Travels in Japan: Sacred Mountain Koya

It's early spring in Japan, the plum and cherry blossoms are only a whisper of their former glory and I am riding on a train as far from the blooms as I can be.  The wide front window offers sweeping vistas of rice fields, forested hills, quaint villages and seemingly endless miles of track.  My destination is one unknown to me until recently, but it lies in the center of one of the most sacred spaces to Japanese Buddhism. 

Of course, getting there is half the journey, so after one train ride, I take another, this time vertacle on a cable car clinging to rails that climb the mountainside at a near 60 to 70 degree angle.  It's a little daunting, but then again I could be hiking up this mountainside like thousands of pilgrims have done for countless centuries.   My destination is Koya-san, the hub in the wheel of Shingon Buddhism, a sect introduced to Japan 1214 years ago by a priest named Kobo Daishi.  

To say Koya-san is secluded is an understatement.  Its a temple town, with dozens upon dozens of smaller Shingon temples all clustered around the main temple, Kongobuji, and Kobo Daishi's mausoleum at Garan Temple.  The town has exactly ONE soba noodle restaurant that opens whenever and closes often, and unless you are lucky enough to stay at one of the temples you have no food, water, cell service or internet.  There is exactly one road, its narrow, and the only ways up or down otherwise are the cable car and your own two feet.  It's quite daunting, but there I was. 

I mention the temple lodging because its one of the main tourist draws other than the temples.  People come from all over the world to stay in austere Buddhist hospitality and enjoy vegetarian cuisine called shojen ryori.  The Buddhists adhere to a strict diet, and while meatless, what I have seen looks as tasty as anything else I ate in Japan.  Alas, I had no temple lodging.  This was a day trip from Osaka, and I came for one purpose, a cemetary.

You may be thinking, "he's crazy."  Damn straight.  The moment I saw this temple complex was the same moment I saw the enormous cemetary around it.  Kobo Daishi and Shingon are sacred aspects, and in Japan mountains have their own sacred culture with strange creatures and myths of their own.  The Buddhist afterlife is preferable to the one in Shintoism, and considering these aspects people have wanted their remains to lie forever in the glow of Koya San.  Everyone from Tokugawa Ieyasu, who has a small offshoot shrine here, to feudal lords, samurai, businessmen, priests and everyone else between.  

Every single one is a story, laid to rest against cedar trees, sweeping mists and silence punctuated only by Buddhist chants and great bronze bells.  There is a great deal of respect to be found here, where people knit little caps for the statues to keep them warm, only to have moss grow over both statue and hard knitted labor.  Sometimes one will find cups, scattered with debris, seemingly left for centuries untended since the last person shared a cup of sake with an ancestor.  Everything here is painted.  There are the soft, muted colors of stone or mist grey, the warmer tones of the cedar brown, but most of all is green, verdant moss that covers stones and ground and trees and everything else.  It is a bed sheet to the dead.  

Not all is serious though.  As I wandered the path that wove in and around this enormous space I saw several humorous statues.  There was the full sized buisnessman and wife, who dutifully stands behind her husband as if waiting for him to ask her to get the remote.  There was a rocket at one point, and a few others but the one that stood out was the statue of a poison blowfish.  I stood there and looked at it thinking, "Well, I know what this person died eating."  (This would be ironic later on in my Journey in Japan, but we will get to that later.)

All humor aside, this was beautiful, peaceful.  The main temple complexes were a welcome sight after a walk.  Standing in the glow of the vermillion painted structures, I reflected where I was.  How many people, I wondered, have stood here before me.  How many walked through the forest of trees and stones, across the moss blanket, past statues of Buddha and fugu?  How many stopped and reflected here, and then not so long after, were laid to rest in this same space?  Its a sobering thought to consider in such a beautiful space, a sacred place.  One can be lost in the mountains, far from home, and yet find so much.

Why I hate C.S. Lewis

People love C.S. Lewis Chronicles of Narnia series, and so do I.  Growing up they were my first favorite fantasy series, and I knew them before I knew Tolkien or anyone else existed (I was about middle grade school when I read them).  Visiting my cousins in Los Osos, we would wander around the house next door where the owner had a sort of oak forest that we used as a facsimile of Narnia.  My mind was filled with fantasy and wonder of that distant land beyond the Wardrobe.  While attending university, I visited Westmont College in Santa Barbara and specifically looked for  the C.S. Lewis Wardrobes that is supposedly there.  I never found it, unfortunately.

Despite this love, admiration and inspiration, however, I have a deep and seething hatred for C.S. Lewis.  I despise him, or rather, one thing he does with every single one of his Narnia books, and more specifically I hate Aslan the Lion.   Now, I know you’re wondering, "William how on Earth can you hate Aslan? He's a talking lion who is a Christ allegory.  He's awesome, he's magnificent, he's voiced by Liam Neeson in the movies."   You're not wrong.  Aslan may be all these things, but he is also guilty of a sin. 

Aslan kidnaps children, brainwashes them, then he discards them.

It's true.  He will bring children into Narnia, pit them against danger and death, and then opens a land of beauty and wonder for them to own and explore.   Aslan promises children that they will be kings and queens of Narnia forever. They meet Father Christmas himself.  The children see and experience wonders after horrors, beauty after ugliness.   They grow up in Narnia, and their lives in our simple, ordinary world are almost forgotten.   Then, quite suddenly and without warning, Narnia vomits them back out into our world.   The beauty is gone, the wonder shut away ... and they are ordinary children again.

I suppose this could be an allegory to actual imagination or childhood, the way it works. After all everyone has to grow up sometime.  Yet Narnia is very evident to be more than mere imagination.  It's real, it's the prelude to heaven until Aslan makes a real one.  Aslan's weird little rules about Narnia also made no sense.  At some point you were "too old" to be allowed into Narnia.  That's some Peter Pan miscellany right there, and it’s an insult.  Even C.S. Lewis' beloved granddaughter, Lucy, is not immune to this stupid and obscene rule as a self-insert character in the novels.  The last book is the worst offender where everyone gets shoved off a cliff (almost literally), except for one person who survives because she's literally of no interest to Aslan anymore.  

Picture it if you would.  You are a kid taken to this wonderful fantasy land to be a great warrior, a king or queen with a magnificent palace full of fantasy creatures and friendly talking animals who love and praise you for everything you've done.  As this hero or heroine, you inspire and lead people, you travel and see such things that no one in our world could possibly otherwise imagine.   Then one day *snap* it’s gone, like a waking dream fading into the grim, glum reality.   Then another day, you're back, everything's even more wondrous and dangerous than before.  A thousand years have passed, and the legend of your rule is but a myth.  Despite this the world needs a hero or heroine who alone can still bring the world back to what it can be.  So, you go through more trials, tribulations to triumph, and after that this talking lion tells you "Sorry kid, you need to be this tall to enter.  Have fun paying for college and finding a job with this on your resume." 

I fault Lewis entirely for this.  It is his world, his rules, and for all those making the allegory to Christ, I don't seem to recall this in the Word of God.  Now, of course, Lewis was an early fantasy writer like Tolkien.  Even Tolkein, who was C.S. Lewis contemporary never did this sort of thing.  I could see myself in a writing group with Lewis and saying, "I would rewrite the ending of almost every single book.  They all end with these weird caveats." 

Let's be fair, though, how would I fix or write The Chronicles of Narnia myself?  First off, get rid of the age to enter rule.  That is some old b.s. and if Narnia is an allegory to heaven as Aslan is to Christ, it makes no sense.  Second, make staying or going home a choice, not an obligation or an accident.   Third, if the characters are to return to their old lives, let them live a full life in Narnia first.  Let the characters live up to the point of their passing on, THEN return them.  Let them live to see progeny and a potential future of Narnia, even if they return 1000 years later to find it all goes to hell in a hand basket.  It would feel less cheap for them to fulfill a full life and then return with the lessons they learn ... and even then, let them carry Narnia with them.  Maybe they see things in different colors and shapes.  Maybe animals are more friendly to them in the real world.  Let the fantasy touch and shape reality to make it better, that is what fantasy does, especially for a wartime novel like some of Lewis's works were.

That is just what I would do in Aslan's skin were I a great talking Lion who created the universe.  But I am not. I'm just a schlub who got lost in the wardrobe and came out with moth balls as his only reward.

(Picture courtesy of Wikipedia commons.  https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/73/Lion_waiting_in_Namibia.jpg)

Japan's Sacred Mountain Culture

Think of Japan and one of the first things you might picture in your mind is Mount Fuji.  It's iconic, the perfect conical shape, the purple-gray slopes, the snow covered cap.  You see it in everything from pamphlets to ancient scrolls and wood block prints such as Hosukai's The Great Wave of Kanagawa, majestic and serene.  Of course, the reality of such a thing is the very nature of Japan's turbulent geological existence, and beneath that perfect picture is a volcano - perhaps one of the most famous on Earth.

The last recorded eruption of Mount Fuji was in 1707, about 104 years after Tokugawa Ieyasu became shogun and united Japan. It must have come as a shock to the denizens of the growing metropolis to see smoke rising from Fuji, but then again there are other volcanos that erupt and erupted with more frequency in Japan even back then. The Japanese attributed such eruptions to the will of their Shinto gods, and Japanese mountains have been synonymous with gods and mythology since time immortal. 

Mount Fuji is home to Konohanasakura-hime, a spirit of life and she has a shrine at the base and the summit of the mountain.  Every day and every year people climb Fuji to see the sunrise because the mountain has become synonymous with Japanese culture and what it means to be Japanese.  People equate the mountain with her and visa versa, and this is not uncommon. Inari-san in Kyoto is the domain of Inari, god/goddess general prosperity, rice, and other things - and Inari's mountain is covered in the mysticism and magic of his/her domain which I covered in a previous blog post.  Step off the track there, and you might encounter a shapeshifting fox.

But the mountains are not only the domain of shinto spirits, Buddhists share these sacred realms and with their faith come new spirits and new domains of belief.  Come to a Buddhist peak and you will find the Tengu, Japan's wild mountain bird-men who I covered in a recent blog post.   Mountains have always been considered removed from the wordly ways, from the troubles and tribulations.  They reach towards the heavens, they are quiet and mostly untouched by man.  Even now in modern Japan, much of the nation is covered by mountains but the populated areas are below such peaks.

Part of this may be attributed to the sacred nature of such mountains, the fact each was not only a domain of a god/goddess or multiple spirits, but it might be a god itself.  In ancient times as well as our times, people from Japan and all over the world come to these mountains to get away, to get in touch with something beyond their lives.  We seek to rise above, to touch the heavens as we do the Earth through the mountains. 

(Image courtesy of Wikipedia commons.  https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f7/Mount_Fuji_Japan_with_Snow%2C_Lakes_and_Surrounding_Mountains.jpg/1024px-Mount_Fuji_Japan_with_Snow%2C_Lakes_and_Surrounding_Mountains.jpg  )

My Grandfather's Gift

My grandfather William J. Johnston was a remarkable man, the kind of man who saw people and not problems.  Growing up, my earliest memories of him are ones where he sits in an old, comfortable chair by the fireplace in his den, smoking a cigar and watching the USC Trojans tromp around on the field.  

Papa grew up in a household of three boys, he had served honorably in World War II never seeing combat but prepared to give his life in an operation that would have become the D-Day of Japan.  Thankfully for him, that day never came.  He and his brothers were and are the salt of the earth, men who learned hard work from their parents but also the values of giving all they could.  Papa was known to tip 50 percent when we went out to dinner, he avidly gave money to the LA Mission, and he went on countless trips over the years working with different peoples towards one particular goal: being an educator.

You see, growing up I always wondered about all the awards in my grandpa's house, all the pictures with all sorts of famous people.  I wondered how he could meet Ronald Reagan, Willy Mays, Gregory Peck, among others.  I wondered about pictures of him in Iran before the revolution, in Egypt, Korea and of course the dozens of pieces of Japanese art all over the house.  Papa didn't like to talk about himself to me.  He was insular about himself, and went to great efforts to make things about other people.  He had a devious sense of humor at times, much to my grandmother's chagrin, but the two loved one another dearly.

When I was old enough, I began to understand my grandpa's nature, and his educating goal.  He'd been a teacher, a principal, a superintendent.  His pride and joy was the aspect of making sure he set an example.  He was a leader.  All that Japanese art was from the grateful Japanese American community in Gardena where he worked.   The pictures of him abroad were from trips he made to try to improve the lives of students and educators in other countries.  Wherever he went, he was given gifts in thanks.  He never asked for all the things he got in that house, they were given by people grateful for his selflessness and self sacrifice.  He was perhaps one of the hardest working people I ever knew, and I never knew the full extent of it. What's more, he felt self-conscious about such things.  He didn't like people feeling they had to do something because he had helped them.  But that was the nature of him, he received because he gave so much.

The last years of my grandfather's life were a struggle.  He suffered from cancer and heart troubles, it was a slow but steady decline.  I don't know how he did it, but he was tough.  Even in the end, he was incredibly tough, and he was still thinking of others.  He had a way with people, he knew everything about them because he asked questions.  His personality and perseverance brought him into the lives of people he barely knew, and he touched those lives and made them just a little better no matter what was going on.

My grandfather died last month.  In his wake, he leaves a legacy in myself and my family.  I think though his greatest legacy is to those who he helped over his life.  My grandfather's gift was that of an educator, for educators touch the lives of countless generations to follow, even though they may never know the progenitor of their good fortune.   I may never live up to such a legacy myself, but I can stand proud, knowing I come from such tremendously good people. 

If you would like to learn more about my grandfather, I would recommend a lovely article by Howard Blume of the Los Angeles Times.

Japan's Wild Mountain Bird-men

Before I take you on a journey into the mountains of Japan with my travel blog, I should impart a story. In the mountains of Japan there is a legend of the wild men who live on the highest peaks.  These men are Buddhist monks, living in austere temples unseen by human eyes and living off the stark and Spartan existence provided for them ONLY by the mountain itself.  These men, these Yamabushi, as they are called, are legendary in deeds and distinct in their appearance, yet even they harken to a much earlier and more intriguing legend.

It is said that there dwells another wild people in those mountains; wild beings who look like men at first since they have the bodies of men but the similarities fade into the wings and talons of a bird, with great features and feathers of a bird such as a beak or a long nose with fearsome features.  Sometimes they wear geta (japanese sandals) but with only one central clog, perfectly balanced upon these great shoes as any bird would be on a branch. Yes, the yamabushi may tell you such stories of their progenitors, the fearsome and somber tengu.

Like so many of Japan’s mysterious spiritual creatures, the tengu have traveled a great distance and gone through many transformations before they roosted on Japanese peaks.  Translated roughly as, “heavenly dog,” tengu are both yokai (weird creatures) and kami (gods).  They began their existence as pests, goblins, who preyed on mountain travelers somewhere in China.  Later they spread their wings and crossed the ocean and through Buddhism many were transformed to a more benevolent state.

Tengu come in many shapes and sizes.  Sometimes they are small, and much more like birds of prey, and sometimes they are very human but larger.  You usually see them represented in the form of a mask with deep red skin, a distinct long nose with thick brows and mustache and piercing golden eyes.  With this appearance its not hard to see that tengu have earned their reputation as fearsome, but like all Japanese spirits it is not that cut and dry. Tengu have become enlightened by converting to Buddism in Japan, becoming monks and practicing a form of discipline and aesthetic called “shugendo.”  It is this living off the mountain, honing one’s mind and body through stark and often difficult meditations in the wilds, that the yamabushi supposedly learned from them.

Tengu teach this art, along with other forms of martial arts and the disciplines of the sword and combat to special individuals.  Japan’s legendary warrior prince, Yoshitsune learned from the king tengu before going off to help unite Japan with his elder brother.  Later, when jealousy drove them apart, Yoshitsune fled back to such mountains and was either killed by his brother’s forces or spirited away to never be heard from again. Perhaps he still waits there with the tengu today.  

My first encounter with a tengu was on a trip down from Lake Chuzenji in Nikko six years ago when we passed a statue of one.  It was the briefest glimpse of this human figure standing with a staff and overlooking the valley below.  When I pointed it out, the cab driver remarked, “Hai, tengu.”  He did not stop driving, and perhaps for good reason. Tengu are jealous guardians of the secrets they keep, and though they can be friendly, theirs is a fearsome reputation to those who cross their ire.

I had a few other encounters with Tengu in my journeys to come, in the forms of statues or their iconic masks, but usually in temples where their fury is contained by the spiritual presence surrounding them, or in shops where they seem to loom like a disapproving father overlooking everything else.  Like the enigmatic kitsune, something about them that drew me like a metal to magnet, and I can circuit the orbit of one ten times and see something new. 

Unlike the kitsune, the tengu’s reasons to exist are easier to discern and digest into human understanding.  They naturally dress as we do without pretending to be us, nor do they have any desire to be human like other yokai.  The tengu can, without hesitation, break a human like a twig, or use a great feathered fan to blow us away with the power of a hurricane.   But they don’t.  They remain where they are, watching, studying, content on their mountains, and why?  Because they have nothing to fear from us.  They are Japan’s mysterious wild mountain bird men, and they rule those lofty roosts.

The (Almost) Forgotten Star Wars Sequels

Originally Shared on my new website:  writershemisphere.wordpress.com

In 1991, ten year old me sat spellbound as I watched the events of the sequel to Star Wars unfold in front of my very eyes.  "Wait!"  I hear you say, "There were no sequels to Star Wars in 1991.   The last movie was 'Return of the Jedi' in 1983."  Ah, my young apprentice, I sense your impatience flow through you.  What I speak of is no movie, it was a series of books known as "The Heir to the Empire" or better known as "The Thrawn" trilogy.  

Shortly after Star Wars original trio of movies ended there was an enormous fanbase ready and waiting for more stories from the universe.  People wanted Han and Leia and Luke and Chewbacca along with Lando Calrissian and others to return and continue their adventures.  George Lucas, being the enterprising man he is, granted permissions for authors to continue his work in novelizations since he had no plans at the time for any follow up movies.  For better or for worse, the Thrawn Trilogy was the force which convinced him otherwise and which sparked the fire that spread to the farthest sides of the Star Wars Universe that was to come after the new millenium.  

At its heart, the Trilogy is about the lives of our characters after the Empire's fall, about how Han and Leia start a family and how Luke struggles to be a symbol of hope despite being the last jedi.  The series does re-hash many of the themes and ideas of the original movies, but it also introduces new characters and situations as our characters and the rising "New Republic" face off against a resurgent Empire.   

This alone is a great premise for a series of books, but what makes the Thrawn trilogy truly great are the new characters.   There are many supporting characters that fans would come to know and love for years including the mysterious Mara Jade, a smuggler and assassin with shadowy ties to the Empire.  There's the smugglers around the suave and sly Talon Karrde, who are played one off another as they decide which side of the war they should side with.   By far the most striking characters we are introduced to, however, are not on the good guy's side.  

The three books are known as "The Thrawn Trilogy" because of one character, the central villain, Grand Admiral Thrawn.  Thrawn is a brilliant tactician, an alien who rose to the highest military rank in an otherwise racist Empire due to his brilliance as a tactician.  There is a humanity in this alien who studies the history and philosophy of his enemies as much as he does military tactics.  Thrawn is introduced to us studying art, and through the officers and creatures surrounding him we start to realize a strange fact.   We can see where he comes from, how he works, the value he puts in his work. 

Where Darth Vader showed us the humanity behind a fearsome cyborg mask, Thrawn shows us the tenacity of a man driven by vision to make everyone around him the best they can possibly be.   Of course, the story is driven by his actions, and he executes this masterfully up to the very end.

It has been years since I read these books, but with a recent re-release for the 25th anniversary on audible, I snatched up the opportunity.   The series is read by Mark Thompson, who is a masterful voice actor, and I was reminded how masterfully the author, Timothy Zhan, executed his work.   I harkened back to myself in 1991, excited and anxious with each act as it unfolded, and when it was done I felt both sad and satisfied as I did watching the movies.   I remember that it was Zhan and Thrawn, which I first emulated in my earliest writing.  

Today with the new sequels and a new canon, Star Wars has mostly forgotten this series.  While Thrawn's popularity has vaulted him back into the canon, it was not him alone that made the books great.  It is a series worthy of movie adaptation, but the likelihood of that happening vanished long ago.   Even so, the so called "legends" universe still stands a test of time even 25 years later.  If you are a fan of Star Wars, if you like or dislike the new series of movies, you should give these books a try.   They are the (almost) forgotten Star Wars Sequels, and the force is strong with them.  

What Next?

Originally Shared on my new website:  writershemisphere.wordpress.com

Nothing is certain,
Not the skies nor trees
The land nor sea.
Not you or me,
Not life nor death.
With each passing breath
Destiny untold may yet unfold
Every motion, a different potion.
Wake or sleep, upon high or down deep
Shall in us forever mysteries keep.

Travels in Japan, Himeji: The White Heron Castle

Originally Shared on my new website:  writershemisphere.wordpress.com

Himeji Castle is in a word, magnificent. Sitting atop its stone base, it rises like a bird stretching its wings towards the sky, like a great white heron as its namesake suggests.  Strange to say that this picturesque building so famous as Japan’s most famous castle has no single image of a heron in it.  The feudal symbol of the lord of this place was, instead, a butterfly.  Not a ferocious beast like a dragon or a griffon, but in Japan such a thing still holds power, and there is no mistaking the power of Himeji Castle.

Picture the classic European castle and you might imagine a large, brooding stone fortress with a drawbridge, high cornice towers, dungeons full of terrible implements, maybe even a fantastical dragon and a princess in the highest parapet.  Such fantasies and realities define the castles of many youths, but in Japan is not only a fortress, it is a thing of beauty.   It has sleek stone walls, all perfectly symmetrical, support wide arching roofs of black tiles that create a contrast to the white stone beneath them.  On the tallest points, one finds the trademark “Dolphin fish” meant to ward off lightning and fire.

Of course, there can’t be a castle without a ghost story, a bit of a fantastical and sad element to this beautiful place.  Himeji Castle has such a specter, the ghost of a beautiful servant named Okiku.  You can read the sad story here but the tale involves the familiar veins of love, betrayal, and ultimately Okiku is thrown down the well.  To this day there is a story of a soft, whispered voice of the servant as she counts dishes down in the well, or the figure of an ethereal woman floating around it.

Ghost or not Himeji castle is a perfect example of beauty in ferocity and perfection along with imperfection, a distinct Japanese aesthetic.  Look here and there and you can find subtle imperfections in a roof tile end being upside down, one tower being slightly askew from the lines and size of another, or the shape of paths.  Some of these are functional, creating narrow choke points for invaders and allowing the castle defenders a better option for attack.  The castle never faced intrusion however, and it is one of the longest standing examples of its kind.

Like many structures, the castle has been constructed and reconstructed over the centuries.  The last time was just before World War II when artisans reconstructed the whole superstructure with new wood.  Such refurbishment is essential in such a wet, humid climate where wood rots quickly, but the people who maintained the castle were so good at their job that the visitor could imagine it hasn’t changed in centuries.  When we arrived the castle had just undergone a renovation that restored the white coloring that gives its distinctive color, a coloring created with a form of seaweed.

The castle itself has no bad view towards it, and now bad view away from it.  It dominates the town that grew up at its foot, but even from the furthest reaches where the noblewomen maintained the lord’s court, one has a view of the keep.  Going in early spring, there were not as many flowering cherry trees, but this place is famous for its sakura blossoms in view of the building.  Even at our perspective day, there were enough blossoms to add a hint of pink color to contrast the whites and blue-blacks.

Himeji Castle’s city bears little resemblance to the castle, a modern metropolis with buildings and shopping streets lining the main road.  My parents and I enjoyed a walk down some of these lanes, including a brief stop to watch a man rolling out soba noodle dough in the front window of his shop.  When we paused to watch, he grinned at us and flashed two fingers to indicate when his shop opened.  We never got a chance to sample his soba, but I made a mental note to come back someday and try.

One has plenty to see of the castle’s exterior, but I would also say the interior is worth a visit.  My family and I were warned that there wasn’t much to see inside the castle.  We heard warnings that the interior was just “empty rooms” but even these empty rooms held mystery and majesty.  There was a sense of how things work, how the castle is built and plenty of exercise as we climbed many -very- narrow stairs.  Yes, unfortunately, there is no wheelchair access into the keep’s main tower turret and there is no easy escalator.  Sorry.

Overall Himeji Castle and City are well worth a visit, a definite day trip or an overnight stay.  It’s conveniently located along the Shinkansen route to the west, and just a half hour from Osaka and some other major cities.  If you are going to Japan, I would highly suggest that this castle is an appointment that you keep