Ephemera

Omisoka (大晦日) and Ganjitsu (元日)

New Year's in the States is a fairly debauched affair - champagne, fireworks and kissing total strangers.  In Japan it is a much more sober and spiritual event heavy with ritual and ancient traditions.

My New Year's Eve was a clueless and random meander around Yasaka Shrine and its neighboring temples in southern Higashiyama.  Without any guidance I could never hope to fully participate in Omisoka (New Year's Eve).  I followed the crowd, made observations, and then, like a monkey, did what they did without understanding the whys or wherefores.

Ganjitsu (New Year's Day) was, like so many New Year's Days in the past, a massive hangover - too much sake, too much beer.  I watched the snow fall from my bed and didn't really move.  Sometimes one needs a hangover to remember how good one normally feels.

I generally greet the day after a severe hangover with a renewed determination to live life more fully, to get things done, as well as to stop drinking.  It is a sort of penance for wasting the previous 24 hours.  I woke at dawn and witnessed a pretty spectacular sunrise, the pink, orange and yellow caressing the blanket of snow that covered Katsura.

Everything looks better in the snow.  The streets and buildings with which you are so familiar are suddenly different, as if you are seeing them for the first time.  There is a freshness to the world, everything is softened, everything is quieted.

I dressed and ate breakfast quickly.  I stopped at the neighborhood shrine (Gosha-jinja) and said a prayer for the New Year then headed to the Katsura River.  The morning light played on the snow-covered mountains in the distance and the deep burgundy of the Hankyu train looked particularly handsome against this backdrop as it traversed the bridge over the river.  I was alone except for a few joggers and one or two shutterbugs like myself.

The mountains grew closer as I made my way up the river.  Before long I was on the edge of Arashiyama.  Then I saw the gate for Matsunoo Taisha.  Funny and fitting that after my rough New Year's Day I would find myself at the shrine favored by sake brewers.  I was soon drinking a cup of kinpaku (gold-flecked) sake from a masu (square-shaped wooden cup).  It smelt of fresh cypress.

Near the center of the shrine a great fire was burning.  I was transfixed by the flames and smoke and heat.  Fire is a purifying element in many religions.  Shinto is no exception.  This fire was not only a way to keep warm on this cold winter day, it was a receptacle for wishes past and present.  Apparently any talismans from the previous year must be burned in the New Year.  The people gathered around the blaze were tossing omikuji (printed paper fortunes), ema (wooden plaques upon which wishes are written), hamaya (decorative arrows), and sake cups into the flames.  Then with hands pressed in prayer they made a slight bow.  This was a remarkable and moving ritual, to see even small children throwing their beautiful, brand new hamaya into the fire.

I left Matsunoo Taisha and wandered the narrow roads hugging the mountains.  It wasn't long before I came across another shrine, then a temple.  The mountainside seemed to be dotted with them.

At Suzumushi-dera I was ushered into a large washitsu (traditional Japanese room) packed with people sitting at low tables arranged end to end in long parallel rows.  A thin zabuton (cushion), a cup of ocha and a paper-wrapped sweet were waiting for me.  A charismatic gentleman in a somber kimono was speaking to the crowd.  What have I got myself into now?  And how do I bow gracefully out?  The shoji door slid shut behind me.  There was no escape.  Being the only gaijin in the room I desperately tried to be invisible.  I can't remember feeling quite so out of place.  At the conclusion, 30 minutes later, I slithered out.

I made my way back to Matsunoo Taisha for some lunch.  The path leading up to the shrine had been taken over by food vendors and various booths offering carnival-like games.  I went from stall to stall sampling the wonderful New Year's fare.

I was told the Japanese New Year celebration is not to be missed.  Though I was lost and confused much of the time the sheer spectacle of these ancient customs kind of makes Times Square in New York look like a barroom brawl.

Santa-san

Questions for Santa Claus from Japanese children:

"I was naughty this morning; how come I still get a present?"
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"How many floors do you have in your house?"
"What kind of food do you like?"
"What present do you want for Christmas?"

A Kyoto Christmas

Christmas

Walking through the grounds of the Imperial Palace at dusk

alone

a light snow

the intersection of my horizontal journey

and

the vertical journey of the falling snow

my boots meet the gravel path

each step recorded with a crunch

tiny stones shifting slightly

on the edge of the sharp evening air

I smell the proud ancient pines

the world

this Japanese world

slides quietly into monochrome

color washed out in the fading light

the low clouds

the snow.

I close my eyes

and

walk a straight line.

Bonsai

Bonsai is one of those cultural exports from Japan that everyone is familiar with, like kimonos and chopsticks.  But recognizing or being aware of something is very different from understanding it, as I came to discover at the 34th annual Taiken-Ten Bonsai exhibition.

Bonsai inhabits a strange place somewhere between gardening and sculpture.  Growing miniature trees in containers has existed in Japan for more than a thousand years.  As with many cultural things in Japan, Zen Buddhism has played a role in defining the aesthetics of bonsai.  There are long established and rather strict   guidelines and techniques for cultivating little trees that have the appearance of big trees.  This is both beautiful and bizarre.  Even as I admired the many artistic interpretations of bonsai - the sensuous flowing lines, the often gravity defying balance, the congruity of living and dead elements - I couldn't help but think this is really a perverse manipulation of nature, the same way chihuahuas, toy poodles and other small dogs are.  It is worth noting that bonsai trees are not genetically modified plants.  The tiny size is achieved through meticulous trimming, pruning, wiring and even grafting.

The question running through my head the whole time was, "How?"  How are these insanely twisted, completely unnatural forms achieved?  How are these trees kept alive?  How long does it take to grow them into these shapes?  There was a vendor section to the exhibition that for me, an outsider, could only hint at answers.  There was the vendor that had a wide array of bonsai tools for sale spread out like surgical instruments used by a doctor in an operating room.  There were vendors selling bonsai containers of varying shapes, sizes and finishes, vendors that specialized in soil and fertilizers, elegant rocks and books about bonsai.  And of course there were trees, very expensive trees.  They ranged in price from ¥2,000 (about $20) for a starter specimen no larger than your pinky finger to fully mature, show-quality trees upwards of ¥1,000,000 (about $10,000).

Adding to the somewhat surreal atmosphere was a musical soundtrack that swung from a Muzak version of traditional Japanese melodies to a Lord of the Rings fantasy score.

I got the impression that bonsai has a sort of cult following, that the people in attendance were part of a small clique, like Trekkies at a Star Trek convention.  But like so many of the people that support traditional Japanese culture it would seem, this clique was mostly 60+.  As the Japanese population continues to gray, one wonders if these ancient art forms will survive.

Daihikaku Senkoji (大悲閣千光寺)

The tourists, both foreign and Japanese, tend to swarm on all the big temples and shrines on weekends and holidays, especially during the peak seasons.  It is best to avoid these areas and days.  Find a quiet cafe near home and do some reading.

Japan has a sort of Thanksgiving holiday at the end of November, but unlike the American version, it is a day to express gratitude for labor and production.  I think mostly it is just a day off.

Aware of the crowds that would certainly meet me, I set out Monday afternoon anyway.  Arashiyama is just a few stops on the train from Katsura, so I figured I could easily retreat if overwhelmed by the humanity.  The Arashiyama station was thronged.  I paused for a moment, observed the direction of the multitude and went up an adjacent road that was relatively empty.  A good decision.  This led me past a quiet shrine and on to the south bank of the Hozu River.

The river was full of bright blue rowboats and couples trying to navigate it.  Nonomiya-jinja is nearby which is the shrine of choice for lovers and would-be lovers, so I imagined the romantic aquatic excursions were part of some courtship.  It was a charming sight, the azure blue of the boats hemmed in by the steep canyon dressed in full autumnal regalia.

As I discovered last year, the farther along a path you go, the more solitary the journey.  I like this.  Little by little the sounds of human conversation and movement is replaced by nature's equivalent.  Serenity arrives.

Far up the river I found a sign for a temple and some steps leading up the hillside.  I knew this could only lead to something really good.  There were only a few other people that had ventured this far upstream and some were dissuaded by the climb necessary to reach the temple.

Perched high above the Hozu is Daihikaku Senkoji.  This temple was apparently founded by a wealthy 16th Century merchant named Suminokura Ryoi who pioneered Southeast-Asian trade.  It is meant to commemorate the heavy human toll of his river excavation project.

There was something beautifully ramshackle about this temple.  Most temples are pristine and untouchable, the route through the grounds clearly marked with large red arrows, the dos and don'ts posted everywhere.  Here, at Daihikaku Senkoji there is none of that.  This is not simply a historical showpiece with coffers of tourist Yen; this is a proper habitation.  Everything has the warm patina of frequent use and time.

Information about the temple is hand or typewritten and photocopied like a punk rock fanzine from the 80s.  There are shelves of books, not rare antique tomes, but well-thumbed paperbacks you'd find in an ordinary bookshop.  There are art supplies, bamboo brushes, inkstones and washi paper for shodo (calligraphy) and sumi-e (ink painting).  Two temperamental Shiba Inus keep the lone monk and his attendants company and also entertain visitors.

A cup of matcha tea and a sweet appear on a tray decorated with a freshly fallen red maple leaf.  I sit for a long time listening to the water dripping from a bamboo spigot and the temple bell that rings periodically.  The sun begins to set illuminating the city in the distance.  Somewhat reluctantly, I make my way back down the hill to the now deserted river.