Blog 16.
It is hard to believe it‘s the final week before reaching temple 88. Evenings have been consumed by the search for accommodation for this coming week. No room at the inn is the all too common refrain. It can take hours to secure just one night somewhere near the trail. It’s Golden Week: a string of national holidays makes it Japan’s peak travel season.
An enjoyable freedom on the road has been not planning that far ahead, just a night or two, max, taking each day as it comes. You make your plan and you walk the walk, adjusting if need be. Now, however, I must plan right through to the end of the pilgrimage, a night at a time. The journey’s end is finally a fixed date.
A hotel I wanted at the top of a henro-korogashi climb is full and there is no choice: it’s a lodging out in the sticks: Zen-Kappa-Dojo, a meditation hall.
Perhaps I have lived a past life in Japan after all, for I start researching Buddhism – for the first time. I am keen to know the differences between the Shingon Buddhism of my pilgrimage and other schools: Zen, Tendai, etc. I know nothing about any of them, but learn that all forms have the heart sutra, the Hannya Shingyo, in common, and it is about „joyous trusting“.
Shingon („Pure or True Word“) Buddhism, as brought to Japan by Kobo Daishi, has become known as Japanese Esoteric Buddhism and teaches that enlightenment can be achieved in a single lifetime. The pilgrimage is a means to achieving it by escaping everyday life and used to be the only legitimate reason for people to travel.
Although the henro is not Zen, it feels appropriate to my journey to experience another Buddhist practice. The monk, Jukucho, shows me to my room behind the Buddha statue in the entry. I have sliding doors into the „dojo“ itself, a room of tatami pedestals and a bell, basically. I am the only person sleeping in this building. The complex is an array of outhouses around this hall. There are quarters for men, a kitchen, a bath house, etc. After the evening meal at 5.30, they play a video about zazen etiquette, and at 7 pm the evening meditation starts. It’s just me and the monk. Again!
Sitting cross-legged is impossible for me so I ask if I can kneel. Keeping my hands in a cradle and my eyes half-closed is so unfamiliar to me that I find the 45 minutes arduous and am relieved to hear the bell and fall into bed. In the morning meditation with other residents I settle into it much more. Afterwards we move into a ceremonial room and recite the heart sutra (finally something familiar) before a ritualistic breakfast of rice porridge.
I find it all very strict and am happy to return to the freedom of the henro that morning.
Mid afternoon the vibrant city of Takamatsu greets me. Setting down my backpack at temple 83, a man gives me a special osettai. It‘s a hand-written heart sutra in beautiful calligraphy. Each takes an hour to write. I carefully fold the delicate paper and pack it as protectively as possible. I will frame it.
I need a tourist office to make my next arrangements, so take a train to the city plaza to find it buzzing. Of course, Golden Week is festival time! The beat of loud taiko drums draws me like a magnet to a large crowd, and I get to watch the traditional dances of Shikoku. There will be a taiko performance in the morning, so I return for an energy boost before heading back on the trail. It‘s a pre-celebration for finishing the henro.
But it‘s time to prepare mentally for the last day of walking and temples. Another Sunday. It‘s also the last day of Golden Week and my last day of a week in Kagawa prefecture.
Savouring every step and every smile on the way, every waft of orange blossom, every bird singing its encouragement, I make my way solemnly up the track to the foot of the mountain. There is a special place to visit on the way to 88, a henro „salon“ – a museum and administration centre for pilgrims. Over green tea, the kind lady takes my details and writes out an official completion certificate. I also receive a pin. There‘s a vast 3D model of the island where you can press buttons to light up the temples. I see how tall the mountains really are. Sometimes you think you’re at the top, but in fact are nowhere near!
I wonder why this centre was built miles ahead of the concluding temple. I could take my certificate and no-one would be any wiser if I did not make the final climb. But when you‘ve come this far, around 1100 km, not finishing doesn‘t come into it.
No, I do not expect the climb to be easy, but I don‘t expect it to be this hard either. My guide book shows the pointy summit of Mount Nyotai. That‘s ok – I can do steep! When the path turns into a vertical sheet of mountain rubble, however, I wonder if I‘ve gone the right way. Nothing has been this dangerous so far. A false move could be serious.
I talk to my legs. It will get easier soon. We can do this! But my legs are okay. It‘s vertigo that hits as my poncho flaps around. I have not got the security underfoot to stand and remove it. Each step must be carefully orchestrated; there is not always space for your foot. I climb like an animal.
There are no henro around for support. Of course not. One is meant to be alone for the finale. An element of surprise suddenly comes over me as I become cognisant of what I am actually doing! But dwelling on the craziness won‘t help.
Step by carefully determined step. If I can do this, I can do anything.
There’s a book at the top to write in, but I don’t care to spend long at the summit. I am rattled and not amused.
The descent is long and steep, what else could it be! The final kilometre is a painstaking hour. The rain is perfect.
Distant below, the temple bell sounds, finally a sign of human life. Yet I arrive to a nearly deserted temple. It‘s late. There is no friendly face to say congratulations, no trumpet fanfare. Raindrops and birdsong are the only sounds. An entirely personal moment just for oneself.
I did it. I can’t believe I actually did it.
How do I feel?
Somehow… empty! Is this what Nirvana feels like? Nothingness? Indifference?
From the top of the steps I absorb the landscape, stunningly beautiful. I don‘t even know where to head first. But of course, to rinse my hands and ring the bell. I know the drill. I write my final nameslip and walk over to the grand statue of Kobo Daishi.
I look him long in the eye.
Strong voice, I chant the heart sutra at this ultimate temple, but before the last line my voice cracks and tears flow.
The calligrapher does not permit me to photograph her making the final entry in my book, so I follow every swish of the inky brush before bowing and leaving for my mountain accommodation.
The mood is the same for my fellow pilgrims. Bathed and quiet, we raise a beer glass and enjoy our quiet community.
What has this henro done to me?
The journey is not over yet.
X
.
Marion Gibson 