Set in both the present day and the 1950s, Ana Johns’s compelling debut novel with well-developed characters will appeal to readers who enjoy light commercial fiction. Naoko, a young Japanese girl, falls in love with an American sailor much to her parents’ disapproval. When her family discovers she’s pregnant the story takes on a much more serious tone, disentangling a plot that is truly shocking. Years later, Tori, the American daughter of the sailor, learns from her dying father that she’s connected to Japan in ways she never expected so this protagonist travels to Tokyo to learn more about her family’s history. The two timelines fuse together when Tori unravels the past, making emotional connections that keep the reader riveted.
Johns is an accomplished writer and it’s easy to see why this book is so popular. But if the reader is familiar with Japanese society, history, language and customs they’ll notice some chapters sweep over important and deeper issues. There’s also a problem with the dialogue. The Japanese characters’ speech is continuously punctuated with well-known Japanese proverbs making them appear wise and profound but most Japanese people don’t speak like this.
This book is loosely based on a true story and Johns’ own family and it’s a hell of a ride but Naoko’s character comes across as naïve and her actions sometimes appear improbable. Would a young Japanese lady from a good family really be so willing to give up her privileged lifestyle to live amongst the burakumin outcasts, even for love? Would she have been so quickly accepted by those who were considered the lowest level of the Japanese social system? Would a Shinto wedding have been financially possible for her, considering the choices she makes?
The fact The Eugenic Protection Law is mentioned in the ‘Author’s Note,’ but not explored in more detail, gives the writing less traction and makes light of the situation in Japan in the 1950s. This may have been deliberate on the part of the author and the publisher; the truth would have watered down the romance. The book fully covers the topic of abortion but skims over society’s opinion of “blood-mixing”. It was a hot topic in those days and the prohibition of American men marrying Japanese women as part of this Eugenic Law was a subject on everyone’s lips, including the press, teachers, and social activists. If it had been examined in more detail, it could have deepened Naoko’s character and the story would have been more authentic.
The writing style and characterization are on the most part excellent and a joy to read:
“He would trust Grandmother, as a woman, to know best. She has created a lie with more than feet; it has sprouted scandalous wings and flown beyond my forgiving reach. To imagine, my father knows otherwise is the foot of a lighthouse. Dark.” (pg. 208)
The birth scene is also very touching and beautifully written. The Japanese culture and language take decades to decipher so Johns has done a remarkable job as a novice to write this book.
Overall, this story is well-worth reading. Johns’ command of the English language proves she’ll continue to be a successful writer and a rising star in the world of commercial fiction.
The Hōjōki, written in 1212 by the Buddhist monk Kamo no Chōmei, is one of the most beloved works of medieval literature in Japan. The opening lines of his chronicle are familiar to most Japanese people:
The flow of the river never ceases
And the water never stays the same.
Bubbles float on the surface of pools,
Bursting, reforming, never lingering.
They’re like the people in the world and their dwellings.
Japanese Buddhist literature is filled with the struggle to overcome the pain of transience. There is no escape, as we all know, for bad luck is an equal-opportunity act.
In a country that is no stranger to calamities, the late 12th century was particularly rough. Devastating earthquakes and fires, windstorms and famine were exacerbated by continued political upheaval and violent battles in the streets. Chōmei watched as the capital of Kyoto was rocked by a mega-earthquake, in which “mountains crumbled, filling rivers with rubble,” and then later as disease and famine meant “starved bodies lay strewn about the street…” Horrified by the suffering and anguish of this broken world, he decided to leave the capital and take up a life of contemplation in the mountains. For, as the great literati of China before him knew all too well, when the going gets tough, the wise head for the hills!
Eight hundred years later, as we are facing our own calamities in the form of a worldwide pandemic and endless political instability, historian Matthew Stavros, an academic at the University of Sydney and former director of the Kyoto Consortium of Japanese studies, has just released a new translation of this Japanese classic.
The Hōjōki has already been translated several times, notably by Burton Watson in his book Four Huts, published by Shambhala in 1994. This edition contains four famous works by Buddhist recluses, including Bai Juyi (or Po Chü-i), Matsuo Bashō and Yoshishige no Yasutane as well as beautiful brush paintings by artist Stephen Addiss. Another prominent translation from the 1990s was by Kyoto-based translators Yasuhiko Moriguchi and David Jenkins. Stavros’ new translation is marked by the literary quality of his English. Choosing to render Chōmei’s prose into verse, the English is lyrical and sounds beautiful when read aloud (there is a wonderful narration by MG Miller on Audible). The text is complemented by photographs of Kyoto taken by the author.
Opening the pages of the Chronicle, readers journey along with Chōmei, the sixty year-old Buddhist monk, as he leaves his privileged life of rank in the capital and builds his very simple hut “deep in the hills of Hino”. In contrast to the endless string of calamities that filled the pages of the first part of his book, the second section details the great pleasure he takes in his new home:
In the spring,
Wisteria flowers bloom like purple clouds in the west.
In summer,
The chattering cuckoos guide me,
Toward the mountain pass of death.
On autumn evenings,
The cries of cicadas fill my ears,
Lamenting this empty husk of a world.
And when the winter comes,
Snow covers the earth.
The book gets its name from Hōjō 方丈, an architectural term representing one square jō 丈—about ten-foot square. This word, conveying a small, cell-like space, is also used to describe a monk’s living quarters, especially in the Zen tradition. The hut is tiny, but somehow there is a living area, along the eastern wall in the form of his “dried bracken for a bed”. This bed is but a hand’s reach away from his musical instruments—his lute and koto—that sit beside a shelf holding his music and poetry, and a few books, “like Genshin’s The Essentials of Rebirth in the Pure Land”. This is the section of the hut assigned for the arts:
A little to the west,
There’s a shelf for offerings,
Not far from an icon of Amitabha.
When bathed in evening light
A warm glow emanates from Amitabha’s forehead.
And so, Chōmei—born to privilege and talent—gives it all up to become a Buddhist recluse in the Hills of Hino. And there, in his ten-foot square hut, he realizes that everything in the world comes down to the state of one’s mind. As he says, rendered so beautifully by Stavros:
Palaces and mansions:
If the heart is not at ease,
These worldly treasures bring no pleasure.
I love my lonely dwelling,
This simple, one-room hut.
About the reviewer
Leanne Ogasawara has worked as a translator from the Japanese for over twenty years. Her translation work has included academic translation, poetry, philosophy, and documentary film. Her book reviews have appeared in Kyoto Journal, the Dublin Review of Books, the New Rambler, and 3 Quarks Daily.
As part of our Books on Asia Top Books of 2020 series, we’re introducing our top picks one book at a time. For the whole list of 12 books, seeOur Reviewers Pick their Top Books for 2020.
Pankaj Mishra delivers a sweeping account of the intellectual history of anti-colonial thought in the early years of Western colonialism. He builds this narrative through mini-biographies of two lesser-known intellectuals: Jamāl al-Dīn al-Afghānī and Liang Qichao. These early thinkers diagnosed the challenge of Western imperialism faced by Asia. The evolution of their thought is influenced by historical milestones such as the Indian Rebellion of 1857, a failed uprising to gain independence from the West, and the 1905 Battle of Tsushima, where an Asian nation defeated a Western military power for the first time. Japan’s victory was a turning point for optimism in the oppressed Asian psyche, celebrated by anti-colonialists like Gandhi, Ataturk, and Tagore. Here was an Asian country beating the West at its own game.
This part of the nineteenth century was a cosmopolitan moment for Asia. The subjects of Mishra’s work were inveterate travellers, moving throughout the Islamic, Indian and East Asian worlds, contrasting Western political intellectuals who philosophized about Asia almost exclusively from the comfort of their overstuffed chairs. From the Ruins of Empire follows the above Asian intellectuals on their travels where they meet and influence a new generation of activists like Sun Yat Sen. The author also traces how their thinking on Pan-Asianism transforms—from initially advocating that Asian nations modernize by mimicking the West and adopting its scientific and industrial advancements—to expressing their horror at the First World War which turned them away from so-called “Western progress.” This frames the ultimate dilemma facing Asia in the book: to be more like the West (which is what Tsushima teaches) or to progress with Eastern alternatives which are more suited to the multi-ethnic, multi-religious reality of Asia, a form of modernization sans Westernization.
Despite the successful anti-colonial movements in the post-World War II era, the story Mishra tells is ultimately a tragic one. Asian nations may have won out over political colonialism, but they lost against intellectual colonialism. India and China are very adeptly wielding the power of centralized nation-states, effectively replacing the role previously filled by Western imperial overseers. The “South to South” dialogues of the intellectual network described by Mishra did go on to inspire later revolutionaries. Mishra makes these connections, showing for example how the ideas of al-Afghānī have been twisted into the narrative of political Islam.
This book originally came out in 2012 amidst the Arab Spring and Colour Revolutions. That time also saw a surge of revisionist histories of empire by writers like Niall Ferguson which helped to justify the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. From the Ruins of Empire demonstrates how people can be motivated by humiliation, and in it you can see the seeds of Mishra’s later book Age of Anger (2017) centering on the politics of ressentiment, so prevalent in our era.
Reading From the Ruins in Empire in 2020 I was amazed at some of the nearly 200-year-old critiques of the West. You could copy-and-paste them directly into today’s media. Mishra has done a brilliant job excavating these perspectives and tying them together with his usual smooth writing skill. The author offers no specific solutions, but reading about such intellectual journeys outside the standard one of “Western progress” is fascinating.
This was probably the most thought-provoking book I read this year. With the waning of liberalism and democracy described by Edward Luce in The Retreat of Western Liberalism, it feels like we are at another turning point. Discussions of what happens next are occurring worldwide, but what does the fall of liberal internationalism mean for Asia? What are the indigenous intellectual legacies that might fill the void? From the Ruins of Empire shows that there can be imagination outside the box of Western political thought, alternatives rooted in history, that are possibly more viable than completely new or alien systems.
Miyamoto Tsuneichi, is author of many ethnographical books on Japanese society, but this is the only one I know of that has been translated into English (transl. Jeffrey Irish). Miyamoto is a well-known scholar and author in Japan. The Forgotten Japanese is a necessary read for anyone interested in Japanese lifestyles in the countryside from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. From the book description, I was under the impression the book was about the author’s travels through Japan. It is that, but there is voluminous detail about countryside living, including statistics and chapter studies on certain villages. But Miyamoto writes in an engaging way so as not to focus too much on statistics or theory. Most of the book is oral story-telling from the villagers themselves.
In The Forgotten Japanese, we learn about Black Hoe laborers, the origin of distrust of outsiders, honke-bunkei,ujigami local gods, fox spirits, rural samurai, the shift from tenant farming and land reforms of 1946, sericulture, the Tempō Famine of 1833-1836, women’s himaya sheds, and much, much more. It’s a treasure trove of information about life in Japan just before WWII.
This is a keeper for the book shelves as I am sure I will refer back to it often.
Tsuneichi Miyamoto (1907–1981), a leading Japanese folklore scholar and rural advocate, walked 160,000 kilometers to conduct interviews and collect the songs, stories, and images of a dying way of life. He was an advocate of social and economic invigoration of rural Japan. This collection of photos, vignettes, and life stories from pre- and postwar rural Japan is the first English translation of his modern Japanese classic. From blowfish to landslides, Miyamoto’s stories come to life in Jeffrey Irish’s fluid translation.
About the Translator
Jeffrey Irish is a scholar and translator who has long been immersed in life in rural Japan. A contributing editor to the Kyoto Journal, Irish has been a columnist for a Japanese newspaper and is the author of the Japanese-language books Prewar Kagoshima and Island Life. In 2010 he was elected “mayor” of his 28-person village.
Japanese Death Poems is one of those invaluable books for anyone interested in Japanese culture as well as poetry. The lengthy introduction alone is important for the plethora of information on the history of Japanese poetry and in particular, the death poem. From tanka to haiku, written by princes, court nobles, samurai, Buddhist monks and priests, the death poem became a widespread practice among the common people in the Meiji Period (1868-1912). Kamikaze pilots and officers in the Japanese Imperial Army all wrote them too.
The title of the book implies that the poems may be morbid, but this is not the case. In Japan, where life is often compared to a flower that soon withers, you can be assured that death is a journey at the end of which we all become enlightened. The poems tend to focus on nature, the change of seasons, and Buddhist imagery. Some are intentionally light and humorous. Others take your breath away:
Moon in the water Somersaults and streams away.
—by Oshima Ryota (1718-87)
Hakuro’s death poem imitates Bashō, and poet and Zen master Ikkyu (who “avoided neither taverns nor brothels, and never held his tongue”) penned his at the ripe age of 88, asking “Where is he who understands my Zen?” A good number of the poems are followed by explanations of poetic phrases and minutiae to help the reader understand deeper meanings.
The book is divided into three parts: the very thorough Introduction, Death Poems by Zen Monks, and Death Poems by Haiku Poets.
Between the covers of this book, you’ll find death poems of Yamato Teru no Mikoto (hero of the Kojiki), Hitomaro (from the Man’yōshū), the poet priest Saigyo (1118-90), Taira no Tadanori (1144-84) of Heike Monogatari, Yosa Buson (1716-83), Kobayashi Issa (1763-83), Hokusai (37 Views of Mt. Fuji), and oh so many more. You’ll discover plenty of other figures too, through their enlightening last words on life.
The book includes a valuable “Index of Poetic Terms” as well as a general index.
We read lots of books here at Books on Asia, so we asked our reviewers to give you their picks for the best books they’ve read this year! For more information on a particular book, click on the book cover.
The Great Successor: The Divinely Perfect Destiny of Brilliant Comrade Kim Jong Un by Anna Fifield (PublicAffairs, 2020)
A revealing account of the upbringing and exploits of Kim Jong Un, Anna Fifield delivers even more value by unveiling the entire cast of his family, including his power player sister Kim Yo-jong, who we might be the next successor.
Pop Culture
Pure Invention: How Japan’s Pop Culture Conquered the World by Matt Alt (Crown, 2020)
Filled with funny anecdotes and behind-the-scenes stories of some of your favourite products from Japan, Matt Alt connects the (American) nostalgia of yesteryear with the politics of today.
Fiction
Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami (Vintage, 2006)
The sheer skill in storytelling for the opening incident of 16 schoolchildren picking mushrooms on a hill had me hooked, but the “buddy movie” road trip with the trucker and cat detective made me stay.
The Asian intellectuals fighting western colonialism in the 19th and early 20th centuries have many points that we can certainly learn from in the 21st — and it makes me wonder if Japan can be the beacon it once was. Read Chad’s review.
The Last Tea Bowl Thief by Jonelle Patrick (Seventh Street Books, 2020)
This well-written mystery set in feudal, wartime, and modern-day Japan deepened my understanding of Japanese pottery, haiku, tea ceremony, Buddhism, and social customs.
Novella
Ms Ice Sandwich by Mieko Kawakami (Transl. Louise Heal Kawai) (Pushkin Press, 2020)
A hyper-visual adolescent’s innocent crush on an older lady who works in a sandwich shop is coupled with the blossoming relationship he has with Tutti, a young girl in his class. This allows for a charming story that’s easy to read thanks to the superb translation by Louise Heal Kawai.
Young Adult
Indigo Girl by Suzanne Kamata (GemmaMedia, 2019)
Kamata’s writing is engaging and empowering in this story of a teenage girl with cerebral palsy who travels from Michigan to Shikoku to spend the summer with her Japanese father.
Non-Fiction
World Class: One Mother’s Journey Halfway Around the Globe in Search of the Best Education for Her Children, by Teru Clavel (Atria Books, reprint 2020)
I graduated from two universities and taught English for over 15 years. For me, this book focusing on education in Hong Kong, Shanghai, Tokyo, and the USA was fascinating.
The Forgotten Japanese by Miyamoto Tsuneichi (Transl. Jeffrey Irish)(Stone Bridge Press, 2010)
Renowned ethnologist Miyamoto Tsuneichi traveled around Japan interviewing villagers to learn about their traditional lifestyles of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Fascinating! Read our mini-review.
Fiction
No-No Boy by John Okada (University of Washington Press, 2014)
One of the best books I’ve ever read, John Okada’s novel is about a ‘No-No boy,’ the term used to describe Japanese-American men who would neither denounce their Japanese heritage nor fight for the U.S. Army during WWII. A real eye-opener that every American should read.
From tanka to haiku, written by princes, court nobles, samurai, Buddhist monks and priests, the death poem became a widespread practice among the common people in the Meiji Period (1868-1912). Here you’ll find the death poems of famous poets such as Yamato Teru no Mikoto, Hitomaro, Saigyo, Taira no Tadanori, Yosa Buson, Kobayashi Issa, and Hokusai. Read our review.
Travel
Looking for the Lost: Journeys Through a Vanishing Japan by Alan Booth (Kodansha Globe, 1996)
Booth’s Looking for the Lost is flawless travel writing and a reminder of what the genre should deliver among a plethora of worn, first-person travelogues brought on by the age of the internet.
Three Poems from Robert MacLean’s new book Waking to Snow (Isobar Press, Oct. 2020)
My First Guide to Kyoto
Next-door neighbour’s
pug-nosed Sakura
tied up all day
whimpering beneath
the stairwell: no
way to treat the
earliest cherry blossoms
in Kyoto.
So I take him for a walk –
rather he takes me,
charging like a stunted
rogue elephant
to the Kamo river’s
ecstasy of in-
visible smells where
he poops three times, each
with more strain,
panting and slobbering as
he drags me along
at the end of his
taut leash. Oh
we’re sailing now
past some thin old folk
playing a kind of croquet
near the bridge in the ancient
newborn sun,
past some kids crouched
bouncing a ball and chanting,
past endless blocks of
jumbled houses,
blue-tiled roofs glinting
like dragon scales. By now,
Sakura’s zonked, able
to scrawl his faint
signature only at irresistible
spots, so we wend
our way home:
small dun dopey boggle-eyed
dog with fur
radiating in tufts,
deep gaze thank you
to each other.
Photo: Paul Rossiter
Sweeping Leaves in the Cemetery at Ryōkō-in, 4 a.m.
Bamboo broom
stone lanterns
dead leaves
I’ve travelled
halfway around the world
to be here
Photo: Paul Rossiter
Crickets
I hear the survivors
ancient & brittle
squatting in October light:
wizened black-
robed monks
chanting the sutra
of Earth-Beginning-to-Freeze
slower
each night.
*
empty exo-
skeletons
little huts
filling with snow
Photo: Paul Rossiter
Waking to Snow book cover
About the Author
Robert MacLean was born in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada. He lived in Kyoto for twenty-five years, where he taught at Ritsumeikan University, meanwhile continuing his lifelong zazen practice. He has studied and sat with Robert Aitkin Roshi and Joshu Sasaki Roshi and latterly at Tofukuji in Kyoto where Keidō Fukushima Roshi was abbot. He now lives in the North Okanagan, B.C. with a Renaissance viola da gamba, his wife Wakana, and ‘a luminous little girl Akane born on a snowy December morning, my resident Zen master.’
Waking to Snow is available in paperback from Amazon Japan and Amazon International outlets. If you’re in Tokyo, the book is available from Books Kinokuniya near the south exit of Shinjuku station.
Japan in Asia opens with the provocative line “Asia is becoming one.” Author Tanaka Akihiko writes that it might be “possible to say that a common culture—what might be called an ‘East Asian way of life’—may be emerging, especially among the East Asian urban middle class.” Tanaka teases this proposition, and although he is not ready to commit, he spends much of this considerable chronological history presenting suggestive evidence for an emerging regionalization of East Asia, and Japan’s hand in it. Against a background of political, financial, and nuclear crises, as well as historical and territorial disputes, Tanaka draws attention to two factors driving Asia towards unity: globalization and democratization.
Pointing out that globalization often leads to more regional cohesiveness, Tanaka chronicles the rise of important regional frameworks such as ASEAN+3. Southeast Asia has become the hub of cooperation for all of East Asia, especially as relations between the Northeast Asian states continue to deteriorate. Is it any wonder why the newly minted Japanese prime minister Suga Yoshihide’s first trips abroad were to Vietnam and Indonesia? Regional economic integration has been furthered with the signing of the Comprehensive and Progressive Agreement for Trans-Pacific Partnership (CPTPP) and most recently the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP).
As for democratization, Tanaka points out that since the rise of popular democratic movements in the 1980s, we have seen a number of East Asian countries transform into democracies such as South Korea, Taiwan, the Philippines and Indonesia. Even if a region isn’t fully free, the trend of countries moving away from authoritarianism has been a feature of the post-Cold War era (despite some backsliding in recent years). Japan has had a hand in this trend, as outlined in the book.
The power of these two forces notwithstanding, the road to regionalization has been bumpy. Many regional frameworks were forged in the fires of regional crises, and the author emphasizes the role of domestic politics as a constraint to the formation of foreign policy. When describing decisions and actions of different countries Tanaka takes care to name the people involved. This is especially important in the case of Japan which has seen seventeen prime ministers since 1989. Relationships with neighbouring countries are highly dependent on the proclivities and the personality of the prime minister, and a lack of continuity in Japan’s foreign policy has been demonstrated time and again.
Tanaka ends his book on a largely positive note, but still takes care to warn of the familiar threats to stability in hot-spots such as North Korea, the Taiwan Strait, and the East and South China Seas. His evidence shows that the Fukuda Doctrine of forty years ago was successful, in that Southeast Asia perceptions of Japan are much more positive. But for China and the Koreas there is more “heart-to-heart contact” needed. Japan might consider this legacy as it pursues former Prime Minister Shinzo Abe’s Free and Open Indo-Pacific strategy. Asia might be heading towards becoming “one” far off in the future, but Japan in Asia shows that as far as Japan is concerned, there are currently two Asias.
Alex Kerr’s story of the Heart Sutra unfolds metaphorically like the pocket accordion prayer book of the Heart Sutra itself. Between the two cover flaps we stretch from a brief introduction to Buddhism in the sixth century to the mystical chant at the end. The author remembers his first encounter with the sutra (as I suspect most Westerners do). For Kerr it took place in a hotel room in Kyoto, at a gathering of friends to mourn the fall of a grand house. Suddenly, a Buddhist priest springs out of his chair laughing, dancing and reciting the sutra with hilarity, much to the consternation of the young impressionable author looking on. Only much later did he understand the complete appropriateness of the priest’s gesture.
Kerr’s second encounter with the Heart Sutra was in the kabuki theater, when performer Tamasaburo gains entrance into a forbidden temple precinct by using the sutra’s most famous lines to crush the guards in a Buddhist debate:
The material world does not differ from emptiness. Emptiness does not differ from the material world. The material world is itself emptiness. Emptiness is itself the material world.
In this way Kerr introduces us to the people in his life who have played mentor-roles in this panoramic unfolding of his own coming-of-age experience with the Heart Sutra. We too begin to learn from his experiences.
The sacred text is presented in the book phrase by phrase in both Japanese and English and then expanded upon through commentary and Kerr’s own experiences with the sutra. Those who have helped personify these phrases for the author are the mentors mentioned in the subtitle of the book: a magician (William Gilkey), an art collector (David Kidd), and sages (poets and writers from Zen Master Yakuin to French writer Marguerite Yourcenar).
The author notes that most of people turn to the Heart Sutra because “We just need something small, a useful idea or two to help us in our daily lives. The Heart Sutra is so short you can recite the whole thing in about a minute. It’s a haiku of wisdom, wisdom you can carry in your back pocket.” It’s brevity, he notes, “is just the right length for fans and neckties.” Indeed, many a souvenir emblazoned with this essence of Buddhist wisdom can be found in shops and temples all around Japan.
What Kerr does so well as a writer is delve into the smaller details that other scribes overlook. In trademark Kerr fashion, for example, we are informed that “After attaining enlightenment, the Buddha meditated in a cave, and the light from his body illuminated the darkness. This radiance explains why Buddhist statues are gold and sit in niches (representing the cave), and why their heads and bodies are framed with halos and swirling flames.” Most authors would have stopped after the first sentence. But Kerr, with a concern for the basics, wants to make sure we as readers get that. He taps into our basic observations—that Buddhist statues are painted gold—and wants us to know why they are that color and no other. The best books are about the reader, mindful of their wants and needs, while the author remains in the background where he or she can more effectively transmit the story and its meaning. Kerr excels at this, even while telling what is a highly personal story.
“Ku” emptiness. The interior of Finding the Heart Sutra is graced with calligraphy by the author, who has studied the art since he was 9 years old.
The author is the first to admit, and accept, the duality of the sutra: the aim of perfection in an imperfect world. But through practice and self-improvement, we are shown that we are all able to make our own small achievements toward the goal. One concept of Buddhism is that everyone possesses a “Buddha nature,” that we are all lotus flowers waiting to bloom, our path to enlightenment mirrored petal by petal as the lotus opens to full blossom. Kerr reminds us that we are not judged by how far we attain this perfection, just that we act upon it, each to the degree he or she is able to. While the author wonders whether perfection can ever really be achieved, he understands the effort to do so is also key to getting by in our every day lives.
While Kerr successfully places the people and events in his life into compact samplings of wisdom that have been passed down to him through the decades, there is an underlying message that we all learn from others, whether they be mentors, elders, parents, friends, writers, poets or even acquaintances. It is more a question of whether we make use of those sages and their teachings, and consciously allow them to guide us.
Sariputra, disciple of the Buddha and the listener of the Heart Sutra, asks the Buddha questions about life and our existence. Buddha, deep in meditation, requests Bodhisattva Kannon to reply in his place, and Kannon’s answers form the foundation of the Heart Sutra text. Sariputra then transmits these words (via the sutra) to the people. Kerr has proven an excellent student of friendship and fellowship and has himself become a vessel of wisdom which he now passes on to us readers. When we’re finished reading Finding the Heart Sutra, we find ourselves at the end flap of that metaphoric accordion book. We can keep Finding the Heart Sutra in a safe place, along with our other sacred treasures, so that it is ready to be taken out and read again.
On a humid summer morning in 2005, Todd Wassel is about to enter the forest. He is a henro (pilgrim) on a 750-mile pilgrimage to the 88 Temples of Shikoku. This excerpt from his book Walking in Circles starts from Temple 11 where the pilgrimage path plunges into dense forest then scrambles over three steep peaks to Temple 12. But the long day’s hike is the least of his worries…
Shōsan-ji, Temple of the Burning Mountain, and I have something of a troubled past. Sitting 2,300 smug feet above the Yoshino River valley, Temple Twelve is the first of six nansho (perilous places) that pilgrims visit, meant to prevent the corrupt of heart from continuing. With steep rises, exposed ridges, and no help along the way, the path up to this troublesome temple has caused countless failed pilgrimages. Modern times have made the path a safer place, especially with the advent of the cell phone for emergency calls and the various pilgrimage associations helping to keep it maintained on a regular basis. I had no cell phone.
The walking path leaves the city of Tokushima behind and plunges into the backcountry over three peaks, lined with the graves of fallen henro. Japan is home to 46 species of snakes, but it was not the long, green ones I was most wary of. The source of most pilgrims’ worry was a one-foot, gray killer, the mamushi. A pit viper, it was a constant threat to my sanity as well as to the lives of thousands of farmers all over Shikoku. Usually found in early morning and at dusk, the venom is enough to kill if not treated immediately.
Heeding the warnings of the old men the night before, I came prepared and wore my snake guards—two pieces of coarse, thick, dirty cotton wrapped around my ankles—to protect me from the deadly, but dentally challenged, killer.
To get to Temple Twelve you must first pass through Temple Eleven, Fujii-dera, where I was now, sitting outside a public telephone booth working up the courage to call ahead. Learning my lesson from yesterday, I wanted to make a plan for the night. I took out the list of free accommodation I received at Temple One and found the phone number for Temple Twelve listed. I was hesitant to call, given the misunderstanding I had with the temple’s monk seven years ago. It was a careless mistake I made, showing up at dusk and asking to camp in my tent on the temple grounds without any warning. I was a new pilgrim and didn’t know all of the rules, but they weren’t thrilled with me. Even so, they found a way to help me. I’m sure it was because I showed up without calling and caused them distress. The list clearly indicated to call first to arrange a place to sleep.
I spoke into a lime green public phone at Temple Eleven, conveniently located near the path into the mountains. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m a walking henro. May I please stay at your tsuyadō tonight?”
A tsuyadō is a free place to sleep along the henro path. It comes in many forms, such as a simple wooden gazebo, country barn, or a small prefabricated room, complete with electricity. What I was seeking for the night was the small, dirty tool shed in the middle of a plum orchard just past Temple Twelve to which I had previously been banished.
“That’s not possible,” the gruff voice on the other end said in Japanese.
“Ah, I see.” I tried again. “I’m sorry, I must not have explained myself well enough. It’s just that I have a long climb to reach your temple and no place to sleep tonight. I was hoping to sleep in the tsuyadō.”
“There is no tsuyadō here.”
Hmm. I switched tactics and began waving the list of free places as if the man could see it. “That’s strange,” I said, “because I’m looking at a list of tsuyadō I received at Ryōzen-ji and it lists your temple,” I added, leaving him some room to backtrack. “It even says to call first to confirm.”
“No! There is no tsuyadō here.”
Maybe we were having a language problem. “I see. Well perhaps you don’t call it a tsuyadō. I’d like to sleep in the tool shed in the orchard. I slept there when I walked the pilgrimage last time.” I congratulated myself on remaining calm. Although, I did fantasize about jumping through the phone and beating some sense into him with the receiver.
“No, there’s nothing like that here,” he repeated with more than a touch of annoyance.
“Well, it’s just that I have no place to sleep and . . .”
Loud beeps cut me off. He had hung up.
I replaced the phone in shock and with not a little bit of anger. The temple staff had been just as rude seven years ago. I had assumed their sourness was because I had not called first. It seemed that just made things worse.
I wasn’t sure what else I could have done. Maybe I should have ignored the advice on the sheet, shown up at dusk, and brought a picture of the tool shed as proof. No doubt he still would have denied the existence of the tsuyadō.
Camping along the Shikoku Pilgrimage
Most likely it was my fault. I had assumed that reality and appearance were the same, and in Japan, they rarely ever are, and insisting they are is considered rude. He had a reason for saying no, for denying the existence of the tsuyadō. It didn’t matter if it was there or not. The fact that there was a free place to stay for walking pilgrims ceased to exist the moment he denied it. Reasoning with him was not going to change things.
I should have stopped asking. I should have realized that, for whatever reason, this man did not want me to stay the night. Maybe he was new and did not know about the tsuyadō. Or he was worried a foreigner wouldn’t know how to act in a Japanese tool shed. I might not take off my shoes or might fall asleep spooning the rice scythe. What a mess that would be to clean up in the morning.
I needed to learn to let things go. I did accept, although begrudgingly, that I wouldn’t have a roof over my head that night. One of the rules I had decided to honor before walking the pilgrimage was that I would accept a refusal of help and move on without complaint. In this instance that meant cursing the temple and its staff in my mind, rather than calling back or trying to convince them in another way. Perhaps this is how people react internally in Japan. Behind stoic faces, deep bows, and profuse expressions of apology, they rant and rave and curse the other party to the lower levels of Buddhist hell. More likely, I was just being petty.
The repetitive beeping of the public telephone reminded me not to forget my phone card. The phone card, a present from the monk at Temple Eleven, in turn reminded me that there were still plenty of generous people out there. In fact, it was an example of osettai, or charitable offerings, the practice of which is unique to Shikoku, compared to the rest of Japan. Osettai is practiced all along the pilgrims’ path where locals give henro presents. Anything works, including money, food and drinks, directions, a kind word, or free lodging.
Pilgrims have to receive all offerings with a thank you and a name slip given in return. The slips, filled in with your name, date, and hometown, are the same ones left at each temple, and residents believe they are talismans of good luck (omamori) for those who receive them. Before each henro sets out, they usually buy hundreds of them to have enough to last the journey. The more times a pilgrim completes the circuit, the greater the power of the slip. Most name slips left in temple bins and given out are white, indicating the henro has completed one to four pilgrimages. Green slips are used for those who have done more than five circuits, and red for those who have completed seven to twenty-four journeys. Silver or bronze slips indicate up to 49 trips, while gold signifies 50 to 100. Finally, there are multicolored slips called nishiki. Made from woven fabric, they represent those who have managed to complete more than 100 pilgrimages.
Osettai is based on the belief that henro occupy a spiritual realm and are closer to Kūkai than the average person. The giver receives karma associated with helping someone complete the pilgrimage, and the name slip, bearing my name and prayers, becomes the vehicle for this spiritual boon.
For me, osettai was a constant reminder of people’s goodness. On more than one occasion, the simplest of gestures lifted me from the deepest of depressions. The telephone card reminded me that temple staff really did care about pilgrims; I was just being petty and should let Temple Twelve go.
About the Author
Todd Wassel is an international development professional, author and traveler. Visit his blog The Fermented Word.
The walking path leaves the city of Tokushima behind and plunges into the backcountry over three peaks, lined with the graves of fallen henro. Japan is home to 46 species of snakes, but it was not the long, green ones I was most wary of. The source of most pilgrims’ worry was a one-foot, gray killer, the mamushi. A pit viper, it was a constant threat to my sanity as well as to the lives of thousands of farmers all over Shikoku. Usually found in early morning and at dusk, the venom is enough to kill if not treated immediately.
