Kyoto, Japan, Sunday, Wednesday the 4th of July, 2001
As I climbed the last stairs, bowed then walked through the traditional gate at Temple 88, the tears came. There was no stopping them, as much from exhaustion as satisfaction at having accomplished something so unbelievably wonderful. The last day on the Henro trail had been appropriately tough with two numbing climbs within hours, and heat and humidity that was drenching in every sense. There were no shortcuts even on the last day. It had taken almost one thousand and three hundred kilometers in fifty-seven days, walking through pain and delight and so many other emotions that it could easily become a shopping list. How do you explain something so private and personal and yet so public? Maybe it can only be understood through being felt and lived.
But I was there. At the last temple. Leaning against the wall, with my pack propping me up, supported by the staff that had somehow managed to get to the last stop too, just letting the tears fall to the ground. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end, and yet I couldn’t go any further either physically or mentally for that moment. Slowly I put the faithful pack down and started the usual routine. Carefully washing the staff that represents Kobo Daishi, first the left hand then right before taking a sip to cleanse internally. The Temple bell was in a different location so I wandered over and struck it softly, letting the discrete mellow tone wash over me. Then it was down to the Main temple to ring its bell, drop in some coins and name cards, then the chanting of mantras and prayers, before moving to the next Temple, the one dedicated to Kobo Daishi. It was all so familiar and comforting, and something to be enjoyed. Like singing the song “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” very, very slowly.
When it was done, I went and sat down with the trusty staff. This would be its final resting place and I didn’t want to abandon or bury my friend. It seemed appropriate to do something significant and honorable. So I held it gently, creating personal tattoos all over its body, or what was left of it. The journey had hammered more than three inches off its length. My message was a simple one of thanks, giving my name and where I had come from, while the drawings were elaborate and patterning. With a deep breath and an even deeper bow, the staff was then taken to the rack where others had been left. He was obvious by his lack of stature and his tanned face from the weather. The seasons were truly stenciled on his skin. It was more difficult to say good-bye than I imagined so I kept the bell as a memento. He has been there in my right hand every day for hundreds of hours, doing what he has to do, pushing me at times and balancing me in difficult places. Maybe the memories could live on a little longer with the bell on my house key, to bring me back to reality with each step or turn in the lock. Two days earlier the hat had taken itself away in an unexpected gust of wind. I reminisced over those early days when I kept bumping into things or hitting others through my confusion and disorientation. It was all so different now to the ease and comfort I had in the walking Henro life.
The final act here was to acquire the stamp and seal of the temple, leaving just one more space to be filled from Koya-san. I said ‘goodbye and thank-you’ to Shikoku as the Priest pressed the seal and completed the calligraphy. In the deft movements of his brush work, two months of commitment and discipline, and a twenty year old dream, had been swept up in a cursive hand, filed next to every other temple mark and personality and character. There is so much contained in those strokes and seals. So many stories that it only makes the scroll grow in dimensions intangible. Each space is like a T.V screen with specific programs and reruns waiting to be viewed. Just to keep it all in perspective, the cell phone of the Priest rang while he was on the job. No chance of ego and self-gratification getting in the way here from my side of the counter. He has seen it all a zillion times. This is just another scroll, and his wife is calling to ask when he is coming home for lunch.
I wondered what I would do if someone called for me on that cell phone. What if it was Oprah or Larry King from CNN.
. . . . . . . . . .
LK. “We are here tonight with Zen-san, the Anonymous Pilgrim, fresh from her circuit of the Eighty Eight Sacred Temples on Shikoku Island in Japan. Now tell us Zen-san, what was it like?”
| z. "Well Larry, it was simply a very long walk. You get up each day, have breakfast, strap on your pack and head out the door. And you walk until you stop, then you find your accommodation for that night; have dinner, a hot bath and a long sleep if possible before repeating it all the next day. Sometimes you stay in temples if you chose, or in traditional Japanese inns. Often I slept whereever I ended up, usually in farmers sheds. It all depends on your preferences." |
LK. “And what did you encounter along the route? There are stories that in some areas the local population is hostile and quite standoffish, while in others they are extremely generous.”
| z. "Although accurate in some ways, it is difficult to generalize like that. True, in one prefecture, the only gift given was a glass of iced water, where as in others, the gifts included meals, accommodations, snacks, information and much more. Generally though, one of the strongest characteristics of the journey is the generosity and the incredible spirit of the people of Shikoku and their relationship with the Pilgrims." |
LK. “We have a listener on the line that would like to ask a few questions. Go ahead Brad from Wisconsin.”
Brad. “Hi Zen-san – what did you do for lunch each day. And how did you keep your computer running so successfully? How did you recharge the batteries?”
| z. “Wow – Brad – such a wide range of interest. First, lunch was usually self-catering. There are plenty of vending machines in metro areas and numerous branches of convenience stores that sell suitable fast foods for the road. I would often stock up around mid morning each day, and always carried something just in case. I ran the computer on local power outlets, which are much less than the standard US voltage, but it worked for short periods of time. Finding phones to send the email newsletter was the biggest challenge. In short, there wasn’t much need for recharging the batteries.” |
Brad. “And what about sex? How did you recharge your batteries?”
| z. “Well Brad. Sex was like lunch. Pretty much self-catering. No need for batteries.” |
LK. “I think we have another caller on the line. Caller, go ahead.”
“er, Hi…..This is Randy from Rhode Island. I was just wondering if Ketut the Houseboy is a real person?”
| z. “Ketut the Houseboy is very much a living and breathing person. Quite a few readers have emailed me through the journey asking the same question. I know Ketut too well, as I am sure that a lot of other women can relate to that type of relationship or have had someone like Ketut in their life at some point. He really does exist and is probably sitting with his latest lover, getting haughty, while reading the stories with secret glee. Many have asked some quite pertinent questions about the role of Ketut in my life now. Well, he is not in my life in any way. Lets get that on record. Once he changed from wearing big white underwear to slinky Calvin’s he had moved to another space in his world. I had also moved to another country to follow my career. He is one of those people though that you continually reference or edit against as you have adventures in your life. He serves a purpose." |
RRI. “So he wears Calvin’s. I hadn’t realized that. Does he have a lover right now?”
| z. “Humm Randy. I didn’t think you could ask stuff like that on a talk show. But, Ketut does have a lover right now. In fact, he always has a lover. He is the type of boy that can’t be alone for very long. To his credit he has a very simple, and as he would say, ‘optimal’ way of operating. Just one itinerary, and then he shuffles each lover, or as we affectionately call them, Chipmunks, through the same routine, photographing them all at predetermined moments, and posting to his website. It is quite interesting seeing each new Chipmunk documented at the same restaurant as the previous Chipmunk, forever relishing the cheese and fruit plate. His creative outlet is labeling each image too. He likes to be seen as part of a ‘cute couple’. Looks and an exotic quotient are important. He selects Chipmunks based on what he wants to acquire. Errr………Do you like cheese and fruit Randy?” |
LK. “I think its time for a commercial break. But before we go, Zen-san, I want to ask on behalf of our listeners, what is the one thing that you learnt along the way."
| z. “That is easy. Someone taught me a really useful phrase. When you hear me using the term ‘blowing pork’ you will know where it came from.” |
LK. “Thank-you Zen-san. Don’t go away, and for you viewers out there, we will be right back after this with Zen-san, the Anonymous Pilgrim from the Sacred Temple walk.”
. . . . .
The journey up the mountain to Koya-san is tremendous. I wasn’t walking it, but enjoying a ride from friends met along the way who are car Henro, also going to Koya-san for their stamps and seals. It was easy to imagine what it would have taken to walk though and I was extremely happy to be a passenger this time. Thankfully I didn’t tread the weary path because we stopped along the way to shop. (Of course and why not?) It was like taking a swift hit of alcohol and definitely felt blasphemous. The Mecca of our desires was the “100 Yen” store, which is about all that any of us could afford where it is only 100 Yen for an item. There is nothing like reaching satori at the 100 Yen store on the way to the ultimate temple of temples along the sacred temple circuit. In the end it seemed a very appropriate transition. Who said it needed to be hard travel to sacred places.
Koya-san is an environment on the top of a mountain that is home to almost four thousand people involved in the one hundred temples, numerous schools and a university, as well as the other industries that support such a world. The setting is dotted with ancient trees and traditions, with temples snuggled in amongst geography and granite headstones. There are old gardens reaching up to acres of pristine forest, creating perfect form and transition between worlds, along with swirling mists, wafts of incense and the growl of tractors from excavation and rebuilding projects.
Arriving as late as we did, sleeping arrangements were limited to an available temple that, as it happened, provided an unexpected gift of Kurt, a Swiss man who has been ordained as a Buddhist Priest. Through conversation I learnt that Kurt had also lived in Florence at the same time as myself and also attended the same art school but in a different department. The other gift was that he knew what a Spiritual Map is, in its various forms, which led to a very enlightening discussion. His ability with English opened up many secrets to us with detailed explanations of their training, duties and roles, and the significance of the implements in certain rituals. The meals were strict vegetarian without onions or garlic, but so gourmet that it was difficult to realize that it wasn’t a flesh-based meal. The morning service was the Goma ritual, so once again fire and chanting in a soot-lined darkened room brought me to my day. What wasn’t expected was the small breakfast of sweets, coffee and Hershey Kisses chocolate with the Chief Priest immediately after the ceremony, with a smattering of English amongst the Japanese tea ceremony he was performing. It was like meeting a kindred spirit who also understood that chocolate and coffee are food groups and must be consumed in substantial quantities each day for peace of mind and cosmic order.
There was still one last seal to obtain before the journey is truly completed, so we wandered out of the temple, towards the ancient cemetery en-route to the final resting place of Kobo Daishi. The monuments were of a scale I hadn’t seen on Shikoku, and their age and stature were daunting. You have no choice but to be washed in the history and magnitude of what took place those dozen centuries ago. At the Nokyo-cho office, the art of the seal was treated with such nonchalance that you didn’t dare complement yourself on what had been accomplished there either. It didn’t matter. Reaching the final bridge to cross into the last sanctuary melted us into the expected crowds, where we read a notice asking everyone to not wear their bathroom jackets into that area of the temple! We bowed then crossed the bridge, walking very slowly up to the entrance stairs. Candles and incense created a microclimate very different from the outside humidity and the chanting was as always, electrifying and mesmerizing. Getting closer to the definite resting place was relaxed, where we stood and chanted in unison the Hannyo Shingo. It was profound and deeply felt, to finally be there, in front of such a revered place where an entire cultural tradition has emanated from.
Leaving the complex, I was involuntarily subdued and peaceful. It didn’t feel as if I had completed the task, but more like the new beginning had just opened its doors. A lunch of noodles satisfied more earthly needs, followed by a short tour of another quadrant in the village before loading up the car and heading down the mountain to other obligations.
Arriving in Kyoto that night felt very familiar and comforting too. I was back in the same hotel where I had started, complete with the television and its bilingual button, in effect completing a circle, just like the Shikoku walk. Getting on the train provided a moment of curiosity when I watched the paired seats dance a waltz in the cabin to be realigned for the direction of the journey. Next on the agenda was Temple 89, Starbucks, to satisfy a craving of latte and a chocolate muffin. Walking down those same streets from two months ago was different this time. I had hair now, an unusual method for marking time, and didn’t seem to attract the covert staring as before. I hadn’t seen the five temples on the street front before either, but now it was as if my radar just knew where to turn and seek. The crowds haven’t changed and the art of observing is still very gratifying. People really do wear white socks individual toes in them and white gloves, all creating a Mickey Mouse factor in their identity. This is not the culture where you will see folks blowing pork at all. OK – maybe a frustrated train conductor when he has to deal with yet another confused non-lingual foreigner, but even that is rare and more likely to only mean severe sucking of air in between the teeth. But I am ready to move on, to go to the next step, to get going.
So the journey for now is over. Well, the walking is over at least. There will still be a couple more stories to tell through the mailing list as the after effects formalize. Friends are emailing again through the usual address of zen@ovoo.com and it brings an enormous amount of joy to be so contactable. I know there will be a huge stack of dreary bills and solicitations and numerous other issues to be attended to and dealt with when I get to the US. For starters there is the priority to find a job quickly. But it will be different this time too. Shikoku will be with me. There is a Spiritual Map embedded in my own wiring. The goal now is to keep it with me, purely, for as long as possible. Many friends have also asked would I do it all again. That answer is easy too.
What started out as a long held dream from a story about walking and sleeping in temples each night has truly become a journey of ‘short walk long time.’
Thank-you for walking with me.
Zen