Japan in a nutshell : Travel

Who are the Japanese? Where did they come from? What
are the origins of this unique people?
During the eighth century a scribe named Yasumaro
compiled—at the behest of the Empress—the oldest traditions
that had survived. He produced two books: the
Kojiki (“Records of Ancient Matters”) and the Nihongi
(“Chronicles of Japan”). These provide information about
the earliest days of the nation, and about its cosmological
origins.

In the beginning, we are told, the world was a watery
mass—a sea that surged in darkness. Over it hung the
Bridge of Heaven.
One day Izanagi and Izanami—brother-and-sister deities
—strolled onto the Bridge. They peered into the abyss
below. And Izanagi, wondering what was down there,
thrust his spear into the water. As he withdrew it, brine
dripped and congealed into a small island.
Izanagi and Izanami descended to the island. And they
decided to live there and produce a country.
They began by building a hut, with the spear as center
post. The next step was to get married. For a ceremony,
Izanagi suggested they walk in opposite directions around
the spear and meet on the other side. Izanami agreed. But
when they met, she said: “What a lovely young man you
are!”
Izanagi grew wrath. The male, he insisted, must always
be the first to speak. For Izanami to have done so was
improper and unlucky. So they walked around the spear for
a second time. “What a lovely maiden you are,” said Izanagi
as they met.
Now they were wed. And they coupled. And Izanami
gave birth to the islands of Japan…to the mountains and
plains, rivers and forests…to the gods and goddesses of
those places.
And they created a sun goddess—Amaterasu—and
placed her in the sky. For the islands needed a ruler. And

they created a moon god, to keep her company. But Amaterasu
and the moon god quarreled. So they decided to
separate the pair—one presiding over day, the other over
night.
And they created a wind god, to dispel the mist that
shrouded the islands. And the islands emerged in splendor.
And Amaterasu shone upon them, and reigned as their
chief deity.
But a quarrel arose between Amaterasu and the storm
god. And in a pique, she withdrew into a cave—plunging
the islands into darkness. In consternation the gods and
goddesses assembled. They discussed how to entice Amaterasu
out of the cave. Finally, they came up with a plan.
A mirror was placed in the Sacred Tree. And a party was
held—a raucous affair of wine and song. Mounting an overturned
tub, the goddess of mirth performed an indecent
dance; and the others laughed uproariously at the sight.
Amaterasu peeked out of the cave to see what was going on.
“Why are you rejoicing?” she asked.
Someone pointed to the mirror, explaining that a goddess
more radiant than she had been found. Amaterasu stepped
out of the cave for a closer look. And as she gazed upon her
own radiance, they grabbed her and shut up the cave.
So Amaterasu resumed her place in the sky, illuminating
again the islands of Japan.
But the darkness had left disorder in its wake—had
allowed wicked spirits to run rampant. So Amaterasu sent
her grandson, Ninigi, to rule over the islands directly. As
symbols of authority, she gave him three things: her necklace,
a sword, and the mirror that had enticed her out of the
cave.
“Descend,” she commanded him, “and rule. And may
thy dynasty prosper and endure.”
Ninigi stepped from the Bridge of Heaven onto a mountaintop.
And he traveled throughout Japan, establishing his
rule over its gods and goddesses. And he wedded the goddess
of Mt. Fuji. But he offended her father, who laid a
curse upon their offspring:
Thy life shall be as brief as that of a flower.
And so was born man.

And Ninigi’s great-grandson was Jimmu Tennu, the first
Emperor of Japan. Jimmu conquered the islands, established
a form of government, and built the first capital. And
his dynasty would endure.*
This, then, is what the ancient chronicles tell us about
the origins of Japan. They go on to describe the doings of
the early emperors.
And the modern view? What do science and scholarship
have to say about those beginnings?
According to geologists, the Japanese islands rose from
the sea during the Paleozoic era—the result of volcanic
upheavals. And the Japanese people, according to ethnologists,
are the product of a series of migrations. Nomadic
Mongoloids came to the islands via Korea; seafaring Malays
arrived from the south. Eventually they intermingled.†
The Kojiki and Nihongi were written, historians tell us,

• It endures to the present day: the current Emperor is the
  125th of the same lineage.
  † That intermingling also included the Ainu (or Hairy Ainu, as
  they were once known)—a Caucasian people who were the original
  inhabitants of the islands. During historical memory the
  Ainu retreated to eastern Honshu, then to the wilds of Hokkaido,
  where a few thousand remain to this day. Many place names
  are of Ainu origin.
  
  with a political purpose. By the eighth century the Yamato
  clan had imposed its rule over rival clans. To legitimize this
  ascendency, the clan claimed for its ruler a divine origin—
  an unbroken descent from the sun goddess. The scribe edited
  his material accordingly. And much of that material
  —the stories of gods and goddesses and early emperors—
  derived from the tribal lore of the Yamato.
  Thus, the chronicles are a fanciful mixture of myth and
  history, fable and folklore. And the true origins of the
  nation must remain obscure.
  Or must they? There is a Chinese legend that could cast
  some light on the question. It concerns a voyage of discovery
  launched from China during the Ch’in dynasty.
  Leading this expedition was Hsu Fu, a Taoist sage.
  
  His
  aim was to locate the fabled Islands of Immortality—with
  their Elixir of Life—and settle them. Hsu Fu embarked
  upon the Eastern Sea, we are told, with a fleet of ships;
  3000 men and women; livestock, seeds, and tools. They
  found the islands, but not the elixir. Deciding to stay anyhow,
  they settled in the Mt. Fuji area—a colony that was
  the nucleus of the Japanese people.*
• Hsu Fu would seem to have been a historical personage. His
  tomb is located in the town of Shingu, along with a shrine in his
  honor. The locals say he taught their ancestors the art of navigation.
  http://www.professorsolomon.com
  
  Islands
  The Chinese called them Jih-pen—the Place Where the
  Sun Rises. To the inhabitants of the islands that became
  Nippon, or Nihon. And an early emperor—viewing his
  domain from a mountaintop and struck by its elongated
  shape—dubbed it Akitsu-shima, or Dragonfly Island.
  Peaks of a submerged mountain range, the islands form
  a chain that stretches from Siberia to Taiwan. They are separated
  from the mainland by the Sea of Japan, with its
  strong currents. This barrier led to a physical and cultural
  isolation, and a unique perspective. It produced a hermit
  nation, for whom the dragonfly—with its eccentric beauty
  —is an apt emblem.
  The Japanese archipelago comprises thousands of
  islands. Most of them are small; and it is the four main
  islands—Hokkaido, Honshu, Shikoku, and Kyushu—that
  provide the nation with living space. Of these Honshu has
  the largest population; while Hokkaido, in the north, is still
  sparsely settled.*
  Japan is basically mountainous—three-quarters of its
  terrain. These mountains are covered with forest and largely
  uninhabited. The population is crowded into valleys,
  coastal plains, and sprawling cities. Every inch of available
  land is cultivated; and a bird’s-eye view reveals interlocking
  contours of mountain, river, and field.
  Swift and unnavigable, the rivers have played a minor
  role in the settlement of the nation. Rather, it is the sea that
  has shaped Japan—and fed her. (The Japanese consume a
  tenth of the world’s ocean harvest.) The coastline meanders
  endlessly (its total length approaching that of the equator);
  and no cove or bay or inlet is without its fishing village.
• The last refuge of the Ainu, the northern island was originally
  called Yezo, or Land of the Barbarians. It was renamed Hokkaido,
  or Gateway to the Northern Sea, as a public relations ploy
  to attract settlers.
  
  Geologically, the islands are young and unstable, having
  been thrust from the sea in relatively recent times. The
  legacy of that upheaval is an abundance of hot springs, geysers,
  volcanos (240 altogether, 36 of them active), and sulphurous
  exhalations from deep within the earth. But the
  most common reminder of Japan’s instability are earthquakes.
  Daily occurrences, they are caused by movements
  of the Pacific Plate beneath the islands.*
  Subject to frequent natural disasters—earthquakes, tidal
  waves, volcanic eruptions—and short on habitable space,
  these islands would seem an unfortunate choice for settlement.
  Yet they offer a compensation: ubiquitous scenic
  beauty. One is never far from a breathtaking vista—of
  mountains or sea or both. The farmer plants below a cloudcapped
  peak. The traveler follows a winding mountain
  road. The fisherman casts his net into a misty lagoon. And
  the poet sighs at a crag with its lonely pine.
  How this landscape has affected—has shaped—the
  Japanese soul may only be guessed at by an outsider. Lafcadio
  Hearn (see page 148) has attributed the artistic sensibility
  of the Japanese to the mountains in whose shadow
  they dwell:
  It is the mists that make the magic of the backgrounds;
  yet even without them there is a strange, wild, dark beauty
  in Japanese landscapes, a beauty not easily defined in
  words. The secret of it must be sought in the extraordinary
  lines of the mountains, in the strangely abrupt crumpling
  and jagging of the ranges; no two masses closely resembling
  each other, every one having a fantasticality of its own.
  When the chains reach to any considerable height, softly
  swelling lines are rare: the general characteristic is abruptness,
  and the charm is the charm of Irregularity.
  

Doubtless this weird Nature first inspired the Japanese
with their unique sense of the value of irregularity in decoration,—taught
them that single secret of composition

• Quakes were once attributed to the movements of a giant fish.
  This creature was believed to be sleeping beneath Japan. From
  time to time it would stir, striking the sea floor with its tail and
  causing an earthquake. When it merely arched its back, the
  result was a tidal wave.
  
  which distinguishes their art from all other art.…that
  Nature’s greatest charm is irregularity.
  This most aesthetic of peoples does appreciate the charm
  —as well as the sacredness—of its mountains. Indeed, its
  unique insight may be that the two are mysteriously linked.
  http://www.professorsolomon.com
  
  Fuji
  In ancient times the mountains of Japan were sacred
  places. Their shrouded peaks were deemed a gateway to the
  Other World; their wild recesses, the dwelling place of gods
  and ghosts. They were revered, too, as a divine source of
  water. The streams that flowed to the rice paddies below
  were a gift from the goddess of the mountain. Few mountains
  were without such a goddess, or a pair of shrines in her
  honor (a small one near the summit; a more elaborate one
  —for prayers and ceremonies—at the base). And adding
  to the mystery of mountains were their sole inhabitants:
  the yamabushi (“mountain hermits”). These ascetics were
  reputed to possess magical powers, and to be in communication
  with supernatural beings. They were sought out as
  healers.
  Today only a few mountains have retained their sacred
  status. But one of them—a dormant volcano 60 miles north
  of Tokyo—has become the subject of a national cult. It has
  inherited the reverence once accorded to one’s local mountain.
  I am referring, of course, to Mt. Fuji.
  The high regard in which Fuji is held is suggested by the
  characters used to represent its name. They signify “nottwo”—that
  is, peerless, one-of-a-kind. The name itself
  derives from Fuchi: the Ainu goddess of fire who inhabited
  the volcano. One can imagine the awe inspired in the Ainu,
  and in the Japanese who supplanted them, by a mountain
  that spewed fire. And in its day, Fuji was fiery indeed.
  Tradition has it that Mt. Fuji rose out of the ground—
  amid smoke and fire—during an earthquake in the fifth
  year of the Seventh Emperor Korei (286 B.C.). Geologists,
  it is true, scoff at this account, insisting on a much earlier
  formation. But there were witnesses. A woodsman named
  Visu is said to have lived on the plain where the mountain
  emerged. As he and his family were going to bed that night,
  they heard a rumbling and felt their hut shake. Running
  outside, they stared in amazement at the volcano that was
• The woodsman Visu was to become the Rip Van Winkle of
  Fuji. It seems that witnessing the birth of the mountain left him
  exceedingly pious—so much so that he did nothing but pray all
  day, neglecting his livelihood and family. When his wife protested,
  he grabbed his ax and stalked out of the house, shouting that
  he would have nothing more to do with her.
  Visu climbed into the wilds of Fuji. There he wandered about,
  mumbling prayers and denouncing his wife. Suddenly he came
  upon two aristocratic ladies, sitting by a stream and playing go.
  He sat down beside them and watched, fascinated. They ignored
  him, absorbed in their moves and caught up in what seemed an
  endless game. All afternoon he watched, until one of the ladies
  made a bad move. “Mistake!” he cried out—whereupon they
  changed into foxes and ran off. Visu tried to chase after them,
  but found, to his dismay, that his legs had become stiff. Moreover,
  his beard had grown to several feet in length; and his ax
  handle had dissolved into dust.
  When able to walk again, Visu decided to leave the mountain
  and return to his hut. But upon arriving at its site, he found both
  hut and family gone. An old woman came walking by. He asked
  her what had become of the hut and told her his name. “Visu?”
  she said. “Impossible! That fellow lived around here 300 years
  ago. Wandered off one day and was never seen again.”
  Visu related what had happened; and the woman said he
  
  rising out of the earth.*
  Perhaps this account was inspired by a major eruption
  that changed the shape of the mountain. For Fuji has erupted
  frequently—eighteen times—in historical memory.
  Each blast enhanced the supernatural awe in which the
  mountain was held. On one occasion (in 865), a palace was
  seen hovering in the flames. Another time precious gems
  were reported to have spewed from the mountain. And a
  luminous cloud was occasionally glimpsed above the crater.
  It was believed to surround the goddess Sengen. Apparently
  she hovered there and kept an eye out for any pilgrims to
  the summit. Those deemed insufficiently pure of heart she
  hurled back to earth.

The last eruption took place in 1707, adding a new hump
to the mountain and covering distant Edo (present-day
Tokyo) with a layer of ash. Fuji is now considered dormant.
But the geological underpinnings of Japan are unstable; and
one never knows. The fire goddess could return.*
Mt. Fuji (or Fujisan, as it is called) is an impressive sight.
Its bluish cone is capped with snow and mantled with
clouds. The highest mountain in Japan, it can be seen for
hundreds of miles. The Japanese are connoisseurs of this
view, which alters subtly, depending on the direction, distance,
weather, and light. With its unique shape, historical
associations, and mystic aura, Fuji has become the nation’s
symbol.
It has also been a frequent subject for poets and painters.
The eighth-century poet Yamabe no Akahito wrote:
Of this peak with praises shall I ring
As long as I have any breath to sing.
900 years later Basho, gazing toward the mountain on a


• For a cinematic imagining of that return, see Godzilla vs.
  Mothra (1964). As the monsters battle it out at the foot of Fuji,
  the mountain suddenly erupts. Even Godzilla is taken aback.
  deserved such a fate—for having neglected his family. Visu nodded
  and looked contrite. “There is a lesson here,” he said. “All
  prayer, no work: lifestyle of a jerk.”
  He returned to the mountain and died soon thereafter.
  It is said that his ghost appears on Fuji whenever the moon is
  bright.
  
  rainy day, composed a haiku:
  Invisible in winter rain and mist
  Still a joy is Fuji—to this Fujiist!
  And Hokusai paid tribute to the mountain with a series
  of color prints, in his 36 Views of Fuji.
  Accepting these accolades with modesty has been Sengen,
  the goddess of the mountain. She continues to reside
  on Fuji, ready to hurl from its heights any unworthy pilgrim.
  And pilgrims have continued to climb the mountain,
  and to pray at shrines in the vicinity.
  Of the origin of one of those shrines—built beneath a
  tree in the village of Kamiide—a tale is told.
  ●
  During the reign of Emperor Go Ichijo, the plague had
  come to Kamiide. Among those afflicted was the mother of
  a young man named Yosoji. Yosoji tried every sort of cure,
  to no avail. Finally he went to see Kamo, a yamabushi who
  lived at the foot of Fuji.
  Kamo told him of a spring on the lower slope of the
  
  mountain. Of divine origin, its waters were curative. But
  getting to this spring was dangerous, said Kamo. The path
  was rough and steep; the forest, full of beasts and demons.
  One might not return, he warned.
  But Yosoji got a jar and set out in search of the spring.
  Surrounded by the gloomy depths of the forest, he trudged
  up the path. The climb was strenuous. But he pressed on,
  determined to obtain water from the spring.
  In a glade the path branched off in several directions.
  Yosoji halted, unsure of the way. As he deliberated, a maiden
  emerged from the forest. Her long hair tumbled over a
  white robe. Her eyes were bright and lively. She asked Yosoji
  what had brought him to the mountain. When he told
  her, she offered to guide him to the spring.
  Together they climbed on. How fortunate I am, thought
  Yosoji, to have encountered this maiden. And how lovely she is.
  The path took a sharp turn. And there was the spring,
  gushing from a cleft in a rock.
  “Drink,” said the maiden, “to protect yourself from the
  plague. And fill your jar, that your mother may be cured.
  But hurry. It is not safe to be on the mountain after dark.”
  Yosoji fell to his knees and drank and filled the jar. Then
  the maiden escorted him back to the glade. Instructing him
  to return in three days for more water, she slipped away into
  the forest.
  Three days later he returned to the glade, to find the
  maiden awaiting him. As they climbed to the spring, they
  chatted. And he found himself taken with her beauty—her
  graceful gait—her melodious voice.
  “What is your name?” he asked. “Where do you live?”
  “Such things you need not know.”
  He filled his jar at the spring. And she told him to keep
  coming for water until his mother was fully recovered. Also,
  he was to give water to others in the village who were ill.
  He did as she said. And it was not long before everyone
  had recovered from the plague. Grateful to Kamo for his
  advice, the villagers filled a bag with gifts. Yosoji delivered
  it to the yamabushi.
  And he was about to return home, when it occurred to
  him that the maiden—whose identity he was still curious
  
  to learn—needed to be thanked, too. Nor would it be amiss
  to offer prayers at the spring. So once again Yosoji climbed
  the path.
  This time she was not waiting in the glade. But he knew
  the way and continued on alone. Through the foliage he
  caught glimpses of the summit of Fuji and the clouds that
  surrounded it. Arriving at the spring, he bowed in prayer.
  A shadow appeared beside him. Yosoji turned and gazed
  upon the maiden. They looked into each other’s eyes; and
  her beauty thrilled him more than ever.
  “Why have you returned?” she said. “Have not all recovered?”
  “They have. I am here simply to thank you for your help.
  And to ask again your name.”
  “You earned my help, through your bravery and devotion.
  As to who I am.…”
  She smiled and waved a camellia branch, as if beckoning
  to the sky. And from the clouds that hung about Fuji came
  a mist. It descended on the maiden and enveloped her.
  Yosoji began to weep. For he realized that this was Sengen,
  the goddess of the mountain. And he realized, too, that
  he had returned not merely to express his gratitude. Nor to
  satisfy his curiosity. Nor to pray. But to gaze upon the maiden
  with whom he had fallen in love.
  Sengen rose into the air, the mist swirling about her. And
  dropping the camellia branch at his feet—a token of her
  love for him—she disappeared into the clouds.
  Yosoji picked up the branch and returned with it to
  Kamiide. He planted and tended it. And it grew into a great
  tree, beneath which the villagers built a shrine.
  The tree and shrine exist to this day. The dew from the
  leaves of the tree is said to be an effective cure for eye ailments.

4.jpg
Shinto
To the bewilderment of Westerners, a Japanese may
adhere to several religions. Generally, these are Buddhism,
Confucianism, and Shinto. Each has a province in the life
of the individual. Buddhism focuses on death and the soul’s
future. Confucianism is concerned with ethics and social
matters. And Shinto—an ancient faith indigenous to Japan
—oversees daily life.
In examining Shinto, we may become further confounded.
For it does not conform to our expectations for a religion.
It has no hierarchy, theology, or founder—no sacred
scriptures (although theKojiki andNihongi serve as authoritative
sources for many of its traditions) or Supreme Deity.
And while Shinto translates as “the way of the gods,” it
offers scant information about those gods. What it does provide
is a way of connecting with them—an elaborate set of
rituals and folkways with which to access the divine.
That is to say, to commune with the kami.
What arethe kami? They are the native gods—the sacred
spirits—the supernatural powers—of Japan. Taking their
name from a word meaning “above” or “superior,” they are
the forces that matter. They are the arbiters of destiny, and
are worshiped as such. A Shintoist prays and makes offerings
to the kami. He seeks to please and obey them. They
are the ultimate sources of good and ill—spiritual forces
that to ignore or offend would be folly.
Reckoning with them, however, is no simple matter. For
the number of kami is endless—myriad upon myriad of
them—and their form diverse. The most common type are
nature spirits. These inhabit notable features of the landscape.
A cave, mountain, island, giant tree, junction of
rivers, deep forest, secluded pond, rock with a curious shape
—any of these are likely to harbor a kami. Also having a
kami are natural phenomena such as winds and storms. An
unusual animal may have one. In short, anything that
inspires awe or mystery may be possessed of a kami, and
must be dealt with accordingly.

Yet not all kami are associated with nature. A particular
territory (or the clan that occupies it) may have its kami—
its guardian spirit. An occupation, sphere of activity, or special
problem may have one, protecting or aiding those who
call upon it. There is, for instance, a kami for healing; one
for help in exams; one for fertility; one for defense against
insects; one for irrigation. A number of these were once
living persons. For a kami can be some great personage of
the past—a saint, a shogun, a scholar—who was deified
upon his death.*
Finally, there are kami that resemble the gods of Greek
and Roman mythology. The foremost among them is Amaterasu,
the sun goddess, who rules over heaven and earth.
Unlike most kami, this group has distinctly human characteristics.†
The kami, then, are the supernatural forces to which one
turns when in need. And how does one do that? How does
one establish contact with a kami? How does one enter into
its presence and seek its aid?

By visiting a shrine.
There are more than 80,000 shrines in Japan. Each provides
a dwelling place for a particular kami. One goes there
to pray or worship or renew oneself; to celebrate a birth or
marriage; or simply to experience awe and mystery. Standing
in front of a shrine, the poet Saigyo remarked: “I know
not what lies within, but my eyes are filled with tears of
gratitude.”
A typical shrine will be located in a grove of trees. This
may be the scene of the kami’s original manifestation, or
simply a pleasing locale—a quiet, isolated site conducive to

• The ordinary dead also were important in the Shinto scheme
  of things. Their function has been taken over, however, by Buddhism.
  See “Festival of the Dead.”
  † These gods and goddesses reside at their respective shrines,
  scattered throughout the country. But once a year they gather for
  a conference at the ancient Shrine of Izumo. The main order of
  business is to arrange marriages for the coming year. The conference
  lasts for most of October. So October is known as the month
  without gods: absent from their shrines, they are unavailable for
  supplication.

a spiritual experience. A sakaki (the sacred tree) may grow
nearby. A spring may gush from the earth. The natural surroundings
are important, and are considered part of the
shrine.*
Important too is the approach to a shrine. The path leads
through an arch called a torii. (The word means “bird
perch.”) The torii serves as gateway to the sacred precincts.
Passing through it, one begins to feel the presence of the
divine. The mundane world has been left behind.
The sanctuary itself is a simple building—unpretentious
yet elegant. It is old and made of wood (to harmonize with
the surrounding trees). Guarding its entrance may be a pair
of stone lions. Out front are colored streamers (to attract the
kami); a water basin; and a box for offerings. But the key
element is kept in the inner sanctum, where only the priest
may enter. It is an object called the shintai—generally a
mirror, jewel, or sword. In this sacred object resides the kami.
Without it the shrine would be an ordinary place. With it

• In cities shrines are sometimes built on the roofs of office
  buildings. Yet it was deemed crucial that they retain a connection
  with the spirit of the earth. The solution has been to run a soilfilled
  pipe between the shrine and the ground.
  
  the site is sanctified.*

No regular services are held at a shrine. Instead, worshipers
come when they feel the need. They begin by kneeling
at the basin and washing their hands and mouth. This
purification rite (known as misogi) is fundamental to Shinto,
which sees man in terms of pure and impure rather than
good and evil. One cannot connect with a kami unless spiritually
purified—cleansed of polluting influences—rid of
unclean spirits. In ancient times purification involved
immersion in a lake, river, or waterfall. The rite has been
simplified, but remains essential.†
After ablution, one bows and claps twice. The claps
attract the attention of the kami. (A bell may also be rung.)
One then drops a coin in the box, and offers a silent prayer
—communes with the kami. One may pray for health, fertility,
a good harvest, protection from fire or flood. It is also
customary to inscribe a prayer on a wooden tablet. Finally
one stops at a stall on the grounds and makes a purchase:
an amulet, a slip of paper with a fortune on it, or an artifact
for one’s kamidana.**
At least one priest resides at any sizeable shrine. But
unless it is a special occasion or time of day, the worshipers
will have no contact with him. For the Shinto priest con-

• For anyone other than a priest to gaze upon the shintai would
  be an impious act. A certain Lord Naomasu once visited the
  Shrine of Izumo and demanded to be shown its sacred object.
  The priests protested; but Naomasu forced them to open the
  inner sanctum. Revealed was a large abalone, its bulk concealing
  the shintai. Naomasu came closer—whereupon the abalone
  transformed itself into a giant snake and hissed menacingly.
  Naomasu fled, and never again trifled with a god.
  † According to the Kojiki, ritual purification originated with
  the gods. When Izanami died and went to the Underworld, Izanagi
  followed her there. He unwisely gazed upon her and became
  polluted. To restore himself, he hurried home and engaged in
  water purification. The rite was passed down to men.
  ** The kamidana (“god shelf”) is a small shrine found in traditional
  households. It contains talismans (one for Amaterasu,
  another for the local kami); memorial tablets for one’s ancestors;
  and offerings such as sake, rice, or cakes. Domestic prayers are
  recited at the kamidana.
  
  ducts no service, delivers no sermon, offers no sage advice.
  He is solely a ritualist—a mediator between kami and worshiper.
  His duties include the recital of prayers, the performance
  of rites, and the overseeing of offerings. Garbed in
  headdress and robe, he blesses infants and performs marriages.
  And, of course, he presides over the annual matsuri, or
  festival.
  Many shrines are the focus of an elaborate festival. Held
  in honor of the kami, these festivals go back centuries.
  Their origins are diverse. Some began as a plea to the kami
  for protection—against plague, enemy, earthquake. Or as
  propitiation for an abundant harvest. Or as thanks for a
  boon bestowed on the community. Others commemorate
  some historical incident—a military victory, say. Others
  simply pay homage to the kami.
  Such festivals evolved locally. So each acquired its own
  theme and imagery. There is a Sacred Post Festival, Whale
  Festival, Welcoming the Rice Kami Festival, Laughing Festival,
  Open Fan Festival, Spear Festival, Dummy Festival,
  Sacred Ball Catching Festival, Lantern Festival, Umbrella
  Festival, Ship Festival, Kite Flying Festival, Fire Festival,
  Rock Gathering Festival, Naked Festival—and hundreds
  more. But for all their individuality, Japan’s festivals share
  the same set of rituals. And all have the same aim: to renew
  the bond between kami and worshipers.
  A festival takes place throughout town. But it begins at
  the shrine. The sanctuary has been specially decorated with
  flowers, banners, and streamers. Elsewhere on the grounds
  the priests have been preparing themselves: bathing repeatedly
  and abstaining from certain acts. They gather now at
  the sanctuary, along with a select group of laymen, and conduct
  a purification ceremony.
  Then priests and laymen approach the inner sanctum
  and prostrate themselves at the door. Sacred music is
  played; an eerie chant is intoned; and the door is opened.
  Revealed is the shintai—the mirror, sword, or jewel in
  which the kami resides.
  An offering of food or sake is brought forward: an invitation
  to the kami to attend the festival. The door is closed;
  
  and the group adjourns to a banquet hall. There they hold
  a sacred feast, which begins with a ritual sipping of sake.
  But the event soon becomes more informal—and the sake
  flows. Guests of the kami, they commune with it in a joyful
  fashion.
  Now comes the high point of the festival: the procession.
  Priests and laymen return to the sanctuary, bringing with
  them the mikoshi, or sacred palanquin. The mikoshi is a
  miniature shrine attached to poles. It is ornate, gilded, and
  hung with bells. Atop it is a bronze hoo.*
  Again the inner sanctum is opened. And in a solemn ritual,
  the kami is transferred to a substitute shintai inside the
  mikoshi. Here it will reside for the duration of the festival.
  Hoisting the mikoshi onto their shoulders, the laymen—
  directed by the priests—begin the procession. The idea is
  to transport the kami throughout the town, that it may
  bestow its blessings upon all. Exhilarated by the nature of
  the occasion (and having drunk large amounts of sake), the
  laymen dance and reel and sing as they go.
  But the mikoshi bearers are only the vanguard of a larger
  procession. For they are soon joined by a collection of floats.
  On these wagons are giant figures—dragons, fish, samurai—that
  have been crafted from paper; historical tableaux;
  displays of flowers; and costumed maidens, dancers, and
  musicians. To the beat of drums, the procession winds
  through the streets.

Lining the route are local residents and visitors. These
festival-goers have also been enjoying puppet plays, game
booths, fortunetelling birds, sumo bouts, tug-of-war
matches, exhibitions of classical dance. They have been
buying toys, amulets, sake, snacks. Such amusements are
considered an offering to the kami. As the crowd eats,
drinks, and socializes, a rare loosening of restraints is
allowed—a dispensation from the kami. The bond between
kami and worshipers is being renewed; and it is a joyful
occasion.
Also being renewed is a sense of community. For the fes-

• The hoo is the legendary phoenix of the Orient. It is said to
  appear in a country only when a wise king rules.
  
  tival serves to bring together the local parishioners. (Even
  those who have moved away return to their hometown for
  its annual festival.) They have gathered to receive the blessing
  of the kami—to pray for health and prosperity—to celebrate
  their solidarity as a group.
  Among those present are a growing number of persons
  who have abandoned Shinto—who view it as an outmoded
  set of superstitions. They have come for the carnival; and
  they smile tolerantly upon the religious aspects of the festival.
  Yet as modern-minded as they are, they find themselves
  affected by the aura of mystery that hovers about the mikoshi.
  By the transcendental gleam of the sacred palanquin.
  By the power of the kami as it passes among them.
  http://www.professorsolomon.com
  
  Zen
  A thousand years after the Indian prince Gautama had
  become the Buddha—the Enlightened One—while sitting
  under a bo tree, Buddhism (the codification and elaboration
  of his teachings) reached China and Japan. There it
  flowered into a number of sects. One of these—known in
  China as Ch’an (“meditation”) Buddhism, and in Japan as
  Zen—was to be a major influence on Japanese civilization.*
  What is Zen? The question can be a dangerous one, as
  novice monks in Zen monasteries can attest. Putting it to
  their Master, many have been answered with a slap, kick,
  or bop on the head. The luckier ones were answered nonsensically,
  told to go chop wood, or called “Blockhead!”
  Those who persevered have spent years trying to comprehend
  the nature of Zen—sometimes succeeding, sometimes
  not. What they have never succeeded in doing, however,
  has been to get a straight answer from their Master.
  “What is the fundamental teaching of the Buddha?”
  asked one monk. “There’s enough breeze in this fan to keep
  me cool,” replied his Master.
• The founder of the Zen sect was Bodhidharma, an Indian
  monk who had wandered into China. Legend has it that Bodhidharma
  was summoned to the palace at Nanking, and brought
  before Emperor Wu. A fervid supporter of Buddhism, the
  Emperor boasted of his accomplishments in behalf of the faith—
  building temples, copying scriptures, securing converts—and
  asked what his reward would be, in this world and the next. No
  reward whatsoever, said Bodhidharma. Frowning, the Emperor
  asked what the basic principle of Buddhism was. Nothingness,
  vast nothingness, said the monk. Taken aback by these puzzling
  replies, the Emperor asked: “Who are you, anyhow?” “No idea,”
  said Bodhidharma.
  Departing the palace, Bodhidharma made his way to a cavetemple
  in the mountains. There he sat in meditation for nine
  years, staring at a wall. As his followers grew in number, Zen
  Buddhism was born.
  
  “What is the Buddha?” asked another monk. His Master
  replied: “I can play the drum. Boom-boom. Boomboom.”
  What is going on here? What sort of religion is this? And
  who are these so-called Masters—these antic churls, so
  enamored of absurdities and seemingly indifferent to the
  progress of their pupils?
  The answer is that they are the eloquent spokesmen of a
  worthy tradition. But that tradition has charged them with
  a difficult task; and in seeking to perform it, they often
  resemble slapstick comedians.
  That task isthe communication of the ineffable. The teaching
  of a truth that cannot be expounded. The imparting of
  a Higher Knowledge that is beyond words. For such (in a
  few useless words) is the aim of Zen.
  Now a quest for enlightenment is not unique to Zen.
  

All
denominations of Buddhism seek to understand the Universe,
and to enter into a harmonious relationship with it.
To that end they have employed both intellectual and ceremonial
means. In the temples and monasteries of the Buddhist
world, logical discourse has flourished. Elaborate rituals
have evolved. Endless volumes of theology have been
written, circulated, and diligently perused.
But Zen alone has disdained such activity—in favor of
an intuitive approach.
Learn to see with the inner eye, Zen urges seekers of
enlightenment. Forsake reason, logical discourse, and books
(and while you’re at it, toss in dogma, ceremony, and icons).
For a keener faculty than the intellect is available to you.
There is a direct route to the Highest Truth—to the vital
spirit of the Buddha. And that is via intuition. Via the
heart, not the mind.*

• Westerners may find it difficult to conceive of a non-rationalistic
  mode of philosophizing. The story is told of the abbot of a
  Zen monastery who gave to an American a gift of two dolls. One
  doll was a Daruma (the Japanese name for Bodhidharma). Daruma
  dolls are weighted at their base, the abbot explained. Pushed
  over, they spring back up. But the second doll was weighted in
  the head—pushed over, it stayed down.
  “It represents Westerners,” said the abbot, “with their top-
  
  What Zen offers is a “hands-on” brand of enlightenment
  —a moment of perception—an experience of the Highest
  Truth. And it calls that experiencesatori.