方違神社 Hochigai shrine

This weekend, almost exactly a year after our return from Japan to Ireland, we’ll finally be moving into our new house. Our search for a permanent home in Dublin has not been an easy one, but that’s a story for another time.

Once again, our home is piled high with boxes as we pack up all our possessions ready for the move. The same boxes we used a year ago for the move from Japan to Ireland (in some cases, battered veterans of the earlier journey from Ireland to Japan) now find themselves reconstituted, taken out of flat-stored retirement and pressed into service one more time for the much shorter and easier move from Cabinteely to Leopardstown.

Houchigai jinja in Sakai city is a shrine that specialises in house moves. At the end of our recent visit to Japan we went there on our bikes to seek good luck and success in our forthcoming move.

The shrine was built 2000 years ago at the boundary of three ancient provinces: Settsu, Kawachi and Izumi. To this day, the area is known as 三国ヶ丘　Mikunigaoka, meaning 3-country hill. The tradition arose that as the shrine itself, being at the boundary and therefore not being part of any of the 3 countries, is not oriented in any direction, so a traveller by visiting the shrine could avoid unfortunate or wrong directions. The name 方違　houchigai reflects this tradition.

The water basin and well have old-fashioned characters written from right to left. The character for “country” in 三國山　is the same as I saw used in Taiwan; in modern Japanese writing it is simplified to 国.

Although the shrine is along the main road, it is a very tranquil place. Around the car park are camphor trees and a stand of wisteria, the trunk of which looks ancient and gnarled.

 

The shrine backs onto a wide moat surrounding a steep wooded island, which is a keyhole-shaped tomb or kofun, off-limits to human visitors.

 

We brought with us a charm that we had bought on a previous visit to this shrine; a charm that had since then clocked up many air-miles and suffered much abuse in cargo holds and baggage carousels, as it travelled back and forth across the world attached to suitcase handles.

The tradition is that when a charm has done its job of keeping you safe, you bring it back to the shrine where it will later be destroyed in a special fire. For the moment it just gets dropped unceremoniously into this used-charm receptacle:

 

We bought an identical replacement charm for 500 yen, and then Yuko did o-mikuji.

Her fortune was good.

神主 kannushi—priest

On the evening of Setsubun, we went to a shrine called Nunose Jinja, about a mile east of here, for a lantern-lighting ceremony called 万灯籠　mantourou.

The ceremony was due to start at 5:00. We arrived early, expecting that it would be crowded.  But there were fewer people than we expected, mainly middle-aged, but a few younger people and children. The lanterns were laid out in neat rows in the grounds of the shrine, waiting to be lit. .

The priest moved between the little groups of people, chatting easily to everyone. He was wearing his sacramental robes (kariginu) and hat (eboushi).

While Yuko was ringing the bell to pray, the priest approached me and asked me if I was with someone. Unsure whether he was challenging my right to be there, I explained that I was there with my wife. It turned out that the priest was extremely friendly and kind, and just wanted to put me at my ease and make sure we felt welcome.

There was a little box of paper cutout dolls. The idea is that you take a doll, write your name and age on it and blow on it.

Later all the dolls would be floated down the river, taking your bad luck with them. Setsubun is an interstitial or “in-between” time, a “crack” between winter and spring, so a lot of the traditions are based on the idea that bad luck can slip into our lives at this time.

When it was time to light the lanterns, I was handed a lighter and invited to help lighting them. I was delighted to be included in this activity, and not just an onlooker.

Then everyone was invited inside the honden for the service.

The interior was beautifully and elegantly decorated with lamps, pictures, colourfully-painted timbers, and so on. We took our seats on rows of benches just inside the door. There were three people on the raised area in front of where we were seated: the priest, a female musician with a flute, and a miko-san, who assisted the priest and instructed the congregation when to stand, bow or sit during the service. The musician was also dressed up in a ceremonial robes and hat.

We would have very much liked to take photographs but we felt that it would not be appropriate.

The priest moved around and performed various rituals of blessing using an ōnusa wand decorated with white paper streamers (shide), intoning the words of the ceremony in a kind of sonorous chant. Then individual members of the congregation were invited, one at a time, to come forward, receive a tamagushi (leafy branch) from the priest, and place it as an offering. Each person who went up represented a group, such as the local women’s association. While the representative was making the offering, the members of that group stood and bowed.

Then, to our surprise, Yuko was invited to go up and place an offering, and I stood and bowed. Again, I was delighted that the priest took the trouble to include us.

The flute music was a surprise. I expected a soft, airy sound like a western-style flute. Instead, the first note blared out like a train whistle. The music seemed ancient and sacral, almost primitive. The instrument has an amazing dynamic range, and can be plaintive, strident, breathy or gentle.

After the ceremony, the priest addressed the congregation directly in a very friendly and engaging manner, explaining the religious and cultural significance of the Setsubun festival.

The musician then took her turn to address us, letting us know about some upcoming concerts she would be taking part in. For example, there will be a concert in Kyoto to celebrate 400 years of Spanish-Japanese cultural contact, featuring Japanese dance and flamenco.

Finally, we filed out, each participant receiving a little bowl of sake to drink.

By this time, it was almost dark, and the lanterns could be appreciated to better effect.

The musician wandered among the lanterns, and the strange sound of the flute drifted through the twilit evening.

We took our leave, and the priest said we were welcome to come back any time.

Note on the word of the day:

神主　kannushi is a Shintō priest. The first character is 神　kami meaning god. This character is also found in 神社　jinja or 神宮　jinguu meaning a shrine, and 神道　shintou, the Shintō religion (literally, “way of the gods”).

The second character, 主　has various pronunciations like omo, nushi and shu, and means things like master, landlord, husband, host, main, etc. Taken together, the two characters mean something like “spiritual leader”.

The word for a Catholic priest is 神父　shinpu which is written with the characters  神　kami (as above) and 父　chichi meaning “father”, together meaning “spiritual father”.

お守り o-mamori—charms

On Thursday we took the dogs to inu jinja—the dog shrine—in Nagoya.

At the dog shrine you can see a statue of 犬の王　inu no ou—the king of the dogs.

(This photo is by geocacher “eizo” and was not taken on our visit. You can see the head of the dog king in the top picture above, peeping out from behind the kadomatsu.)

Most shrines and temples sell charms (protective talismans) called o-mamori. The purchase of these items is like a small donation.

Each shrine or temple tends to specialise in charms for a certain purpose, which might be exams, marriage, travel, etc. For example, there is a shrine not far from here called 方違神社　houchigai jinja. If you are planning to move house, you can buy a suitable o-mamori there. Inu jinja specialises in charms to protect dogs.

O-mamori only remain effective for one year, so at New Year you are supposed to return your used charms to the shrine and get new ones. There were boxes full of returned charms and other religious objects. These are burned in the courtyard of the shrine. It was quite smoky.

O-mamori usually take the form of a brocade bag with something inside, tied with a characteristic knot. Here are the o-mamori we bought.

Note on the word of the day:

The verb 守る　mamoru means “to protect”. You can often make a noun from the -masu stem of a verb (mamorimasu -> mamori) so 守り mamori is a noun meaning protection. Adding the honorific o- gives us o-mamori, which is a protective charm or talisman.

兎 usagi—rabbit

The white rabbit of Inaba

The story goes that long ago, a rabbit found himself trapped on an offshore island, and hatched a plan to make his way back to the mainland by tricking some sharks. He challenged the sharks, saying “let’s see who has the most friends! Everyone line up so I can count you.” Once the sharks were in a line, he leapt from one to the next, using their backs as a bridge to reach the mainland.

But, unable to contain his pride at his own cunning, just as he was leaping off the back of the last shark, the rabbit blurted out, “I tricked you! I just wanted to get back to the mainland.” The shark was angered and grabbed the rabbit in his teeth, stripping him of his skin and fur.

The rabbit, suffering great pain, met some cruel men who advised him to wash in seawater. But this just made him suffer more. Then the brother of the men, the kindly god Daikoku, gave better advice: to wash his wounds in fresh water and wrap them in the fluff of bulrushes. Following this advice, the rabbit recovered.

Hakuto

When we were in Tottori prefecture last weekend, we visited the white rabbit shrine (白兔神社　hakuto jinja). I knew the story, but I had not realised it was associated with Tottori. Inaba is the name of an old province that now forms part of Tottori.

The whole area of Hakuto beach, not far from Tottori city, is full of white rabbit imagery. Hakuto is another way of pronouncing “shiroi usagi” which means “white rabbit”. We arrived just at sunset, and the coastline looked very beautiful against the evening sky. As you can see, some surfers were also enjoying the last of the daylight, unworried by sharks of ancient legend. You can also see a shrine atop the offshore rock, silhouetted against the sky.

The shrine

Here is the torii gate of the Hakuto (white rabbit) shrine. On the left and right of the gate, you can see steles with the characters 白兔神社 written vertically. Behind the gate, steps lead up through the trees to the shrine itself.

On the left at the top of the steps, we passed a shed with a sand carving depicting a scene from the tale.

There were many small white stones, each with a character stamped on it in red ink. These represent wishes by visitors to the shrine (probably wedding-related wishes). The path was lined with stone statues of rabbits in various postures, many with a white stone offering balanced on its head.

Further on, we passed the pool where, according to tradition, the rabbit washed itself in fresh water. It is called 御身洗池 “wash body pool”. In the photo, it is down to the left, but is too dark to see.

Finally, we arrived at the main building of the shrine. There was nobody else around.

Daikoku

Daikoku-sama, known as Ookuninushi no mikoto in Japanese, is one of the 7 lucky gods. There are many shrines devoted to him, including the important Izumo Taisha. The Osaka branch of Izumo Taisha is not far from here, and there is a bronze statue of Daikoku-sama and the rabbit just inside the gate.

As there are two rabbits in the statue, I guess that it represents a “before and after” narrative read from right to left, with a plaintive injured rabbit on the right and a happy healed rabbit on the left. Maybe.

Anyway, yesterday after the tea ceremony, we went walking in Daikokucho, a suburb of Osaka that is named for the god Daikoku. There we visited his shrine, and discovered that in addition to rabbits, he is also associated with rats or mice.

We’ve seen various species of shrine guardians before, most typically lions, lion dogs (koma-inu) and foxes, but this was the first time we had seen rats in the role. The rat on the left is holding a hammer, and the one on the right is holding a bushel of rice, his tail draped protectively over it.

One painting in front of the shrine shows a young Daikoku-sama with the white rabbit. (Sorry about the poorly-focused picture.) On the table is a cute little stone statue of a rabbit (and somewhat mysteriously, also a real dead turtle. Maybe the turtle is filling in for the shark.)

A second painting shows an older, more rotund and extremely contented-looking version of the god with rats and rice, and holding a hammer.

Note on the word of the day:

Was the rabbit bitten by a shark (same), or an alligator (wani)? The Japanese version of the story refers to wani, which normally means alligator, but for some reason they are always referred to as sharks in English translations. A version of the tale printed on a local signboard at Hakuto beach called them wanizame—alligator sharks. I don’t know what an alligator shark is, but I definitely don’t want to meet one.

The Japanese word for rabbit, usagi, is normally written in katakana: ウサギ. It was only on this trip that I came across the kanji character 兎　(variant 兔) and learned that its Chinese pronunciation is to. Hence: 白兔　hakuto—white rabbit.

堺事件 Sakai jiken—the Sakai incident

In 1868, a French corvette, Dupleix, anchored off the coast at Sakai and put a boat ashore. It was a time of great turbulence in Japan, with the country divided between the forces of the deposed shogun and the supporters of the emperor.

The 11 sailors were killed by the Tosa samurai guarding the city. Some tellings of the story state that their deaths were due to some kind of misunderstanding; a failure of communication or protocol. But it’s also true that the French and the samurai were on opposing sides in the conflict;  the French military expedition, sent by Napoleon III, was training the shogunate forces, while the domain of Tosa was among those fighting for the Meiji emperor.

A monument commemorating the event stands at the river mouth in Sakai.

The French government demanded reparations, and 29 samurai who had fired their weapons in the incident, as well as their leaders, were sentenced to death by seppuku (ritual suicide).

Rather than kill so many, a lottery was held to identify 20 to be killed. The ritual killings took place at nearby Myoukokuji temple.

It is said that the condemned men threw their own intestines at the horrified French observer as an expression of contempt for his role, and that after 11 men had died he called for a pardon for the rest. It was felt that honour had been satisfied, 11 Japanese having died in return for the 11 dead Frenchmen.

[Except that the number of Frenchmen killed was actually 12: 11 “sailors” and one “midshipman”. I’m not sure what a midshipman is; is he not a sailor? Did the French government consider his death less important, so that, unlike those of the sailors, he did not need to be avenged?] =Thanks to europemeetsasia for providing clarification on this point – see comments below.

Anyway, to our modern sensibilities, it is a horrific tale. The temple has a monument at the location where the 11 samurai died:

Inside the temple’s treasure room, where we were not allowed to take pictures, we were shown various relics of the incident, including the tantou knife that the samurai used in turn to take their lives, and the table on which the knife was placed, which was still stained with the blood shed over 140 years ago.

Other treasures are items that were rescued from the temple on the two occasions it was destroyed by fire: during the Age of the Warring States, and in the air raids of July 1945. The temple courtyard contains a cycad tree that is supposedly 1100 years old, having survived both fires, and is a national monument.

We were told many interesting things on our guided tour of the temple and its treasures. Unfortunately, we were told these things in Japanese, and I understood little enough of what was said, so I had to wait for Yuko to give me a summary in English after we went back outside.

It seems that in centuries past, the head monk, Nichijou, had a dream in which a dragon came to him, revealed himself as the guardian deity of the temple, and offered three wishes. Nichijou created a shrine in the temple grounds to house the deity.

Does it seem extraordinary that a Buddhist monk, in charge of a Buddhist temple, should inaugurate a Shinto shrine inside the temple grounds, to honour a dragon-god? In Japan it doesn’t seem to be considered contradictory or surprising, and people freely draw from both religious traditions in their beliefs and practices.

The purification font has this wonderfully modern dragon-head water-pipe.

More surprising, perhaps, is to find these characters in the temple grounds:

Does Minnie Mouse have Buddha-nature?

祭 matsuri—festival

I left the office late yesterday evening and emerged into the noise and swirl and laughter of a summer festival, the streets lined with food stalls and reverberating to the sound of taiko drums. It was completely unexpected; I had no idea that there would be a festival right in the city near my office. Lots of children were dressed up in colourful yukatas. Very cute!

 

Unfortunately my pictures aren’t the best quality because it was dark and I only had my mobile phone camera.

The little girl has a bag of what looks like marbles, but they are actually soft rubber balls. The children are getting them from this stall:

Another activity is to try to catch goldfish using shoji paper scoops. This is called 金魚掬い　kingyo sukui—goldfish scooping. The point is to try to scoop the fish before the wet paper falls apart.

Today Yuko sent me some information about the festival, and I found out that it was a two-day event, associated with the local shrine (Goryo jinja). So after work today I went there again.

Inside the precinct of the shrine I discovered that the drumming was provided by these boys. They were working themselves to exhaustion in the sweltering heat, but keeping up a very impressive rhythm and chant (not to mention spinning the drum sticks). You can watch a short video here.

The boys and the drum are on a mikoshi which will later be carried in procession through the streets.

The shrine precinct was full of stalls selling food: fried eggs, sweet potatoes, karaage; as well as entertainments and toys. The boys on the right are armed with an impressive array of inflatable oversized weapons.

 

 

I noticed that two young gaijin women were getting some explanation from a young woman in white and red robes. I went over to listen in on their explanation. It turned out that they were Israeli tourists.

The girl in the red and white robes explained that she dances at shrine ceremonies (for example, at weddings and at New Year). She asked if I would be interested in seeing inside the honden. I said I certainly would.

This is what the honden looks like, peering in from outside.

It was an extraordinary experience, and I felt very privileged. Unfortunately it was not possible to take photos inside, so a verbal description will have to suffice. Also, because I didn’t follow what was going on, my description may not be fully reliable.

Before entering the honden, I inscribed my name in a roll using a nice calligraphic pen (vertically, in katakana – I found myself admiring my own penwork), then filed in with 10 or so other people.

We sat near the entrance on a long bench decorated with brocade fabric. The priest stood nearby, a slightly plump and avuncular man wearing a tall white hat and white robes, and holding a wooden paddle.

The interior of the honden is on three levels, of which the area where we were sitting (and the priest was standing) is the lowest. Although the interior looks dark in the photo, once you are inside it is not gloomy at all. There is lots of wood and many religious artifacts.  There were also many many offerings in the form of bottles of alcohol and fruit. The crates of alcohol were literally piled high.

Up a few steps directly in front of us was a large open area something like a stage. Over to the left of this platform, two women were sitting seiza, wearing black hats and green robes. Beyond the open area, at the back, were more steps leading to an open door, through which I could see more religious objects and bowls of fruit. This area, I guessed, was where the gods reside.

The priest invited us to stand and bow, then to sit down; he recited some . The seated women started to play a melody on the flute. The girl in the photo above, in the white and red robes, knelt in the middle of the stage, then stood up holding bells in her right hand, and began to dance. She slowly turned in each direction, shaking the bells. What an amazing religion, that puts a dancing girl centre-stage, while the priest stands off to the side!

Then we were invited to stand again and bow twice, then clapped twice, and it was time to leave.

On the way out each person was given a drink of sake. We picked up a red bowl in both hands, a small amount of sake was poured from the spout of a metal pot, and we drank it. Then finally we were each given a towel as a memento.

Unfortunately I didn’t stay on for the climax of the festival, when the mikoshi would be borne in procession through the streets, but we may be able to experience that at the weekend if we go to the Tenjin matsuri.

 

クスノキ kusu no ki—camphor tree

Fans of David Mitchell’s wonderful novels—Ghostwritten, number9dream, Cloud Atlas, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet—may remember his recurring references to camphor trees; great spreading camphor trees that serve as a unifying motif as well as a source of spiritual power and continuity within the stories.

Until I came to live in Japan last month, I did not know what a camphor tree was. I had heard of camphor; I knew it was once used (perhaps still is used?) to make mothballs. But on my previous visits to Japan, I had never specifically noticed these trees or learned to recognise them.

The picture above shows the shrine behind our house, 八坂神社　yasaka jinja, which has 6 big old camphor trees. (You can see the upstairs balcony at the rear of our house, if you know where to look. Does having these camphor trees behind our house mean I’m living in a David Mitchell novel? I hope not.)

Two of these trees are over 400 years old and are considered to be “historic trees” by Sakai city. One of them has a god, or kami, living in it.

This sign explains about the kami who resides in the tree:

From memory of Yuko’s explanation, the sign says this kami, 楠魂彦姫の大神—kusutama hiko-hime no ookami—has both male and female characteristics, and therefore is consulted on matters of relationships and marriage. Also, the sign explains that the kami originally resided in a different camphor tree to the north-west of the torii gate of the shrine, but moved to this tree. Then as now, the kami was consulted by the people.

Sometimes you see a person engaging the spirit of a sacred tree. They approach the tree, clap their hands together twice, and then lean towards the tree and stand for a while with their hands pressed against the bark. Having watched these people and become curious, I have tried it myself. People laugh at tree-huggers, but there is no denying the sense of power and calm that comes from touching a great old tree.

Now that I’ve learned to recognise camphor trees, I see them all around; not only in the grounds of shrines (such as Kanaoka shrine, above) but also in our local park. The stippled bark is very recognisable, as is the overall form of the tree, with long, long boughs spreading horizontally high above the ground. But the most distinctive feature is the smell of the leaves. Crush a camphor leaf in your hand, and the perfume is released, a high, powerful, head-clearing, exhilarating smell, with something of the same character as eucalyptus oil or fresh cedar wood, but different from both.

Note on the word of the day:

クスノキ　kusu no ki is the Japanese name of the camphor tree, Cinnamomum camphora, native to Japan, China and Taiwan. I could have written the word using the kanji 楠, but decided to stick to katakana for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I would have felt like a bit of a cheat because I don’t know the kanji. And secondly, I think most Japanese people would write it in katakana because they don’t know the kanji either. But I could be wrong about that. You can see the kanji 楠 in the picture of the sign, above (the very first character in the rightmost column), and you can also see the little furigana characters く ku すsu written beside it to tell the reader how to pronounce it. So I don’t know.

Anyway, according to Wikipedia, camphor is a white crystalline substance used in medicine, incense, as a culinary spice and as insect repellent.