Confessions of a Japanese Temple Gardener: (P.S – Who's from London, England)

by Ben Stevens

  He’s just about to leave, to take one of his jaunts around the mountainside – and as he goes he says ‘Ittekimasu.’

  This literally means ‘I go and return’, and is said every day by people leaving the family home, or workplace.

  (Upon one’s return, it is customary to announce ‘Tadaiima’ – ‘I’m home’, basically.)

  I briefly wonder why on Earth TOMotM said it; and then I realize…

  He was, of course, talking to his wife – whom he’ll one day join, inside the tomb.

  And so the life goes on.

  Priestly Baseball Talk at a Chinese Temple

  In the year 467 BC, it is told of how five monks from the ancient kingdom of Gandhara – located in parts of today’s northern Pakistan and eastern Afghanistan – travelled to Fusang (in Chinese ‘Country of the extreme East’ – i.e. present-day Japan), and introduced Buddhism.

  These five holy men advised all and sundry they met that they should do such noble things as ‘…relinquish all worldly attachments…’

  For this reason, perhaps, the monks did not encounter the warmest of receptions. This new religion was largely unwanted, and so the inhabitants of Fusang continued just to practice their pagan-style nature worship for the next few hundred years…

  Then in AD 552, the leader of a small Korean kingdom sent ‘Yamato’ – as ‘Fusang’ was now known – a golden statue of Buddha. The leader of the Korean kingdom also gave an effusive recommendation of Buddhism, stating: ‘This doctrine is among all doctrines the most excellent. But it is hard to explain, and hard to understand...’ (He got that last bit right, anyway.)

  Slowly, Buddhism began to coexist alongside Shinto – Japan’s pagan religion that saw kami or gods existing in everything from the sun and the moon right through to an impressive-looking rock or waterfall…

  But then a particularly nasty plague afflicted Yamato. Blamed on this newfangled religion – i.e. the people were being punished by their gods for having accepted this ‘hard to understand’ doctrine of a foreign country – the golden statue of Buddha was unceremoniously dumped in a river and the temple that had housed it burnt to the ground.

  Really, it was the Chinese monks who later made the perilous sea-crossing to Japan that helped spread Buddhism the length and breadth of that ‘Country of the extreme East’.

  Indeed, so dangerous was the journey (it’s told of how some monks had to wait literally years before they could sail to – or indeed return from – Japan) that those who made it established temples where prayers could be said for those who were about to make the voyage themselves.

  Two statues could commonly be seen at such temples, and were usually located by the main altar. Depicting a couple of ‘Buddhist demons’ (fanged teeth, heavily muscled and with bulging eyes and aggressive expressions – but good guys nonetheless), one such statue shielded his eyes with his hands, as though to block out the sun as he forever squints into the distance. While another ‘cupped’ one hand to his ear, as though listening intently to something.

  These demons were, in fact a) observing the faithful who were making the sea voyage, and b) listening to their prayers for a safe journey. Sort of like the ‘patron saints’ of the sea-going wayfarers, as it were…

  Two such statues can be seen today, at Nagasaki’s ‘Kofukuji’ temple. It’s just a short walk from Daionji, along Oteramachi (‘Temple Street’.)

  Established around 1620, when priests, monks and also merchants began arriving in Nagasaki from Ming Dynasty China, it has two huge vermillion-color wooden doors that are open during the day.

  Inside its grounds, it consists of several, classically ‘Chinese’-style buildings. These are also colored various shades of red: a common color of Chinese temples and shrines – even restaurants and bars.

  A Zen temple, Kofukuji’s second Abbot Mokusu Nyojo is credited with having ‘built’ – although presumably not just by himself – Nagasaki’s famous Meganebashi or ‘Spectacles Bridge’ in 1634. (So-called because its two arches, when reflected in the water which teems with koi and turtles, resemble a pair of spectacles.)

  Meganebashi is Japan’s oldest stone-built arched bridge. Virtually destroyed by a disastrous flood on July 23, 1982 – in which a number of people lost their lives – most of its stones were subsequently salvaged, allowing it to be rebuilt in the original style.

  In fact, a number of Kofukuji’s Abbots are credited with having achieved great things, during their tenure at the temple. These include the third Abbot Itsunen, who it is somewhat vaguely claimed introduced a ‘new style’ of Chinese painting to Japan.

  Rather overshadowing that, however, are the multiple achievements of Zen Master Ingen. Coming from China in 1654, he stayed as Abbot of Kofukuji for one year, during which time he apparently ‘…greatly influenced Japanese architecture, sculpture, painting, writing, tea and cooking…’

  (I’m quoting from the leaflet that is given to all visitors to Kofukuji, once they’ve entered through the open doors of the main gate and paid the three hundred yen entrance charge.)

  As though that wasn’t enough, he is also reputed to have introduced the humble kidney bean to Japan. Although, it’s probably more for his other achievements that the Emperor Gomizunoh bestowed upon him the rather impressive moniker Daiko Fusho Kokushi – ‘Teacher of the Nation of Great Light that Always Shines’.

  Taking a gentle stroll around Kofukuji, admiring the ornate glass lantern that is inside the main hall, noticing the fish-shaped wooden drum that used to be struck with a beater to call the monks to meals, it comes as something of a surprise to suddenly find yourself standing looking down at a deep wooden coffin.

  A notice beside the coffin provides an explanation. Apparently, it ‘…was an important Chinese custom to have their own coffin built for them while they were still in good health so to pray for perpetual youth and longevity, welfare of the family and harmless life…’(sic)

  Ignoring the part about ‘welfare of the family’ and ‘harmless life’ for a moment, I can’t help but think that praying to the coffin that will one day (all going to plan) contain your corpse, for ‘perpetual youth and longevity’, is a little self-defeating.

  Maybe I’m just being cynical…

  Anyway, I’ve come to Kofukuji temple today to attend a sort of mixed tea ceremony/get-together of some priests from nearby temples.

  Not that I’m any sort of priest – just a humble gaijin temple gardener – but my brother-in-law Taigi, who is the priest of Daionji, very kindly got me on the ‘guest list’, as he knew this would be an interesting experience for a book-writing foreigner.

  We assemble in a traditional tatami room, which is nicely warmed by a large stove in one corner. Outside of the window, the afternoon is already slowly beginning to darken. There is the threat of snow on the icy wind.

  A young, gently-smiling monk silently prepares the matcha – high-quality, ‘thick’ green tea – and then hands it out to us in individual bowls.

  During a traditional ‘tea ceremony’, conversation is really meant to be kept to a minimum. You are instead supposed to do such things as take notice of your surroundings – maybe there is a nice pond outside of the tea room, as at Daionji, or an interesting piece of calligraphy on a scroll hanging from one wall.

  Alternatively, you can listen to the soft patter of rain on the roof or against the window, or reflect upon the fact that the ‘pioneer’ of the tea ceremony – one Sen no Rikyu – was ultimately ordered by his feudal lord Toyotomi Hideyoshi to commit ritual suicide, aged seventy.

  Although, after Sen no Rikyu had obligingly killed himself by performing seppuku, Toyotomi apparently confessed regret for the order he’d given. (The reason for which remains slightly unclear, although the daimyo – feudal lord – was well-known for flying into a frightful temper at the drop of a hat.)

  Before killing himself, according to legend, Sen no Rikyu arranged an exquisite tea ceremony for himself and a few close friends, and shortly afterwards composed h
is jisei or ‘death-poem’.

  Welcome to thee

  O sword of Eternity

  Through Buddha

  And through Daruma alike

  Thou hast cleft thy way

  …But in any case, today’s event is far more a get-together/informal meeting of some local priests, than it is a strictly traditional tea ceremony. They know all about this particular ceremony already – quite frankly, they’ve done it to death.

  So instead, they chill out slightly as they drink their matcha. They start by talking about baseball. Several of them are in a team together. They’re good; they won the Nagasaki non-professional championships just the previous year. My brother-in-law – a member of the team, and a mean pitcher – is obliged to attend a 5.30 a.m. practice session twice weekly.

  Another priest, and member of the baseball team, runs a small temple that’s close to Nagasaki’s ‘Chinatown’. His apartment, above the temple’s main hall, is positively a shrine to baseball. There are baseball shirts of assorted teams (Japanese and American) pinned to the walls, various bats inscribed with logos and signatures, caps, flags, banners, posters – even a life-size mannequin wearing a full outfit.

  ‘So you don’t much like baseball, then?’ I observed, upon entering his apartment for the first time.

  The priest looked at me curiously – even with a little suspicion. ‘Dry’ or ‘deadpan’ humor doesn’t really work in Japanese. Or at least, so I’ve found – maybe I’m just not very funny…

  Japanese comedy tends to involve copious amounts of ‘slapstick’ – shouting, falling over, being slapped about the head or kicked up the backside; that sort of thing. Or else, contrastingly, delicate and extremely clever wordplay, that is way beyond my level of Japanese comprehension.

  Anyway, this baseball-loving priest – who is also a very nice man – wasn’t quite sure how to take my ‘observation’.

  ‘Baseball is my… life,’ he finally informed me, with some gravity.

  The priests who are members of the baseball team discuss their plans for the following year. The other priests and I listen politely. But the room is very warm and cozy. I start to feel myself nodding.

  Whatever I thought I’d experience by coming to this temple today, I didn’t think it would be a bunch of Buddhist priests talking animatedly about baseball…

  …Then I realize that the subject of the conversation has actually changed. The priests are now noting their shared surprise at how many funerals they’re having to conduct lately.

  ‘It will only get busier,’ declares one priest despondently, looking out of the window at the low December sky. ‘I hear that the temperature’s really set to drop.’

  ‘The cold weather always… Well, you know – the elderly…’ notes another priest delicately.

  Actually, giving funerals is one of my brother-in-law Taigi’s least favorite parts of his job. In fact, it’s probably fair to say that he really doesn’t like it at all. This relates to the fact that before the funeral, he has to go and say prayers at the ‘bedside’ of whoever it is that has died.

  Maybe this person met a ‘messy’ end, and so is not at all pleasant to look at. (I’m certainly not trying to be ‘comical’ here – I just don’t know how else to put it…)

  Maybe they were dead for a few days before they were discovered – like the funeral my brother-in-law recently conducted for a middle-aged woman who hung herself in the basement of the small bar she ran, and was finally discovered by her son when it was realized that her establishment had been mysteriously closed for a while…

  Taigi has the strong-smelling ointment that people who conduct postmortems sometimes have to apply under their noses. He most commonly needs it in summer. He says that the stench of death still seems to linger in his robes several washes later.

  Just last year – during August, that insanely hottest month of the year – a man died and lay undiscovered for almost a week…

  His relatives then insisted that he have an ‘open-casket’ funeral…

  But worst of all for my brother-in-law – in fact I think for any priest – is the funeral of a child or young person. Especially if combined with any of the above factors.

  The raw agony of the parents. Trying to comfort them, to just somehow get them through it. With old people, usually, some tears – and yet a long life remembered, and many happy memories treasured.

  But a deceased child, who lived only a few short summers…

  It is often remarked upon, by some Japanese people, that priests and monks get paid a lot of money. Perhaps a little bit too much money. But, really, a priest’s job is not one I would do for any amount…

  Although, in recent years it has been much reported by the press that Buddhist priests and monks are beginning to feel the financial ‘pinch’. Certainly, some monks nowadays are obliged to have a second job – teaching being a popular choice.

  …The conversation moves on. A priest who I already know has a reputation for being a little kibishi (strict) is detailing how he’s recently been ‘harassed’ by a certain individual.

  ‘…This man came to me several times, seeking help with his depression,’ says the priest, with a sigh. ‘I tried to do what I could for him, but he refused to try and help himself. He just kept saying he was going to commit suicide. Finally, I became so exasperated that I said – “If you’re going to do it anyway, then you might as well just go and do it now.”’

  While I’m no priest, I’m still not sure that this dubious ‘reverse psychology’ is entirely appropriate to use on someone so desperate that they’re threatening to end their own life.

  From the slightly awkward silence that follows this declaration, I suspect I may not be the only one with such an opinion.

  The oldest priest of the group – perhaps a little over fifty – clears his throat to speak.

  ‘I had a man come to me once,’ he says, in a soft voice. (Buddhist priests and monks tend to try and speak as gently as possible, in order to avoid straining the voices they require for lengthy chanting sessions.)

  ‘This man,’ continues the priest, ‘had gone up to the mountains in order to hang himself. He did so from the branch of one tree – but just as he was losing consciousness, the branch broke and he fell to the ground.

  ‘He said that it was a miracle sent by Hotoke-sama.’

  (This is one of the Japanese names for ‘Buddha’).

  The priest falls silent for a moment; then, ‘Was it really? I don’t know; I doubt it. But the man never tried suicide again; I still see him sometimes now. He looks happy enough.’

  Another priest now gently steers the conversation onto more practical matters – forthcoming services that several or even all of them will be attending at various temples – and I again lose the thread of the conversation.

  Finally, it is time to go. I bow and thank the head-priest of Kofukuji for his hospitality. He laughs and asks me when I’m going to find time to come and cut this temple’s bushes.

  It’s a joke he makes on the (infrequent) occasions we happen to meet – but I’d love to. Kofukuji is old, smoky and just a little gloomy; and yet I find the place fascinating. I believe it employs outside gardeners, anyway: its grounds are always very well tended.

  Taigi and I leave the temple and walk along Oteramachi. I thank my worthy Buddhist head-priest bro’-in-law for bringing me here today, and offer to buy us both ramen. This is Chinese-style noodles, commonly served in a meat broth with sliced pork and green onion toppings. It’s very popular fast-food.

  There’s a good place near Shianbashi. We decide to go there.

  Fire! Fire!

  In autumn and winter, the tree-covered mountains which surround Nagasaki City are truly beautiful. In summer they are an almost universal lush green color, but in the colder seasons shades of red and orange also break out.

  The air as you walk up any such mountain is sharp; it almost hurts to breathe it. The groves of bamboo that you pass creak as they grow, and sway and moan mys
teriously in the wind.

  There is an amazing view, if you take the several hours necessary to scale some of the mountains enclosing Nagasaki harbor. Everything spread out below you, the vast blue water, perhaps several gigantic cruise liners and the sprawling Mitsubishi ship-plant.

  Maybe Thomas Glover (1838 – 1911), the entrepreneurial Scotsman who gave his name to Nagasaki’s ‘Glover Gardens’, and who eventually received the ‘Order of the Rising Sun’ from his adopted country, stood on this spot well over one hundred years before and surveyed vessels carrying his company’s merchandise arriving from, and embarking for, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Yokohama, Singapore…

  All the major ports of the Orient…

  …Meanwhile, stood on a slope a couple of miles away as the crow flies – and also overlooking Nagasaki harbor – is a large metal statue of Ryoma Sakamoto.

  Just last year it was officially ‘Ryoma Boom’ -time in Nagasaki, when the city celebrated its famous samurai son with a serious of exhibitions, films and even a several-mile long ‘walk’ the master swordsman was apparently fond of taking.

  Although, given that Sakamoto was born in Kochi on Japan’s Shikoku island, it might charitably be said that Nagasaki has somewhat ‘adopted’ the man who – due to his interest in all things nautical – is today known as the ‘Father of the Japanese Navy’.

  Much of what is featured in the films of Sakamoto’s life clearly owes more to the scriptwriters’ collective imagination than what actually occurred. However, Sakamoto’s insistence that Japan end its long period of self-isolation and open itself up to the West did expose him to considerable danger.

  In fact, the crumbling – but at the time still ruling – Tokugawa Shogunate tried to have him assassinated on at least one occasion – something that led to Sakamoto periodically ‘hiding out’, within the newly-built residence of his Scottish friend Thomas Glover.

  (Glover secretly – illegally – kept those samurai clans who supported Japan’s opening to the West supplied with guns and ammunition.)