Writers In Kyoto

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Writers in focus

Home away from home

May 4, 2022

Europe’s largest Japanese garden
by Robert Weis

Kaiserslautern is not the kind of place where you look for a piece of Japan. Nestled in the forests of the Palatinate, this town of 100,000 inhabitants is relatively isolated from Germany’s cultural hot spots. But there is one attraction that is the local pride: the Japanese garden, at 13,500 square metres the largest in Europe, which was created through a unique public-private partnership inspired by the city’s partnership with the Japanese town of Bunkyo on the outskirts of Tokyo.

The garden opened in 2000, but the whole complex is remarkably harmonious. Like many Japanese gardens, for example in Tokyo and other large cities, the Japanese garden in Kaiserslautern is fully integrated into a modern urban environment. The site, a former stone quarry, is located on a slope to the north of the city center. It was once an English-style landscape park, created in 1893, but abandoned after the Second World War. Many old trees survived and blended harmoniously into the new design. The garden therefore looks much older than it actually is, with a good deal of wabi-sabi permeating its paths. It has all the main elements of a classical Japanese landscape garden.

A rockery at the top of a hill symbolises the mountains of Japan; this is where the largest of the four waterfalls starts. From the top of the slope, the “borrowed” view (shakkei) extends beyond the garden walls: towards the city centre with the Apostle Church as a focal point, and the Palatinate hills on the horizon.
The garden has three ponds, all of which have a different mood. The largest has a fine selection of koi carp from the Niigata region and offers beautiful views of an authentic Japanese teahouse, originally built in a Tokyo park around 1900 and later sold to Germany; it was rebuilt with the help of Japanese architect Kunihiko Akamatsu. The teahouse is not usually open to the public, but tea ceremonies can be booked in advance. There is also a dry garden (karesansui), which was designed in 2004 by Japanese garden artist Kazuo Makioka. The garden is inspired by the Zen garden of the famous Ryoan-ji temple in Kyoto.

We visited it on a cloudy, cool day in late April: the yaezakura cherry trees were in their last days of flowering, and beautiful hybrids of camellias, peonies and rhododendrons were in full bloom. Seventeen varieties of Japanese maples showed their beautiful fresh matcha-coloured leaves. Overall, the garden’s composition exudes a harmony that may come as a surprise in this setting, far from Japan: for those sensitive to the ever-changing beauty of Japanese plants and the spiritual significance of Japanese gardens, this place immediately appears as a spiritual home away from home.


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www.japanischergarten.de

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

My Own Lucky Number Seven

May 1, 2022

by Marianne Kimura

After a tailor hits seven flies with one swipe, he embroiders the words “Seven at One Blow” on his belt and sets out to advertise his prowess to the world. 

Age 18
A golden September day and she is returning to her dorm, Canaday Hall, the boxy, modern Harvard freshman dormitory, from a shopping trip. Classes have not yet begun. The sky is a gorgeous, ethereal blue color, and it almost seems like it would be a waste of planetary beauty to go inside.

A young man with sandy hair and a bright smile stops in his tracks and focuses his gaze on her.
“Are you a student here?” he asks brightly, then, “I’m Peter. Have you heard the good news about Jesus Christ?”

Peter is a Harvard student too. A nearby dorm room will shortly be the scene of a prayer gathering and he enthusiastically sweeps his arm around her shoulders and propels her to the stairs of his dorm nearby. She tries to think of an excuse to escape, but is worried about rudely offending a fellow Harvard student so early on in the year. Soon they are in the room and a crowd of the devout is gathered. Peter introduces her, everyone claps and then another male student, some sort of leader with a Bible, gives some introductory remarks. Then everyone closes their eyes and starts swaying while making strange glottal utterances with their tongues and lips.

Amazed, she watches them for a few seconds and then the phrase “speaking in tongues” floats to the surface of her brain.
She has gotten that puzzlement out of the way. Now what?

She spies the door just on the other side of the room. Everyone’s eyes are thankfully still shut, Peter’s too, and she walks carefully to the edge of the room unnoticed, moving around the people who are all raising their hands, lifting their faces and crying out in their devotion. She quietly turns the door handle and slips out, then hurries down the stairs, free.

For weeks she dreads running into Peter again, but fortunately, she never does. It is as though he never existed.

Age 46
A tiny college in a rural part of Hofu has hired me on a part-time basis to teach English every Wednesday afternoon starting at 1pm. There is another English teacher, a Japanese woman named Ueda-san. Her English class is held the same time and day as mine.

In the teacher’s lounge after classes Ueda-san casually mentions a certain “light temple” she belongs to.
“A light temple?”
“Where we all give each other light”, Ueda-san says.
“Light? How does that work?”
“Let me show you.”

Still sitting in her chair beside mine, Ueda-san holds both her palms about 30 centimeters away from my arm, like a character in a comic book doing a magic spell. Her hands hover above my body and after a minute or so, she shifts her hands to another spot.
“Do you feel anything?” she asks.
“Hmmm, not really.”

From Ueda-san, I learn various things about the light temple. Its founder has built a magnificent compound in the mountains of Wakayama Prefecture, about five hours away, and all the devout are expected to visit every month and bring large cash gifts to support the temple’s many activities.

Unfailingly and a bit surreally, Ueda-san always insists on “giving me light” every week as I sit sipping canned green tea and skimming through students’ essays in the lounge after class.

My two kids laugh with glee to hear about Ueda-san later when I get home and tell them about her over dinner. (Then in school, my children are old enough to know that grownups are much weirder than we purport to be.)

I am invited again and again, by Ueda-san, to attend light sessions at the local light temple with her, but luckily she always takes my refusals with a gracious and good humor.
A few years later I move to Kyoto and Ueda-san and I don’t stay in touch.

Age 18, part 2
Same Harvard dorm, Canaday. But this time inside the spacious suite, four rooms for three roommates. That is, they each have a bedroom and there is one common room, for socializing, and it seems, now also for proselytizing. For one roommate is a devout Catholic and is bent on saving the souls of the other two roommates, who are not interested in religions at all.

Many invitations to attend sermons at the Catholic Church on Sunday are extended, parried and refused. Finally the smiling face who belongs to the devout Catholic roommate, named Fran, starts to frown and a threat is tossed out one day in their common room: those who fail to convert will inevitably meet with the standard theological fate.

“Do you understand what that means?” Fran asks us, with dread and impatience in her voice like a school teacher at the end of her tether.
“Hmmmm”, says one of the irreligious roommates, pretending she has never heard the lore. Though she was raised as a religious “none” (a relative rarity back in those days in America), her mother, a former Lutheran, who had become an atheist before marriage, had explained the rumors to her out of her concern that her daughter would understand western culture.

But surely everyone had seen cartoons of heaven and hell anyway. The pearly gates, the angels, the clouds, the halos, the bearded deity, the horned devil. These are the clichéd tropes that every school kid knew and it was bizarre that Fran thought her roommates had never been exposed to such common mythology.

In her frustration, Fran’s face turns a pinched red and white color and she announces the cruel edict of doom.
“You will burn in hell!”
Despite this being pretty banal information, it’s still a shocking moment.
A violent image hangs in the air―of licking flames and the devil prancing around supervising the roasting of any obstinately heretical or heathen roommates.

But at least Fran’s invitations to them to accompany her to church cease.
A true blessing.

Age 56
A neighbor, Mrs. N, is one of those quiet yet kind people, around 65. Her hobbies are feeding stray cats in the neighborhood and gardening. Since I have four cats, we start chatting about cats and plants. Soon we are quite good friends.

One day recently, she brings me a pamphlet from her Buddhist new religion. I smile and say I cannot join any religion because my research, on Shakespeare and his pantheist ideas, necessitates that I must be as spiritually as free as the air. She appears to accept my refusal, but a potted blue flower is sitting in our genkan one day when I return from work and my son tells me she brought it over for me.

I feel an ominous sense of puzzlement but don’t (stupidly) link it to the pamphlet, because I’ve forgotten all about the pamphlet. A few days later, on a weekend (when I am almost certain to be home), Mrs. N, this time accompanied by her daughter, appears again, this time with some mochi rice cakes.

“Special ones from a good shop in Kyoto Station!” Mrs N says smiling, “my daughter here bought them for you on her way here from Ayabe!”
“Thank you!” I warily accept the cakes.

I am busily, of course, wondering why she is bringing me gifts.

Then Mrs. N tells me about her friend (living a few streets away) who belongs to the same Buddhist new religion, and I then remember the pamphlet.

This friend, who I will call Mrs. S, apparently lived in Canada for 13 years and is married to a Canadian. Apparently this fact is somehow supposed to make me more inclined to join the group?

Mrs. N then asks if she and Mrs. S can come over the next day to tell me all about their new Buddhist religion. I want to say no, but I’ve already accepted the rice cakes.

So I agree, though reluctantly, and brace myself for battle.

The next day, Mrs. N and Mrs. S appear and we stand at my gate to chat. After introductions they ask me about my work, so I tell them my standard story about my research on Romeo and Juliet.

“I’ve found an allegory in the play about the history of man and the sun. Romeo meets Juliet and they use the language of religion. This is paganism, like other countries used to have, and Japan still has.”
I give them both a mischievous little smile.

“Then in the next scene where they meet, Juliet is on the balcony. This represents monotheism, Christianity, and so forth. Nature is removed from humans as a spiritual being. Humans can still see nature, but Juliet’s distance represents the new separation. Actually, this spiritual separation did not happen in Japan. Shinto is still here”, I pause and smile (I’m subtly signaling, as part of my resistance strategy, that if I have any loyalties it is to Shinto, which thankfully, as far as I can tell, has no groups), “and Christianity was kept out during sakoku, for two hundred and fifty years. In his play, Shakespeare was, of course, trying to characterize his own society and Europe, not Japan.”

They look intrigued. I continue

“The third scene in the series about mankind and the sun is where Romeo escapes after spending one night with Juliet.”
Mrs. S furrows her brow.
“I don’t remember that scene”, she says.
Mrs. N smiles, “Oh, I saw the movie with DiCaprio many times”, she says, “I remember this scene. Romeo has been exiled, so he has to flee from Verona.”

“Right”, I say, “in the allegory, this scene represents when people became separated from the sun economically. In England that was happening fast in the last few decades of the 1500s as coal production increased massively. Forests couldn’t supply the booming population with enough fuel, especially in the cities. And the first line of the play is “Gregory, on my word, we won’t carry coals”.
Gregory, honto ni, sekitan wo hakobanai.

Mrs. N and Mrs. S are listening attentively, despite the fact that I am pretty sure my Japanese vocabulary level is probably not quite adequate to my task.

I continue, “Of course, in Japan, this separation in economic terms happened after the feudal system ended with the forced opening of Japan by Colonel Perry and the United States Navy. Did you know Perry’s ships ran on coal?”
They both smile and nod at me again.

“Finally”, I rush onwards, “the tomb scene represents when people will return to using the sun. The sun looks dead from an economic standpoint because it supplies so little of our energy. About 3%. But anyway, fossil fuels have a limited future.”

“Sugoi,” they both say. Gosh.

“Thank you”, I say, “But there is one more scene, symmetrically in the middle, the one where Romeo and Juliet marry,” I continue, “this represents Shakespeare always trying to bring the sun and people together. Shakespeare cloaks himself in the persona of Friar Lawrence, a spiritual and monkish figure”.

I pause and look up at the gorgeous blue sky. Sometimes I wondered if his ghost was hanging around listening to all the theories I had come up with related to his work. What would he say? Would he agree with me? Or would he laugh and say “oh no, that’s not what I meant at all!”

“I think you should know that I’ve understood what Shakespeare had to say only because I live here in Japan, because I noticed some things here that I could never have noticed had I stayed in America.”

I am trying to tell them indirectly that it is absolutely no good to try to bring me into any organized religion, that I am tied through my research to the natural world only, but of course they refuse to take the hint.

The next thing I know, Mrs. S is fishing her smartphone out of her purse and scrolling through it.

“If you like Shakespeare”, she begins in a dramatically warm and enthusiastic tone, like a kindergarten teacher, “our dear founder has written a beautiful essay regarding King Lear”.
I cringe inside, fully expecting what I would hear next, which is, indeed exactly what she comes out with: “King Lear is about suffering but still continuing to love our near and dear to our utmost.”

“Nah”, I say dismissively. I don’t recall how that came out in Japanese. (This was the heat of the battle, you see.) I think I may have said chigaimasu.

I continue, “King Lear is just another allegory like Romeo and Juliet about the sun. The stupid old man exiles and rejects the simple good daughter, Cordelia, the sun, and chooses the nasty cruel and overly suave wicked daughters, who represent coal”.

Mrs. S and Mrs. N digest this information and their jaws drop slightly.
There is silence.

From that point on, the whole tone shifts. I cheerfully steer the conversation to my favorite topics of witches, good luck charms, the moon and magic. It almost seems that it is me who is trying to convert them, which is quite funny, I think, and not at all the case. Maybe it is slightly beyond the pale, but I even end up telling them that they may be witches.

“You like plants and cats, do you not?” I say to Mrs. N., who nods happily.
“Well there you go then, yappari”, I say, “and you” (I turn to Mrs. S) “you are most likely a witch as well. ”

She looks quite happy to hear this.

The conversation is now just fantasy and speculation. It is time to end it. Mrs. S. has 3 school-age children and needs to get back home. I’m amazed she could even stay here for as long as she has.

When I check the clock in the kitchen a few minutes later after they leave, I note that my successfully failed conversion took one hour and ten minutes.
Time for a cup of tea.

Dear reader, you are probably wondering why I’ve only given you four accounts of people trying unsuccessfully to convert me when the title of this story specifically promises seven cases.

In truth, I was born under the sign of the moon, and the moon having three phases, 3 is therefore my lucky number, so I contend that the extra three accounts can be grouped briefly under the three headings of Bahai, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons.

Some Bahai people are good friends of mine here in Japan and they have in general not particularly tried to convert me, although once in a while some ventured to invite me to their religious study groups (I always demurred, having no interest at all in religion of any kind).

Jehovah’s Witnesses appear at my door from time to time and I always quickly close it as soon as I figure out who they are.

The Mormons are an interesting case as far as Japan goes because, it now occurs to me, they used to knock at doors, including mine, to convert people to Mormonism about 20 years ago or so, but for some time (way before Covid), I’ve not seen a single Mormon anywhere. They’ve vanished, like moths or sparrows might disappear, with no excuse or explanation. It is as though they never existed.

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For more by Marianne Kimura, please see her story of Last Snow. Or an account of how her second novel, The Hamlet Paradigm, was taken up by an independent publisher. Or her double life as academic and fiction writer, or her third prize winning entry for the Writers in Kyoto Competition. See also an extract from a work in progress, Seven Forms of Infiltration; an interview with her about goddesses and ninjas; or an extract from her first novel, The Hamlet Paradigm. For her original story, ‘Kaguya Himeko’, please see here, and for a short story about a witch see here.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Unsung Flora

April 25, 2022

by Richard Holmes

It’s that time of the year again when people leave their March madness behind them and go nuts over flowers. You know, the ones that flower in all shades of pink all over Japan. There’s even a weather term named after them – the 桜前線 ‘sakura zensen’ or cherry blossom front. People will go out in droves and celebrate the blossoming of cherry trees in full bloom. Most people prefer to view the blossoms in tranquility and peace and reflect on their beauty, which could very well be summed up by a haiku by一茶 Issa:

犬の子のふまえて眠る柳かな
The sleeping puppy
pushing his feet against 
the bole of the willow
(This and following haiku and translation courtesy of Stephen Gill)

I can imagine a little puppy yawning and stretching out its little paws in the warmth of the mid-day sun under a sakura canopy. But sometimes, celebration does get out hand. One of the most famous spots in Kyōto for ‘hanami’ is Maruyama Park next to Yasaka Jinja shrine. Maruyama Park is Kyōto’s oldest park and is very spacious, covering 86,00 square meters or more than twice the size of the Hanshin Kōshien baseball stadium. Because of the space it affords, it is frequented by big groups of revelers of all ages who either make use of the red-covered raised platforms provided by tea rooms or spread out their own mats on the ground. The shoes neatly arranged around them often belie the mayhem going on inside. There will often be some groups, invariably kids in their early twenties or so, who can’t handle their alcohol, get out of hand and spoil the fun for others nearby. It’s times like this that a magical Japanese expression springs to mind – 阿呆満開 ‘aho mankai’ which roughly translates as ‘idiots in full bloom’ or ‘blooming idiots.’

Photo courtesy of forestpost-jp.com

Be that as it may, viewing the blossoms at this time of year is a national pastime deeply ingrained into the culture and psyche of the Japanese. Just as plants and flowers are getting ready to emerge from their hibernation, so too are people – they are invigorated by the onrush of fresh greenery and want to shed off the gloom of winter and celebrate life. And, what better way to do it than under a canopy of flamboyant pink petals?

Part of the attraction of ‘sakura’ is its fleeting, ephemeral nature. The sight of petals blowing in the wind and fluttering to the ground will continually draw sighs from those around. In Japan, this has always been used as a euphemism or analogy of a samurai’s death in battle. During the 2nd World War, the falling of the cherry blossom was synonymous with dying a beautiful, heroic death. This was driven home to schoolchildren in pre-war textbooks, specifically, the 国定教科書尋常科用小学国語読本 (literally ‘State Textbook Elementary Course Elementary Japanese Reader’).

サイタ　サイタ　サクラガ　サイタ　ススメ　ススメ　ヘイタイ　ススメ
Out, out, out has come the cherry blossom. On, on, on soldier, march on
(My translation)

In this respect, that famous haiku by芭蕉Bashō would have made people reflect on the frailty of their existence:

さまざまの事おもひ出す櫻かな　
How very many things
they bring to mind –
the cherry blossoms

I didn’t write this piece to extol the virtues of sakura or otherwise. I want to introduce a certain subset or family of Japanese flora and plant life that, I feel, is often overlooked and neglected – namely, 山野草 ‘sanyasō’ or wild grasses and flowers. Most probably unbeknown to or hardly noticed by the majority of people, the hanami season is also a time when these plants and flora come into their own. A word – that even I as a translator find difficult to put into succinct English – I often use to describe them is素朴 ‘soboku’ or simple and unaffected (or something along those lines). They have a distinctive subtle elegance and charm that is often overshadowed by the cherry blossom which appears so ostentatious by comparison.

Here, I will introduce a few favorites of mine. Let’s begin with the山芍薬 ‘yama shakuyaku’ (Paeonia obovata or Paeonia japonica). A single bulb of this perennial peony produces a reddish stem which further branches off into two or three stems each consisting of no more than nine leaflets. I find the symmetry of these leaves most attractive, a marvel of simplicity amid Nature’s many designs. It produces only one small round bud covered in thin, gossamer-like light-green scales which gradually pops open to show yellow or orange-red stamens and red anthers. The flower is even more short-lived than the cherry blossom. Once it has come out in full-bloom, it lasts only a few days. Such fleeting drama.

Photo courtesy of Chateau Holmes.
All subsequent photos are from
the palatial grounds of chez nous unless mentioned otherwise.
Its petals curl up at night as if they are neatly tucked up in bed
Such a dainty, delicate flower – and ephemeral, too.
Gone in just the short space of two or three days…sigh.

Next, we have the八角蓮 ‘hakkakuren’ or Chinese May apple (dysosma pleiantha). You’ll immediately notice that each leaf is more or less hexagonal in shape and has eight or sometimes up to ten lobes. The ones in my pictures are small. These leaves, however, can grow up to 35 cm across. They have a thick texture that is always glossy and shiny and have prominent veins. The Chinese May apple produces clusters of hanging, cup-shaped, deep red or purple flowers below the leaves which grow into deep red fruit. Despite its good looks, though, you have to handle this plant with care as it is toxic. But, that green – it’s so refreshingly vivid and invigorating.

Photo courtesy of Mrs. Fujita just around the corner from me
Here, you can see its buds dangling from its stem.
Here, you can see its buds dangling from its stem.
Now about to bloom. A lovely shade of purple; Ian Gillan would be proud

The 斑入り鳴子百合 ‘madara-iri naruko yuri’ or variegated Solomon’s seal (polygonatum falcatum) is a very hardy perennial. As you can see, its oval, pointed leaves are bordered with narrow white streaks. Its distinctive white bell-shaped blossoms dangle down from reddish arching stems and release a delicate fragrance which attracts pollinators. In late summer the flowers turn into bluish black berries, and the ribbed foliage turns a golden yellow color in autumn. Solomon’s seal thrives in the shade and stays vibrant during summer. I love listening to its faint rustle in the wind.

If you want a brighter, more vivid looking plant in your garden or flower patch, you can’t go wrong with theタイツリソウ ‘taitsurisō’ or bleeding heart (lamprocapnos spectabilis). Just look at those leaves. Aren’t they delicately inviting? They have an alluring symmetry and their vibrance is so invigorating. The flowers are not what you would expect – dainty pink-purple heart shapes dangling down from its stalks. In fact, the stalks are so heavy with flowers that they look like lures hanging down from a fishing rod. Maybe this is why the plant’s original name in Kanji (Chinese characters) was鯛釣草, meaning ‘sea bream fishing grass.’

On the other end of the feast-for-the-eyes spectrum is the うらしま草 ‘urashimasō’ (arisaema urashima (species of cobra lily)). As it emerges from its bulb, its spike looks very much like the purple conical pointed spike of the 蒟蒻 ‘kon’yaku’ or Devil’s tongue (amorphophallus rhizome). But then, things get weirder as the spike rises up and unfolds. That strange elongated thing that looks like a pitcher is called a ‘spadex.’ If you look closely, the tip of that, the appendix, elongates into a free hanging thread that can be 45 to 60 cm long which dangles down from the top leaves. After the leaves wither in summer, a fruiting spike is left to ripen in autumn. It’s a very hardy perennial and produces more bulbs under ground during the winter months. These can be broken off and repotted. If you like weird, then this is for you. However, a word of warning. Handle with care! Its red berries contain high amounts of oxalic acid which causes painful skin irritation.

In the pot on the left you can make out its spike.
The spike then unfolds like the one in the middle
to eventually flower like the one on the right.
Close-ups of its flower. Gorgeous, aren’t they?
And a side view

I’ve left this handsome fellow till last – the武蔵鐙 ‘musashi abumi’ or Japanese cobra lily (arisaema ringens) a close relative of Jack in the Pulpit. Isn’t he a real beaut! I would say that this one is a true rarity as exemplified by the paucity of people who’ve ever heard of it; say ‘musashi abumi’ to people in Japan and you’ll most likely be greeted with a look of bewilderment. They will, however, get the picture if you say its English name in a heavy katakana-ized accent – ジャパニーズ・コブラ・リリー.

This is one very intriguing plant. It grows to 12 to 18” tall. It has two stalks with three trifoliate elliptical leaves appositely facing away from each other. A flower that looks very much like a cobra head rises up from the center of these leaf stalks. This flower is a green and purple striped spathe with a hood that covers the inner yellowish white flower spike known as the spadix. If hermaphroditic, this will produce a cluster of red berries in mid to late summer when the spathe withers. As with cobras, this fellow has to be handled with kid gloves as its roots contain calcium oxalate, the calcium salt of oxalic acid which is poisonous.

In the process of unfolding
Here’s a side view. He looks like a cobra rearing its head.
In all his glory. Such a dashing chap

All of these plants can be bought in select plant shops in Kyoto from early to mid-March onwards for reasonable prices, though some like the Japanese cobra lily can be a little pricey. (Some cut flower shops also may stock them.) They can be turned into very colorful – and quirky – potted plant arrangements. As you can see in the picture below, they don’t grow into big bulky plants. Considering the size they grow up to, their bulbs are quite tiny and can be planted in smallish pots which can be easily re-arranged as soon as they have reached their prime and their leaves start to wither.

A picture of my ‘tokonoma’ taken a few years back. You can see almost all of the plants I’ve mentioned plus a few others to liven and brighten up the arrangement.

If you live in Kyōto, I would recommend a visit to the Suzaku-no-Niwa Garden and Inochi-no-Mori (Living Forest) near the Umekōji Train Museum. Admission is 200 yen but it is well worth it. They have been, in my view at least, artfully landscaped and offer a view of flora and other plant life that you would normally not have the chance to see up close in an inner city. I recommend allowing yourself at least two or three hours to go around and enjoy what they have to offer. I find it quite surprising that these gardens are located only a short distance from the main station of a major city – a veritable green oasis. You can find out more about these gardens at:

http://www.kyoto-ga.jp/umekouji/area/pdf/suzaku-inochi_eng.pdf

This time of the year is vibrant and invigorating not just for colorful sakura but also for lovely, little things that tend to go unnoticed. Why not collect and plant or pot a few yourselves to brighten up your garden? Something else to look forward to in spring every year.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Things Japanese, found in translation

April 21, 2022

by Jann Williams, April 21, 2022

It was not until my mid-50s that a deep interest in Japanese culture was stirred, seeking lessons on how to connect people and nature in a quest for sustainability. The elements of nature are my guide, embedded as they are in all aspects of Japanese life – whether it be through interactions with the physical environment, the ubiquitous presence of inyo gogyo (yin-yang and the five phases of earth, water, fire metal and wood), or the ‘great’ Buddhist elements of earth, water, fire, wind, space and consciousness.

To read Japanese at the level required for my explorations would take several years of concerted practice I’ve been told – especially for the specialist texts I’m interested in. Not having the luxury of time, I have relied on bilingual books and written translations of Japanese works in addition to my extensive library of English books and articles on Japanese culture. Right from the beginning I would like to thank all of the translators I know, and those I don’t, for making works in Japanese available to those of us who are unable to read the primary source. Here I relate my encounters with translation over the six years since my intensified quest to explore the elements in Japan began, and the crucial role that Writers in Kyoto has played.

Until recently most of the translations on my bookshelves have been either non-fiction like Kukai – Major Works (translated by Yoshito S. Hakeda) or Japanese classics such as Essays in Idleness (my copies independently translated by Donald Keene and Margaret McKinney) and The Tale of Genji. All but one chapter of the latter book was translated into English by Arthur Waley between 1925-1933. There have been many other versions, including one in 2018 subtitled ‘the authentic first translation of the world’s earliest novel’ translated by Kencho Suematsu. Each translator brings their own experience, personality and interpretation to their art, with some translations favoured over others. Hence for some titles, such as Essays in Idleness and the Kojiki (Record of Ancient Matters) I have at least two copies to compare and contrast the different interpretations. This includes the first English translation of the Kojiki by Basil Hall Chamberlain, published in 1882 when there was growing interest in ‘things Japanese’ in the West. Indeed Chamberlain published a book with that very title (Things Japanese) in 1891.

The Japanese work that I have the most translations of is Hojoki (The Ten Foot Square Hut), the classic recluse story written by Kamo no Chomei in Kyoto in 1212 AD. It is a tale of withdrawal from and reflection on a world fractured by earthquake, windstorms, fire, plague and war. Natsume Soseki undertook the first English translation in 1891. My earliest translation is from 1928 (by A.L. Sadler), complemented by the 1967 translation by Donald Keene, the beautifully illustrated 1996 translation by Yasubiko Moriguchi and David Jenkins, a 2014 version by Meredith McKinney, and most recently the 2020 and 2022 bilingual translations by Matthew Stavros. The strongly elemental nature of Chomei’s prose captured my attention:

“Of the four elements,
Water, fire and wind cause damage most frequently.

The earth only sometimes brings disaster.”

This translation is from In Praise of Solitude published by Matthew Stavros this year. The four elements Chomei refers to are Buddhist in origin. They are related to the impermanence of life, a Buddhist concept that permeates Hojoki. Matthew spoke about translating Hojoki in a Writers in Kyoto (WiK) Zoom session in November 2020 which provided a broader context for the translation.

Matthew’s presentation was one of many opportunities WiK has provided to expand my connections to, and appreciation of, the world of translation. Juliet Winters Carpenter, an award-winning translator of modern Japanese literature, wrote the Foreword of the third WiK Anthology that Josh Yates and I co-edited. Our first meeting in person was at the Kyoto launch of the Anthology in June 2019, not long before Juliet moved back to the United States. Her encouragement of my quest, even though I couldn’t read (or fluently speak) Japanese, was heart-warming. Several members of WiK are also translators. Recently, WiK member Yuki Yamauchi translated Rona Conti’s essay ‘What does this say, sensei’ from the 4th WiK Anthology to gift to her calligraphy teacher in Japan. This is one of many examples of the support and encouragement within this writer’s community, which centres on our shared connections with Kyoto.

During the COVID pandemic, Writers in Kyoto have held a diverse series of Zoom sessions, including by Matthew Stavros. These have been a life-saver for those of us unable to travel to Japan for an extended period, now 2.5 years and counting. In June 2021 Ginny Tapley Takemori, a freelance translator of early modern and contemporary Japanese novels and short stories, was one of the speakers. Her insights about the translation process were illuminating. Ginny shared some of the joys and challenges of translating from Japanese to English. She spoke about helping set up a collective called ‘Strong Women, Soft Power’ to promote the translation of more women authors. Activism in the translation community had never crossed my mind. It was interesting to hear, among many other comments, that not all authors see the translation before it is published. Ginny’s talk helped me see translation in a completely different light.

WiK’s zoom session with Ginny Tapley Takemori (Photo by Jann Williams)

Following Ginny’s presentation my library of translated works by contemporary Japanese authors has expanded considerably. This included buying two books that Ginny translated – the world-wide sensation Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata and the enchanting Things Remembered and Things Forgotten by Kyoto Nakajima. Translations by Polly Barton (Where the Wild Ladies Are by Matsuo Aoko), Juliet Winters Carpenter (The Easy Life in Kamusari by Shion Miura) and more now grace my library shelves. Interviews with several translators on Books on Asia, a podcast hosted by Amy Chavez (another WiK member), also influenced my selection of books. Both the stories and interviews have opened up fascinating and pertinent worlds.

Janine Beichman’s translation of Well-versed: Exploring Modern Japanese Haiku by Ozawa Minoru is one I return to often. Poetry is an essential part of Japanese culture and includes many references to nature’s elements, especially the seasons. Modern haiku builds on a poetry tradition of over 1200 years. While I had many translations of poetry beginning with the 9th century Man’yoshu anthology, and several books about Basho’s haiku, Ozawa Minoru’s contribution was my first exposure to a range of contemporary Japanese poets. The text accompanying each poem provides further insights.

The commentary provided by translators is also valuable. Roger Pulver’s recent book The Boy of the Winds, where several stories by Miyazawa Kenji are translated, includes some thought-provoking comments about the nature of nature in Japan. In October 2021 Roger spoke about the nuts and bolts of translation in a wide-ranging webinar. In it he covered the rhythm and logic of the Japanese language compared to English, the importance of translators taking a stance and putting their own stamp on a translation, and much more. Strangely, I hadn’t realised how much influence translators can have; capturing the same feeling as the original Japanese is what Roger strives for. His comments made me better appreciate the nuances, decisions and emotions that can be involved in translating Japanese into English. ‘Each translation will be different’ is a message that came clearly through.

Keeping this in mind, translations of other books on my shelves related to the natural world include Flowers, Birds, Wind and Moon: The Phenomenology of Nature in Japanese Culture by Matsuoka Seigow (translated by David Noble) and A Japanese View of Nature: The World of Living Things by Kinji Imanishi (translated by Pamela J. Asquith, Heita Kawakatsu, Shutsuke Yagi and Hiroyuki Takasaki). (What it would be like working with a number of translators I wonder?) These works happily sit aside the academic translations in my library. One I’m particularly thankful for is the translation by Hendrik Van der Veere of Gorin kuji myo himitsushaku (Secret Explication of the Mantras of the Five Wheels and the Nine Syllables), written by the 12th century Shingon monk Kakuban.

It would be interesting to speak to some academic translators of Japanese works, especially historical and non-fiction literature. Would their process differ from those who translate contemporary fiction? How many ‘feelings’ would come into play? From my involvement with the Pre-Modern Japanese online forum, I have followed long debates about the translation of individual words and concepts. The Japanese language has evolved through several stages/forms, making translation of the older texts a particularly challenging pursuit.

Many kanji outside of day-to-day use are found in the Esoteric Buddhist and Shugendo worlds my elemental interests have drawn me to. My first awareness of this was in 2016 when a friend in Melbourne translated a Buddhist poster that had several five-element stupa (J. gorinto) on it. While there were some specialist head-scratching kanji involved, her translation led me to Zentsuji, the 75th temple on the Shikoku pilgrimage where Kukai, the founder of Shingon Buddhism was born. More recently, through my blog ‘elementaljapan’, I have had the pleasure of meeting Riko Schroer who translates Shugendo and Buddhist texts that are extremely relevant to my exploration of the elements in Japan. Specialist translators like Riko are a god-send.

Another life-changing connection made through my blog, and WiK, has been with Yoshiaki Yagi, a gentleman in his 70s who delights in sharing his knowledge of Japanese culture. He lives with his wife Michiko-san in Minoh City, in north-western Osaka Prefecture. Yoshiaki-san contacted me after reading a post on the tea ceremony that I had shared on the WiK Facebook page. Since that time, he and his wife have taken me to many sites in Kyoto and Osaka that I otherwise wouldn’t have experienced. Their generosity and hospitality is wonderful. When Yoshiaki-san invited me to edit the English translation of his upcoming bilingual book Things Japanese – an Invitation to Japanese Culture it was a great honour. He had taken on the monumental task of translating the Japanese to English himself. Through the editing process I have learnt much about ‘things Japanese’, through the eyes of Yoshiaki-san. The book is due to be published soon due to his diligence and determination.

It might be considered blasphemous, but I have found Google Translate a useful tool with written Japanese. In particular, the ability to use the camera on my smart phone to translate Japanese in situ, and to be able to hand-write kanji as an aid to translation, have come in handy several times. While the automated translations of Japanese text have to be treated with caution, generally they are better than no translation at all. New Apps like DeepL are improving the quality of translations available. Whatever program is used in FaceBook though, could do with lots of assistance.

Language is an essential expression of cultures around the world. I would love to immerse myself in Japanese publications and appreciate the implications of not being able to read the primary sources. Having learnt hiragana and katakana provides some entry points. This includes my own translation of a short book by Takada Yuko on the water forests of Yakushima, shared on elementaljapan. As for longer texts with more kanji, translators provide me a way to find out more about ‘things Japanese’. Arigatou gozaimasu. Your names should be on the front covers of books, along with the authors, which has not always been the case. Your work sits proudly among my extensive library of English publications on Japan. In addition to all of this reading/’head-work’, I write blogs with an invitation for feedback, consult with specialists and practitioners in respective fields of interest, and gain insights by living in Japan for half the year – something that has been thwarted by COVID since late 2019.

If a magic wand was at hand (or it was possible to instantaneously comprehend Japanese like Neo in the Matrix learnt new skills!) the first books I’d read are the series by Hiroko Yoshino on ‘Yin Yang and the Five Elements’ (J. inyo gogyo) in Japanese culture. While there is some scepticism in the academic community about her ideas, I would love to see what she says first hand. My plan is to show one of her books to a translator or two from Writers in Kyoto when I’m next in the ancient capital. I am so looking forward to returning to Japan to continue my elemental explorations when the border re-opens.

Cover of Hiroko Yoshino’s book

Poetry that is about the ancient capital or was set in Kyoto

Vagabond Song

April 9, 2022

by James Woodham

comb your hair with wind
let the hills flow through your eyes
sun adorn your skin

wind on the water
wind in my hair and the crow’s 
hollow notes dropping

sun warm on the skin
ears full of the mountain stream
breathing the blue sky

to be free of now
as a bird takes to the air
the future floating

as the mountains wait
for whatever comes along
sun wind rain blue sky 

standing on the sand
for about a hundred years
to be a pine tree

my wife leaves some food
each day before her parents’ bones
graced with a greeting

under buddha’s eyes
tiers of fruit are perfect worlds
of shining surface

priest chanting sutras
endless drone of syllable –
aural opium

these Kyoto streets –
walking down them half my life
always stuck in time

rings in the puddle
everyone who ever lived
raindrops vanishing

two butterflies hanging
on the gently nodding plant
in a swoon of wings

standing in the road
with its beak slightly open
crow seems to question

wings blur the vision
hovering at the flower
hummingbird hawk moth

no way you can know
you’re born to be a butterfly
fat caterpillar

the sky cloud-muffled
a cat gives us a long look
from a safe distance

klansman clad in black
disdaining shows of colour
crow knows he’s stronger

as a tree waits
for the leaves of spring to come
so a poem words

no finer music –
the speech of leaves in the breeze    
birdsong travelling 

sharpness of shadow
on the rock a leaf lifted
from a Chinese scroll

old man puffing away 
as he strolls along wreathed 
in smoke’s sweetness

how the snow blankets 
the mind, muffling and making
a nest of the home

bamboo bent double 
with the weight of all that white
head buried in it

points of light glitter 
wind skimming the pond’s surface – 
March superficial

pale shafts of sunlight
birdsong calibrates the air
the trees cathedral

waves leave glistening 
in the caverns of the ear
desultory lapping

no thought of waste here
sun adheres to every leaf –
golden plenitude

along the moonlit lane
shrilling of the bell cricket –
silver audible

cool wind off the hills
slides ripples through the silver
pathway of the sun

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For previous contributions by James Woodham, please see the striking poems and stunning photography here.  Or here. Or here. Or here. For his previous posting, A Single Thread, see here, and for The Wind’s Word click here.

Books set in Kyoto

Phantom Kyoto

April 6, 2022

by Allen S. Weiss

Kinkaku-ji, 2011 (Photo: Allen S. Weiss)

My desire to return to Kyoto has been frustrated for over two years due to the covid epidemic, just as work on my most recent book project, Illusory Dwellings: A Kyoto Travelogue, has been stalled for the same reason. But there are many ways to travel. A voyage has neither beginning nor end. A true voyage begins well before departure and does not end with homecoming, for a trip is both long anticipated and perpetually renewed in literature and myth, cuisine and art, reveries and dreams. This minuscule contribution to Writers in Kyoto is inspired by Walter Benjamin’s desire to write a book composed solely of citations, which is in fact the form of his Arcades Project, the incomplete yet voluminous notes to what would have become his magnum opus. In this spirit, I offer the epigraphs to the chapters of my book, awaiting the moment when I can return to Kyoto and its illusions.

“But is there anybody who does not live in an illusory dwelling?”
– Matsuo Bashō, Record of an Unreal Dwelling

“To discover a land is first of all to assemble all the memories that announced it.”
– René de Ceccatty, “Lettres de Tokyo”

“…if it is not true as fact it will be so as symbol.”
– Jorge Luis Borges, “Story of the Warrior and the Captive”

“…find the substance in the emblem…”
– Robert Harbison, Eccentric Spaces

“Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had.”
– Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

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Allen S Weiss is an academic and aesthete who spends his time between New York and Paris, though Kyoto occupies a special place is his lifework. He teaches at New York University, and has authored or edited over forty books in the fields of performance theory, landscape architecture, gastronomy, sound art and experimental theatre. For the preface of his book on ceramics and collecting, click here. For his versions of Ryoan-ji, see here. For his Manifesto for the Future of Landscape, see here. For the autobiographical piece on ‘Teddy and Daruma’, see here. And for an account of Allen’s talk in Robert Yellin’s ceramic gallery, see here.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Glimpses of David Bowie in Kyoto

April 3, 2022

by Yuki Yamauchi

(All photos courtesy Wikicommons)

Japan has magnetised many globally popular musicians such as John Lennon, Freddie Mercury, Cyndi Lauper and Lady Gaga.

Of course, David Bowie (1947-2016) is no exception, either. His interest in the country’s culture started in the 1960s and led the London-born artist to play the koto on ‘Moss Garden’, a track on the album Heroes (1977), and to adopt hayagawari (quick changes on stage), a technique derived from kabuki. When he captivated millions of fans by performing as the fictional character Ziggy Stardust, the rocker donned avant-garde costumes created by fashion designer Kansai Yamamoto.

Following his first Japan tour in 1973, Bowie visited Kyoto on several occasions. His stays in the city were outlined in The Japan Times by songwriter and journalist Nick Currie:

“I thought of the places in Kyoto — Bowie’s favorite city in Japan — he loved to return to: Tawaraya Ryokan, where he stayed with Iman on their honeymoon, and the now-vanished Cafe David on Sanjo-dori, just opposite the Museum of Kyoto. The “David” in that case was U.S. Sinologist David Kidd (who also died of cancer at the age of 69, back in 1996). Kidd had a house in Kyoto called Togendo, as well as a school dedicated to teaching traditional Japanese arts. Bowie stayed at Togendo in 1979 for some weeks, and even hinted to Western press that the city might become his permanent home.”

The honeymoon brought the couple a chance to watch the Gion Festival in the early 1990s — Fortunately, there remains, as evidence, a photo of Bowie holding a video camera beside his wife in front of a paper lantern-laden float.

Bowie’s favorite places in Kyoto included Misoka-an Kawamichiya, a buckwheat noodle restaurant in Nakagyo-ku. The multi-talented musician is believed to have smacked his lips over tenzaru (buckwheat noodles with tempura), sitting at a table on the second floor and viewing the restaurant’s patio from there.

When it comes to further information about what the English singer-songwriter enjoyed in Kyoto, there is nothing better than having a look at the pictures taken by Masayoshi Sukita, who shot the black-and-white cover photo of Heroes.

Together with Sukita, Bowie strolled around Kyoto between takes of a TV ad at Shoden-ji temple in 1980. Thanks to the photographer’s work, we can still get glimpses of how the maverick virtuoso spent time in the ancient capital.

Bowie had himself photographed, for example, buying a ticket at Karasuma Station, standing in front of a Hankyu train bound for Umeda, holding on to a strap on a Hankyu train, and buying yawata-maki (an eel-and-burdock roll) at Nodaya, a now-defunct store in the Furukawacho Shopping Street. (In addition to some of the pictures mentioned later, these photos can be seen in the web magazine of the accommodation establishment Umekoji Potel Kyoto.)

Other photographs show the music icon sitting back in the corner of Saiun-do, a longstanding shop selling art materials, and enjoying talking with the then proprietor of the store while looking at a photo album. Surprisingly, Bowie was friendly enough to help a junior high school student study English when the musician made himself at home at a now defunct cafe.

Needless to say, the legendary singer did not forget to keep music in mind. He was also photographed dancing lightly at a disco with color lighting up his face. On top of that, he dropped in at a music venue Circus Circus (currently Under-Throw) near Ginkaku-ji and saw techno-pop band P-model perform. I have not found his account of that time, but the details can be traced to some extent thanks to Susumu Hirasawa, leader and guitarist of the quartet. He recalls the unexpected encounter with the music star:

“Panting for breath in the green room (after the live performance), we heard a knock at the door. (When it was opened,) we saw David Bowie standing and smiling from ear to ear. He bowed, saying ‘Dо̄mo.’.”

Hirasawa also recalls asking Bowie to autograph the back of his guitar.

Well, it’s high time we bid farewell to the record of nearly half a century ago and get back to the early 2020s.

In the spring of 2021, Museum Eki Kyoto held an exhibition featuring Sukita’s photos of Bowie in Kyoto. Visitors were helped to learn or remember the good rapport between the musician and the city, but unfortunately the third state of emergency for COVID-19 forced the event to end over a week earlier than scheduled.

Luckily, Kyoto will be able to enjoy recollection of the music heavyweight again as it has been decided that the exhibition makes a comeback between June 25 and July 24.

I hope this story serves as a reminder of how much Kyoto was loved by Bowie (some of the details have been explained only in Japanese up to now). Perhaps it will change how you see the city when you go to places visited by the star.

Canadian tea master John McGee (left) hosted David Bowie and Iman for a tea ceremony, here seen with David Kidd
(photo of a photo courtesy Robert Yellin)

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Further information

BBC on David Bowie and Japan:
https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-35278488

All photos mentioned in this article (except for one of Bowie and Iman) can be seen here: https://www.potel.jp/kyoto/cityguide/feature/david-bowie-kyoto/

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About the author Yuki Yamauchi

For an introduction to Yuki, please click here. For the past three years Yuki has been writing about Kyoto people and places in a series of articles that cover the city’s cultural and intellectual life.

For his piece on Portraits of Uji, click here. For his account of prewar academic critic, Tatsuo Kuriyagawa, click here. And for his piece on theatre and film director, Akira Nobuchi, click here. For his account of Gion Higashi, see here. For a piece on ‘the intellectual giant’, Edward Bramwell Clarke (1874-1934), click here. And to read about the electronic musician, Hajime Fukuma, see here.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Spirit of Shizen

April 1, 2022

Exhibition of ‘Spirit of Shizen’ at Luxembourg’s Natural History Museum, July-August 2022

by Robert Weis

Nature in Japan has long been awe-inspiring through the beautifully articulated four seasons, but also threatening due to recurrent natural phenomena such as volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, heavy rainfalls and tsunami. The traditional relationship between Japanese people, their culture and their natural environment is the object of the exhibition “Spirit of Shizen – Japan’s Nature through 72 micro-seasons” that will take place at Luxembourg’s National Museum of Natural History in July and August 2022.

The exhibition venue (copyright MNHNL)

The exhibition is a trans-disciplinary project comprising photography, short essays, poems, objects and short film sequences that aim to recreate a specific sensibility towards the seasonal changes. The four main seasons form the framework of the exhibition, and are introduced in previously unpublished essays written by Pico Iyer. 24 of the 72 micro-seasons are explained in detail, with text and photo contributions by Mark Hovane. Furthermore, specific aspects of Japanese culture closely linked to the natural environment are presented, such as Bonsai, Japanese gardens, Ikebana, Kusamono, Suiseki, and also practices like the traditional Chanoyu or the more recent Shinrin-yoku. A special space is dedicated to large-sized photographs of Kyoto gardens in spring and autumn by American photographer William Corey. Another space houses a simplified tea house with tatami floor, where visitors can sit and watch a contemplative short movie about the seasons of Kyoto filmed by Felicity Tillack with poems by Fernando Torres.

Seasonal photos of Luxembourg by Robert Weis

An important aspect of the exhibition are the special events and workshops that visitors can attend. These include a calligraphy workshop with Rie Takeda, Bonsai and Ikebana demonstrations, a pop-up tea house, a master class about seasonality in Zen Buddhism by the nun Kankyo Tannier, a presentation of nature photography from Japan, a culinary workshop with Hajime Miyamae and a Miksang photography class with John Einarsen. Online lectures are given by Mark Hovane on the 72 micro-seasons, and Bruce Hamana on Chanoyu and the seasons.

Serving as an exhibition catalogue will be a printed anthology of Japanese and international writers, poets, scholars, photographs and experts sharing their knowledge and experience. Rather than being comprehensive, the anthology focusses on selected topics that deal with the theme of the exhibition, as illustrated by Sébastien Raizer in his essay “In Japan, Nature is Culture”. This is evident also in the four essays written by Pico Iyer, which deal with the celebration of autumn, summer, winter and spring, featuring his very personal relation with them. Another well-known and widely appreciated intersection of Nature and Culture is Japanese Garden Art, including karesansui “dry gardens”, also known as “Zen Gardens”. Yuri Ugaya and Marc P. Keane illuminate diverse aspects of Japanese Garden culture in their respective essays, while Karen Lee Tawarayama discusses the distinctive nature of moss gardens.


Over the centuries, Japanese culture developed special disciplines that explore the deep connection between the natural world and seasonal change. Ikebana is one of the best-known examples of a Japanese Art attuned to nature, as Mark Hovane reminds us in his essay. The seasonal changes also play a crucial role in chanoyu, the Japanese tea ceremony, as described by Bruce Hamana. Another art form known for its seasonal vocabulary (kigo) is the short poetic form, haiku, as related by Mayumi Kawaharada.

The spiritual connection between Japanese people and nature as seen in mountain worship (“Shugendo”), highlighted by Jann Williams in her essay about spiritual practices on the slopes of sacred Mount Ontake, while Mark Hovane introduces us to the traditional system of the 72 micro-seasons:

“a readily adaptable framework that allows us to recalibrate our year long journey on this planet. By inviting us to radically slow down and find beauty in the smallest details of our everyday environment, we become more attuned to the rhythms of the natural world.”

The rhythms of the natural world are obviously best experienced in the countryside; Ed Levinson describes his close relation to the seasons in his home on the Boso Peninsula near Tokyo, and Amy Chavez, a longtime resident on a small island in the Inland Sea, gives us a precious insight into an insular lifestyle deeply influenced by natural changes.

The most iconic season in Japan is without any doubt the cherry blossom season in spring, celebrated in a poetic piece by Amanda Huggins. Naoko Abe tells us more about Sakura, the Japanese cherry tree, and its amazing cultural background. However, the real star of Japan’s seasons could be said to be autumn, when maple leaves turn crimson under a deep blue sky, and in her article Rebecca Otowa conveys the practice of momiji-gari, “chasing maple leaves”, widely practiced in Japan. Meanwhile, Robert Weis takes the reader on an autumn walk along the historical Yamanobe path nearby Nara, tasting the delicious seasonal fruit. There are of course other times in the year that have a special appeal, and one such is tsuyu, the rainy season, through which Ted Taylor guides us, highlighting its poetic atmosphere. Winter on the other hand in Kyoto is often cold and crisp with a blue sky, and it is to the ancient hamlet of Ohara that Patrick Colgan takes us for a winter exploration.

The visual journey through the pages of the catalogue consists of the meditative Miksang photographs of Kyoto-based artist John Einarsen.

Whether it is through a visit to the exhibition, or simply by a reading of the catalogue, may I wish you a rewarding experience in this appreciation of nature and the seasons in Japan. My hope is that visitors will take this as an opportunity to see the world around them in a new light and with deepened awareness of the beauty in the changes that every day brings.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Here be Dragons

March 28, 2022

‘Hic svnt Dracons‘
by Alex Olivera

By way of introduction….

Louise Bourgeois once said that the artist who discusses the so-called ‘meaning of his work’ is usually describing a literary side issue, and that the core of their original impulse is to be discovered, if at all, in the work itself. It is under this light that I find myself introducing this novel, as if in a deep labyrinth of mirrors, hoping that the Minotaur will not get hold of me in the process.

I take this extraordinary opportunity to come out of my intimate ‘written realm’, and to look upon it. It feels at once familiar and strange… Familiar, for the core of this story has always been inside me, even if in different formats, such as music or art. Strange, for I am not quite sure about ‘who’ actually wrote it. In this sense, the writing process is perhaps not so much guided by a Muse, but by the characters themselves, quite frequently in a revolt which you need to make sense of in the aftermath.

This novel was born in the mountains of central Japan. I was taken by surprise, I had no idea where this was going. I wrote notes and more notes wherever I could; napkins, occasional booklets, supermarket tickets… Words and images kept pouring down and did not leave me for a full five months – fortunately by that time I had got hold of my computer. 

By the end – and several kilos less – this story needed a name; it became Here be Dragons. It just could not be called any other way. Yes, I am aware it sounds ‘common place’, but as the story itself suggests, we tend to pass by things that seem too obvious. Is it not the case that the obvious is the most difficult to see? Dragons are masters of deception, after all. They represent the illusions of the ego, they are summoned to produce fear and keep us ‘at bay’.

I would like to think of this novel as an intimate, historical fiction. It is set in Japan, touching different periods and social strata, where generations and personal saga flow slowly into a common sea. But as much as culture framed the stories,  individually or collectively, the subject is still universal, for it is the drama of a search for love and a place in the world.  So this story is also ours. 

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Novel extract

His mother had told him that, during the Meiji Restoration, his obā-san had lived in China with her parents and fourteen siblings, including her twin brother. ‘Out to the west, farther even than where the sun goes down,’ she said, ‘in the land of silk and gunpowder.’ In those days her father worked for the Japanese government. She was still only little when war loomed over the horizon. In a matter of days her family dismantled the entire house and packed up everything from the dinner service to the folding screens. They let the birds out of their cages and left at full tilt, returning to Japan aboard a Navy warship. Amidst all these hasty preparations and with so many children to see to, they had scooped up the little girl’s twin brother but somehow contrived to leave her behind. They were in the curious habit of counting the twins as a pair; add them together and they made one. This must have been the source of the confusion, for no one noticed the little girl’s absence until dinnertime, when they were already far out at sea. The nanny had counted and recounted them. But every time she totted them up on her fingers, she couldn’t work out where it was that she had gone wrong. So she lined them up, took the abacus out of her bag and counted one last time: the little girl was missing. In light of their daughter’s inveterate penchant for hiding, the family held out the hope she might still be tucked away inside one of the travelling baskets. ‘Could we have locked her in a trunk?’ they asked themselves, racing to the cargo hold. They rifled through the luggage – other people’s as well as their own – well into the small hours… but all to no avail. The little girl was nowhere to be found.

Communications were down due to bad weather; there was no way of contacting the Consulate. Still they tried and tried, regardless, all journey long, beaming out a stream of telegraphs but receiving none in reply. All they could make out over the radio set, crackling strangely in sounds not of this world, were Russian voices, possibly officers aboard other ships. By the time they put in at Tokyo, they were worn ragged with desperation. The mere thought of having abandoned their child, of having left her in such dire straits, triggered in them such shame that they agreed they would, in future, never own to having fifteen children, but fourteen. People were bound to forget, what with everything else that was going on… But, despite having only a vague notion of the exact numbers involved, their relatives remembered perfectly well there had been twins. So they set about pairing off the smallest girl and the remaining twin, they being the most alike. As they grew older, however, people began to suspect there was something ‘wrong’ with this impromptu sister, still a pint-sized dot next to her ‘twin’ brother. To make matters worse, as some of the children had been born in China – nikkeijin kids as they were known, a mildly derogatory epithet that they never quite succeeded in living down – the conclusion they came to was that the twin brother must have been switched for a girl in hospital, the birth of a girl having always been regarded as a tremendous misfortune in China. In all that time not a day went by without her parents secretly visiting the Foreign Ministry, or the Department of War, or any temple they could find to pray in. They began by invoking the Celestial Goddesses of China, believing them to be the most helpful, given their superior knowledge of the local geography, and who knows… they be mothers themselves – in some distant and ephemeral dimension, of course. But on further consideration they spotted a flaw in this logic: the two nations were, after all, locked in a ferocious war and no assistance could be expected from Chinese gods. That put an end to all their hopes. Three years on, they had resigned themselves to never seeing their daughter again and had given her up as dead. But no sooner was her name engraved on the traditional wooden funeral tablets for the family altar, than the little girl reappeared – no one could say where from – carrying a canary in a cage. She was delivered to them by a Chinaman with a long wispy moustache, who introduced himself as ‘Chin Li Foo Jr., Magician’. The girl arrived speaking fluent Mandarin and not a word of Japanese. But, despite a protracted conversation, neither party could understand a word the other was saying, so they agreed to communicate in ideograms, which they wrote on the black slate her brothers used for their homework. From what they could decipher – or rather, infer – the girl had taken a book from the Shin Doji Orai no Jiten Daizen collection, which had been sitting in a half-packed box awaiting removal. She had then apparently hidden herself away in the little tea-house by the carp-pond and fallen asleep. No one knew for certain how much time had passed before the good man found her wandering the back streets of Peking barefoot and alone, clutching her book for she was worth. Nor did they ever manage to solve the mystery of how she came to be in such a place. Still, what mattered was that the magician had taken her with him, treating her like his own daughter. The girl must have had several years of excitement as they moved about the country in their small travelling circus, but she remained forever tight-lipped about that period of her life. The fact that she had picked the first volume from the fukuro toji collection was another stroke of luck. On the first page of that particular volume, on the ex-libris, was written the address of the house where the family had previously lived in Japan and where they would be bound to return one day. Her father’s name appeared clearly: ‘Chairman Ito Yoshimi’, written in kuro sumi, and in immaculate calligraphy. Indeed, it was the only page to have survived intact. The magician received a substantial sum for his generous actions before vanishing back into the world whence he came. The girl and her family found it equally difficult to readjust to each other after such prolonged, involuntary exile. It was especially hard for her siblings, as she had learned a few tricks in their time apart, such as making biscuits vanish without a trace. Little did it matter if they used seven keys to lock her away; she would always escape her punishments; no one could do a thing about it.

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Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Crawling Curmudgeonly along Hiei’s Eastern Hills

March 24, 2022

by Edward J. Taylor

The closer we got to Mt. Hiei’s eastern face, the less I liked the look of the sky. Those carved valleys were holding onto clouds, letting loose precipitation which would eventually precipitate cuts deeper still. Mere minutes off the train, the rain found us, and the cuts most quickly noticeable were those in my mood. The squall moved on soon enough but my mood remained dark. We’d had a black cat run out in front of our bicycles earlier, and those old wives tales were proving their staying power. Yet can I default to superstition what had truthfully been my own absent-mindedness? In less than 15 minutes, I’d forgotten my camera, habitually stepped into flimsy sandals rather than decent hiking shoes, and boarded the wrong train. At the very moment that I’d noticed my empty camera case, my wife and I had been deep into a conversation about a lecture she’d heard the day before. The speaker had mentioned that two of the major crises facing Japan are its falling birthrate and the lack of self-sustainable food sources. It was as if people today, overwhelmed with the conveniences of modern technological society, have forgotten two of the most fundamental parts of human survival— making food and having babies. Ironically, having forgotten my camera–the technological extension of the eye–I’d have to rely on my own sight and memory.

The beautiful roofs of Ōmi Jingu matched the line of hills behind it. The word “Ōmi,” used as a prefix for many of the towns and train stations in this area, denotes the region’s wealthy merchant background. This massive shrine, comparatively ornate for the simplistic nature of Shinto, was a testament to that wealth. After a few claps and a bow of the head we moved on. And got lost. Our intention was to follow a section of the Ōmi Kaidō, a minor feudal highway that ran down the western shore of Lake Biwa. It took us some time to find a trail marker, this one behind a fence and facing in the direction where it was least likely to be seen. After about a hundred yards or so, we found another marker at the edge of a newish bedroom community. Rather than the clarity of a single directional arrow, this seemed a slogan or logo of some sort, with multiple arrows extending in various directions like a hydra’s head. I assume that the trail markers of a particular area are the responsibility of the municipality. Ōtsu had no doubt decided that it would design a unique, yet counter intuitive, sign. This decision, encapsulated in a single simple wooden post, led us first about twenty minutes up a steep mountain road to a lonely shrine, then later, coupled with some helpful, yet incorrect advice of a local old-timer, further into the mountains along a different road, into the waiting arms of those storm clouds occupying the valley. We sat a while under the gate of a Jodō temple. (I smell a metaphor here. The major tenet of that sect’s belief is that in times of trouble, one can find refuge in the Sutras. Which to them seems be sufficient since their closed-off temples definitely won’t offer refuge from the elements.)

The sky cleared as we backtracked, and we were directed to yet a third route, which proved correct. We quickly grew lost again, and by a series of frustrated guesswork, made it through a lush city park, past a few posh condos and into the woods where useful signs resumed. This traverse through the ‘burbs should’ve taken 15 minutes at most, but it took us over two hours, all due to a single sign. I fumed the whole while. Why erect signs at all, if you plan to space them so far apart that they’re impossible to follow? Apparently somebody agreed with me, since the only other marker we saw had had most of that confusing hydra symbol torn away to reveal at least the correct cardinal direction, if not the path itself. (This loss of direction is metaphor number two. The scenery below and around us was of monoliths of wealth, in the forms of recreational facilities, stadiums, and towering apartment blocks. Yet the town chose not to fund a few yen for decent signs. And the three local people who we asked directions didn’t have any idea what we were talking about. Again, those trappings of modern society serving as disconnect from things on a human scale and our more localized “place in space.” But isn’t a map or trail marker also technology? Am I being a hypocrite to rely on these rather than in the intuitive skills which define me as human?) All I know is that once back in the woods, on a well-marked path, my shoulders fell away from my ears, and I was again taken over by the enjoyment that a good walk can bring.

At the border here of new and old, we found a small temple with uneven stone stairs and a weathered gate whose thatch was peeling in the corners. The garden beyond was overgrown, and behind it were a series of grave stones dotting the forest floor. To my surprise, I had stumbled upon the final resting place of Ernest Fenollosa. I’d known he was buried somewhere in Shiga, but I hardly expected to find him here behind a seemingly forgotten temple. Next to him were the graves of Tendai convert William Sturges and of James Woods, an early American scholar of the Yoga Sutras. Nearby was a bench offering views of the buildings of Ōtsu city stacked below. We watched dark storm clouds coming over from the direction of Hiei.

When the thunder and lightning began, we rushed through high grass to a small shelter I had spotted through the trees. It turned out to be a bell tower, but oddly, the bell had been removed. The long wooden striker still hung from a rusted chain, but the platform on which we sat was cracked and uneven. The bell seemed to have been taken quite a long time ago. I pictured Nobunaga, in his rush up to burn out the Sōhei of Enryaku-ji, had melted the bell down as iron for his guns. The elderly woman in the temple itself later provided the answer. During the Second World War, the bell had indeed been taken to be melted down for munitions, but had never been used. After the war it was to be returned, but as the workmen had not wanted to carry it further up the steep hill, it was taken only as far as neighboring Enman-in temple, who refused to give it back to the proper owner. I thought it amazing that one temple would steal the bell of another (not too surprising if you remember the enmity between the Tendai sects around here), but upon arriving at Enman-in twenty minutes later I quickly understood. It was the gaudiest temple I’ve ever seen, with a massive concrete design under a bright neon sign. Money and profit seems to be the driving force of faith here; even the kanji can be read as “Full of money.” They had a Soba shop on the grounds, plus offered services for Mizukō Jizō, these services for aborted fetuses being big business. Hundreds of flags dotted the courtyard, the names of the business donors flapping in the wind. It was if an old samurai army were camped in this concrete fortress. And of course there it was, the bell. Rather than being housed in the usual simple platform of wood and stone, it instead hung from three massive steel rods fashioned into a curved pyramid. The insult was complete. My wife and I expressed our disgust at the well where worshippers purified their hands and mouths. Being a follower of Buddhism, I have great respect for those rituals which give the sect definition. Yet today, I redefined the form by using these ladles to wash off my muddy feet and sandals.

Thus cleansed, we soon came to nearby Mii-dera, one of my favorite places in Japan. The rest of the day was spent wandering these temples, admiring the simple beauty of the wooden Buddhas, and trying to coax the caged peacocks to open their tails. Later, up at Kannon-do, we meditated before the many armed statue of the god(dess), noting how it would look right at home in India, the land of this deity’s birth. All the while the fluorescent lights above droned like a tamboura, an instrument from that far-off land, out of whose seemingly monotonous tones melodies are born, much as how thoughts, and the moods that accompany them, come out of the unceasing constant of Reality.

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