1st January 2010
明けましておめでとうございます。今年もよろしくお願いいたします。
Okera mairi at Yasaka Jinja, a popular shrine in Gion.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
Bakumatsu arc: Progress report
26th December, 2009
Finally finished a 4,000-word epic on Sakamoto Ryoma. I now have to cut it down to about 1,000 words so it'll fit in the papers. But not tonight. It's past 3am so I shall just file away the sea of notes, excavate my bed out from under the history books and then fall into it.
Good night.
26th December, 2009
Finally finished a 4,000-word epic on Sakamoto Ryoma. I now have to cut it down to about 1,000 words so it'll fit in the papers. But not tonight. It's past 3am so I shall just file away the sea of notes, excavate my bed out from under the history books and then fall into it.
Good night.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Falling with grace
Christmas Eve, 2009
I wasn't going to post this but since this is the season of giving, here's a piece about a gift. And one more mystifying than three wise men popping up in a maternity ward. (The companion post is below.)
...
Mukai Kyorai was a poet with a plan.
In the garden of his cottage on the outskirts of Kyoto city were 40 persimmon trees. Their branches were hung with fruit ripening orange but he couldn’t possibly eat it all. And since fruit preserves had not been discovered in 17th century Japan, he couldn’t make jam either.
So he promised to sell the persimmons to a merchant from the city, receiving payment in advance. But that night, a storm blew up and in the darkness of his cottage, Kyorai heard things smacking the roof and plopping to the ground.
The next day, when the merchant returned, Kyorai was forced to give him his money back because most of the persimmons had fallen in the storm.
Kyorai does not seem to have been upset. He got a poem out of the experience and, because the storm had stripped the tree branches bare, a clear view of a nearby mountain. Some say he even achieved enlightenment.
In any case, he renamed his cottage Rakushisha – House of Fallen Persimmons – and an 18th century reconstruction still stands in the Saga district of Kyoto today. Many of those who visit are drawn by the connection with haiku giant Matsuo Basho: Kyorai was one of his chief disciples and played host to his teacher there.
But the story behind the hut’s name also catches at the mind because it overturns our expectations of how things should play out. The prospect of profit, a sudden storm and a destroyed crop: it should all end badly.
Underlying these expectations is the belief that nothing good can come from a fall. This belief is hardwired in the words we speak: ‘a fallen woman’, ‘fall into enemy hands’, ‘fall in battle’, ‘drop in sales’, ‘plummeting rankings’. To fall is to succumb to temptation or attack, to lose status, popularity or money. To fall is to become less.
Many of these expressions are found in Japanese and English. And they share another one: in both languages, you encounter love by falling in it. You don’t dance, skip or jump into love – you fall. Even if you land safely, the choice of words still betrays dismay at the powerlessness felt.
Our evolution – both as individuals and a species – is geared towards walking upright. If all goes well, we graduate from toddling to walking to running and to riding a bike. Falling is what happens when we fail. If we fall hard enough and in the wrong place, it ends in mud and blood.
This may explain our prejudice against the act, a prejudice revealed in yet another expression: fall from grace – a loss of someone’s good opinion.
Yet there is a different kind of grace though it also involves a fall. This is favour we have not earned, a gift that comes not because of something we have done or are expected to do but entirely because of the nature of the giver.
Landing like a fist in the gut, it knocks us off our feet. We build relationships and societies on ideas of reciprocity and contract. But to grace, our considered balances and agreements, spoken and unspoken, are a house of cards. It smiles – and blows.
So mystifying is grace that it is usually left to the divine. In human hands, giving is something that must be justified. If a present appears at an occasion other than a birthday or holiday, so will these words: ‘What’s this for?’
In human hands, giving must be explained, even if it’s with something as simple as ‘I saw this and thought of you’.
Gifts for no apparent reason terrify: like shopping with a credit card for things without price tags – you can’t relax until you’ve seen the size of the bill.
Not even charity comes close to grace. When you donate money, you expect it to be spent in certain ways rather than on, say, lap dancers. But grace gives much and asks nothing, not even a thank you.
How then to respond? You can always say, no thanks, and walk away. You can take grace for granted, which is accepting with your eyes closed. Or you can keep your eyes open and with hands held steady, receive.
But the last option is also the hardest because it means being prepared to fall. Like a storm that brings down promised persimmons, grace upsets expectations. Will you, like Kyorai the poet, then be able to step off the path of logical action and accustomed thought? Without knowing what lies at the bottom – it could be a poem, a view of a mountain, enlightenment or none of them – could you dive into the dark?
If your foot goes to the edge of the path then hesitates, it may be too soon for that final plunge. Practise with a less demanding tumble, a kind of Grace Lite.
It’s something easily found in the natural world and there’s a particularly nice example in the mountains northwest of Kyoto city. The Iwato Ochiba shrine is tiny, like the remote community it serves, but soaring gingko trees tower over it and in late autumn, they shower the shrine with yellow, fan-shaped leaves.
The moss and flagstones disappear under the gilt and the little wooden stage in the centre of the shrine floats in a sea of yellow.
I try to leave a donation but the access to the main building is closed off and the shrine deserted. Asked for nothing, giving nothing, I still walk on gold.
The wind breathes out and more gold leaf drifts down. It’s a fall that comes from grace – a fall, if you like, from grace.
Christmas Eve, 2009
I wasn't going to post this but since this is the season of giving, here's a piece about a gift. And one more mystifying than three wise men popping up in a maternity ward. (The companion post is below.)
...
Mukai Kyorai was a poet with a plan.
In the garden of his cottage on the outskirts of Kyoto city were 40 persimmon trees. Their branches were hung with fruit ripening orange but he couldn’t possibly eat it all. And since fruit preserves had not been discovered in 17th century Japan, he couldn’t make jam either.
So he promised to sell the persimmons to a merchant from the city, receiving payment in advance. But that night, a storm blew up and in the darkness of his cottage, Kyorai heard things smacking the roof and plopping to the ground.
The next day, when the merchant returned, Kyorai was forced to give him his money back because most of the persimmons had fallen in the storm.
Kyorai does not seem to have been upset. He got a poem out of the experience and, because the storm had stripped the tree branches bare, a clear view of a nearby mountain. Some say he even achieved enlightenment.
In any case, he renamed his cottage Rakushisha – House of Fallen Persimmons – and an 18th century reconstruction still stands in the Saga district of Kyoto today. Many of those who visit are drawn by the connection with haiku giant Matsuo Basho: Kyorai was one of his chief disciples and played host to his teacher there.
But the story behind the hut’s name also catches at the mind because it overturns our expectations of how things should play out. The prospect of profit, a sudden storm and a destroyed crop: it should all end badly.
Underlying these expectations is the belief that nothing good can come from a fall. This belief is hardwired in the words we speak: ‘a fallen woman’, ‘fall into enemy hands’, ‘fall in battle’, ‘drop in sales’, ‘plummeting rankings’. To fall is to succumb to temptation or attack, to lose status, popularity or money. To fall is to become less.
Many of these expressions are found in Japanese and English. And they share another one: in both languages, you encounter love by falling in it. You don’t dance, skip or jump into love – you fall. Even if you land safely, the choice of words still betrays dismay at the powerlessness felt.
Our evolution – both as individuals and a species – is geared towards walking upright. If all goes well, we graduate from toddling to walking to running and to riding a bike. Falling is what happens when we fail. If we fall hard enough and in the wrong place, it ends in mud and blood.
This may explain our prejudice against the act, a prejudice revealed in yet another expression: fall from grace – a loss of someone’s good opinion.
Yet there is a different kind of grace though it also involves a fall. This is favour we have not earned, a gift that comes not because of something we have done or are expected to do but entirely because of the nature of the giver.
Landing like a fist in the gut, it knocks us off our feet. We build relationships and societies on ideas of reciprocity and contract. But to grace, our considered balances and agreements, spoken and unspoken, are a house of cards. It smiles – and blows.
So mystifying is grace that it is usually left to the divine. In human hands, giving is something that must be justified. If a present appears at an occasion other than a birthday or holiday, so will these words: ‘What’s this for?’
In human hands, giving must be explained, even if it’s with something as simple as ‘I saw this and thought of you’.
Gifts for no apparent reason terrify: like shopping with a credit card for things without price tags – you can’t relax until you’ve seen the size of the bill.
Not even charity comes close to grace. When you donate money, you expect it to be spent in certain ways rather than on, say, lap dancers. But grace gives much and asks nothing, not even a thank you.
How then to respond? You can always say, no thanks, and walk away. You can take grace for granted, which is accepting with your eyes closed. Or you can keep your eyes open and with hands held steady, receive.
But the last option is also the hardest because it means being prepared to fall. Like a storm that brings down promised persimmons, grace upsets expectations. Will you, like Kyorai the poet, then be able to step off the path of logical action and accustomed thought? Without knowing what lies at the bottom – it could be a poem, a view of a mountain, enlightenment or none of them – could you dive into the dark?
If your foot goes to the edge of the path then hesitates, it may be too soon for that final plunge. Practise with a less demanding tumble, a kind of Grace Lite.
It’s something easily found in the natural world and there’s a particularly nice example in the mountains northwest of Kyoto city. The Iwato Ochiba shrine is tiny, like the remote community it serves, but soaring gingko trees tower over it and in late autumn, they shower the shrine with yellow, fan-shaped leaves.
The moss and flagstones disappear under the gilt and the little wooden stage in the centre of the shrine floats in a sea of yellow.
I try to leave a donation but the access to the main building is closed off and the shrine deserted. Asked for nothing, giving nothing, I still walk on gold.
The wind breathes out and more gold leaf drifts down. It’s a fall that comes from grace – a fall, if you like, from grace.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
極落、極落: House of fallen persimmons, shrine of fallen leaves
18th December 2009
Rakushisha (落柿舎) is one of those attractions where people hover at the threshold, wondering if the place will be worth the entrance fee.
This is what you can see of the hermitage from the outside in autumn: persimmon trees, maple leaves and a thatched roof.
Fans of Matsuo Basho don't hesitate. Even if the current Rakushisha is a reconstruction, the original was visited by the poet three times and that connection is enough for them.
You may not be able to read the poems on the wooden plaques hung in the garden or carved on the stones. But lines in wood need no translation.
And sunlight is a universal language.
If you feel like writing a haiku, there is paper for you.
The owner of Rakushisha, poet Mukai Kyorai, probably won't read it seeing as he died in 1704. But a raincoat and hat are hung from a wall to show that the owner is in.
So you never know.
On the other hand, there is no entrance fee for Iwato Ochiba Jinja (岩戸落葉神社), a tiny mountain shrine northwest of Kyoto city. Some say that the shrine used to be called Ochikawa shrine but became known as Ochiba Jinja - the fallen leaves shrine.
In late autumn, the gingko trees soaring over the shrine shed gold leaf all over the grounds.
The leaves fill the stone basin where worshippers purify their hands and mouth.
And among the gingko, some maple too. Autumn in Kyoto wouldn't be the same without it.
18th December 2009
Rakushisha (落柿舎) is one of those attractions where people hover at the threshold, wondering if the place will be worth the entrance fee.
This is what you can see of the hermitage from the outside in autumn: persimmon trees, maple leaves and a thatched roof.
Fans of Matsuo Basho don't hesitate. Even if the current Rakushisha is a reconstruction, the original was visited by the poet three times and that connection is enough for them.
You may not be able to read the poems on the wooden plaques hung in the garden or carved on the stones. But lines in wood need no translation.
And sunlight is a universal language.
If you feel like writing a haiku, there is paper for you.
The owner of Rakushisha, poet Mukai Kyorai, probably won't read it seeing as he died in 1704. But a raincoat and hat are hung from a wall to show that the owner is in.
So you never know.
On the other hand, there is no entrance fee for Iwato Ochiba Jinja (岩戸落葉神社), a tiny mountain shrine northwest of Kyoto city. Some say that the shrine used to be called Ochikawa shrine but became known as Ochiba Jinja - the fallen leaves shrine.
In late autumn, the gingko trees soaring over the shrine shed gold leaf all over the grounds.
The leaves fill the stone basin where worshippers purify their hands and mouth.
And among the gingko, some maple too. Autumn in Kyoto wouldn't be the same without it.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Photos for the Tooth Fairy crowd
15th December 2009
People may be coming to this site. I can't tell because the gnome whose job it is to track blog visitors has not showed up for work for a few days. I suspect that it's because I did Something Technological.
So the presence of site visitors has become hard to prove - rather like verifying the existence of the Tooth Fairy. But here are some photos for those who may or may not be here.
Before the Arashiyama Hanatouro light-up, I found a pyramid of turnip outside a pickle shop.
Then the lights came on in the bamboo forest.
It was cold enough to see my own breath, which meant that this hawker did a brisk trade in hot sweet potato snacks, mitarashi dango and other things on sticks. Cocoa, as the sign says, costs 200 yen a cup. There didn't seem to be any turnips on sticks though.
15th December 2009
People may be coming to this site. I can't tell because the gnome whose job it is to track blog visitors has not showed up for work for a few days. I suspect that it's because I did Something Technological.
So the presence of site visitors has become hard to prove - rather like verifying the existence of the Tooth Fairy. But here are some photos for those who may or may not be here.
Before the Arashiyama Hanatouro light-up, I found a pyramid of turnip outside a pickle shop.
Then the lights came on in the bamboo forest.
It was cold enough to see my own breath, which meant that this hawker did a brisk trade in hot sweet potato snacks, mitarashi dango and other things on sticks. Cocoa, as the sign says, costs 200 yen a cup. There didn't seem to be any turnips on sticks though.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Lights in the mountain, lights in the bamboo
7th December 2009
If you're in Kyoto this week or the next, don't miss the Arashiyama Hanatouro. The light-up in the west of the city covers about 5.2km of waterfront, bamboo forest and ikebana-lined trails.
The place will probably be heaving with people if you go on the weekends but at least the crowds will keep you warm.
7th December 2009
If you're in Kyoto this week or the next, don't miss the Arashiyama Hanatouro. The light-up in the west of the city covers about 5.2km of waterfront, bamboo forest and ikebana-lined trails.
The place will probably be heaving with people if you go on the weekends but at least the crowds will keep you warm.
Friday, December 04, 2009
A word from the blogger
4th December 2009
I, er, appear to have done Something Technological. Er.
You may notice that the blog is looking a little different. Believe me, I'm surprised too and I was the one doing the clicking.
And if you like to click on buttons, there's a new one here for you. Look for the word 'Follow' at the top of the blog then finger + mouse.
Good things may happen. If nothing else, there's safety in numbers.
4th December 2009
I, er, appear to have done Something Technological. Er.
You may notice that the blog is looking a little different. Believe me, I'm surprised too and I was the one doing the clicking.
And if you like to click on buttons, there's a new one here for you. Look for the word 'Follow' at the top of the blog then finger + mouse.
Good things may happen. If nothing else, there's safety in numbers.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
A walk in the woods
3rd December 2009
The road in to Shimogamo Jinja runs through a forest. It runs long and straight: long enough so you do not approach lightly and straight enough for you to gather arrow intent as you move to the shrine.
Through the gateway after the place of purification.
And inside:
Autumn left in glorious tatters.
3rd December 2009
The road in to Shimogamo Jinja runs through a forest. It runs long and straight: long enough so you do not approach lightly and straight enough for you to gather arrow intent as you move to the shrine.
Through the gateway after the place of purification.
And inside:
Autumn left in glorious tatters.
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