Writers In Kyoto

Page 28 of 65

Writers in focus

From Tokyo to Kyoto Pt 2

January 7, 2021

A Foreign Mom Navigates Human Relations In The Old Town

When your life path meets a brick wall, look for a door

By Kirsty Kawano | (First published by Savvy Kyoto)

Making friends in a new town can be tough, but it’s even harder in an old one. I was at a Japanese cultural workshop in Osaka recently when the instructor asked me where I live.

“Kyoto,” I said. And because I’ve lived there long enough to know that that answer carries some weight, with Kyoto’s nearby mountains and rivers in mind, I added, “It’s an easy place to live.”

She let a couple of seconds pass before responding. “For Japanese people, it’s not an easy place to live.”

I knew what she was talking about. “You mean the interpersonal relationships, right?”

She nodded.

Japan and its ningen kankei. As I’ve watched Japanese friends around me, I’ve seen how navigating human relations in Japan is often a kind of endless shadowboxing fraught with frustration and over examination. Although, as a foreigner, I have generally received an exemption from the complicated rules that are often applied to relationships here, my family’s move to Kyoto about a year ago threw me into the thick of it. What I had learned from 20 years of living and making friends in Tokyo didn’t seem to work so well here.

Getting to know each other

photo by Kirsty Kawano

The apartment building we moved into housed two other families with first graders, like my younger daughter. When we met them, both mothers smiled and chatted to us about where we had moved from and how the kids would be at the same local school. Everything seemed great. But, as I met the mothers again, I noticed that while one was always smiley and animated, conversation with the other mom seemed forced. She was animated when she spoke, but as soon as she stopped, her face froze. Maybe she was concentrating as she listened to what I said, but this up-close-and-personal, resting bitch face was disturbing. Had I offended her, but she felt that she had to talk to me anyway?

What I had learned from 20 years of living and making friends in Tokyo didn’t seem to work so well here.

Eventually, I noticed other women do this same stony-faced one-on-one and realized that it was not a personal issue, but just a “thing” that Kyoto-bred women do. It extended a bit further, too. On the odd occasion that I encountered another mother from one of my daughters’ classes out and about the town, while I gave a cheery konnichiwa, in return all I got was a nod.

I consider myself to be a kind and friendly person, and I have trouble understanding why other people can’t be the same. Since I was the newbie in town it was my job to make the effort to get to know other people—I understood that—but I was frustrated and sometimes angry that my attempts were so summarily smacked down.

Making friends

Still, within about a month of our arrival, I made a friend. She was a school mom who grew up in Kyushu. One friend—it was as much as I had dared to hope for.

Luckily, my daughters seemed to fare better. My sixth grader had joined a cozy class of sweet kids. It felt so good being among them that I could barely tear myself away from the classroom on observation days. But, near the end of the school year, my daughter briefly told me that all the other kids have known each other since they were tiny, suggesting that therefore there wasn’t much room available for her to squeeze into within their chain of friendships.

[W]hile I gave a cheery konnichiwa, in return all I got was a nod.

My younger daughter quickly made two friends (she was off to a better start than her mom), and then, a few months later, two besties. Decisions made in haste are often not the best choices, and it seems that that applies to friendships, too.

When difficulties involving the first two “friends” came to a head, I asked the school to arrange for my daughter to talk to the school counselor. By the time the counseling session came around, my daughter had decided that she didn’t need it. Although I largely agreed with her, I persuaded her to at least go in and say hello to the counselor. We chatted for a while and the counselor told us that he had spent about half of his life in the Tokyo area and the other half in Kyoto.

“It’s different here,” he said. “Although I can’t say exactly how, it is different here.”

Not only that, within the entire Kyoto city, our neighborhood was apparantly a particularly “difficult area” in terms of human relations, he said.

I felt like I had walked into an ambush.

“The local junior high is not far away, but it’s much easier to navigate,” he said. And he was right. My older daughter is attending that school now, and she has probably never felt so popular. The junior high, located near the edge of town, brings together kids from three different elementary schools and, in doing so, makes relationships there more open, the counselor explained.

Meanwhile, he agreed with my younger daughter that there wasn’t much to worry about in the difficulties she was having with the “friends” and that, although he would check in with her every now and again, that counseling sessions weren’t needed.

As we said our goodbyes, I asked a question, which, in hindsight, I can see was the reason I had asked for the session in the first place.

“So, we just have to go along with how people are here?”

It was the question, not the answer, that hit me. I had always thought of myself as a good traveler—as someone who accepts a new town or country as it is, rather than how I think it should be. I wondered how I had managed to forget such a fundamental principle.

The counselor’s answer was, “Yes. And create a little space between you and them.”

Stepping out

It’s only now, as I write this, that I’ve realized that my version of “going along with” the way many women in my neighborhood act, is to leave them to it. I now hold no expectations toward the stony-faced moms around me. I’ve stepped out of those “inhuman relationships.”

Once a week, I go down to the Kamo River and I watch my younger daughter’s soccer lesson at the sports ground beside the river. Beyond the grassy riverbanks, the mountains line the horizon. It’s Kyoto, just being itself—without the pomp and ceremony—and it’s beautiful. About four other soccer moms usually also come to watch. They are beautiful, too. Only two of them are Kyoto-bred, and none of them is from our immediate neighborhood.

Photo by Kirsty Kawano

I’ve redefined my “here.” My Kyoto is this beautiful place all around me—all except for the thatch of bristles that is my immediate neighborhood. If I never fit in there, that will be fine. It’s just a short walk to the river.

*************
For Part 1 please see here. For Kirsty’s self-introduction, please click here.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

From Tokyo to Kyoto Pt 1

January 7, 2021

A Foreign Mom’s Journey Of Settling In Kansai

Same country, different city, and a whole new ballgame

By Kirsty Kawano | This article first appeared in Savvy Tokyo.

Learning the ropes of living in Japan’s cultural capital can be tough.

Two years ago my family relocated from Tokyo to Kyoto in line with my husband’s shift to a new job. My two daughters and I didn’t want to go — we had a great network of friends in Tokyo that we didn’t want to leave. But how can one say ‘no’ to Kyoto – Japan’s beautiful, cultural capital? Besides, if we could fit in in Tokyo, surely we could fit in in Kyoto – how different could it be?

There was never any doubt that we would like Kyoto. It’s the type of city that people fall in love with – rich in history, culture and nature. There’s a devoted expat community here. The city sits in a mountain basin, making it cold in winter and terribly humid in summer, but unlike the concrete jungle of inner-Yamanote line Tokyo, summer nights in Kyoto cool down.

If we could fit in in Tokyo, surely we could fit in in Kyoto – how different could it be?

Just a few days after we arrived, we introduced ourselves at what would be our daughters’ new elementary school. The teachers were attentive, kind and friendly. We spent the rest of the summer break settling into our new apartment, exploring the neighborhood and frolicking in the nearby Kamo River. It was far too hot for sightseeing.

The beautiful Kamo River (photo by Kirsty Kawano)

Our discoveries in those early days were simple and amusing. Instead of the ubiquitous state of vending machines in Tokyo, in Kyoto, they were far enough apart that you could actually work up a thirst while walking from one to another. Convenience stores were rare enough that to school friends we were able to describe our apartment building as the one behind the conbini. Supermarkets stipulated carrots not just as ninjin, but as yo-ninjin – Western ones – to distinguish them from Kyoto’s own kyo-ninjin. There was tasty, deep-fried hamo conger eel (a Kyoto delicacy) available hot and creamy at summer festivals. We were getting off to a good start. 

Back to school

Our children’s school in Kyoto (photo by Kirsty Kawano)

My daughters and I were enthusiastic about the start of school. There lay our best chance to make friends. The school had a happy, friendly atmosphere. The curriculum and structure of the school day were basically the same as in Tokyo, so the transition was relatively smooth.

There were a few superficial differences. Whereas in Tokyo all the students were required to wear a uniform hat to and from school, here only the first graders needed one. The most popular choice of school bag here is not the hard and heavy randoseru backpack, but a lighter, more flexible one called a ranrikku (seen below). It was created by a Kyoto company in 1968 after a local school principal asked whether a cheaper bag could be made to help ease the problem of bullying of kids from families who could only afford the less-sturdy pig-leather version of the old randoseru.

When in Kyoto…

The time I was most struck by a cultural difference here compared with Tokyo was when I was riding my bicycle into the underground parking area at the local shopping center. I assumed that we were supposed to dismount our bicycles and wheel them down the ramp, because that was my Tokyo expectation. When I read the nearby sign, however, it just said to be careful when it’s wet or snowy. So, just like everyone else around me, I rode in, and rode out again – something I could not imagine doing in Tokyo. Tokyoites like rules and like to follow them. But in Kyoto, things were different.

Convenience stores were rare enough that to school friends we were able to describe our apartment building as the one behind the conbini.

One day, I was speaking with a mother at the school who happens to live directly below us in our apartment building. Her fifth-grade daughter practices piano every day. The mother pre-apologized for this the first day we met. Fascinated by the daughter’s discipline and how the mother has managed to get her practicing daily, I brought the topic up as we talked.

“Your daughter plays the piano so well,” I said.
“I’m sorry that you can hear it,” said the mother.
“No, no. No problem – we like hearing it. Do you have to tell her to practice, or does she just do it herself?”
“She does it herself. But, really, I am sorry.”
“No, no problem. We like it. What got her started learning the piano?”
“I play, too, so I think that made her want to try. But, you know, I am sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Does your son play too?”
“He does a little, yes. But, I am sorry.”

It was silly enough to continue the conversation even further…

Some time later, a Japanese friend in Tokyo told me that telling a Kyotoite that they play the piano well amounts to complaining that their music is too loud. It finally made sense. 

She continued: If a Kyotoite invites you to come off the doorstep and up into their home, the appropriate response is to decline.

Telling a Kyotoite that they play the piano well amounts to complaining that their music is too loud.

“How are you supposed to know?” pondered another Japanese friend in our group. And that’s exactly what I though too.

Making friends (and other traumas)

When we had told our Tokyo friends about our planned move, many of them had said, “Kyotoites aren’t very friendly. They treat non-Kyoto people as outsiders.” I’d been in Japan long enough to know that Tokyoites themselves didn’t have a particularly good reputation among other Japanese regarding friendliness: Tokyoites are “cold.” Indeed, busy as they are shuffling themselves to and from work on overcrowded trains, it’s probably a fair impression. My experience has been that Tokyo residents are generally rather actively friendly. So I decided to keep an open mind about Kyoto dwellers.

The Kyoto-bred moms were a different story. It feels like maybe they just don’t know how to be friendly.

Many of the people we first met weren’t originally from Kyoto. That included many school moms and many residents in our apartment building. I didn’t have much opportunity to meet school dads, but the few I talked to chatted with me enthusiastically, and they were Kyoto born and bred.

The Kyoto-bred moms were a different story. It’s not that they’re unfriendly… It feels like maybe they just don’t know how to be friendly. Kyoto-raised women tend to use a poker face: even in the middle of a one-on-one conversation, their faces can be devoid of expression. The only recognition I would get from some mothers whose kids were in the same class as one of my daughters was a cold-faced nod.

The journey continues …

The grandmother of my younger daughter’s friend told me about when she moved to Kyoto to attend university many years ago. “I was treated like an outsider at first, but once I was accepted into the group, it was very warm and friendly,” she told me.

My older daughter recently graduated from elementary school and entered the local junior high school. At the entrance ceremony, I spotted some of the poker-faced moms from the old school waving and smiling at each other. They were warm and friendly. A new school meant a fresh chance to make friends. So I struck up a conversation here, and threw a greeting over there and…received the same in return! The new atmosphere at the school had reminded me to determine my social behavior myself, and not fall in line with the poker faces around me.

After living in Tokyo for 20 years, I had forgotten that Japan is more than just its capital city. Moving out reminded me how much more there is to experience – how many more fascinating differences await discovery. New encounters are seldom easy, but they are inevitably worth the effort. And for now, my journey in Kyoto continues.

For Part 2 please see here. For Kirsty’s self-introduction, please click here.

Writers in focus

Kai Fusayoshi exhibition

By WiK / January 5, 2021

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.)

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Old Man, Blue Sky

January 3, 2021

by Mark Schumacher

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.

********************

Mark is the creator of the much-used A-Z Photo Dictionary of Japanese Buddhist and Shinto Deities

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Spiritual Journey to Kyoto

December 30, 2020
(All photos by Robert Weis)

Michikusa Dreaming
by Robert Weis

[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.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Introducing Yuki Yamauchi

December 24, 2020
With Tomichie-san in 2018

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.

Writers in focus

Hans Brinckmann

December 20, 2020

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.

For further information, go to his website https://habri.jp.

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For Brinckmann’s ties with Kyoto, and for his presentation on 1950s Kyoto, please click here. For his amazon page, click here.

For a talk Hans gave at the Japan Writers Conference in 2021 about his lifelong ties with Kyoto, please see this youtube video…https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCkQccshzyBOV0ILtCoHmBZA

Hōjōki – a Personal Response

December 13, 2020

by Chad Kohalyk

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.

Hōjōki talk (Stavros)

December 6, 2020

Hōjōki: seeking solace in the time of COVID

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

To learn more about Matthew’s translation of Hōjōki see www.kyotohistory.com.

Kyoto: A Literary Guide

December 5, 2020

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.

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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…”

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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.

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About Writers in Kyoto

Writers in Kyoto is a group of published and self-published English-language authors working or living in the city. It is run on a membership basis and its purpose is for writers to help each other by creating opportunities for promotion, book launches, readings, the exchange of information, and social events. Read more

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