Up now near the Kamogawa delta on the west bank of the river there are some large boards exhibiting black and white photos by local photographer, Kai Fusayoshi. whose name will be known to many because of his involvement with Honyarado coffee shop and Hachimonjiya bar. The blown-up photos cover the side of a building selling plants called Tanegen and were originally part of the Kyotographie exhibition in October, 2020.
The event follows Kai’s previous outdoor exhibitions, over 20 in all, dating back to 1978. On former occasions, the Tanegen owner’s son would sit outside roasting yams, and it would be a gathering spot for prominent scholars, musicians, streetwise students and middle school girls. Policemen and the homeless would drop by to check if they could find themselves in the photos.
The photos also acted as background to events by the river, such as a Black Tent Theater performance, popular singers Goro Nakagawa and Wataru Takada, and a talk by the Buddhist nun and literary figure, Jakucho Setouchi.
As well as the walls of Tanegen, the Kyotographie exhibition took in the small Benten Shrine next to the plant shop plus the sidewalks at the east end of Kawai Bridge.
In years past, according to the exhibition notes, the Kamogawa Delta was repeatedly flooded and the surrounding houses washed away. Nonetheless it was an important transportation hub, marking the southern end of the Saba Kaido (Mackerel Road). Along with the fish, other products such as rice and other goods arrived here from the town of Obama in the north of Kyoto Prefecture.
In the Edo times cheap inns lined the streets and there were lodgings for travellers and migrant workers. It was indicative of the way Kyoto has had to regenerate itself after disaster.
About the photographer After dropping out of Doshisha University, Kai Fusayoshi has spent over 50 years photographing everything about Kyoto. Born in 1949, year of the Ox, he was instrumental in setting up Honryado, the noted alternative cafe and intellectual hub of the 1970s. (It was sadly burnt down a few years ago.)
In 1977 he held his first photo exhibition, and in 1985 he opened a bar in Kiyamachi called Hachimonjiya that became the haunt of academics and artists. He has produced over 40 publications with themes like Alleys of Kyoto, Beautiful Women of Kyoto, Children of Kyoto, and Kyoto Neko Machi Blues. In 2009 he won the Kyoto Art and Culture Award.
(Apparently the present exhibition was part of an autumn Kyotographie event featuring ten artists in fourteen venues. This included the Demachi Masugata Shopping Arcade, in which is located the Delta Kyotographie’s permanent space.)
Another routine day for me. Off for a walk in the park, the sky shining blue.
Black Swan Event. A giant gathering of sparrows attracts my attraction. Hundreds of birds in one tree, chirping in unorchestrated union. Never before seen or heard by these eyes and these ears attached to this brain — which is nearly 62 years old.
Distracted and curious, I mimic their song with my mouth. They remain united, they remain calm, they remain a flock. But then I start to sing in human voice. The flock flies away in frenzied panic.
Much enchanted by the encounter, the routine walk resumes with a newfound bemusement of life at all levels. Along the path another Black Swan Event. An old man, perhaps 95, slumped on the pavement, breathing heavily, groaning in pain, shoes off his feet.
Daijōbu desu ka (Are you all right?), I ask. He does not respond. I ask again, louder this time. He does not respond nor acknowledge my presence. I wait and watch. Slowly, he gets back on his feet, struggles forward another ten meters, then stops, slumps, groans, and heaves. I notice a stack of nengajo 年賀状 (Japanese new-year greeting postcards) clutched in his hands. Ah, it makes sense now. This aged man was hell bent on walking, under his own power, to the neighborhood post office – located at the bottom of a steep hill – to buy new-year greeting cards to send his friends. He was also dead set on walking back up the hill. His new-year resolution was obvious: “If I can’t even walk to the post office, why go on living?”
Two Japanese women stroll by without paying notice. I interrupt them. “Do you know this person?” They respond: “No, we don’t know him.” But at least they stop to ask the old man Daijōbu desu ka? When he doesn’t respond, they look at me with eyes saying “What should we do?”
“OK, you go home, I’ll look after him,” I murmur. More waiting and watching. He eventually regains his energy and continues to stumble up the hill. My heart (my soul) is now part of the gambit. I am RESPONSIBLE for this old man struggling up a hill. My tears fell in torrents. This is me in thirty more years.
Another man, about my age, came walking down the hill at that time, saw the old man, and asked: Daijōbu desu ka. He and I contacted, eye to eye, and we both understood instantly.
LET’S TAKE HIM HOME. So we carried him, arm under arm, with him leading the way, and he knew (the old man knew, he remembered) his address and how to get there. His wife and daughter were standing outside in the open street, looking around frantically for him.
“Here we are,” I said, as I helped him climb the steps to his house. Rejoice. We are home, we have arrived.
[Michikusa, lit. ‘Grass on the Wayside’ is an autobiographical novel written by Soseki Natsume in 1915. The expression also means ‘wasting time along the way’.]
One week to reach Kyoto from Tokyo, in a modern-day pilgrimage, taking in Kanazawa and rambling along the centuries-old trails of the Kii Mountain range. One week amongst misty forests, wayside spirits, purification rituals, taking some distance from the world to approach the old capital “as an amazed vagabond”, echoing Tanizaki, Bouvier, Mishima and Soseki.One week of a spiritual journey that starts and ends with the element of water, tangible and intangible at the same time. Just like a dream on the wayside.
Monday, Kanazawa//Getting
closer
The drops knock on the glass of the twenty-first floor: a timeless rain falls dense like a curtain, separating me from my thoughts, which are 18,000 leagues under the sea. Similar to a silent submarine, the shinkansen Tokyo-Kanazawa took me to the large provincial city also known as ‘little Kyoto’, or the Kyoto of Ura-Nihon (the backside of Japan). I plan to make my overnight stop here a rite of passage between the megalopolis and the silent paths of the Kii Peninsula that await me for the next couple of days. Twenty minutes of zazen help me to expand my mind beyond the narrow hotel room, typical of the kind of anonymous business hotel so beautifully eternalised in Sophia Coppola’s Lost in Translation. On the square in front of the train station, I take advantage of the Loop bus to reach the historical centre and Kenrokuen, reputed to be one of the three major gardens in Japan.
Bus-loads full of tourists defy the overwhelming humidity, which liquefies the last remaining cherry blossoms. I isolate myself from the crowd by contemplating the microcosm of sakura petals on the moss at the foot of the tree, nourishing the roots that generated them: a silent world of impalpable circular movement. The meaning is in the detail, the poetics of the particular revealed as in a fugue.
Tuesday Tanabe//From
back to front
Physical distance prompts me to restart from zero. A long train journey along the Sea of Japan, changing trains in Osaka, finally reaching the Pacific coast. I reach Tanabe City in Wakayama Prefecture in the early evening and the first impression of the town is surprisingly pleasant. The people on the streets evocate a simplicity, openness and kindness, which strikes with the more austere atmosphere of Kanazawa, the former Samurai town. My inn is located at the edge of a nostalgic-looking neighbourhood filled with small pubs, hostess bars and family-run shops of all kinds. Things don’t appear to have changed much in the last 40 years, as is so often the case in Japanese provinces, immersing the traveller in a true vintage atmosphere. As I take a walk on the beach, the late evening sun turns the sand into gold powder, and a fresh can of beer in my hands comes with an overwhelming feeling of profound happiness. After dinner in an America-themed bar called Hangover, I keep on walking through the labyrinth of small streets. Jazz music coming from behind a curtain captures my attention: it’s a feature of Japan that usually you can’t see the inside of a bar or restaurant from outdoors, and you need a bit of an adventurous spirit to push a door to enter the unknown. I’m rewarded as the Mingus Jazz Bar reveals itself to be a hospitable place, run by the 60-year-old owner who looks like he’s 40 and drinks whisky with me and the only other client present. A provincial atmosphere, good-natured, without filters, out of time. On the way home, a woman continues screaming at a drunken businessman, under the blows of midnight. I fall asleep quickly and deeply.
Wednesday Kumano Kodo//Happiness
is earned by walking
The journey begins for a second time, or rather it truly begins here, within the precincts of the Tokei-Jinja Shrine in Tanabe, established in 419 AD to guarantee a safe passage for pilgrims. The ideal temperature for a walk, a large smiling sun with a little breeze! A huge black butterfly appears, and I see it as a sign of the spiritual world, my personal kami. Indeed, the black swallowtail butterfly will be my spirit on the wayside during these days spent on the Kumano Kodo Nakahechi route.
After a short bus ride, here I am at the starting point of the trail, in the middle of the countryside! Beautiful sunshine makes the waters of the mountain torrents shine with an emerald colour. Today’s hike is only 4 km, but it’s a hard climb, from Takajiri to the small mountain village of Takahara. The scattered houses are facing the sun, just like my inn, Takahara-no-Sato Mountain Lodge. A little paradise on earth! I am greeted by wide smiles and a spectacular terrace overlooking a mountain panorama: the sunset will be wonderful seen from here.
Thursday Kumano Kodo//An island in the tree
The next day, the morning mist coats the mountains with a mysterious perfume, and a fine rain falls on the mineral and vegetal world. On my way, I find refuge in the Shinto precinct of Tsugizakura-oji, “the cherry tree embracing the cryptomeria”, yin-yang symbolism, the feminine softness of the cherry tree and the evergreen masculine strength. Is this the spiritual peak of the journey? I step into the hollow trunk of a huge Japanese cryptomeria tree, guarding the entrance to the sanctuary. A short moment of meditation, alone in the belly of the tree, surrounded by the forest in the rain and the song of small colourful birds. Inside my natural cave, the pieces of rotten wood are pointing upwards like stalagmites. The sound of the wood to the touch resounds in a hollow, earthy manner. At least four people could find refuge here. I stay for half an hour, take a few pictures, then leave. I would not want to go out anymore, but it’s necessary to advance, the road is still long, fortunately.
Afternoon, I arrive at Hosshinomon-oji, the “door of awakening”. Here, the Kumano Kodo descends from the mountains to reach the great sanctuary of Hongu. Crossing three mountain passes proved to be quite a physical exercise. A concert of toads hidden in the humid undergrowth. I spot a single sakura tree on a wooded slope in the middle of dark conifers, evoking memories of Tsugizakura, the cherry tree grafted on a cryptomeria.
Dark forest of Kumano Only one cherry tree blossoming Will you accept me?
In the late afternoon, after a short bus ride I finally arrive at the day’s destination, the hot springs of Kawayu Onsen. I take a hot bath next to the river in the rotenburo, the outside basin, and then immerse myself in the cold river. A true purification ritual, the sensation is strong, my head turns, I feel alive.
Friday Kumano Kodo//The light that comes from the sea
In the morning, I pay a visit to the iconic Hongu Shrine, and have an interesting meeting with an elderly Japanese man from Osaka who lives in the area and is an enthusiast of Japanese history. From our conversation, or rather his monologue, I have learnt that Shintoism represents an instrument of power for Japanese nationalists. But now it’s time to get back on track! A wonderful walk to Nachi-san under a beautiful sun and a most pleasant temperature is waiting ahead. The ascent of the Echizogoen pass takes us more than 800m higher in altitude, but without major difficulty. After four days of walking, my body has gradually become used to the effort. There’s a meditative forest. Some knots have loosened inside me, while others are in the process of being undone. The fears and preoccupations that preceded the journey proved to be unfounded. Suddenly, a view of the Pacific Ocean! Arriving in Nachi-san in the late afternoon, the sound of Japan’s tallest waterfall announces the small town, which then appears surrounded by deep forest. I spend the evening in the only hostel in the place, with groups of hikers and pilgrims, mainly Americans and Australians.
Saturday Nachi-san//The route to Kyoto
Early in the morning, I visit the impressive Nachi-san waterfall with a group of Americans whom I met the day before, before taking a long transfer by bus and train to Kyoto via Kii-Katsura.
Arriving in Kyoto, I recall the magic of my previous encounters with the city. A simple but wonderful accommodation awaits me at the Mountain Retreat with Miho and Koji, in a small wooded valley behind the scenes of the Golden Pavilion. In the evening, I meet Amy for two beers and to define our itinerary on the Kyoto Trail the next day. This will be the first evening at Takanoya pub, which will be my refuge in Kyoto. A late-night talk with Shuntaro and Sanae, two journalists from the Kyoto Shimbun: there’s something happening, a rustle in the air, tilting the distances between us. A dream or reality? Maybe this city doesn’t actually exist, as Nicolas Bouvier suspected? The contours are blurred, the unsaid is diluted in the liquid Kyoto night, as the taxi glides silently towards the mountains of the North.
Sunday Kyoto//The
floating garden of dreams
Waking up next morning, I open my eyes and listen: the sound of silent rain and floating mists over the mountains behind the Golden Pavilion. The distance between dream and reality is fading away, in a new dawn.
****************
For an account of Nicolas Bouvier in Kyoto by Robert Weis, please click here.
Hello. I’m honored to be one of the members of Writers in Kyoto. I’m Yuki Yamauchi, a translator of English and Irish literature and part-time event writer for The Japan Times. I have written about events in Kyoto, such as annual performances of Kyoto’s five kagai (geisha districts), Kyoto Experiment and Nuit Blanche Kyoto.
I was born in 1991 in the city of Osaka. In 2013, I graduated from Kansai University in the Department of English Linguistics and Literature with a thesis on The King of Elfland’s Daughter (1924) by Irish fantasy writer Lord Dunsany.
My serious interest in Kyoto was aroused twice. About a month before graduation, I came across a stunning passage in Lord Dunsany’s semi-autobiographical novel The Curse of the Wise Woman (1933) — “I have seen in Japanese temples the carvings of little gods with drums and harps and flutes, running and flitting through clouds.” Somehow I could speculate that the writer might have been describing the statues of bodhisattvas inside Hoo-do (Phoenix Hall) of Byodo-in temple in Uji, Kyoto Prefecture. The discovery gave me the first boost in my interest in Kyoto and its Buddhist temples.
The second opportunity came to me in 2016, when I was preparing to translate The Darling of the Gods, a Japan-themed American melodrama in 1902 that Lord Dunsany saw the following year in London. The play, giving prominence to bogus geiko and maiko, piqued my curiosity in the traditional entertainers. For some reason, the interest reached a peak that autumn, which coincided with the 59th edition of Gion Odori. Since then, I have never spent an autumn without seeing the annual event (excluding this year).
In 2018 I self-published a small booklet titled Irish literature in Pre-WWII Kyoto and this year completed a chronology of film and stage director Akira Nobuchi, who had much to do with the inaugural performance of Gion Odori in 1952. I am also the Japanese translator of a booklet by Eric Johnston about the history of media images of Japan, which will be published in 2021.
Hans Brinckmann: Born in 1932 in The Hague, Hans grew up during the German occupation of Holland. Due to the dismal post-war conditions, he had to suppress his hope to become a writer. In order to make a living, he joined a Dutch bank after high school, for a one-year in-house education, in preparation for work in Asia. In 1950 he was assigned to Singapore, and four months later to Japan, where he lived for the next 24 years. In 1959 he married Toyoko Yoshida, a Japanese literature graduate. After reaching the position of area executive, Hans left banking and moved to Buckinghamshire in England, in 1974, to finally devote himself to writing. Economic necessity forced him to return to banking two years later. In 1986 Queen Beatrix made him an Officer in the Order of Orange-Nassau for ‘cultural and professional achievement’, notably in Japan and the US. In 1988, aged 56, he quit banking for good and after living in Amsterdam, London and Sydney, he returned with his wife to Tokyo again in 2003, where Toyoko died in 2007. In 2013 Hans moved to Fukuoka.
His publications so far include The Magatama Doodle, One Man’s Affair with Japan, 1950-2004 (Global Oriental, 2005), and Showa Japan, the Post-War Golden Age and its Troubled Legacy (Tuttle, 2008), both books also published in Japanese, in Hiromi Mizoguchi’s translation. And three books of fiction: Noon Elusive and Other Stories (Trafford, 2005); The Tomb in the Kyoto Hills and Other Stories (Strategic, 2011); and In the Eyes of the Son (Savant Books, 2014), as well as an English-Japanese book of poetry, The Undying Day (Trafford, 2011), with Brinckmann’s English poems shown side-by-side with Hiromi Mizoguchi’s Japanese versions. Also, The Monkey Dance, a brief memoir of the Winter of Starvation in Holland, 1944/1945. All books were very positively reviewed.
His most recent book, published in 2020 by Renaissance Books in the UK, is The Call of Japan: A Continuing Story – from 1950 to the Present Day. It has attracted many laudatory reviews, including by Roger Buckley for the Japan Society; by Stephen Mansfield for The Japan Times; and by Henry Hilton for Japan Today.
A physical space for your inner self — reading a new translation of Hōjōki by Matthew Stavros
My clearest memory of my
grandfather is the little cot in his back room. Lying on his side, propped up
on one elbow, he would spend hours on that folding metal bed with the thin
mattress, book in hand. The small room was his refuge, walls lined by the
creased spines of paperbacks filling the shelves. Even when he moved house he
always had a semblance of this quiet space. Grandfather had met my grandmother
as a young man in the Western Canadian city of Vancouver. He courted her
between boxing in hotel basements in East Van. Then the war happened and he was
flying bombers over Germany. Upon returning from Europe he took my grandmother
up into the Rocky Mountains, deep in the forest where he built a house with his
own hands. The house was simple with a pot-bellied stove for protection against
the chilly winter. In the corner was a small cot, above it a makeshift shelf
nailed to wall holding a few books.
Reading the newly released Hōjōki: A Hermit’s Hut as Metaphor brought these memories back. For Kamo no Chōmei too, the thirteenth century was wracked by politics, plague, and destruction, prompting him to build a small hut in the Kyoto hills for solitary contemplation.
秋は日ぐらしの聲耳に充てり。 うつせみの世をかなしむかと聞ゆ。
On autumn evenings, The cries of cicadas fill my ears, Lamenting this empty husk of a world
In our own year of plague and destructive politics, Matthew Stavros has released this new translation. Chōmei’s work is prose, but Stavros has laid out each sentence on its own like a poem. The Japanese appears on the right page with its corresponding English translation on the left. Having the two to compare is not only brave on Stavros’s part, but convenient for the reader seeking a better literary appreciation of the Japanese. Stavros uses a 1906 version of Hōjōki, which is much more accessible for those of us not trained to read Early Middle Japanese. The small book is organized into fourteen chapters in three sections. Stavros’s translation is easy to read, unlocking the many lessons on impermanence, self-reliance, and non-attachment—all set within the scenic mountains surrounding Kyoto.
Although I have not built my own hut, for the past few years I have gone on retreat at a remote monastery of the Thai Forest tradition. Taking opportunities each year to cut oneself off from the contentiousness of the world — as well as one’s own vices — is rejuvenating. Reading Hōjōki again shed new light on the experiences, and I felt the pull to take another trip to the forest.
必ず禁戒をまもるとしもなけれども、 境界なければ何につけてか破らむ。
It’s not hard to keep the holy precepts, There’s little chance of breaking them.
Kamo no Chōmei belongs to a tradition of suki no tonseisha (「数寄」の遁世者) or “aesthete-recluse” that writers will appreciate — those who combine asceticism with aesthetics. Reclusion offers a chance to practice both spirituality and art. Sometimes they are the same thing. During his time at Hino, Chōmei produced a major work on both poetry and religion in addition to his famous account of the three-meter square hut. Reading Hōjōki I felt the need for another writing retreat, and the inspiration that comes with seclusion.
みねのかせきの近くなれたるにつけても、 世にとほざかる程をしる。
When deer approach me without fear, I realize just how far removed I’ve become.
Recently Stavros gave a talk on his book to Writers In Kyoto where he filled in the context of Kamo no Chōmei’s world. As author of the acclaimed Kyoto: An Urban History of Japan’s Premodern Capital, he was able to insert illuminating commentary and maps in his Hōjōki translation. Based on his recent talk, I think he could well have used even more of his vast expertise in this book, for example delving into how Chōmei was not entirely self-sufficient but must have had support to stay out there in the hills. In the text Chōmei details various aspects of the hut and his daily life, but does not mention cooking. That is not to dismiss nor “disqualify” Chōmei for not being a complete hermit. The Buddha himself gave up extreme asceticism! For the reader, a better understanding of how Chōmei achieved what he did might humanize the hermit and make the experience more accessible.
冬は雪をあはれむ。
And when the winter comes, Snow covers the earth.
つもりきゆるさま、罪障にたとへつべし。
It accumulates then melts away, Not unlike human sin and its redemption.
Whether earthquakes in 1185, war in 1943, or pandemic in 2020, suffering is a recurring condition of our world. The Hōjōki shows the value of having a physical space that affords an uninterrupted mental space for self-reflection. Whether that space is a three-by-three hut, a monastery, a campground, or just a cot in a back room filled with books, we all should try to find solitude periodically – especially writers.
A report by Jann Williams on the Zoom talk by Matthew Stavros (Nov 27, 2020)
“The best
way to understand the world today, is to hold up a mirror to the past.”
Kamo no Chōmei (1155-1216 AD) wrote these prescient words in Hōjōki, the celebrated memoir of his
retreat from late 12th/early 13th century Kyoto to a ten-foot
square hut (hōjō) in the eastern mountains of the city.
Chōmei completed his poetic and poignant observations about the human condition
in 1213 AD. For centuries people have been drawn to his insights, especially in
calamitous times. In early 2020 it was the outbreak of COVID-19 that inspired
Matthew Stavros to translate Hōjōki. Like Chōmei, he was seeking solace in a troubled world full of natural
disasters and political strife.
Matthew shared his experiences translating
Hōjōki during a Zoom event organised by Writers in Kyoto (WiK) on
November 27th, 2020. Because of the online format, I was able to
join the presentation and discussion from Australia. It was uplifting to see so
many familiar faces. This précis of Matthew’s
insights is for those who were unable to attend.
‘Hōjōki: A Hermit’s Hut as Metaphor’
is the title Matthew chose for his annotated and illustrated translation. The
text is presented in eiwa taiyaku style, with the English and original Classical Japanese presented side
by side. The Zoom format suited the sharing of maps depicting the time of Hōjōki and related images from Matthew’s book. They were drawn from the second
edition of the book and helped place Chōmei’s story in context.
To increase
the reach of Hōjōki, Matthew is creating an audio book
narrated by MG Miller from Anchorage, Alaska. The Prologue and two chapters we
heard during the presentation were sonorous and soothing. This alternative sensory
format should appeal to many.
Hōjōki’s
famous Prologue highlights
the transitory nature of life, likening people’s existence to bubbles on water
and dew on a morning glory; it begins with….
The flow of the river never ceases, And the water never stays the same.
The
impermanence of the world is a thread that weaves its way through Hōjōki. Three other Buddhist themes are used to group the 14 short chapters in Matthew’s translation:
Suffering, Detachment and Transcendence.
The first five chapters introduce the major fire, whirlwind, moving of the
capital, famine and earthquake that occurred in succession in Kyoto between
1177 and 1185 AD. Matthew described a clear,
anthropocosmic relationship between the natural world and the world of man at
that time, one that contrasts with the current Anthropocene. (The world population when Hōjōki was written is estimated at around 400 million people. Nearly 8 billion
(8000 million) people now live on Earth. Our impact is immense and global.)
Kyoto has suffered many ‘natural’
disasters over its long history. As the author of a book and several academic
papers on Kyoto’s architectural and urban history, Matthew knows this well. His
comment that Kyoto was defined by fire caught my attention. Large parts of the
city have burnt down and been rebuilt many times, influencing both the
architecture and mindset of residents.
In the period that Chōmei was writing, Matthew
noted a lack of political will to address the impact of the many disasters
besetting Kyoto. Mark Schumacher also pointed out that it was the beginning of
the age of Mappo, the belief that Buddha’s law was in a state of degeneration. It
was a time of great social upheaval and throwing out of the old. Kyoto in the
late 12th century was indeed a troubled place. The time of Hōjōki and the time of COVID have much in common, hence the benefit of holding
a mirror to the past. A thoughtful thought experiment was used in the presentation
to highlight the similarities.
So how did Chōmei, who came from a
privileged family, respond to a Kyoto that was far removed from the heyday of
the Heian period? Reflecting on the state of the world and the dangers of
attachment to people and possessions, he progressively withdrew from his life
among the elite of Kyoto. He chose to retreat from the
world, though as Matthew observed he had the means to do so and enjoyed a kind
of safety net. Each time he moved his house became smaller, until it became the
three square meters of his hōjō.
In his 50s Chōmei lived in Ohara north of Kyoto, possibly attracted there by the Tendai sub-temples. Then at 60 years of age he moved to Hino to live out his days. It was here that he put brush to paper to write Hōjōki, exhorting his readers not to cling to possessions, status, or social recognition. He used the hut as a metaphor for worldly attachment. Chōmei’s actions represented extreme social-distancing, although he did have a companion to walk with in the mountains, and help from others, from time to time.
Map (courtesy Stavros) showing relationship of Chomei’s hut (yellow pin) to Shimogamo Shrine (top blue pin)
Hōjōki is the most celebrated example of ‘recluse’ literature from
medieval Japan. Chōmei
romanticised isolation and letting go of the world, and eschewed attachments
and possessions. Despite this he loved his small grass hut in Hino, a place
where he played the lute and koto, prayed, and watched the seasons pass. Chōmei considered this attachment a weakness,
referring to his dilemma in the ‘Transcendence’ chapters of Matthew’s
translation. I find it ironic in a way that despite withdrawing from the
world, Chōmei left an enduring legacy in the world through his essays
and musings.
Replica of Chōmei’s hut in the grounds of Shimogamo Shrine, where he once worked (Photo by Jann Williams)
Personally I
wouldn’t follow in Chōmei’s footsteps and become a recluse. Humans are social
animals after-all. The main messages I took from Matthew’s translation of Hōjōki are the importance of: living simpler and self-reliant lives with much less
‘stuff’; slowing down and taking time to get to know, respect and rely on your
inner-self; ‘being’ in the present; and, finding pleasure and beauty in nature and
being sensitive to our impacts. With global climate change, natural disasters
will become more frequent, intense and affect larger areas. It is reassuring to know that, at a smaller scale, humanity
has faced and survived times of great upheaval before.
Matthew’s presentation was erudite and thought-provoking. His translation is a labour of love. He hopes that the messages in Hōjōki will help people maintain perspective even during extraordinarily challenging times. Rather than feeling ‘we’re screwed’ Chōmei’s writings encourages readers to take a deep breath, centre themselves and to remember that like the flow of the river, this too shall pass. These are lessons we can all learn from.
*****
The replica of Chōmei’s small hut is located in Kawai Shrine, in the grounds of Shimogamo Jinja in Kyoto. Chōmei’s family was attached to Shimogamo, a prestigious institution that pre-dates the founding of Kyoto. The fact that he was passed over for the position of Head Priest contributed to his decision to take leave of the world and become a recluse.
Matthew Stavros is a historian of Japan at the University of Sydney and former director
of the Kyoto Consortium for Japanese Studies. He is the author of Kyoto: An Urban History of Japan’s Premodern Capital (University of Hawai’i Press, 2014) and over a dozen
academic articles on Kyoto’s architectural and urban history.
This fascinating selection of Kyoto-specific literature takes readers through twelve centuries of cultural heritage, from ancient Heian beginnings to contemporary depictions. The city’s aesthetic leaning is evident throughout in a mix of well-known and less familiar works by a wide-ranging cast that includes emperors and court ladies, Zen masters and warrior scholars, wandering monks and poet “immortals.” We see the city through their eyes in poetic pieces that reflect timeless themes of beauty, nature, love and war. An assortment of tanka, haiku, modern verse and prose passages make up the literary feast, and as we enter recent times there are English-language poems too.
************* For a review in the Japan Times, click here… “My only serious criticism of this book is that, being of such exquisite quality, it is so short.”
For a review in Japan All Over, click here. “The layout of the book reflects its graceful subject. There is plenty of space on the page, and careful balance between the short bursts of text, deft footnotes, and excellent black-and-white illustrations and photography. The text is laid out bilingually, allowing instant access to both English and Japanese readers, and often also provides Romanised transliteration…”
**************
To buy on amazon.com, click here. For amazon.uk, click here. For amazon.japan, click here.
For a youtube 5 minute introduction to the book, click here.
秋の風 未知の道行く翼伸ばす aki no kaze, michi no michiyuku, tsubasa nobasu
People often ask me why I came to Japan and what its like to make a home in a different culture; it has always been difficult to tell the “long story.” My life here parallels my personal journey of growth. The key to learning has always been listening, seeing, and feeling with my heart. Certain things in life are universal, others are dependent on place and time. Through my photography and writing I try to capture both worlds.
“Forest Path” from the Healing Landscapes series
gingko leaf floats to the ground homecoming
銀杏の葉地上に散りて里帰り ichō no ha, chijō ni chirite, satogaeri
Fall 1979. My first home and furusato in Japan was in Ono, a non-descript village near Shuzan in the Keihoku-cho mountain area of Kyoto-fu. Various introductions and paths led me there and I ended up doing a month long impromptu homestay with an expat organic farmer and his Japanese wife and children. He was a student of Masanobu Fukuoka’s method of Natural Farming as related in the book One Straw Revolution. Reading that book in 1979 while homesteading in the woods of Virginia had kindled my interest in Japan. I came on a vagabond whim without knowing any Japanese language and very little about the culture. Never did I imagine I would still be here 40 years later.
I went from the usual backpacker life to living in Tokyo where my first job was working as Japanese gardener apprentice for three years, learning skills I still use today, both philosophically and physically. It blessedly kept me connected to nature while living in city. I also somehow managed to get a missionary visa for three years to teach meditation and a modern universal version of Sufism. Most likely, I was the first and only person to do so!
In 1988, I moved to the Boso Peninsula in Chiba Prefecture where I once again took up the country lifestyle, turning it into a profession. As a photographer and writer, nature and the Japanese countryside were my main themes. Over the years my partner, author Tsuruta Shizuka, and I have collaborated on many vegetarian cookbooks and other natural lifestyle books for the Japanese market. During the 1990’s we held many Earth Day events, workshops and charity events, and hosted more than 30 children from Chernobyl in a healthy immune-system building homestay program.
Photography and writing blended seamlessly with my interest in meditation and the spiritual life. Doing meditative slideshow presentations or with my art photographs on the walls at exhibitions, people often asked me which came first: Did my Nature Meditation practice inspire the images, or was it a nature photograph that inspired a peaceful meditation. I suppose, like a Zen koan, there is no correct answer. But I do know that these aspects of my life need to be together.
“Spirit’s Home” pinhole photograph from the Sacred Japan series
Seeking technical simplicity, I have been specializing in pinhole photography since 1993. The pinhole technique requires slow exposures allowing me to experience the scene at a more natural speed, drinking in a view for 30 seconds or a couple of minutes, rather than average 1/125 of a second of a regular camera.
Kyoto and its motifs appear in many of my series. “Sacred Japan” in black and white and “Mind Games” in color have many images created in Kyoto. My pinhole short movie “Kyoto – Five Ways” (2018) continues to showcase my attachment to Kyoto, and has received several honors. Official Synopsis: A meditative look at Kyoto, both Buddhist and Shinto traditions, through the mystical eye of a pinhole, as well as the nature and people that bind them together. I hope to screen it in Kyoto when the pandemic cools down.
“Faces of Man” pinhole photograph from the Mind Games series
As an essayist and poet, most of my writing is in the personal narrative style, growing out of my experience in both the inner and outer worlds. This holds true even if I am doing travel-culture pieces or more formal journal articles. Same person: one mind, one heart.
Old Kyoto coffee shop real green garden Shriveled parsley on plate Unshaven tired faced white coated waiter waits. Golden statue bare breasts Watching us with a laugh As morning sun creeps Onto to white wall Calling us awake Into the world we make.
(from “Kyoto Koffee”, written at Inoda Coffee main shop, 1990)
For me the biggest treat, whether on the city streets, temple or shrine grounds, in the woods or on the beach, is to experience places and people directly, to feel and share each other’s presence and to learn (or “unlearn” as is often the case!) as much as I can.
star shaped pumpkin flowers radiant humans
花カボチャ星に輝く人のごと hana kabocha, hoshi ni kagayaku, hito no goto
Local Boso Peninsula Sunset (lens photo)
—- Edward Levinson on the Web:
My photo website showcases a variety photographs and includes a movie page, exhibitions and other news, book info and writings. http://www.edophoto.com
Whisper of the Land (Fine Line Press, 2014), my memoir-like collection of essays based on my first 35 years in Japan, including episodes from Kyoto, has its own dedicated website. http://www.whisperoftheland.com
Edward in his garden
—- Short Bio:
Edward
Levinson was born in 1953 in Richmond, Virginia, USA. He came to live in Japan
in 1979 and where has been active as a fine art and editorial photographer since 1985. He is especially well
known for his pinhole photography.
Edward’s
photo book Timescapes Japan received
an Award at Prix de la Photography Paris 2007. Tokyo Story, his short pinhole movie, was an Official Selection at
six film competitions, winning several awards. Other
photo books include: Moments in the Light,
Mind Games, Silhouette
Stories, Spots of Light – Tokyo (Solo Hill Books
2017, 2019).
Writing publications
include: Whisper of the Land (Fine
Line Press 2014), a collection of essays based on his life in Japan which
includes many photos; Balloon on Fire (Cyberwit.net 2019, haiku and
photos); and
two essay books in Japanese (Iwanami Shoten 2011, 2007).
Edward’s photographs have been regularly exhibited in Japan, the U.S.A., and Europe since 1994 and are in various museum and private collections. He is a member of The Photographic Society of Japan and The Japan P.E.N. Club. He lives on a hilltop on the Boso Peninsula in Kamogawa, Chiba Prefecture where he has a studio and gallery and tends his rather large Natural Garden for fun and inspiration.
William Altoft is a teacher in Bristol UK, who has links to Kyoto and draws inspiration from the Japanese tanka form. The following were written on the Bristol harbourside, as pictured below. (For more see his homepage here.)
I
Tower peaks;
quartet sleeps;
the gull’s braced, as am I –
the lock-gate, leading southward,
bridges o’er.
II
Rice-husk holds
my coffee. Folding up:
the inkless page.
I perch like Giovanni
‘pon his lumber.
III
With nary a wake it works its way on through the floating harbour – a manned-kayak. Gulls disperse.
IV
In shelt’ring porchway-
entrance to the Arnolfini,
I
re-place myself.
The gull gives up its bracing.
V
Windbreaker は
むらさきです upon
the one half of the pair a-walking.
Shaggy dog:
your fringe ‘n beard match mine.
VI
Elegance… It strolled on by. Colour… It just walked past. People-watching; people, watching me.
VII
Tanka by the banks-a,
with my notebook near its end –
a sunsome Sunday ‘neath the harbour sky.
I probably look homeless
to these fam’lies…
VIII
As I adore alliteration, I must muster up (Assonance, too!) three tanka more. Well, now two.
IX
watched the leaves go sailing by, as the noon killed off the morning. (It just turned 12pm.)
X
The water level stays
e’er as it is, e’en as the rest
of us do rise ‘n fall
while floating
on the Avon…
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