Kyoto in Seventeen Syllables

Kyoto, it is said, embodies the spirit of Japan. Certainly, it is acclaimed as having the richest heritage. The statistics alone are impressive: almost two thousand Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, twenty percent of Japan’s official National Treasures, and seventeen UNESCO World Heritage sites. It boggles the mind. How can a visitor deal with such cultural largesse?

I would say: by reducing it to its poetic essence.

In the span of seventeen syllables, a haiku poem expresses the inexpressible. More than mere words, haiku is a way of experiencing the world: openly, attentively, receptively. It encourages us to pay attention, to make unorthodox connections, and to tolerate the ambiguous and enigmatic.

Shortly after I returned from a ten-day stay in Kyoto, a chaotic jumble of impressions and thoughts bewildered me. Try as I might, I could not come to grips with them. It was all too much. So I stopped trying.

With time and reflection, certain aspects of Kyoto emerged. Oddly enough, reading haiku, particularly the haiku of Kobayashi Issa, seemed to facilitate this process. And so I began to associate certain poems with certain memories, until they became intertwined, enriching each other.

This is not so surprising, perhaps. After all, Kyoto is above all things a city that is keenly aware of each passing season. What other place can you imagine having a "flower update" on its city web page to provide information on the latest local blossoms? The seasons most celebrated in Kyoto, of course, are spring and fall, with the famous cherry blossoms and maple leaves, respectively, but at any given time there are special festivals, celebrated seasonal foods, and a keen appreciation of that particular moment’s natural beauties.

In traditional haiku, too, there is always the kigo or word that symbolizes the season, such as the croaking frog for springtime or cicadas for summer. Haiku is equally rooted in the seasons.

But most of all, the aesthetic sensibility of Kyoto and haiku mesh. For haiku celebrates not the grand moments in life, but the everyday moments of "a-ha!" or awareness of fleeting pleasures. Carry this spirit to Kyoto, and you are sure to be richly rewarded.



Another year is gone
a traveler’s shade on my head
straw sandals at my feet.

(Matsuo Bashō, 1644-1694)

Quick Tips:

• Kyoto can be expensive, but there are ways to enjoy its traditional culture without spending a fortune. Try staying at a minshuku (similar to a B&B) rather than ryokan (high-class inn) or sample Buddhist temple fare rather than fancy kaiseki meals.
  
  
• Take advantage of Japan’s free "Goodwill Guide Service." You can set up a guide to accompany you around the city at the Tourist Information Center in Kyoto Station. You're expected to pay for your guide’s local transportation, admission to sites you visit, and meals, but in return you’ll experience the city for a day with a true insider.
  
  
• There'sa well-trodden tourist path that circulates among the "top" sites, such as the Golden Pavilion, the Silver Pavilion, the palace, Nijo castle, etc. I recommend visiting these places as early in the day as possible to avoid crowds.
  
  
• Furthermore, try to be selective about which temples you visit. If you plan to visit many, you’ll be surprised at how fast the costs mount up at ¥300-¥700 admission, plus you may find that one temple begins to look much like all the others after a half dozen or so.
  
  
• I found that many of the most charming areas lay on the outskirts of Kyoto. If you have time, plan to spend a day in Arashiyama, Ohara, or some other outlying area. You’ll find fewer tourists and plenty of scenic places to stroll.
  
  
• Keep in mind that while cash is preferred over credit cards, your bank card may not work at all ATMs. The ATMs at your arrival airport and the ones in Kyoto Station and the main post office are your best bets if you run low on cash.
  
  
• There’s a wealth of useful information on Kyoto available on the Internet at websites such as the Japan National Tourist Organization, the Kyoto Tourist and Convention Bureau, and the Official Kyoto Travel Guide.
  
  
• Finally, I can’t stress enough how much reading and preparation help in not only traveling comfortably in Japan but in gaining a greater appreciation for the places you visit. I’ve compiled a A Traveler’s Guide to Kyoto reading list at Amazon.com of useful and insightful books.
  
  
• Click here for my YouTube slideshow video of Kyoto.

What a perfect night
For doing almost nothing
Cool enough for a stroll.

(Kobayashi Issa, 1763-1827)

Best Way To Get Around:

Kyoto is easily reached by high-speed train from major cities such as Tokyo (2-1/2 hrs), Osaka (1/2 hr), or Nagoya (1 hr). You will arrive in ultra-modern and massive Kyoto Station – far more than just a train station as it incorporates a shopping mall, hotel, department store, restaurants, and cinemas. It is, frankly, a bit overwhelming, especially as you move between various train lines to the subway or buses. This station sketch map may be of help.

Taxis are expensive, but the city has a well developed transportation network of buses, trains, and subways. The north and south of the city are easily accessed by the Karasuma (green) subway line and the east and west by the Tozai (red) line. The two lines intersect at Karasuma Oike station in central Kyoto.

One- and two-day tourist transportation passes for buses, the subway, or both are sold at stations and tourist information centers. A one-day city bus card is ¥500, a one-day subway card is ¥600, and a "sightseeing" (combined) card is ¥1200 and includes a guide map and discount coupons for some museums, temples, and shops. A two-day sightseeing card is also available for ¥2000.

Five "tourist" bus routes ply popular areas of the city and can be used as self-guided hop-on/hop-off tours. I did find these buses to be rather crowded, however, at least on the popular Ginkaku-ji route. The Kyoto City Web has a helpful site with useful information about using city buses and a downloadable map of the major sightseeing routes.
Another popular way to get around by Kyoto is by bike. I meant to rent a bike and explore the central part of the city, which is relatively flat, but then ended up spending more time on the hillier outskirts of town. The helpful Kyoto Cycling Tour Project provides information on where to rent bikes and on enjoyable routes.

But the best way to get around, in my opinion, is on foot. Kyoto is a stroller’s paradise. JNTO’s website has downloadable "Kyoto Walks" that are useful for designing your own walking tour. Using one such map as a guide, I particularly enjoyed strolling along the bamboo-lined pathways of the Arashiyama area.


Slowly passing days,
with an echo heard here
in a corner of Kyoto.

(Yosa Buson, 1716-1784)

In my hut this spring,
There is nothing –
There is everything!

Yamaguchi Sodō (1642-1716)

In Saga, a northwestern suburb of Kyoto, haiku enthusiasts make pilgrimages to Rakushisha, "The Hut of the Fallen Persimmons." This unpretentious thatched hut was the home of Mukai Kyorai (1651-1704), one of ten disciples of Matsuo Bashō, the legendary poet. While Kyorai’s original cottage fell into ruin after his death, devotees of Bashō reconstructed the cottage, and it is this modest dwelling that one can visit today.

During Bashō’s day, Arashiyama was a remote mountainside area of pastoral charm. The haiku master visited Kyorai’s cottage on three occasions, enjoying visits to nearby temples and excursions on the river. During his second visit in 1691, he wrote The Saga Diary based on events and observations during his seventeen-day stay.

There is a curious story about how the Hut of the Fallen Persimmons got its name, and like many stories involving haiku poets, it has an unexpected twist or turn, much like haiku itself. It seems that Kyorai had a large grove of persimmon trees in his garden, and it was his custom to sell whatever fruit he could not eat himself. One autumn he had an exceptional persimmon crop, and the shiny orange fruit hung heavy on the trees. Kyorai made arrangements to sell the fruit to a local merchant, receiving a large sum in advance.

Alas, the very night before the harvest, a howling gale blew through Arashiyama (the name Arashiyama, in fact, means "stormy mountain"), and the crop was destroyed. Kyorai, who up until then had been feeling quite smug at his good fortune, had a moment of Zen enlightenment, or satori experience: he felt fate had intervened to teach him a lesson about the futility of striving after worldly gain. Mocking himself, he wrote the following haiku:

Master of Persimmons
treetops are close to
Arashiyama

After this incident, he always referred to his cottage as Rakushisha, the hut of the fallen persimmons. A few hundred meters from his cottage lies his humble gravestone, only 40cm high, with one word, "Kyorai," carved on its face.

Today his cottage is still evocative of the simplicity and humility that haiku poets seek. Everyday items, such as a pair of wooden zori left at the entrance, make it seem as if the hut’s owner has just taken them off and stepped inside. Throughout the garden there are numerous poem stones bearing the haiku of famous poets who have made pilgrimages to Rakushisha. One stone bears the poem Bashō wrote before departing on his second visit:

Summer rain
on the wall traces of
torn poem cards

A reference, no doubt, to the onset of the rainy season as he looked back fondly on all the haiku sessions he enjoyed with visitors there.

Certainly Bashō felt an attachment to the Rakushisha, for his Saga Diary concludes, "Tomorrow I leave the hut of the fallen persimmons and nostalgia hangs over my heart."

One of the most celebrated sights in Kyoto is confined to an area of a mere 30 x 78 feet. It consists of 15 rocks, white gravel, and some bits of moss. I am speaking, of course, of the famous 15th century karesansui (dry landscape garden) at Ryōan-ji, the Temple of the Peaceful Dragon.

Harold Stewart, in his book of seasonal poems and essays, By the Walls of Old Kyoto, devotes 32 densely written pages to a discussion of "The Metaphysics of the Stone Garden of Ryōan-ji," expounding at length upon the different interpretations of the famous garden and its spiritual significance. These include (but are not limited to) the stones representing islands and the raked pebbles waves in the sea, a tigress and her five cubs crossing a stream, boats leaving a harbor and sailing eastward in search of treasure, clouds floating across a summer sky, and my personal favorite, a dragon curled asleep with its "craggy spine upheaving from the deep."

But perhaps the most interesting analysis deals not with what the stones represent, but what the spaces between the stones represent. There is an underlying tension in the design that fascinates, particularly since there are 15 stones, but they are arranged in such a manner that only fourteen can be viewed at once. One stone is always hidden behind the others, regardless of where the viewer sits. It’s said the fifteenth stone will reveal itself only after long contemplation and (ultimately) spiritual enlightenment. In fact, one school of thought maintains that the original designer(s) of the garden constructed it as a kōan, a paradoxical problem given by a Zen master to his disciples.

As for me, I see no reason why the stones cannot represent a dragon (or anything else one might fancy) at the same time that they represent some deeper metaphysical ideal, while at the same time, stones are stones and gravel is gravel.

However, this being a haiku-inspired journal, I will let a poet have the final word:

Garden stones
all day long,
forever.

Takahama Kyoshi (1874-1959)

Now, as to the practicalities of visiting Ryōan-ji, let me caution that this garden receives more than its share of visitors, so if you’re seeking some solitude with the stones, it’s best to arrive before the main wave of tourists or perhaps come after the wave, but at all costs avoid the wave itself.

If the worst happens and you find yourself wedged between the megaphones of competing tour groups, do remember that there is much more to Ryōan-ji than this single (if sublime) garden. The temple grounds are extensive and include several subtemples, a large pond garden, a lovely moss garden adjacent to the rock garden, and an excellent yudofu restaurant at Seiginin (see separate review).

And, should a trip to Japan not be on your immediate horizon, Bowdoin College has developed quite a nice site with virtual tours of Kyoto’s most famous gardens, including this one.

Little shrine
with rice cakes, of course...
spring rain

Kobayashi Issa, 1818

In the Shinto religion, powerful spirits or kami abide in a multitude of natural objects such as mountains, waterfalls, and even exceptional people. There are innumerable kami, but the most important have shrines devoted to them, where people pay their respects and make offerings. One such kami is Inari, the deity of the rice harvest and (by extension) success and prosperity. As you can imagine, Inari is quite a popular figure, and about a third of Shinto shrines are devoted to him/her. (I equivocate as Inari is regarded as both male and female.)

Foxes are regarded as the messengers of Inari, and so at these shrines pairs of stone foxes or kitsune stand on either side of the gates and sometimes elsewhere on the temple grounds. Around the neck of the fox statues red votive bibs are placed, while often the fox figure bears a scroll or key (presumably to a granary) in its mouth.

Perhaps the most famous shrine to Inari is in Fushimi, an area of southeastern Kyoto easily reached by train. I took advantage of the "goodwill guide" service arranged at Kyoto’s Tourist Information Center to set up a visit there. The nice thing about this service is that it’s so flexible – itineraries are worked out between the guide and visitor (I spoke with my guide by phone the evening before we met). Not only that, but having someone on hand to explain local customs and provide travel guidance is invaluable.

My young guide, Genku, a student majoring in international studies at a local university, meets me at my hotel one morning and off we go, Genku threading his way effortlessly through the maze of subway and train tunnels that normally leave me bewildered. Immediately I sensed that this was a day I could afford to relax, with little worry about getting lost or not knowing what to expect. Genku, though diffident and at times struggling to express himself, is a treasure. In what seems like no time we arrive at Fushimi Inari.

A flight of stone steps lead up to the imposing gates of the shrine, and just inside is a pavilion with stone water basin and dipper cups for ritual washing of hands and mouth prior to entering the shrine. There is, of course, proper etiquette for this procedure, and Genku shows me the exact sequence of steps.

First, using the dipper, pour water over your left hand with the right hand holding the dipper. Then shift the dipper into the left hand and use it to rinse the right hand. Pour water into the cup of the right hand to rinse your mouth with. (Sometimes, he explained, the rinsing of the mouth can be omitted, but at any cost don’t drink from the dipper.) After this, rinse the dipper at the tap and set it back in place.

Properly cleansed, you are now ready to approach the haiden, the building where visitors worship. This is normally the largest building on the grounds of the shrine, and in front of it there will be a box for offerings and a rope attached to a bell. Approach the haiden from the side, to show modesty, rather than straight on.

It is necessary to alert the kami to your presence, and this is done by pulling on the rope to ring the bell. After this, bow deeply twice, clap hands twice, and bow once again. Make a wish or offer a prayer in silence, hands with palms together in front of you. When finished, take a few steps backwards and then to the side, as it's disrespectful to show your backside to the kami.

This bowing and clapping ritual is simply a way of doing what’s most important at a shrine – showing respect. If the exact sequence is not performed, it’s of little consequence if the visitor’s motives are sincere.

Many worshipers leave coins in an offertory box by the bell rope or place offerings of food at the shrine. The kitsune are said to be particularly fond of a type of fried tofu, and shops near the shrine sell these little cakes to enjoy with tea or to leave at the shrine. Rice and sake are other popular offerings.


Of course the main reason foreign visitors come to Fushimi Inari is to see the thousands of torii that form a tunnel-like pathway along the hillside. This torii pathway, featured in the film "Memoirs of a Geisha," is a stunning sight, the torii set closely together, one after another, in a seemingly infinite progression.

A soft rain is falling as we make our way along the path. Each of the thousands of torii is inscribed with the name of its donor – an individual, family, or business – all hoping to gain the goodwill of Inari and thus be successful in their endeavors. I ask Genku how many torii there are at the shrine, but of course he has no inkling, and undoubtedly the number changes as new torii are added. Later I read that the pathways ramble for some four kilometers along the hillside, with spots hither and yon for sub-shrines and groups of kitsune figures.

I’m thankful of the rain, for this normally busy shrine is quiet and relatively uncrowded. The further along the pathways we progress (for there are multiple bifurcating paths from various junctures), the older and more faded the torii seem, and the kitsune statues further along have grown green with a patina of lichen and moss. The rain patters on the woodland trees and trickles along cement gutters on the side of the path. The rice farmers, no doubt, are thankful for this spring rain, portent of bountiful crops to come.

A lucky fox
deigns to come out
spring rain.

Kobayashi Issa, 1819

I’m torn between a desire to hike the entire route and an equal desire to attend to my growling stomach. The stomach (as is often the case) wins, and we return to the main entrance.

Before we leave, however, I participate in a popular shrine activity – having my fortune told by omikuji or "fortune lottery." For 100 yen, I draw a slender bamboo stick from a round dispenser. On the stick a number is written which corresponds to a piece of paper that I can retrieve from an attendant. I’m once again thankful of Genku’s help, as he guides me through the procedure and helps me claim the correct slip.

"What does it say? " I ask.

He ponders the slip of paper for a bit, knitting his brows together, then ventures, "You will have good luck . . . maybe."


This seems to me to be a somewhat tepid fortune, but at least it has a fair likelihood of coming true. I spot a wooden stand nearby with hundreds of fortune slips attached to it, and I ask Genku if this is where I should leave my fortune. "Not unless you want to get rid of an unfavorable one," he says. "Then you can leave it there so it won’t come true."

This seems to me an excellent system all around – keeping good fortunes and disposing of the bad ones. And so, tucking my (possibly) lucky fortune slip into my pocket, I turn and we depart the shrine of Inari, exiting under the watchful gaze of the guardian foxes.

Often when I return from a journey, it’s not the well-known places or famous sights that I recall most vividly, but some little-known spot that I came across quite by chance. And so it is with Gio-ji. I hadn’t planned to go there, but perhaps, reflecting back, it was simply meant to be.

In Sagano, a western district of Kyoto, there is a much-celebrated bamboo forest, and it was while exploring this that I came across Gio-ji. I was instantly enchanted by the setting. A path led to a simple thatched temple set in a lush garden of moss, ferns, and slender trees. By this time, I’d seen at least a dozen elaborate temples and shrines in Kyoto, and truth to tell, I’d become a bit jaded, but something about this secluded glade drew me in.

Through the gate and up the path I went, coming to a tsukubai, a stone basin provided for ritual cleansing of hands and mouth before entering the temple. Water flowed from a rustic bamboo spout down onto the basin, its splashing one of the few sounds breaking the silence of the peaceful sanctuary. An azalea bonsai in exquisite bloom was the sole ornament here, an appropriate seasonal focal point. After making my simple preparations, I entered the temple.

Although there was a statue of Buddha and several other small shrines on the grounds, I was essentially clueless as to the temple’s history and significance. It seemed to me more a house than a temple, perhaps the dwelling of some person of refined but simple taste. In the main room, open to the garden, a white cat lay curled on the tatami matting, just a few feet from a peony bush bearing a single blossom. Of course, cats and peony blossoms are both popular subjects in brush drawings and scrolls, and for a moment, I had the disjointed sense that I’d stepped into a painting. At that instant, the cat opened one eye and surveyed the scene, fixing its gaze momentarily on the peony blossom. Then she resumed her nap, unperturbed.

It is this moment of peony-blossom/cat-glance that remains crystallized in my memory. Insignificant? Perhaps. But still it resonates, much like Issa’s haiku, the distillation of an everyday moment.

Looking pleased
sidelong glances
at the peony.

Kobayashi Issa, 1813

Later, I learn the story of Gio, a dancer who became a favorite of a powerful warlord, Kiyomori, of the Tiara clan. This Gio, along with her sister and mother, was elevated to high status by her patron and had wealth and attention showered upon her. However, Kiyomori was as fickle as he was powerful. One day a young dancer named Hotoke came uninvited to Kiyomori’s residence, but he berated her and sent her away. Gio felt embarrassed that the young woman had been treated so badly, and she pleaded with Kiyomori to give Hotoke a chance to perform.

Well, you can see what’s coming, can’t you? When Hotoke performed her shiraboyoshi dance before the powerful lord, he was instantly smitten. Now the tables were turned, it was Hotoke who pleaded with Kiyomori not to turn Gio out of his house, but, alas, Gio’s fate was sealed. She, her mother, and her sister were cast out, much to the consternation of Hotoke.

After Gio had left, the warlord was piqued that Hotoke seemed not as lively as he thought she should be. Perhaps, he thought, Gio could return to provide entertainment for her. Gio was sent for, and, deeply humiliated, made to sing before a royal audience. Even the hard-hearted Kiyomori was moved by her song, which made oblique reference to her pitiful state.

When Gio returned home, she told her mother that she could not bear to undergo such humiliation again. She had decided to kill herself. Gio’s mother and sister then vowed that if she did, they would die as well. Faced with this prprospect, Gio resolved to become a nun and move away from the capital to live in seclusion. Her mother and sister joined her.

One night a year after settling.into a simple life in a thatched hut deep in the Sagano hills, a knock came at the door. The three nuns were frightened, for they expected no visitors and it was late at night. Fearful of demons or thieves yet more fearful of turning away someone in need, they opened to door only to find a tearful Hotoke, who had fled Kiyomori, for she realized it would only be a matter of time before she, too, would be cast aside. She preferred to live as a nun in the hills than continue to live in a world of fleeting pleasures.

And so the former rivals lived out their days in devotion, and it is said that when they died they entered paradise together. If you visit Gio-ji, you will see statues representing the two women on either side of the larger statue of the Amida, the Buddha of Everlasting Light. As for Kiyomori, his statue can be found at Gio-ji, too, but it is hidden behind a pillar, "perhaps the ladies’ last word on the subject," according to Judith Clancy.

Late one afternoon I make my away to Adashino Nembutsu-ji, the famous temple and cemetery on the outskirts of Kyoto. Along the way I ponder just what draws me to these places beyond mere historical and architectural interest. Is it the sheer novelty of Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, or is there some underlying principle that I find appealing?

The key, I think, is rooted in mono no aware, a sensibility that is uniquely Japanese. Without going into a prolonged discourse, the simplest definition would be a keen appreciation of the vulnerability of life and the transitory nature of all things, yet at the same time a pleasurable sadness that arises from cherishing brief moments of beauty. The cherry blossom is perhaps the most common symbol of mono no aware—budding, blooming, and falling softly to the ground in only a few days—evanescent beauty in a world in which all things continuously change and disappear.

The concept of the transience of the world is central to Buddhism, particularly Zen Buddhism, with its appreciation of beauty as a fleeting state and its longing for the infinite and eternal. The very brevity and fragility of life makes it all the more touching. Those who possess a sense of mono no aware are sensitive not only to ephemeral beauty but to the suffering of all living things.

"If we lived forever,
if the dews of Adashino never vanished,
if the crematory smoke on Toribeyama never faded,
men would hardly feel the pity of things."

Yoshida Kenko (author and Buddhist monk, 1283-1350)

This is the essence of mono no aware.

The "Adashino" that Kenko referred to was the same Adashino Nembutsu-ji which was the object of my pilgrimage. Accounts of the creation of this temple and its cemetery vary, though most credit the founder of the Shingon sect of Buddhism, Kūkai, also known as Kōbō Dashi (774-835), with establishing it to create a proper burial ground for the unclaimed deceased of Kyoto.

All the grave markers in the area were gathered, some 8,000 crude stone Buddhas and gorintos (stone pagodas), and assembled in a large courtyard outside the temple, arranged in rows around a central stupa.

The effect of the thousands of amassed weathered stones, arrayed as if listening to a sermon, is striking, even more so each August when a ceremony called Sentō Kuyō or "The Service of A Thousand Lights" is held. During this ceremony, thousands of people gather at nightfall and light votive candles before the stone Buddhas, lighting a path home for the anonymous dead spirits.

In the 12th century, Honen Shonin, the founder of Pure Land Buddhism, established a training center at the temple, "Nembutsu" referring to the Pure Land Buddhist devotional recitation. Much of the appeal of the Pure Land sect was its accessibility to commoners, as Buddhism was initially the religion of the ruling classes. At first it was not widely spread among common folk due to both its complexity and strictures on exactly who could worship and how. Pure Land Buddhism played a key role in the democratization of Buddhism, allowing those on the periphery of society to participate. Honen expressed the essence of Pure Land teaching, quite radical at the time, when he wrote:

"There shall be no distinction, no regard to male or female, good or bad, exalted or lowly; none shall fail to be in his Land of Purity after having called, with complete faith, on Amida [Buddha]."

My favorite haiku poet, Kobayashi Issa, was a Pure Land Buddhist, in contrast to his Zen Buddhist predecessor, Bashō, commonly considered the "founding father" of haiku. In the often-cited triumvirate of great haijin, Bashō is considered the pious one, Buson the artistic one, and Issa…

Ah, Issa. He is regarded as the least refined of the three, but the one with the greatest heart. Empathetic to even the smallest and most inconsequential of creatures, Issa’s haiku is rooted in "a cheerful and endearing interest in the smallest matters of daily life" in the words of Lewis Mackenzie.

Yet Issa’s life was repeatedly marred by tragedy, for his mother died when he was but three, and he suffered greatly at the hands of his stepmother. Perhaps his identification with the small and defenseless sprang from his own lack of motherly protection during his childhood.

Don't worry, spiders
I keep house
lightly

Later in life, Issa lost his wife and four of his five children, yet rather than expressing bitterness, his haiku is imbued with resignation and graceful acceptance of the vicissitudes of life, no doubt springing at least in part from his firm belief in the redeeming power of the Amida Buddha.

Simply trust! trust!
dewdrops spilling
down

One of the recurrent themes of Issa’s poetry is the "world of dew," which relates to the Buddhist idea of impermanence as well as the mono no aware aesthetic.

A world of dew,
and within every dewdrop
a world of struggle

When Issa was 57, his second child, a daughter named Sato or "Wisdom" was born. His first child, a boy, had died shortly after birth, so you can imagine Issa’s trepidation and joy as he watched his daughter grow. He rejoiced in each infant achievement, comparing her to "pure moonlight, beaming from head to toe."

But tragedy, as was so often was the case in Issa’s life, struck again, and his beloved Sato fell ill:

"Why is my child dying? She has just begun to taste life. She ought to be as fresh and green as the new needles on the everlasting pine. Why must she lie here on her deathbed with festering lesions, caught in the vile grip of the god of pox? I am her father and can hardly bear to watch her fade away-a little more each day-like a pure blossom in a rainstorm."

Devout Buddhist though he was, Issa found it hard to accept the his daughter’s death, railing, "I tried hard but I could not break the bonds of human love."

A year afterward, to commemorate the anniversary of her death, he wrote what is perhaps his most famous haiku:

This world of dew
Is only a world of dew
And yet… oh yet…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s hardly a soul about as I approach Adashino Nembutsu-ji along a path through a bamboo forest. The afternoon is overcast, with scarcely a breeze, and stillness reigns. In the cemetery, the thousands of worn stone grave markers stand like mute sentinels.

and yet...

What did Issa mean, "and yet"?

Some of the stone monuments, all badly eroded, wear red bibs. These, I later learn, represent Jizō, the benign Bodhisattva who guards the souls of children who have died before birth or prematurely, and who also intercedes on behalf of the souls of those suffering in hell. Bereaved parents place these bibs, along with toys or offerings of flowers, at Jizō shrines, while those whose children have recovered from an illness may do likewise.

I feel like an intruder in this landscape, incapable of understanding what is before me, but drawn to it all the same. A sense of frustration, of impatience at my own dull-wittedness, rises within me.

I have no words for this feeling, this inexpressible something.

and yet….

I had dreamt of staying in a traditional ryokan in Kyoto, those legendary refined inns, but when researching them I was horrified at the prices quoted. I set my sights instead on the "next best thing," namely a minshuku, the Japanese equivalent of a bed and breakfast. Similar to a ryokan, though not as upscale, guests at a minshuku stay in a Japanese-style room with tatami matting and a futon to sleep on.

The appeal of Hirota’s was its central location, reasonable price, and above all its proprietor, Mrs. Hirota, a former interpreter who speaks perfect English. Upon my arrival I was greeted by Hirota-san, who ushered me into a lovely downstairs room and served me green tea and cookies. Relaxing Japanese music played softly on the stereo as we chatted and made small talk, with my hostess full of information and recommendations of where to go in Kyoto. I’d been in the city for a week already, staying with my husband in a hotel where he had a conference, but now with the conference over and my husband gone, having some guidance in my last few days was welcome.

My room overlooked the pleasant courtyard garden and was simply furnished with a small TV, futon, and low table and floor pillow. One concern I’d had was that I’d feel a lack of privacy with a sliding screen door rather than solid door, but I found the other guests’ conversations, while faintly audible, not to be intrusive. I was instructed in the art of "bathroom slippers" and other household matters, such as the location and operation of the main bath downstairs, and I was also pleased to learn that there were bicycles to rent and a traditional breakfast served (for an additional ¥1050 fee).

This breakfast was the highlight of my stay at Hirota’s. Hirota-san prepared numerous small dishes, including cold salmon, miso soup, little fermented beans that I decided were an acquired taste, pickles, rice, seaweed, seasoned spinach, tofu, and tea. It was, as she explained, much larger than the typical Japanese breakfast, but it gave me a good idea of the range of breakfast foods in Japan. I also enjoyed the morning views of the small garden, and while there were no flowers in bloom, a famous haiku by Bashō came to mind:

I am one
who eats his breakfast
gazing at the morning glories.

One morning I had breakfast with two couples – one from New Jersey and another from Montreal. This was the occasion of an unforgettable moment of my stay – observing Hirota-san’s look of horror as the fellow from Montreal drenched his carefully prepared and delicately seasoned breakfast in shoyu sauce. He was impervious.

I could only suppress a laugh and wonder how this would have gone over at one of Kyoto’s ultra refined ryokans.

After three days, my bill came to a modest ¥22250. I left Hirota-san’s a complete minshuku convert.

Laying down chopsticks
enough
I’m grateful.

Santoka (1882-1940)

Kyoto is famed for its delicate cuisine (ryori), particularly the sophisticated kaiseki cuisine that evolved from the formal Japanese tea ceremony. Unfortunately, true kaiseki ryori is horrendously expensive, but there is a way to experience something similar, and that is to seek out the vegetarian food eaten by Buddhist monks in Kyoto’s Zen temples—the very cuisine that gave rise to the elaborate kaiseki ritual. This type of fare, shojin ryori, is simpler, but is prepared with great care, using only fresh seasonal vegetables.

It was a little past 11am when I finished visiting the famous Zen rock garden at Ryōan-ji, and as I meandered around the lovely pond on the temple grounds, I spotted the entrance to Seigenin, a minor temple attached to the main temple. The sign at the gate indicated that there was a restaurant on the premises, "Ryōan-ji Seven Herb Tofu," in slightly stilted but charming parlance. Although it was a little early for lunch, the garden path leading up to the restaurant beckoned, and it took only a few moments for me to summon the requisite courage to follow the path up to a graceful pavilion, remove my shoes, and enter.

I needed that courage I’d summoned, as it appeared I was the only patron. Still, I felt rather special as I was escorted to a low table in a tatami-matted room overlooking the delightful garden. That momentarily feeling of privilege soon passed, however, as my knees and ankles, unaccustomed to the requisite kneeling position, began to protest. All too aware of my limitations, I sat with my legs tucked to one side, not the most elegant pose but one I could at least sustain.

Ryōan-ji Seven Herb Tofu is famous for precisely that – a type of yudofu (tofu cooked in hot broth) delicately seasoned with herbs. My meal came in a pot set upon the table brazier, and it was surely more elaborate than a monk’s lunch would be. There were several side dishes, including a bowl of sticky rice, daikon pickles, and cold cooked vegetables aswim in a delicate shoyu broth in addition to the main tofu hot pot.

Eating the slippery pieces of silken tofu with chopsticks proved problematic, however, and a few pieces inevitably landed on my thigh rather than in my mouth as intended. I longed for that discrete little sachet that refined Japanese diners carry in their kimono sleeve to stash the odd bit of food or garnish that they do not wish to consume.

To my uneducated palate, the yudofu seemed slightly bland, one of the precepts of shojin ryori being the avoidance of strong tastes and smells, but I relished the creamy smoothness of the tofu, the crunch of savory pickled vegetables, and above all the lovely setting of the meal. At the end of my luncheon, laying down chopsticks, I was indeed grateful.