Author: gowanlee

Lee

East meets West where the Samurai meets the Cowboy: Ronin.

Sometime in the 17^th Century the young Samurai Gonpachi got into an argument with his clansman over who had the better dog. A sword fight ensued and Gonpachi, being handy with his weapon, killed his clansman. Forced to flee, he became a ronin: a wandering Samurai with no master to serve.

One evening he slunk into a country inn for a drink, a meal, and a bed.  In the night he was startled from sleep by a gorgeous 15-year-old girl, Komurasaki, come to warn him that the inn-keepers were robbers and villains, intent on murdering him and stealing his beautiful sword. She also revealed herself as the daughter of a rich merchant, kidnapped by these evil men, and begged him to save her. So he sliced up the gangsters, killing them all, and returned Komurasaki to her parents.

Gonpachi and Komurasaki had fallen in love, and father and daughter did everything they could to convince him to marry and take over the family business, but Gonpachi, ever the cowboy, was not through with wandering, so he rode off into the sunset. Back to Tokyo. Or Edo, as it was then called.

Time passed.

Gonpachi began to hear stories of an extraordinary courtesan in the Yoshiwara pleasure district, not far from where Ueno Station now stands. This young prostitute was reputed to surpass all of her competition in beauty and womanly skills. Gonpachi went off to the Miuraya brothel to find out if the stories were true. He discovered that the young woman was his Komurasaki. She had indentured herself into prostitution to support her destitute parents: apparently her father’s business had not done well since Gonpachi rode away.

Reunited, the lovers could not get enough of one another. Gonpachi returned to Miuraya brothel every day. Ronin, though, have no source of steady income and Gonpachi soon ran out of funds to pay for his lover’s favours. Komurasaki would never have kept him from her bed, but Gonpachi was too ashamed to come to the brothel without money, so he killed a man, stole his money, and gave it to Komurasaki. In the days that followed he killed another man and then another and another, showering their money on his beloved. By the time it was finished he was reputed to have murdered 130 men for love of dog and Komurasaki.

In the end, the law caught up with him and he was executed by haritsuke: crucified and impaled by spears.  His body was buried just outside the gates of Ryusen-ji, better known as Meguro Fudo, an important Buddhist temple dedicated to the black-eyed fire god Fudomyo. Komurasaki killed herself on his grave and is buried there beside him.

In Japan these two lovers are symbolized by the fabulous bird hiyokudori, which has only one wing and so must find its other half in order to fly: the incarnation of faithful love.

Ranjini

On December 31^st morning in Tokyo, Lee and I make our way from the Grand Prince Takanawa to Sunset Plaza hotel in Shinjuku. As we step out of Shinjuku subway station, I misjudge the height of one of the steps, my weight coming down heavily on one foot. Except for a pang of pain that disappears as I walk on, I am okay.

At 3 P.M. Lee returns, subway map in hand, and suggests that we make it to another Kannon temple. We get off at the Nakana-Fujimicho station and find that Toen-ji is closed. We wander down deserted streets searching for a nearby temple. Everyone seems away for the New Year holiday.  We meet Amy who has learned English from her month in Canada at the University of Manitoba, and she guides us to the subway stop.

At our $100 dinner, there is once again nothing much for me to eat.  Where are the famed soba noodles? Hungry and a little despondent at being pilgrims who cannot find temples or arrive at temples with closed doors, I pick at the margarita pizza that the organizers, belatedly, ordered for their handful of vegetarian participants, while others relish the famous Kobe beef and grilled fish.  In this island country the fish looks delicious, but I remember my joyous dream of fish basket Guan Yin (there is one such temple on this pilgrimage); in a second dream at CTTB, Kannon-like, I’d gathered hallways of dying jeweled fish and returned them to the water: I saved some, but not all.

After dinner Lee and I plan to attend New Year celebrations at a Tokyo temple. I suggest Meiji shrine, interested in seeing its unadorned cypress wood buildings, bronze lanterns, expansive gardens and roof of camphor trees. The temple commemorates Emperor Meiji who transitioned Japan from a feudal to modern society.

Lee suggests the 33^rd temple on the Kannon pilgrimage, Rysuen-ji.

“Really? Will they have New Year celebrations?”

“They should. It’s a large temple.”

This evening in Tokyo, his belly may not be full of soba gold, but his heart is pure and his body when we embrace is warm.  I know that he wants this for me. It would be perfect to spend New Year’s in Kannon’s presence.

At Rysuen-ji, we may miss out on gongs and a large-scale celebration, but I am happy to be with him.  In the restroom, I slip out of my dress and slip on comfortable shoes, jeans, and a sweater.  Lee wears a suit jacket with his jeans and I worry that he will be cold.  Dressed almost always in blue jeans, he has something of the cowboy in him.  Fortunately, in our love’s history there are no murders and brothel. Yet, will our love rival the fidelity of Gonapache and Komurasaki?  Against seemingly impossible odds, we are still together.

Lee

Seisui-ji could not be more different than its colossal neighbour, Senso-ji. A modest modernist structure built in 1993, we identify it by the golden dharma wheel on the face of the second floor balcony. Bright prayer flags frame an open window on the balcony. There are no crowds. We ring the doorbell and when a young man answers we have the awkward feeling that we are intruding in a private home. Once we’ve shown him our go-shuin books he understands and escorts us to the lovely shrine, leaving us alone there while he takes our books to the monk for inscription.

Despite its modern look, Seisui-ji dates to the 9^th Century, though the original temple was located more than three miles away. It was built to house a Kannon statue that, according to legend, saved Tokyo from a terrible epidemic. Marcus Powles’ book tells us that the monk who carved the statue prostrated himself 3 times before every stroke of his chisel. When he finished carving the statue and placed it in the temple, the epidemic ended.

The original statue was destroyed in a fire, but before us is a Kannon that dates from the 14^th Century. All the way back to Chaucer’s time, I can’t help but think.  It was Canterbury Tales that introduced me to the concept of pilgrimage. The thought of the Knight and the Miller and the Lady of Bath takes me back to memorizing the opening lines of the poem in high school. As I sit, trying to let go of these thoughts and to meditate, I am finally overwhelmed by my bladder. That beer I had with lunch. My body getting the better of me. I tell Ranjini I’m going to look for a washroom, but I can’t find our host, and the urgency of my mission makes me leave the temple altogether, telling Ranjini I’ll meet her there in a few minutes. She agrees and goes back to her meditation.

Ranjini

We would not have recognized the temple if it had not been for the gold wheel of the dharma chakra, a symbol of the Buddha’s Noble Eightfold Path of Right View, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness and Right Concentration. Standing with Lee by the bare plum tree with the Zen garden to one side, we are disoriented by the smallness of Seisui-ji. We are the only pilgrims here.

On the first floor, I admire a scroll with the Heart Sutra.  A young man guides us to the shrine and shuts the door behind him. The shrine is gold leaves and flowers, candles, black lacquer and hanging lanterns. After the millions of pilgrims at Senso-ji—the bronze-roofed incense burner, thick smoke, roof of 70, 000 bronze tiles, falling oracle sticks—here, there is silence. When Lee leaves in search of a restroom, I remain seated before a many-armed gold Kannon. To the side of this elegant altar, I spot an unusual looking Japanese Kannon: she is around two-feet tall, a young woman with straight-black shoulder length hair and a gold disc of a seated Amitabha on the crown of her head.

Now, the young man returns with our go-shuin books and it is 4:30 pm and closing time. I wait outside for my Beloved.  When Lee returns, we cross the road and enter a store stacked with beautiful bowls. I am drawn especially to a bowl with the image of an orange phoenix, mythical bird, fire and ashes, symbol of endings and new beginnings.  I am bone-weary of the rapidity of the many beginnings and endings of my life and I walk away from the beckoning phoenix. Tired of packing and unpacking, disposing and giving away things, storing and shipping things, I am also trying to buy less, own less.

On Kappabashi Dogugai Avenue, we stroll past plastic food displays—steak, sushi and fruit baskets, and a cut-out of a chef floating high above a corner building. In a tiny store cluttered with stainless pots, I spot a small crème plaster-of-paris Kannon, right knee raised, seated on a lotus in regal repose: six U.S. dollars.  I ask the old woman if she has a second Kannon similar to this, and she rummages, unearths a box.  For 10 U.S. dollars, I buy two Kannons—one for each of us to take back to our separate homes to mark the first day of our pilgrimage.

Lee

Even if you’re not on pilgrimage, Senso-ji is an appropriate place to begin a visit to Tokyo. It’s the city’s oldest temple, dating back before the city existed, almost 1400 years to 645 AD. It’s doubtful that anything but the Sumida River remains from that time, aside from the statue of Kannon that the original temple was built to house. The brothers Hinokuma Hamanari and Hinokuma Takenari were fishing on the Sumida and caught the statue in their nets on the morning of March 18^th, 628. As they were eating their breakfast, they couldn’t have imagined the city that would grow around the statue they were about to find; they couldn’t imagine us imagining them on that sunny morning.

The statue that remains as evidence of their presence on the Sumida River that day must be imagined. Shokai Shonin, the Priest who built the original temple, had a dream warning him that no one should see the statue and it was not seen again for over a thousand years until, during the Meiji period, suspicious government officials came to verify its existence. The officials opened the altar and made sketches of the statue while the monks averted their eyes. The Bodhisattva has not been seen since, but we trust s/he is there, hidden, surrounded by the city s/he founded and the hundreds of millions of lives s/he holds in her heart. A good metaphor for faith.

The trains aren’t crowded on this 30^th of December, and when we exit the subway we have no trouble finding the temple: signs everywhere point the way. By the time we reach the enormous red-and-black Japanese lantern of Kaminarimon, “The Thunder Gate”, we are submerged in a sea of humanity. On any given day Senso-ji is a popular spot, attracting 30 million visitors each year, but today is only one day before New Year’s Eve. Coming as I do from a farm in Saskatchewan I feel as though I’m surrounded by all 30 million. At least I’m taller than average, whereas Ranjini sinks into the crowd. Nervous that I’ll lose her, I grasp her hand and we follow the procession through The Kaminarimon Gate, imitating the others who reach up and touch the dragon carving fitted into its base. I suspect we’re doing this for luck.

Once through, we swim with the crowd up Nakamise-dori, slowly approaching the temple. This narrow street, lined on both sides with a multitude of stalls selling food, crafts, kimonos and t-shirts, cheap and expensive souvenirs, makes me realize that pilgrimage is about more than faith. It’s about separating the pilgrims from their money. I don’t voice this to Ranjini, knowing she won’t appreciate the cynicism of this sentiment, but it is undeniable that the economy created by the pilgrimage is, perhaps, as important in understanding it as faith. Money may not make the world go round, but it does make people gather, and it creates cities and civilizations. All that is made manifest in the crowd pressing against us as we edge our way toward the Hozomon Gate.

Hozomon means “Treasure House” and this gate marks the boundary between the profane world of commerce and the actual temple grounds. Two Nio statues guard the gate, and the 2^nd floor of the treasure house contains ancient copies of the lotus sutra and the Issai-kyo, an ancient manuscript of Buddha’s teachings. We stop at a stall near the Hozomon Gate, where a nun sells incense for 100 Yen, and ask where to buy our go-shuin book. These are used to record the visit to each temple: a monk or lay-worker stamps a page and adds beautiful calligraphy that contains a mantra, the date, and the temple’s name. The nun draws a map and Ranjini buys and lights some incense, leaving it as an offering in the huge metal incense burner. She flutters her hands like birds to direct the smoke over her body and bows to the beautiful young Buddha.

Ranjini

After Marie introduced me to Kuan Yin, I was confused by my overwhelming devotion to an unknown goddess.  One night after I prayed to Kannon—“Am I on the right path?”—I dreamed of her.

She stood before me. “Hello, I’m Kuan Yin.”

She was in her thirties, medium-height, beautiful, slender, dressed in gray robes, her black hair coiled in a topknot.

“You must be very busy,” I said.

She smiled at my words. “Yes,” she said, before taking off, one leg gracefully folded like an Indian goddess, flying like a dakini into the air.

I am used to crowds but I sense Lee’s difficulty as we press forward to the ancient temple of Senso-ji.   Since that dream encounter, I have been on pilgrimage.  Yet, this is my first formalized pilgrimage with 33-stops and a go-shuin book. In the souvenir stalls, there are no postcards of the ancient (and hidden) Kannon statue that we have come to visit; there is not even a replica of her in the main shrine room.

In the foyer outside the main shrine, we bow to the deities through the glass and light candles and buy good luck charms. I slip off my shoes and attempt to gain entrance into the main hall but a monk politely gestures me out.

There seems to be no way to meet Kannon.

I know that she is here, infinite, vast, limitless, endlessly compassionate, and it is silly this yearning to touch, to take home, or at the least, to see.

At Sensoji, I shake the cylindrical container. Simultaneously, thousands of pilgrims address the goddess. Yes, Kannon is very busy.

Oracle number 18, Good Fortune.

The linen robe turns into a green one. What you’ve been troubled for a long time will soon begin to fade away. Your virtue and happiness will reveal themselves. Your wishes will be realized. Building a new house and removal are good.  Marriage and employment are all good. 

Outside, white slips of oracles flutter on innumerable stands. In Japanese temples, everything seems left behind, candles and wooden plaques with inscribed prayers.  Yet, I tuck my oracle into my purse.

As we prepare to leave Senso-ji, I return to the incense burner where smoke rises in thick clouds, and direct the smoke to my heart for healing and purification.

Let go.

I tie my good oracle to the stand.

It is only later that I am told that good oracles are kept, and the bad ones left behind for Kannon’s mitigation.

Lee, my Love. Kanzeon Bosatsu. This now is blessed and joyous.  

Lee

There are no cherry blossoms at this time of year, but the late morning is a pleasant 10 degrees Celsius, and the garden is large and green and lovely. There is a meditation room with tatami mats and a small shrine, so we slip off our shoes and sit a while listening to the birds singing the dharma and the distant hum of traffic, my brain floating off in all directions with the giddiness of the time-change and the dislocation of being in this beautiful and unfamiliar place.

When we continue down the path we come to a small shrine. Peering through the glass we see her: Amida Buddha rests in her crown, a vial containing her tears clutched to her heart with her left hand, and her right hand open in her lap to accept our offering.

We have come upon Kannon, the goddess of compassion, by chance in this sakura garden in Tokyo. Last night Ranjini reminded me that she was to be an important part of our trip. We were to visit some of 33 temples dedicated to her on a pilgrimage that would lead us all over Tokyo. Ranjini had a book to guide us.

I agreed. It sounded like a fun way to explore the city. We’d see how many we could do in our week in Tokyo.

After our walk through the garden, we go for a brunch of noodles and when we finish I think we should go back to the Hotel to check on our luggage. When we do, the jetlag hits me and I lie down for a rest. By the time I realize Ranjini isn’t pleased it’s too late. She’d hoped we might visit the first temple on our pilgrimage.

I promise we’ll do one tomorrow.

Ranjini

In the morning we go down to the lobby and in the sunlight I see the gardens. We sit in the meditation room, and walk until we see her: Kannon. She is in a miniature temple of white walls with red trimmings, green window shutters and silver-gray shingle roof. The sun reflects off the glass, and to see her I have to shield my eyes and press my face to the glass. This is the eleven-headed Kannon, rare in China but more common in Japan.

After lunch, we head to our new room. I use the hot water dispenser and make roasted green tea.  At 4 p.m., the gong in the sakura garden sounds. Ten chimes.

Listen to the sound of the bell. It is the voice of the Buddha, inviting us to go home to ourselves.

The sign says that the bell has been rung once each day since April 1, 2009 at the occasion of our hotel’s 55^th anniversary: March through October the bell is rung at 5 pm and from November through February at 4 pm.

4:30 pm and it is already dusk.  I climb the stone steps that lead me to Kannon. Once there, I see that the shrine is lit up. She is so beautiful and my eyes fill with tears.

I have been on pilgrimage ever since a woman, Marie, came up to me at the Buddhist temple on Millcreek Drive in Mississauga, Ontario—“I feel I have to talk with you”—and introduced me to a goddess with toenails and fingernails painted pink, one foot stepping forward, holding a vase and the wish-fulfilling jewel of the enlightened mind.

Kuan Yin.

I sit on the window ledge of our room, 1256.  Ornamental “finished’ carp lie still at the edges of the koi pond—silver, orange, red, white skin jeweled with red and blue, sleeping with eyes open: emblems of compassion. The wooden fish drum, mokugyo, is used during the recitation of sutras.

In this city of the 33-temple Kannon pilgrimage, she is there, hidden, behind red doors.

Please let me see your temples, Kannon. 

Lee

My lover lives on the other side of the earth.

I slump on a bench at Haneda Airport, Tokyo, leaning against my laptop, strapped over my right shoulder, my small duffel bag at my feet. Stored in the laptop is a file containing draft eight of my novel The Beautiful Place. Just before Christmas it was rejected again. Ranjini consoled me over Skype, but she seems to be the only person on earth who sees anything of value in this stupid book that I’ve slaved over for more than six years. I sit awaiting her arrival, contemplating whether I should abandon all the work I’ve already done and write something new. Or maybe I should give up altogether. Does the world really need another book by Lee Gowan? Not many noticed the last one.

I close my tired eyes.

It feels good to rest in sitting position, my laptop supporting me. I’ve found a bench near the trains, behind the elevators to Departures and restaurants and shopping, and protected by those elevators from the flow of pedestrian traffic. No one else sits on these benches, though passengers constantly stream by on their way to the parking lot. Once a young Japanese woman teeters in her spiked heels to the far end of my bench and perches, her wheeled suitcase at her feet. She scans her phone briefly before continuing on her way. Otherwise I am alone in Tokyo.

It’s 10 p.m. on December 28^th, 2015. I left Toronto on Sunday morning, December 27^th, and, though my flight left the ground less than 24 hours ago, I lost 14 hours of this Monday when I crossed the Dateline over the Pacific a few hours ago.  I’ll sleep tonight, though my body will be confused about the time. After landing I found a restaurant and had a bowl of soba noodles and broth with seafood and a large Kirin beer, which has made me tired. That is, the food and beer and the fact I have barely slept in over 24 hours have made me tired.

Soba noodles, made from buckwheat, are part of New Year’s celebrations in Japan. This tradition is apparently related to the length of the noodles, which symbolize a long life, but also relate to them being soft and easy to cut, which symbolizes cutting off the struggles of the old year and beginning again. There is even an interpretation that the tradition relates to Japanese jewelers at year end using soba balls to gather the gold dust that fell on their workbenches and accumulated over the past year: thus soba symbolizes the accumulation of wealth.

A stomach full of gold makes me sleepy.  The upper part of the airport, where I ate dinner and killed time strolling about looking at New Year’s wishes posted on blocks of wood (“I wish for a good husband and happy family”), is lined with naked trees lit up by bluish white light, Christmas/New Year’s decorations, but there are none here on the Arrivals floor, where I’ve settled to wait after using the machine to buy our tickets on the Keiyu Line to our hotel near Shinagawa Station. Ranj’s flight from Dubai is due to land soon. The slight elation, endorphin/adrenaline-high, at the anticipation of seeing her has taken over my brain and is perhaps the only thing keeping me awake.

We’ve developed a New Year’s custom of meeting in places that neither of us has visited before.

Ranjini

28 December 2016, Dubai

It is 6:35 am in the morning and the sky is a navy blue, not yet fully light, and the moon is still shining brightly and three-quarters full.  I step out of the cab, place my foot on the curb and, at my feet, see a wreath of small white flowers, brown stems and green leaves.  I pick it up. The flowers are not real but “fake,” a child’s tiara perhaps.  Recently, I have been finding such things on my morning walks on Jumeirah Beach: a tassel of faux pearls, a sand dollar—five-pointed flower on its underside, bleached peach-white, on the sand. Now, I slide the white flowers into the front pocket of my red suitcase, and head into Terminal 3 of Dubai International Airport for my 9-hour Emirates flight to Tokyo.

The stewardess says that there are 300 seats free on this flight—most people who want to be in Tokyo for winter break are already there.  I am glad for the rest. I am very tired—the work has felt overwhelming. I am always hurrying and behind.  I want to just be.  Next year June, I will be leaving Dubai.  I welcome these changes but I also fear them—this letting go of the struggles of my past and beginning again.

I turn to Kannon, the Bodhisattva of compassion, for refuge.

I read Marcus Powles’ book on the 33 Tokyo Kannon Pilgrimage and map possible routes.  I’m not sure how readily Lee will embark on a 33-temple circuit. But if there is one thing that I know about him, it is his overarching gentleness and generosity, his genuine desire to understand and love me. He sees me. I see him.

I love Lee.

A couple of temples will do.

At Haneda Airport, I step out, and there he is, my Beloved.

I smile.