Where the Dead Pause, and the Japanese Say Goodbye: A Journey (46 page)

But I also felt that I had inadvertently been clumsy and perhaps even offensive. Maybe I ought to just get through my stay, like all the other foreigners who were clearly regarded as ignorant, and just skim the surface of the experience, instead of trying to probe any deeper. I was so uncomfortable that I decided I would most certainly not call Yanagi in the event that I needed his help. He was clearly busy, and I had no desire to add to his stress and to become stressed myself as a result.

A
T
K
ONG
BUJI, THE
ecclesiastic head temple of the Shingon religion on Mount Koya, I was told that no
ajikan
meditation was
available. No one I asked seemed remotely interested in helping me to find an alternate teacher. It was a rainy day, and I wandered around from building to temple before finally coming upon the visitors’ center. Once again, I asked a woman at the information desk where I might receive
ajikan
instruction.

“Unfortunately, there is no public
ajikan
available right now. They don’t do it till May. Where are you staying?”

“Sh
j
shinin.”

“Oh. Well.” She paused, then continued speaking rapidly. “Your temple’s
j
shoku
can help you. Or Yanagi. He knows
ajikan
too. You call and ask them. Do you have the phone number? Do you have a phone?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, but instead plunged ahead, barking out to her assistant to help me with the phone number, reiterating that one of the two men ought to be able to help me.

I protested. “Yanagi sounded like he was very busy. And apparently the head priest is . . . often busy.”

“Nonsense. They can teach you. Call them. Or I will. Where else have you been on K
yasan? Did you go to the cemetery?”

“Partway. I didn’t go all the way to K
kai’s grave.”

“Mausoleum. He doesn’t have a grave . . .”

“ . . . because he isn’t dead.”

“You should go there,” she said. “Then meditate with your priest tonight. Now. We have a purification ceremony here starting in five minutes. You should go do that. Guests were supposed to be in the waiting area ten minutes ago. Hurry!”

There were three of us in the waiting area: a very thin Japanese man with extremely long white hair, carrying a weathered backpack and a walking cane; the young woman from Canada; and me. The information woman had given me a pamphlet written in unusually accurate and detailed English. It explained that parts of Jukai, the purification ceremony, would take place in complete darkness, rendering the document completely unreadable once the service was
under way. The pamphlet also went to great lengths to assure visitors that participating in Jukai did not mean one was swearing off God in favor of Buddha, and that one would not accidentally swear oneself to be a Buddhist.

A few moments later, two priests, wearing black frocks with gold-and-scarlet over-robes, glided out of a back room and made their way toward us. They looked roughly the same age—early forties or late thirties—and moved with uniform grace. One of the men caught my attention. He was trim, with alert, very round eyes that darted about, quickly taking in information and assessing it. He had an intelligent manner about him. At the same time, he let show, just briefly, his irritation that among the people who had come to attend the morning’s purification ceremony were two foreigners. This dissatisfaction seemed to confirm an inner confidence that bordered on arrogance.

“Let’s go. Come on. Come on!” The arrogant one waved us out a door, as though we were puppies in need of our daily walk. The Japanese pilgrim, who had brightened perceptibly at the sight of the two men, turned to me and gave me a wide, tooth-missing smile, his eyes sparkling. With his long, white hair and a long moustache dancing off the sides of his mouth like tentacles, he looked like one of those five-hundred-year-old carp you see in ponds on the grounds of ancient temples. I smiled back, a little startled that he had engaged me.

The priests repeated the instructions given on the information sheet: We would be in a dark temple room and would not be able to read a thing. At the end of the ceremony, we might receive a special diploma. If our names were called, we were to walk carefully to the front of the room. There would be very little light, and we would need to climb a set of stairs. Then they asked us to rub our hands with special incense.

“Thank you,” I said in Japanese.

Most of the time when Japanese people realize I speak their language, they are either happy, relieved, or, most often, impressed. But the arrogant one seemed even more irritated. “Is your phone on? Make sure your phone is off. I don’t want any phones going off in the middle of the ceremony. How about your friend?” he nodded at the young Canadian woman. I assured him that our phones were off. “You are sure? No photos either. You aren’t claustrophobic, are you? Because it will be dark. And we won’t open the door for you if you are scared.” I assured him that I would be just fine, and told myself that I would be here only for half an hour. I ought to be able to withstand anything for half an hour. The tatami floor was quite old and very worn. Clearly, many hundreds of people had been here before me and had survived. The arrogant one rolled his eyes, and his partner swung the heavy doors shut, sealing us in. I had said I was not claustrophobic, but in the dark the air seemed heavy and thick.

Before long, the two men came in again from a side door. It was still quite dark, but I knew them from their silhouettes. They crept onto the altar, then sat off to the side and started chanting after inviting us to chant too. One phrase was repeated constantly: “
Namu Daishi Henj
Kong
.” Later, I would learn that in repeating this, I was vowing to take refuge in K
kai.