week, but badly. Murphy with his damned Law brought many beginners around this week, so I was forced to demo some pretty flaccid poses. I need to keep healthy. I have begun to teach more around town, and am bringing a couple big guns to Kansai for workshops. Plus Shugendo training season is coming soon. I give myself 6 weeks off from Takeuchi, though I'll try to at least watch practice, keep my feet wet...

Bizarrely, in the days following the injury, mukade began to show up in the house again. (For any yoga students reading this: Remember, this blog is my writing practice, and that last sentence was pure fiction. So please, enjoy that savasana.) One was trying to blend with the sofa, Ninja-style. I didn't want to kill him, so I rigged a mukade catcher (co-designed by W.E. Coyote and the Acme Corporation) consisting of Tupperware, a newspaper, and a tea tray, then I introduced him to our neighbor's yard. The next day, another Ninja had shown great dedication by getting itself boiled alive in our bath. Within moments of this event, fate made me read that centipedes are messengers of Bishamon, the Japanese name for the god of warfare. Wondering if this was some portent regarding my elbow and training conundrum, a few days later we hiked out to the Bishamon Temple in Yamashina to see what he wanted. But the god was strangely silent. He did introduce us to a small figure in an adjacent shrine, that of a Fudo stature wrapped by a great white serpent. In many traditions, including Christian, snakes represent knowledge. (Cue Eve, Tree of Knowledge, apples, etc.) Fudo represents Immovability, Strong Intent. Fudo is the Japanese name for Acala, another Hindu figure, closely related to my Yoga name, "Tejas", meaning spiritual fire and intensity. A CLUE!. I have been quite heady lately, more into books and this Mac than much else. Has my quest for wisdom and ideas begun to constrict my body, snuffing out my desire to train and improve in both yoga and budo? Hmmm.

Walking back along the canal that runs between Biwa and the Nanzenji aqueduct, we see another snake on the high curved concrete embankment. We can't tell whether it was live or dead, but this snake doesn't seem appetizing to the kites above or to the feral cats who haunt these parts in great numbers. OK, I get it Mon. Knowledge is only so palatable to the cats who are more about instinct, or the kites who live by reflex and concentration. Feed the body. Feed the body.

But it still doesn't sink it fully. We leave the canal and climb up toward the crest of Higashiyama, to that place where 6 trails intersect like spokes on the Wheel of Dharma. I try to let memory lead me to the hilltop home where PsychoSanta now lives. It's been 6 months since we put him there. But my head fails me. I give over to the feet, which take us along deer trails and down a fun and hilarious descent to Oku-no-In. But the head's not down yet. It wants to go up to the Amaterasu's cave behind Himukai Jinja. Feet defiantly follows a narrow path between the aerials of new ferns and too a small cemetery, whose grumpy keeper we had the misfortune to meet a week before. We hop the fence and as we cross the unkept grounds, I wait for his voice to call out, "Chopper, sick balls!" The "Stand by Me" reference lingers as we walk the rails down toward Keage.

Body trumps head. Head tries to raise by writing this post. A lovely rain falls outside, lulling ears and eyes toward sleep. Head folds. Body rakes in the winnings...

On the turntable: Duke Ellington, "Centennial Edition"

On the nighttable: John Updike, "Your Lover Just Called"

On the reel table: "Songcatcher" (Maggie Greenwald, 2000)

Year-end in Review 3

Miki's Tai Chi group is an amazing bunch. They have a very full schedule, including aikido, hiking, social dance, and a plethora of Chinese martial arts. Their Xmas party had demos of each of these (except for hiking, unless some folk chose to take the stairs to the Hotel's eighth floor), with the main event being a formal dress-up dance cotillion. Moments after arriving, Miki's senior in Tai Chi came over to greet us, then immediately took my hand and led me out on the floor. Back in Eighth Grade, I'd had weekly dance lesson along with the rest of my class, yet my skills apparently hadn't graduated with the rest of us. To further embarass myself, I asked Miki's sempai, (who happened to be model gorgeous), if my hand, which rested mere inches above her bottom (also model gorgeous), was in the right place. She said, not exactly, and moved it about a foot higher up her back. The redness in my face I played off as the effect of the wine. The song ended, but this coerced dancing never ceased. If anyone was caught standing and chatting (you know, the "social" part of social dance), they were led quickly onto the dance floor. In one case, some guy grapped Miki away as we were in mid-sentence. In my native New Mexico, lesser acts have led to pistols at dawn. The most amazing part is how little fun everyone was having. They all seemed so intent on their dance steps, even doing the obligatory "Sei, no!" before starting. Miki and I seemed to be having the best time, laughing as we worked through a reasonable semblance of what everyone else was doing, yet moving with the grace of a car on ice. Four left feet in action. And I can't see how everyone missed the sheer hilarity of it all. These dances of my grandparent's day done to the music of my own. Foxtrotting to Michael Jackson! Rumba to Madonna! Waltzing to the theme from 'Chariots of Fire!'

And a good time was had by two.

On the turntable: Widespread Panic, "Live in the Classic City"

Year-end in Review 5

Any warm sunny day this time of year should be considered a gift, even if that gift will eventually come with a heavy pricetag. And December had warm sunny days aplenty.

On one Saturday, Miki and I decided to do part of the Kansai 33 Temple Kannon pilgrimage. I'd done 24 of the 33 temples in June, 2002, a time that I consider to be amongst my most memorable in Japan. During the day, I'd wander the countryside, hitching from temple to temple, then head back into one of the three major Kansai cities to watch a World Cup soccer match with friends over beers. I'd also found time to visit a few aikido dojos and for some Zen training in my favorite temple. That summer, there was one segment I didn't do, the long haul over the mountains from Daigo to Ishiyama dera.

We got to Daigo early. Due to the ongoing construction, we forewent the temple's lower gardens and structures, and went straight up the mountain. The leaves were still in color, and the long flights of stone were littered with the first of their suicidal numbers. We eventually came to Daigo-ji's upper reaches, with fantastic wooden statuary and incense smoke hovering in the cold shadows. It had been a long ascent, so we sat in the sun drinking lukewarm tea and eating bread. The trail dropped straight down the opposite side of the mountain, but we got sidetracked by a smaller trail leading to Daigo-ji's deepest reaches. At its end, we found a narrow cave with small pools of water around the altars. I shined my torch into the darkness beyond, but mysteriously, the battery gave out just then. After a brief prayer, we followed another side trail which led to a pile of boulders offering views of the valley below. I gazed over the mountains beyond, slightly uneasy. We had no maps and didn't know the direction or the distance involved. But a pilgrimage is all about trusting in the local gods. Our feet would do the rest.

The forest below was a patch of land beautiful and unmolested. A rickety old bridge crossed a brook which led us into the valley. It was warm and sunny again down here. An old woman was selling vegetables from a roadside stand. Miki chatted with her awhile as I moved some boxes she'd been struggling with. My reward was two mikan big as softballs. The valley was wide and pleasant, close to Kyoto yet feeling remote. At the far end, a path took us again into the hills, beneath low hanging bamboo trees and signs warning of poisonous vipers. We had lunch atop the ridge, washed our hands at a small shrine, asked directions of a couple of young potters who dressed and talked like gangsters.

The path led us into the afternoon. At its end we arrived at Ishiyama Temple. A woman noticed us in the courtyard and gasped. She'd seen us from a bus full of old women that had passed us hours ago. We wandered the temple grounds, up the hills to the hidden parts beyond. It was a wonderful place, but we slightly cheated it in being tired. We'd been amazed already today by Daigo-ji, and had walked 23km since then, up and down over four ridgelines. Exiting, we saw the sign saying the train station was yet another kilometer walk away. Groaning, we pushed on toward the train which would take us home.

On the turntable: Philip Glass, "Satyagraha"

On the nighttable: Jan Blensdorf, "My Name is Sei Shonagon"