The island of Shikoku, Japan, Thursday, the 3rd of May, 2001

When he said “Konichiwa” it didn’t register that he was talking to me. I didn’t even recognize him until he pretended to have a camera on his shoulder. Then the penny dropped. “Yes – I have brought something for lunch and a drink”. The walk was a mere thirteen kilometers all up hill, estimated as an eight hour walk, six if you are fast (or have no luggage on your back maybe!), and almost ten if you talk!

My journey continued after the filming stopped. There was no car waiting to transport me back to a hotel. I had to keep walking, so with Mica’s help, and a long conversation with the local sweet seller, we figured out which direction to head in first. It was so peaceful being back solo, in the forest, not worrying about if my nose was dripping at the wrong point or they really were filming my butt all the time. I was headed down the mountain, and had been given a landmark to look for, the site of the grave of an auspicious pilgrim called Emon Saburo. By then, breath was mist, and it was getting chilly. The desire to linger too long was minimal, as I still wasn’t sure how to find the accommodation easily.

Coming down off the last contour, walking slowly to measure the weight of the pack, the sun came out a little further on, forming an oval of light in amongst a sea of different greens and gravel. In the midst of this form was a Priest, just standing and enjoying the late afternoon warmth. Two small girls were playing near the memorial. An offering of a basic greeting only seemed to provoke giggles from them. I stayed a few minutes, noting that the Priest had disappeared, and turning to continue on, mysteriously he came alongside. I asked him if they were his children. He stopped, slowly turned, and then looked right through me. And that is when my life as a documentary became real.

Something resonated. A feeling so deep that it literally swept me away. My breathing seemed to stop. He answered in English and invited me to have some tea with him.

His small rented home is old, threadbare and in poor condition, barely a three-minute walk from the site. We sat on the tatami and lit incense then rang the prayer bell, waiting while the tone whispered itself away. He said Buddha was very happy meeting his first foreigner! We sat together in zazen for more than an hour, then, he went to make tea. His video collection is extensive – all two of them, one of which is a documentary on the Temple where he did his training. The other is “You’ve Got Mail”. We watched the one about his training. I knew then I had made the right decision about this pilgrimage. In that very short time together, everything changed. It was as if someone else could see what I know is there and is struggling to emerge. It didn’t need an explanation. It felt like nourishment and comfort.

Finally, as darkness was creeping in, I had to leave. Standing outside, putting the pack back on, I discretely left all of the money that had been gifted to me, stuffed into the toe of a nearby shoe. It didn’t feel right to give the ossetai to him directly, and it didn’t feel right to carry it on further either. We walked together to the main road, past his growing vegetables and small clumps of flowers. Standing at the road was a moment that hung in infinity but this time there was breath. We wished each other “Dogyo Ninin”, “You never travel alone, there is always another with you”, and I turned and started walking, too timid to turn back to see if he had stayed or had already returned to his world.

There is a common mantra amongst Pilgrims that Kobo is with you at all times. Especially when you are so tired and exhausted that you can’t think straight. That is when he will walk beside you, shouldering the burden that your physical form cannot take. As I walked away from the Priest at Emon Saburo, I felt everything that had been weighing me down, suddenly lift. Kobo was with me. I don’t really remember how far I walked to get to the accommodation, nor can I calculate how long it took. At one point I could hear myself humming a new but old melody. The fatigue, and aches and pains were lost. It seemed like a lifetime since the mountain climb with Mica.

Later that night I was restless and couldn’t sleep. It was a familiar feeling — years of experiences on Bali told me what was happening, in that realm beyond the obvious. We even had a term for it, and would refer to it as ‘t-mail’, short for Thought Mail, as opposed to E-mail or Snail mail. But I can’t tell you everything now. You will have to tune in for next week’s episode. As a preview though, next morning at the accommodation the Anonymous Pilgrim asked the owner to take a card with the image of Kobo on it, back up to the Priest. She wanted to see if he could get mail. There was no denying the knowledge that he knew how to send it.

The following day’s walk was just as grueling up some very steep inclines but just as beautiful and wondrous too. By the time I reached Dainichiji late in the afternoon, I could barely walk, but it didn’t seem to matter. After the obligations at the temple, the priorities were to first check into the accommodation near the temple and then go in search of a phone for an Internet connection. Just as the link made that final happy sound, Mica and her film crew pulled in to the same space, commenting on how long the kilometers had been and how difficult it was immediately after yesterday’s climb. Another installment in her documented life as a spiritual journey had been filmed, already reformatted and about to be edited for TV. With a rushed ‘see you at the next temple tomorrow and I will send you an email’, she was gone before I had finished downloading the waiting messages.

I’ve got mail!

Zen