The island of Shikoku, Japan, Monday, the 30th of April, 2001

The incessant rain made the late afternoon more melancholic than it needed to be. But I was so close – so close to actually arriving at the first temple that I didn’t mind being so wet.

As you walk from the railway station, the dark foreboding gate can be seen at the top of the street. It seemed to take an eternity to get there, with other pilgrims quickly passing me.

          Why was I walking so slowly?
                    And, why couldn’t I pick up my pace?

Incense hung in the air, while expectant rain clouds smothered the last of the daylight. It took me back to Bali time, when some days the smoke didn’t have enough energy to get off the ground, preferring to slink around corners to hide from itself.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t organize my gear. The backpack was slipping, and tangling itself with my small shoulder bag. The camera was in the way, and the plastic water bottle kept slipping out of its sleeve. Every time it dropped to the ground it found a puddle and I would have to retrieve its muddy dripping form from the muck. Arms were caught and I couldn’t get free. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. So I lumbered forward. Past the Buddha with the babes on the golden lily pads looking up at him adoringly. Past the fish in their new pond…I am like a moth, drawn to the warmth and comforting lights in the back of the complex. There is hypnotic chanting and someone tapping out a strong beat. And still I felt so burdened down, unable to move coherently.

The beckoning lights were from the Temple of Ryonzenji, but I didn’t have my gear. I wasn’t a Henro yet — I needed my gear — and a slow screaming panic set in. Thankfully, next-door under the same roof is a shop where you can buy all that is required. And I had my list – a friend had provided me with more than enough information about everything that I needed to know for getting started. What to buy, what to wear, how to wear it, what to do. But now — all of a sudden the chaos in my head rendered his help utterly useless.

So I stumbled. My breathing was thin, barely skimming my lungs. I kept bumping into things that were precariously low. When I bent down, somehow I made something fall off a shelf from behind me. I have never felt so huge and out of place before in all of my time in Asia. Frantically I went between aisles, trying to decipher characters and prices, and in the end finally just pulling stuff out to see what it was and if I should need it. I must have looked at everything twice and then again to make sure. Should I take the orange with gold, or the blue with green? This is it — the Big Moment. It was about to begin. I had to get it right. It has to be perfect. This is a Live Broadcast with no replay. Ready. Action. Roll.

Finally, to the relief of myself, and the Lady Shopkeeper, I had a stack of goods to be purchased. There was the Goeika set of a bell, incense and candles, and a hanging scroll on which each of the 88 temples will put their seal and calligraphy, which will eventually end up framed in silk to hang on a wall at home. (Probably next to my TV.)

The colors of the rosary beads were limited and not perfect enough, and this was upsetting, but eventually, I selected some along with the very important walking stick called Kongo-tsue. This is a representation of Kobo Daishi himself; complete with a bell to clang you back to reality once you are walking. Next came the hat, with plastic, so that the small amount of hair I now have does not suffer too much from damp. A white robe called an Oizuru has an inscription saying something I can’t decipher, running down its back – and the Lady Shopkeeper kindly tells me to fasten it from the left side over the right – you do it the other way when you die! Well, I think that is what she is telling me. So I tied it the wrong way first, much to her merriment – yep, factor the language in at this point. It is helpful. (And it is left over right.)

The finishing touch is a silk sash with gold embroidery called a Wagesa, hung around the neck, representing the robes of a priest from days of old. I tried to undo the knot thinking that it would help me to get the sash over my head. The Lady Shopkeeper humorously smacked my hands mid knot release, quickly removed my hat and slipped the sash around my neck. Then she returned the scroll, which had been stamped while I was grappling with the currency and the goods. I hadn’t even noticed and most likely would have walked off without the $800 item!

I am ready and dressed.

Or so I think I am. The crowd that had gathered to watch the ‘takai gaijin Henro’ in full fight of confusion is very amused by the event. (No doubt helped along by the running commentary of the Lady Shopkeeper.)

Now for the User Test - Making my first prayers and offerings at the temple right next door.

My mind suddenly just went blank, with out a single illusion of any kind of knowledge. No scrolling even. I don’t know what to do and yet I had rehearsed and rehearsed on a daily basis before coming here. Why couldn’t I remember anything? Why did The Lord’s Prayer come out of the blue right now of all things, and why did I start chanting “Om Shanti Shanti” and doing a Hindu puja in my head. Frantic stress is building. I know that I know what to do, and yet I can’t. It is like a huge muffling curtain coming down on everything around me. I don’t want to close my eyes for fear of falling into that black void. My hands are trembling so much that I can’t find the incense, then, I dropped the bell, which rolled clinking down all seven of the steps it found. The sash kept slipping away from the robe underneath. And every so often members of the chanting crowd would stop and look behind to see what I was doing. So I try to mimic them, rummaging in my shoulder bag but unable to find some coins to drop in the box, nor could I locate the specially made Osame-fuda cards that I brought with me. Why did I put them at the bottom of the tightly jammed backpack? And why did I zip everything up for the first time ever. The ripping zip noise sounds distressing – like a small animal caught in a murderous trap and screaming out in pain. They stop, they turn and they stare. All very politely, then turn again to chant some more. I step backwards in retreat and slip down a stair. My head is hot from panic and demoralization. I try to say the Heart Sutra in Romanji and strangle each word into tremulous death. My throat is clutching itself, not wanting to speak.

I stop.

And try to gather my gear, jamming everything into the already full pack, brusquely throwing it over a single shoulder in an attempt to run away. Swollen feet have become flippers and won't go back into the shoes without a fight, while cold, nervous fingers cannot tie the shoelaces. So I drag the shoes along like gigantic flip-flops, snapping the ends of the laces around my ankles. At the precise time when all of the crowd noise is silent, I stand and step with clumsy gait, only to squash a snail enjoying the rain. The sound just seems to hang and resonate like a temple bell should. It is as if you can hear every little piece of that shell being broken, then broken again and again until there are only smithereens left to see.

I bend down to try and tie the shoelaces one more time, but the hat is in the way and competes for space with the backpack which isn’t ready to leave yet, and wants to move forward over my head and off my shoulder, swinging like a lead weight and flapping its loose straps. That throws me off balance and I crash noisily into a wall. The stick keeps laying itself down with a loud ceremony, no matter where it is placed, then, all of a sudden the incense presents itself and spills out of its container across the landing step in to the temple. It could not have been more obvious if it had tried. Nothing seems to be in balance, and nothing seems to be going right. “This is not how it is supposed to be”, my head is screaming at me.

Finally I have everything somehow controlled by my body and turn to leave. Now the mind is taking over, and I am rushing from the warmth and comforting lights, past the new pond full of fish all watching me, behind the Buddha with his chorus of babes.

I run through the gate, sounding like an Army platoon in quick time, stop abruptly, then, like a pattern in a slow motion fractal form, start to break down, sobbing piece by sobbing piece, into even smaller splintered parts of what was there before until I feel so shattered and fragile that there is nothing left, only tiny broken pieces of glass sitting at the bottom of your childhood kaleidoscope.

My dream is here and ready and I haven’t arrived yet. I have made a horrible mistake.

The Lady Shopkeeper came outside with an umbrella, to see if I was OK. She put her arm around me. All I could do was close my eyes and hang my head. Hot tears of shame mixed freely with the rain. I felt such a horrible sense of failure, and now, pure overwhelming fear.

Finally I just walked away. No ‘domo arrigato’ or even a meek English ‘thank-you’. I just walked into the dark and rainy night.

Absolutely alone.

Zen