Sakura may hog the press...


20th March 2010


...but it's worth remembering that plum and peach trees can look like this.















































Winter and spring in the same frame.

Let a hundred coaches zoom


19th March 2010




Sakura season has begun. Here's an earlyish one out of the gate at Kodaiji.

Spring until further notice


24th February 2010


Today was Carry Your Coat Day.

I wasn't aware of it until I went outside and saw people with coats slung over their arms or dangling from their hands.

Some may think that this is what happens when you've dressed for winter and the weather suddenly decides to do spring.

Not true. Carry Your Coat Day actually has its roots in an old custom. In the past, to welcome the arrival of spring - warm weather as opposed to the spring solstice when it was probably still freezing - people would take off a layer of clothing. A sign of their desire to get closer to the new season, as it were.

But spring wouldn't realise what they'd done if they simply took off their coats, jackets, haori or michiyuki and left them at home. Hence the custom of walking around while carrying your outerwear.

If you find yourself in Japan on Carry Your Coat Day, why not engage in an ancient folkway? Take off your coat - only your coat, mind, let's not get law enforcement officers involved - and carry it.

With little effort, you too can be part of Japanese culture.

My pleasure


14th February 2010


First of all, to my Chinese readers and any reader celebrating with the Chinese this new year, gong hei fatt choy, xin nian kuai le, huat ah!

I'm going to do something a little different today: I'm going to explain myself. It's not something I usually do but because this is the new year and I've eaten far more pineapple tarts than someone running a low-grade fever should, I will.

It's the pineapple tarts talking. I may take down this post once they stop.

But for now, this is what they're saying:

I've been writing about Japan for almost three years now and one comment I hear fairly often is that the pieces are...different. Or if the other person's being blunt, strange.

And I don't mind that at all. I would like to know why people feel that way though (if you have any ideas about this, the comment section's all yours).

More than one reader has said that the columns don't seem to fit into the Review section of The Straits Times, which is where they appear every fortnight. The Review pages are for commentaries, where writers put forward an argument - and argue it out.

I've gone over some of the columns I've written and the closest thing some of them have to an argument? "Buses are nice." Or "flowers are nice". Or if I'm on a roll, "Flowers are really nice".

Different and, to be blunt, strange.

So what am I doing?

I'm answering this now to try to make it clearer for myself and to make sure I don't lose my way in easy jokes and easier opinions.

At their best, these pieces do not offer points of view; they are points of view. They do not express argument; they embody it. In the bones of the best of them are ideas that I have jumped on, shaken, dug my nails into when life bit and I would not cry out. The ideas left are those that did not break. As long as they are lived rather than just believed, those pieces can be written.

I do not bring opinions to the table; I build rooms out of them. If you would know what they are, look under the wallpaper, in the wood grain of the table, in the air that stirs when you enter.

I do this not because I believe there's anything wrong with pieces that state and argue with nothing up the writer's sleeve - they're efficient ways of sharing ideas and, done well, offer much pleasure.

But statement and argument and information speak to the mind, to habits - some would say, prejudices - of thought.

And we are more than creatures of mind.

To the part of you not much used to being addressed, I will speak for as long as I can.

I do not seek to change your mind and I know I cannot change you. All I can do is create spaces where you can, if you choose, speak to the self you seldom see - or to the self you're hoping to see though you're a little hazy on what that self looks like.

Making spaces. Making space. That's all.

If you will allow me, let me do this for you.

Toshiya (通し矢) at Sanjusangendo


5th February 2010


Every year in January, an unusual archery competition is held on the grounds of Sanjusangendo, a temple in the south of Kyoto.

The current form of the Toshiya contest is in its 60th year but it dates back to 1609, when archers competed at one end of the temple’s western veranda to send as many arrows as they could into the target 118m away. They shot for 24 hours from six o’clock in the evening, taking a quick break after every 500 arrows. The current record was set in 1686 by a man called Wasa Daihachiro. He fired 13,053 arrows of which 8,133 hit the target.

Today’s competition is held beside the famous veranda and the morning section is for archers who turned 20 in the past year and have achieved at least the level of shodan – the first rung of a 10-step ladder.





Putting on the shooting glove before the contest starts. The thumb is pressed lightly to the first two fingers while the strap is adjusted.






The average Japanese bow used today is 2.2m long. Without a wall or floor bracket, it takes two people to string it: one to hold the tip and the other to loop the string around the other end.




Two arrows are usually fired in one round for kyudo, or traditional Japanese archery.




Waiting to enter the shooting area. Ideally, the bow and arrows extend behind the archer at the same level - rather like unfurling wings.





The moment of full draw. In the background, the veranda where the original Toshiya competition took place.





While most of the male participants wear the practice gear of white gi and black hakama (wide, pleated trousers), some opt for kimono. Men shooting in kimono have to remove their left arm from the sleeve first. In winter, this is not fun.















The first arrow is shot while holding the second at a prescribed angle. It's harder than it looks.





The last of the male entrants with the first of the female competitors waiting behind.





Reason Why People Prefer To Photograph The Girls No.1
















Reason Why People Prefer To Photograph The Girls No.2




In a break from the regular gi and hakama, young female participants wear furisode - colourful kimono with sleeves draping down to the feet. The sleeves have to be tied back with a strip of cloth - tasuki - before the archer can shoot.




And after it's all over...

Herons for you, madam?


4th February 2010


If you have US$980 to spare, you may like to give these herons a good home.

Let's settle this like men


1st February 2010


Another frozen day at the dojo: stiff shoulders, numb hands and breath puffing out white.

But around 7pm, two cheesecakes appeared. They were ceremoniously sliced and everyone was invited to help themselves.

There was a catch though: you couldn't just take a slice from one of the cakes; you had to eat both.

Two boys from the dojo had each baked a cake and after eating, you had to say which you thought was better.

This is the Way of the Warrior - sometimes, you face down your opponent with a sword. Sometimes, with a bow. And sometimes, with cream cheese, double cream, sugar, crushed biscuits and yoghurt.

Of course, some would say that the only opponent you face is yourself but the main thing is to keep the cake coming.

How do you know?


25th January 2010


A friend is wondering if she should quit a steady job to do something different and a little crazy.

Someone who knows us both asked how I knew I was ready to leave when I did the same thing about three years ago.

But the thing is, you'll never be ready. If you're trying to tell stories, you'll end up breaking more things than you build because humanity is huge and anything you make to hold it will crack. Our hands never seem big enough or wise enough. And there never seems to be enough savings in the bank.

So it's not a question of readiness at all. It's a question of whether you want to.

Do you?

Winter weather update


16th January 2010


Just how cold is it in Kyoto right now?

Well, the other night, I took my clothes off to have a shower. And started sneezing.

That cold.

Hatsu haircut


4th January 2010


The first haircut of the year. The hairdresser wasn't young but seemed strangely nervous, dropping the comb twice. Each time, a burst of shaky patter after he picked it up.

When he switched on the razor, I stopped breathing.

But nothing except hair was cut off. So say hello to the new me.
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Wishing you light in dark places


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Autumn leaves and not-urinals


28th November 2009


Kyoto's November is lovely but Kyoto has been around for centuries and news of that loveliness has got out.

Kyoto's November is crowds and coach buses.

Still, there are a few spots left where you can find autumn colours and take a picture of them without the population of Greater Tokyo - last seen in your sakura photos - appearing as well.

Seiryo-ji, better known as Saga Shakado, in the west of Kyoto is not on the list of famous momiji temples so it doesn't have the profusion of maples that, say, Tofukuji does.

But it has a great garden, intriguing angles and enough quiet for you to think (or not think, if you practise Zen) even in the height of the fall frenzy.





















An Edo-period stone garden (karesansui). Not, as you may first think, a urinal that fell over.


But some of the best sights are not to be found at your destination but along the way. Like this gentleman looking out at the world from the walls of his garden.
























And these friendly faces near an Arashiyama bus stop.