Sado Island’s lesser-known treasure

Last month I had the opportunity to visit the fascinating island of Sado, off the coast of Niigata Prefecture in northern Honshu. It felt like a land that time forgot, so charmingly rustic and old-fashioned were its buildings.

Located in the Sea of Japan, Sado was once home to mines that flourished from the early 17th century until the last one closed in 1989. Together, these mines produced an astounding 78 tons of gold and 2,300 tons of silver. That’s a lot of precious metals!

Nevertheless, I was surprised to learn that during those same years, 30% of the island’s wealth was concentrated in the quiet port town of Shukunegi.

Naturally, I had to explore.

Shukunegi

Shukunegi is on the southeast coast of Sado Island, an easy drive from my inn on the southwest coast. During the Edo era (1603–1867), the port bustled with trade. Hundreds of Sengoku-bune, a type of Japanese wooden sailing ship, were either based there or stopped by on their way to and from the port of Sakata, in the north, to Osaka on the far side of Honshu. 

The name, Sengoku-bune, means “1,000 koku ships.” Koku is a Japanese measurement that had long been used for rice. One koku equals 150 kilos. Rather than in currency, taxes were paid in numbers of koku of rice. Samurai received a set number of koku as their yearly wages. And Daimyo lords were judged wealthy by the number of koku of rice their domains produced.

These impressive sailing ships, the Sengoku-bune “1,000 koku ships,” carried 150,000 kilos of rice from the great rice-producing areas of northeastern Japan down to Osaka, stopping at ports along the way. They returned with pottery, various other goods, and remarkably, stones to replace the weight of the rice and provide necessary ballast for the ships.

You can spot these stones around the town, used in roads, foundations for buildings, monuments, and the like. One bridge in Shukunegi is made from stones carried on one of the Sengoku-bune all the way from Onomichi City, in what is today Hiroshima Prefecture.

Shukunegi is situated on a small piece of land surrounded on three sides by hills. In the late Edo era, the town along with the surrounding countryside consisted of 120 households and 500 residents. There were peasants, shipowners, captains, sailors, shipbuilders and carpenters, blacksmiths, and bucket makers. As well, there was a continuous stream of men who came and went on the Sengoku-bune.

People still live there today.

To fit the population in, architects had to be creative, fitting the buildings into small and irregularly shaped patches of land between streams and roads. They also made good use of any leftover wood from shipbuilding and from old, dismantled ships.

Prosperity threatened

In December of 1802, a 6.5 to 7.0 magnitude earthquake occurred that nearly put an end to Shukunegi’s prosperous trade. The land and sea levels along the coast were raised by two meters. The Sengoku-bune could no longer harbor in the small port. The sea had become too shallow.

Thankfully, one resourceful man came up with a solution.

Tarai-bune

Miso making requires fermenting soybeans with saltwater and rice koji — yes, the same koji that is used in making sake — in huge barrels made from cedar and bamboo. 

The story is told that a miso maker was gazing at his big barrels and struck upon an idea. He cut one in half and found that it made a fine shallow-bottomed boat. It was big and stable enough to haul freight to and from the Sengoku-bune anchored offshore.

That innovative miso-maker had made the first han-giri, or “half-cut.” The idea caught on. People started building these boats and adapting them, making them smaller and then oval-shaped. They came to be called tarai-bune, “washbasin boats.” They are controlled by using one long oar.

Fishermen use tarai-bune even today from which they hook abalone and flatfish from the shallow seafloor. Their small size makes them easy to navigate through the narrow waterways and coves of the Sado coast.

After being ferried about in a tarai-bune and seeing a surprising number of baby fugu pufferfish in the crystal-clear water, I headed off to explore the town’s museum.

Ogi Folk Museum

In 1920, an elementary school was built in Shukunegi. Due to population decline, the school was converted into a museum in 1972. 

A faithful reproduction of a Sengoku-bune nearly fills its auditorium, surrounded by a collection of old coins, beautiful ceramics, lacquerware, old chests, and other relics.

Each classroom is dedicated to a different category of objects. They are filled nearly to overflowing, giving me the impression that many grandmothers must have donated the contents of their many storerooms.

I was captivated by this amazing treasure trove of ancient and curious items, from old ema tablets, saddles, toys, shoes…

…to pipes, pottery, masu measuring boxes, toilets, fishing tools, bamboo products, and more. According to the gentleman who works there, who, incidentally, graduated from that elementary school, the building houses more than 30,000 items.

Yet, of all the hundreds of pieces of pottery in the museum, not one was made on Sado. All of it was brought in through trade, including Jomon era (14,000–300 BC) pots from neighboring Niigata.

After nearly being overwhelmed by the huge variety and amount of items to look at, I asked the fellow at the museum about a collection of Buddhist Jizo statues I had heard about. He knew what I meant. 

Since there was no one else at the museum, he left and led me down a long staircase into the heart of Shukunegi Town to a small graveyard. He told me the Jizo were behind a collection of statues.

We gingerly climbed up over the ancient statues and, indeed, the Jizo were there, grown over by grass and weeds. I guess there just aren’t enough people to get everything done in that small town.

This kind man then suggested that I might like to visit a cave nearby. After walking together back to the museum, I thanked him and then followed his directions to a staircase that led up from a narrow road.

Iwaya Cave

What I found up that stone staircase was a large sea cave created hundreds of thousands of years ago. Iwaya Cave is 70 meters above sea level, the rise in elevation is thought to have been caused by the major uplifts in the earth’s crust that occur about every 1,000 years in this area.

In this cave, archeologists have discovered ceramics dating from the Jomon era (14,000–300 BC) clear through to recent years, carvings from the middle ages, coins, ironware, and more. It is still a remarkable place, although questionably looked after.

Buddhist images carved into the cave walls are attributed to Kōbō Daishi, who founded Shingon Buddhism in the early 9th century. 

In the far back of the cave, in pitch dark, is an image of the Eleven-Faced Kannon, goddess of mercy, who sailors prayed to for safekeeping. My camera flash allowed me to capture its image.

In front of the cave are 88 stone Buddhas, representing the 88 sites of the pilgrimage on Shikoku island, established by Kōbō Daishi.

There are small towns like Shukunegi all over Japan, filled with interesting stories and hidden treasures. Fortunately for the people of Shukunegi, their town was declared an “Important Preservation District for Historic Buildings” in 1991. It is one of 126 such areas scattered across Japan that are being preserved, and they are well worth searching out.

Although we tend to think of the past as remote and distant, much of it lives on in rural Japan — in towns like Shukunegi. 

The post Shukunegi, Japan — The Town Where People Fish from Barrels first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Walking Amid Michelin Green Guide Star-Winning Beauty

I recently had the privilege of climbing Mount Haguro in northeastern Japan. The forest walk has been given 3 stars by the Michelin Green Guide, and it did not disappoint. Please allow me to share my journey with you.

Background

Mount Haguro is one of three sacred mountains known as the Dewa Sanzan, 出羽三山, meaning the three mountains of Dewa — the old name for Yamagata and Akita Prefectures. Climbing these mountains has been considered a pilgrimage of spiritual rebirth for centuries.

Each mountain in the Dewa Sanzan represents an aspect of cosmic time that pilgrims face. Mount Gassan is where we ask forgiveness for past wrongs and encounter our ancestors. Mount Haguro is where we overcome the troubles of the present world. And Mount Yudono is where we confront our future selves.

A little history

In the 6th century, Prince Hachiko, the son of the 32nd emperor of Japan, left the capital in Nara. His father, Emperor Sushin, had been assassinated, and his cousin, the influential and powerful Shotoku Taishi, advised him that discretion was the better part of valor. Hachiko accepted this advice and, difficult though it must have been, quietly left the capital.

Legend tells us that Hachiko then traveled the country, healing those wherever he went by magically absorbing their sufferings. The more hardships he took upon himself, the more disfigured he became. Yet Prince Hachiko, without concern for his earthly appearance, kept on.

Eventually, he was led to Mount Haguro by a three-legged crow. 

In a quintessential mix of Buddhism and Shinto, Prince Hachiko set up a monastery to practice Buddhism and to worship the Shinto kami of the three mountains. There he remained, teaching and healing, until his death in 641.

From the time Buddhism reached Japan in the 6th century, there was a peaceful syncretism of Buddhism with Shinto. Buddhist gods were considered manifestations of Shinto kami, and many temples and shrines shared the same grounds — some buildings even served as both Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines.

In 1868, as a means of weakening the wealth and power of Buddhist sects and to bring greater respect to the authority of the newly installed Emperor Meiji, himself a Shinto god, the government ordered the division of Buddhism and Shintoism. Temples, statues, bells, and sutras were destroyed in a frenzy of attack by Shinto nationalists. Many Buddhist priests were forced to leave the priesthood; others chose to become Shinto priests.

From that time, Buddhist images were removed from Mount Haguro. 

Climbing Mount Haguro

After consulting bus and train schedules, I took an 8:22 train from Niigata City and reached the charming city of Tsuruoka, in Yamagata Prefecture, in plenty of time to catch the 10:41 bus. The next bus was 90 minutes later, so careful planning was essential.

I had a pleasant ride past beautiful countryside with the awesome snow-covered Mount Chokai to the north providing the backdrop. After about 40 minutes, the bus drove through an enormous torii gate, along a narrow road fronting Shukubo shrine lodgings, and arrived at the foot of Mount Haguro.

My lodging for the night was easy to find.

I rang the bell at the shrine where I was going to stay and dropped off my bag. The innkeeper, the Shinto priest’s wife, visibly relaxed when she realized that the foreigner staying with her that night could speak Japanese. I thanked her for keeping my suitcase, bid her goodbye, and headed to the hiking trail.

It was 11:30 and the weather was glorious.

I bowed and passed under the torii gate, symbolizing my entry into the sacred realm of Mount Haguro, a Shinto kami. Then I approached the next gate.

The vermillion Zuishinmon Gate was previously guarded by two Buddhist Nio warriors and had been called the Niomon Gate. These statues were moved to safety and hidden during the anti-Buddhist frenzy. Today, they can be viewed at the Shozen-in Temple, a 15-minute walk from their former home. 

This gate marks the beginning of the 2,446 stone steps that lead to the summit.

In 1648, the 50th chief priest of the Dewa Sanzan, Tenyu Betto, laid the thousands of stones that lead from the vermillion gate to the mountaintop Sanjin Gosaiden shrine. It took him 13 years. Along the way, he carved 33 different Buddhist symbols into the stones. If you can find them all, it is said your prayers will assuredly be answered.

I think I found a few.

The path first leads downhill to a group of simple wooden shrines.

Then it takes us across the red, arched Shinkyo Bridge that had marked the border across which no women could pass until the 19th-century changes. To the right is the 400-year-old, man-made Suga-no-Taki waterfall, also credited to Tenyu Betto.

Soon, I meet the 1,000-year-old cedar tree affectionately called Jiji-sugi, or “Grandfather Cedar.” This majestic tree stands near the 600-year-old Go-jū-no-toh, or Five-Story Pagoda. This amazing work of architecture was originally built by none other than Taira no Masakado in the 930s. You may remember Masakado as one of Japan’s Three Most Infamous Vengeful Ghosts. 

The Go-jū-no-toh was built without using any nails. It features a large earthquake-resistant pendulum in the center which allows the building to gently and loosely sway like a snake during tremors. Its design has inspired modern techniques for constructing earthquake-proof buildings and towers, such as the 634 meter Tokyo Sky Tree. 

The current pagoda dates from 1372 when it was rebuilt by Daihoji Masauji, the chief priest of Mount Haguro. It is all that remains of a temple complex that surrounded it until the 1870s when the buildings were destroyed. Fortunately for us, the Go-jū-no-toh was rechristened as a Shinto shrine before then.

As Yamagata is deep in Japan’s snow country, each winter workers climb up inside the pagoda to sweep off the snow that accumulates on the roofs. 

After taking time to admire these awe-inspiring sights, I head up the long staircase sided by hundreds of 400-year-old cryptomeria cedar trees.

Walking through this beautiful forest, filled with the fragrance of cedar trees and joyous birdsong, I cannot think of a nicer way to spend a day.

I pass many small wooden shrines, then come upon unusual trees wrapped in a shimenawa rope, signifying that they are sacred. 

Originally two trees, through the years they reached out to each other and are now collectively known as Meoto-sugi, “The Couple Tree.” A wooden sign nearby tells us that those who hug this tree will be blessed with children.

There are three slopes along this path, each marked by a stone monument, and I have reached the third. 

I pass a shrine dedicated to the kami, Haniya-Hime no Mikoto, who was created from the feces of the creator goddess, Izanami-no-Mikoto. (I’m not making this up.) Those looking for the divine blessing of lasting relationships come here to pray.

Soon, I reach the top of the mountain, welcomed by another torii gate.

Exploring the mountaintop

I’ve climbed the 2,445 stone steps that lead from the Zuishinmon Gate to the 414 meter-high summit of Mount Haguro. I bow and enter the grounds where all three deities of the Dewa Sanzan are enshrined.

The first thing that catches my eye is a magnificent wooden shrine, a marvel of craftsmanship. It is the Itsukushima Shrine dedicated to the three deities of Munakata (in Fukuoka), and was once shared with Benzaiten, their Buddhist equivalent. These deities are incarnations of the god of water and all that flows, and they are crucial to this island nation as providers of the bounties from the sea. 

Among myriad intricate carvings are two dragons, one adorning each front pillar. Unlike the Western concept of dragons, these are helpful and wingless creatures. One is climbing up the pillar, symbolizing our struggles to attain Buddhahood through the continuous cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.

The other dragon descends, signifying its intention to come to earth and help aid the salvation of all living things.

No one knows when this building was constructed.

I pass the shrine to Prince Hachiko, then go up a few steps to pay my respects at the Sanjin-Gosaiden Shrine. This striking cedar structure was built in 1818, and it has an impressive 2.1 meter thick thatched roof, the thickest in Japan.

The gods of each of the Dewa Sanzan — Mount Haguro, Mount Gassan, and Mount Yudono — are enshrined within. This is the only mountaintop accessible all year round, so pilgrims can pay homage to all three deities here.

In front of the shrine is a pond called Kagami-ike, Mirror Pond. Although it beautifully reflects the shrine, this is not the source of its name.

In the early 20th century, the pond was drained. Over 600 ornate, bronze mirrors were recovered from its muddy bottom. Worshippers are thought to have used the mirrors as vehicles for their prayers and tossed them into the pond. Today, those mirrors have traveled as far as the British Museum and the Smithsonian Institute. Nearly 200 are on display in the nearby Dewa Sanzan Historical Museum, which, unfortunately, was closed when I visited.

Beside the pond is an ancient bell. As Shinto shrines do not usually have bells, this one is clearly a remnant of the days when Buddhism flourished in Dewa Sanzan.

The bronze bell weighs 10 tons, the 3rd largest in Japan. It was donated by the regent Hojo Tokimune as thanks for prayers offered for victory during the Mongol invasions of 1274 and 1281.

The thatched roof belfry was built in 1617, replacing the former structure that was destroyed during a typhoon.

This bell is rung only once a year, on December 31. Imagine the reverberations that echo across the mountains.

Among the other shrines on the mountaintop is Tōshō Shrine, dedicated to the deified first shogun of the Edo era, Tokugawa Ieyasu.

Another is the Reisaiden, a shrine built to house ancestral spirits. There is a spectacular painting of a dragon on the ceiling of its entranceway and a collection of Buddhist sculptural masterpieces in the building beside it. No photography is allowed.

Beside Reisaiden is a small cemetery with some unusual clothed gravestones.

Along the east side of the mountaintop, sits a row of small shrines. One of these stood out because of its collection of footwear. It is the Kensumimi Shrine, dedicated to Kamo-Taketsu-Numi no Mikoto, who, according to legend, is the kami who was incarnated as the three-legged crow.

People visit the shrine and offer footwear imbued with prayers for safe travels and healing and strength for their legs.

The climb down

After paying my respects at the modest imperial grave of Prince Hachiko, I head back to the torii gate to begin my descent.

Along the way is a sign tempting me to explore the Minami-Dani, which means southern valley. Despite the “Watch out for Bears” sign, I brave the unused trail. About 500 meters into the woods I come to a clearing that once held a temple where the great poet, Matsuo Basho, stayed while on his famous “Narrow Road to the Deep North” poetic journey in the 17th century.

There was not much left of the pond or the gazebo, but the walk is beautiful.

Back on the main path, I come across construction at a tea house. I peek into the grounds before one of the workers kindly tells me he would “appreciate me not entering.” I see enough to know that the rebuilt tea house will afford a fantastic view of the vast Shonai plains below.

Shukubo shrine stay

The innkeeper greets me at the door of the shrine lodging and shows me to my room. It is a huge 12 mat room, twice the size of a typical single room.

“Wow, this room is huge!” This is an unexpected surprise.

“You’re a foreigner, so I thought you would like a big room.”

I do!

She takes me down the hall to show me the shared bath and toilets, then back to show me the small room where my meals would be served. We agree on a 6:00 dinner, and she leaves me to wash up and relax.

Innkeepers in Japan prefer to serve dinner early, as the meals are rather elaborate, and they appreciate having plenty of time to clean up before they go to bed.

I bathe, put on the yukata robe the innkeeper provided, and before I know it, dinner is served.

It’s a feast of wild mountain vegetables and various types of tofu, including a house specialty, sesame tofu. This type of cuisine was developed in the Kamakura era by Zen monks and is called shojin-ryori.

Although Dewa Sanzan became Shinto in 1869, shojin-ryori continued to be served and adapted. Enjoying shojin-ryori is an important part of any visit to the Dewa Sanzan.

After a peaceful sleep in that quiet room between comfortable and warm futons, I wake up refreshed.

I again visit the Jiji-sugi “Grandfather Cedar” and the Go-jū-no-toh. I see many people cleaning, and learn that the mountain is cleaned one day each year.

I visit the two shrines between my inn and the Zuishinmon Gate. One is called the Tenchikon Shrine. This iteration was built in 1779 and is decorated with remarkable carvings.

The other shrine is dedicated to “The Tofu Jizō.”

With a name like that, it had to have an interesting backstory.

Before the late 19th century, this Jizō statue held pride of place on temple grounds, bringing prosperity to the worshippers on Mount Haguro and protecting pilgrims.

Sadly, when its temple compound was destroyed, this Jizō statue was cast into a ravine and forgotten.

Many years later, a mason was searching the forest for stone. He came upon the Jizō and mistook it for mere smooth stone. It seemed to him a perfect find to fashion into a stone used in making tofu. It was his lucky day — or so he thought.

The moment he struck the stone, he fell over unconscious. For three days and three nights he lay in a stupor, his mind filled with dreams.

In his dreams, Jizō appeared to him and warned him to repent of his disrespect.

When he awoke, repent, he did!

He moved the Jizō to its current position near the Zuishinmon Gate, built a shrine for him, and gave him the name “Tofu Jizō.” Today, people visit this Jizō to pray for long life, safe childbirth, and for help in raising children.

I go next door to the inn and partake of a wonderful shojin-ryori breakfast. I notice one of the dishes is a triangular chimaki, a type of rice dumpling wrapped and cooked in bamboo leaves and topped with soybean powder. It is a popular dish served on Children’s Day and one of my favorites.

After this delicious meal, I bid farewell to the kind innkeeper.

My time at Mount Haguro is up. I catch the 9:18 bus to Tsuruoka Town, satisfied after a perfect stay and looking forward to new adventures.

Mount Haguro embodies many of the reasons I write about rural Japan. Though off the beaten path, it truly is a treasure trove of culture and beauty for those who take the time to visit.

For what it’s like to stay at a Buddhist Temple, please see my article, “Shukubō — Tranquil Temple Stay in Japan.”

The post Mount Haguro—Experiencing its Rustic Magnificence first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

The only double-helix wooden structure in the world

Nestled on a hillside overlooking the small city of Aizuwakamatsu in Fukushima Prefecture is an extraordinary shrine. Constructed in 1796, this architectural marvel bears the official name Entsu Sansōdō, 円通三匝堂, which translates to “the temple of three turns around.”

Above the entrance of this entirely wooden structure, an intricately carved dark wood lintel showcases two lighter-colored dragons entwined as protectors of this sacred space. But that remarkable sight pales in comparison to the building itself.

Sazaedō’s Unique architecture

Upon entering the building, visitors turn left and begin an uphill climb. The interior reveals a continuous ramp winding its way up, before passing over an arched bridge, and then descending back down. This unique double-helix design earned the shrine its popular name, Sazaedō. Sazae means spiral turban shell, and dō refers to temple or shrine.

The windows and eaves follow the incline of the ramps, tracing the spiraling path upwards and downwards. The sloping walkway maintains an unbroken course without any overlaps.

Remarkably, Sazaedō’s design did not come from the genius of an architect but rather from the ingenuity of the head priest of the nearby Shōsōji Temple, Ikudō, whose statue graces the entrance of the shrine. 

The exact source of his inspiration remains a mystery. Yet, it is believed that renewed access to Western books in 1720, thanks to Tokugawa Yoshimune lifting a long-standing ban, provided Ikudō with valuable scientific knowledge that likely influenced his design. Some speculate that he may have seen drawings of Leonardo da Vinci’s double-helix staircase at Château de Chambord in France, but there is no way to know.

One-stop pilgrimage

Sazaedō was built at a time when pilgrims undertook journeys across western Japan to visit 33 temples dedicated to Kannon, the Buddhist goddess of mercy. These pilgrimages required a significant investment in time and money. Nevertheless, people were driven by their piety to visit all the temples, offering prayers and purchasing protective amulets at each one. Sazaedō offered a revolutionary alternative.

Within its walls, all 33 Kannon statues were placed in alcoves along Sazaedō’s one-way spiral hallway, condensing the entire pilgrimage into one temple. This innovative idea made Sazaedō immensely popular, transforming it into a convenient one-stop pilgrimage destination. The success of this design inspired the construction of other spiral temples throughout Japan, although none rivaled the impressive three stories of Sazaedō.

Its official name, Entsu Sansōdō, not only alludes to its “three turns around” design but also refers to the Buddhist etiquette of walking three times clockwise around an image of the Buddha, a practice observed by all pilgrims who visit Sazaedō.

The building’s ceiling and interior walls are covered with thousands of paper stickers called senjafuda, which pilgrims used to affix to mark their visit to shrines and temples. These stickers typically display the person’s name and sometimes their place of residence. The multitude of senjafuda in Sazaedō provides a window into bygone days when visiting temples was not only a spiritual endeavor but also a popular recreational activity.

In 1868, the Meiji government ordered the separation of Buddhism and Shinto. This decree triggered the widespread destruction of Buddhist temples and statuary. During this difficult time, the 33 Kannon statues were removed from Sazaedō, and the building was redefined as a Shinto shrine.

Today, Sazaedō stands as a testament to its rich history and remains the only double-helix wooden structure in the world. Instead of statues of Kannon, the alcoves hold illustrations of moral teachings compiled by Matsudaira Katataka, the 8th lord of the Aizu clan, who ruled the area during the first half of the 19th century.

Although Aizuwakamatsu is quite far off the beaten track, it’s well worth a visit to see the amazing Sazaedō for yourself.

And while you are there, take a moment to visit the nearby shrine to the young samurai who committed seppuku, ritual suicide, during the close of the Boshin civil war in 1868.

References:

http://www.sazaedo.jp/, 朝日新聞1972年11月20日, signs.

The post Sazaedō—The Strikingly Unique Spiral Temple of Aizu, Japan first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

The rise and fall of the Northern Fujiwara family

Three generations of glory

Vanished

In the space of a dream

So wrote Japan’s most famous Haiku poet, Matsuo Basho, upon visiting Hiraizumi in 1689.

Located in Iwate Prefecture, Hiraizumi is a place you may never have heard of. But it was once the capital of northern Japan, rivaling Kyoto for size, splendor, and wealth. 

The famed explorer Marco Polo described what he heard about it while in China:

They have gold in the greatest abundance, its sources being inexhaustible… The entire roof [of the sovereign’s palace] is covered with a plating of gold… The ceilings of the halls are of the same precious metal; many of the apartments have small tables of pure gold, of considerable thickness; and the windows also have golden ornaments. So vast, indeed, are the riches of the palace, that it is impossible to convey an idea of them. — The travels of Marco Polo, written 1300

This marvelous city of gold was founded by a member of the powerful Fujiwara clan, whose daughters married emperors and influenced the government in Kyoto for generations. The branch of the family that ruled in Hiraizumi is known as the Northern Fujiwara.

In order to appreciate the magnitude of what Hiraizumi once was, we need a little history.

Setting the stage

During the Heian Era (794–1185), the emperor in Kyoto ruled the area from southern Kyushu to the southern border of what now is Fukushima Prefecture. (Shown in green on the map.) 

Northern Honshu was referred to as Michinoku, “beyond the road.” It was considered wild country, the home of Emishi “barbarians.” 

Understood to have migrated from northeastern Asia, the Emishi were ethnically different from the main population of Japan. Historians theorize the name is a collective term for the various northern tribes who resisted the rule of the Japanese state. Some of the Emishi are likely the ancestors of the Ainu people, today considered the indigenous people of Hokkaido.

During the 12th century, the Emishi of northeastern Honshu were ruled over by a powerful and wealthy family, the Abe. 

Like the Kumaso and Hayato, “barbarian” people of southern Kyushu before them, the Emishi were expected to pay tribute to the court. And just like their southern counterparts, this task became so onerous that they stopped.

Because of this failure to pay tribute, Minamoto no Yoriyoshi, as Chinjufu-shōgun, “Defender of the North,” was tasked with subjugating the Emishi Abe clan. He received reinforcements from Kiyohara no Takehira, the leader of nearby Dewa Province. 

A relative of the Kyoto Fujiwara family, Fujiwara no Tsunekiyo, who had married an Emishi and moved to the hinterland, joined the Abe clan in their defense of Michinoku. 

After fighting that spanned 12 long years, the powerful Minamoto and Kiyohara allies defeated the Abe clan and Fujiwara no Tsunekiyo, who, because of his Kyoto roots, was considered a despicable traitor to the emperor.

Minamoto no Yoriyoshi, the Chinjufu-shōgun, personally exacted revenge on Tsunekiyo by publicly decapitating him — using a blunt and rusty sword to prolong the agony.

Fujiwara no Tsunekiyo left behind his Emishi wife and their son, and it is to this son that we now look.

Fujiwara no Kiyohira — the first of the Northern Fujiwara

Fujiwara no Kiyohira’s Emishi mother was taken as a concubine by one of the victors in the war, Kiyohara no Takehira, who had been named the new Chinjufu-shōgun. 

Kiyohira’s grandfather, father, and uncle had all been killed in the war. His mother’s Emishi brothers were banished to Kyushu. He was raised in a strange land in the house of his father’s enemy.

When he was 28, he found himself embroiled in another war, a vicious power struggle among his adopted family as to who would be the next to rule. Kiyohira emerged victorious, although he lost his wife and son who were viciously killed in their home by his younger half-brother.

With a heavy heart at such a tragic loss, this son of a Fujiwara and an Emishi became the next Chinjufu-shōgun, Defender of the North, ruler of the vast northern Michinoku frontiers — a land rich in gold, silver, and fine horses.

Kiyohira, whose entire life had been beset by violence, resolved to use his power to bring peace to Michinoku by turning it into a Buddhist realm.

In 1105 he moved to Hiraizumi and rebuilt Chūson-ji, 中尊寺, a temple that had been established by a Tendai Buddhist monk in 850. He wished for a Buddhist sanctuary where all people could be welcome, and he had Chūson-ji rebuilt as a place for the repose of the spirits of all those lost in the recent wars, regardless of loyalties or status.

He built Daichojuin, 大長寿院, a 15-meter-high temple that housed a 9-meter golden statue of Amida Nyōrai, the Buddha of the Pure Land. Some years later, when Japan’s first shogun, Minamoto no Yoritomo, saw Daichojuin, he was so impressed with its grandeur that he modeled Yofuku-ji temple in his capital of Kamakura after it.

Among the over 40 Buddhist temples and pagodas that Kiyohira had built, only one remains today.

It is the Konjikidō, 金色堂, Golden Hall, which was built to house a gold statue of Amida Nyōrai. Not only are the statue and altar decorations made of gold, but both the temple’s interior and exterior walls are covered with gold leaf. The pillars, altars, and beams are inlaid with jewels and mother-of-pearl, have engraved gold fittings, and are covered with makie — black lacquer sprinkled with powdered gold.

The entire temple is a glorious work of late Heian-era artistry. Today, it is housed within a protective concrete building. No photos are allowed to be taken within its walls.

When Kiyohira died in 1128, he was succeeded by his son Motohira.

Fujiwara no Motohira — the second Northern Fujiwara

As well as continuing his father’s work of expanding the Chūson-ji temple complex, Motohira also built the nearby Mōtsū-ji, 毛越寺, temple and its gardens, said to have even surpassed Chūson-ji for size and splendor.

The main hall was constructed of precious wood overlaid with gold and silver and inlaid with jewels and mother-of-pearl. It held an enormous statue of Yakushi Nyōrai, the Healing Buddha, surrounded by the Twelve Heavenly Generals, protective deities — all realistically carved with crystal eyes, the latest innovation. These statues were created by the master sculptor, Unkei. 

Amid the temples of Mōtsū-ji was a Pure Land Garden — the only part of the once-breathtaking temple complex that remains to this day.

The garden is centered on a pond and was created in the classic Heian style. It includes a magatama jewel-shaped island, peninsulas, rocky coastlines, bridges, mountain-like boulders, and a feeder stream. All these elements are in accord with Japan’s oldest garden manual, the Sakuteiki, 作庭記, “Records of Garden Making,” dating from the 11th century. Its beauty remains unchanged.

Motohira died in 1157 and was succeeded by his son, Fujiwara no Hidehira.

Fujiwara no Hidehira — the third Northern Fujiwara

Hidehira constructed the elaborate Muryōkō-in, 無量光院, modeled after the Phoenix Hall of the Byōdō-in, 平等院, just south of Kyoto. His temple in Hiraizumi, though, was said to be larger and far more grand.

Although things were peaceful in Hiraizumi, it was not the case in Kyoto. The power of the emperor was waning, the Taira and Minamoto samurai clans were growing strong and feuding, and there was great unrest in the capital.

After the first major skirmish, the victorious Taira killed the Minamoto leader and banished his sons. Young Minamoto no Yoshitsune, at age 10, ended up in a temple on Mount Hiei, where he studied Buddhism, swordsmanship, and strategy. His older half-brother, Yoritomo, was exiled to Izu (in Shizuoka). A third brother disappeared from the historical record until many years later.

In 1174, Minamoto no Yoshitsune, age 15, left the temple and traveled to Hiraizumi where he came under the protection of the Chinjufu-shōgun, Fujiwara no Hidehira. 

This seemingly small act of sheltering Yoshitsune turned out to be the spark that would lead to the downfall of the Northern Fujiwara and the eventual destruction of the architectural and artistic treasures of Hiraizumi.

The Genpei War and its aftermath

In 1180, word came that Prince Mochihito, fearing the power of the Taira clan, had asked the Minamoto clan to gather forces against them. Yoshitsune left at once for Kyoto where he joined his older half-brother, Minamoto no Yoritomo, in what came to be called the Genpei War.

This five-year epic war of the Minamoto against the Taira is filled with dramatic tales of tragedy and heroism and has become the subject of countless ballads and kabuki plays. Far too long a story to tell here.

Yoshitsune had become an expert swordsman during his years on Mount Hiei and then excelled in horsemanship in the land of the Northern Fujiwara. With his skills and cunning, Yoshitsune emerged from the Genpei War a victorious general, well-known and loved for his legendary heroics. 

Although Yoshitsune was rewarded with lands and honors by retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa, his jealous and suspicious older half-brother Yoritomo revoked them and instead tried to kill Yoshitsune.

Again, Yoshitsune sought refuge in Hiraizumi, along with his pregnant wife and his valiant friend and protector, the warrior monk, Benkei. 

Two years later, in 1187, Fujiwara no Hidehira died. Before his death, he entrusted Yoshitsune’s protection to his son, Fujiwara no Yasuhira.

Fujiwara no Yasuhira — the final Northern Fujiwara

After his victory in the Genpei War, Yoshitsune’s older half-brother, Minamoto no Yoritomo, became Japan’s first shogun. He established his capital in the natural fortress of Kamakura, just south of present-day Tokyo. 

Although firmly entrenched in power, Yoritomo was still suspicious of his younger brother. He sent word to Fujiwara no Yasuhira to have him killed.

At first, Yasuhira resisted, but his fear of Yoritomo prevailed. His soldiers surrounded Yoshitsune’s estate, his archers killed the noble Benkei, and Yoshitsune, along with his wife and child, chose suicide rather than be captured.

Yoshitsune’s head was sent to Yoritomo, yet his death and that of his household were not enough to appease the shogun. 

For the “crime” of sheltering his younger half-brother, the shogun Minamoto no Yoritomo sent forces after Yasuhira who pursued him all the way to Hokkaido. The shogun’s samurai beheaded Yasuhira, packed his head in sake, and sent it to Kamakura.

Yoritomo had Yasuhira’s head displayed publicly, like that of the worst criminals. Afterward, it was packed in a bucket and returned to Hiraizumi.

Today, Yasuhira’s head, along with the mummies of Kiyohira, Motohira, and Hidehira, are preserved within the golden Konjikidō of the Chūson-ji temple.

Lotus seeds found in the bucket in which Yasuhira’s head was sent have been planted and now bloom each year behind Chūson-ji, a fitting reminder of the glories of the peaceful Buddhist land that Kiyohira had tried to create.

The remains of the magnificent structures built by the Northern Fujiwara, as well as Chūson-ji temple, are included in the UNESCO heritage site, “Hiraizumi — Temples, Gardens and Archaeological Sites Representing the Buddhist Pure Land.”

Although Hiraizumi is off the beaten track, it is well worth a visit to have a glimpse of the fantastic glories of its bygone years.

Sources:

https://www.motsuji.or.jp/, https://hiraizumi.or.jp/index.html, 前九年の役, 前九年・後三年の役, 藤原泰衡, UNESCO website.

The post Hiraizumi — Once a Fabulous City of Gold, Now a Quiet Home of Mummies first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

A hodgepodge of stones leads to the Kumano cliff carvings

I recently visited the Kunisaki Peninsula of Oita Prefecture. This area has long been home to innumerable shrines and temples, many of these classic representations of Shinbutsu-shūgō, 神仏習合, the age-old syncretism of Buddhism and Shinto.

Hidden in the forest near the Kumano Gongen Kumano Shrine are some extraordinary Buddhist rock carvings. These can only be reached by a staircase that is nothing more than a jumble of stones on the hillside. How this unique “staircase” came to be is a story worth telling.

Gongen-sama and the oni

Long ago, the powerful deity Gongen-sama — the Buddhist manifestation of a Shinto kami — moved from the Kumano area of the Kii Peninsula to Tashibu in what is now Oita Prefecture. The local people paid homage to him, and their village prospered. They became healthy, fat, and rich.

During those happy days, from somewhere — no one knows where — a great oni (ogre of the mountains) came and took up residence. This enormous oni yearned to feast upon the flesh of the villagers, but the fierceness of Gongen-sama’s protection prevented him. Nevertheless, day after day, the oni pestered Gongen-sama to let him eat the villagers.

Hoping to put an end to his badgering, Gongen-sama presented the oni with a deal.

Tonight, from the time the sun sets until the first crowing of the rooster at dawn, build a staircase of one hundred stones starting at the torii gate at the foot of the mountain and reaching up to the temple near the rock-face carvings. If you complete this task, I will grant your wish. If you cannot complete the task, I will eat you alive.

Gongen-sama was sure it would be impossible to build such a staircase overnight. He believed he had put and end to the oni’s importunity by asking the impossible.

But Gongen-sama had underestimated the oni.

So determined was he to eat the delicious flesh of the villagers that when the sun set, the oni diligently searched the dark mountain for stones and worked furiously to build the staircase.

From the quiet of his bed in the depth of the night, Gongen-sama heard the grunts and thumps of the oni carrying and placing stones ever closer to the temple. He went outside to count the stones, and to his astonishment, he found that the oni was carrying the 99th stone to the top.

Alarmed, Gongen-sama thought, The horrors! If I don’t do something quickly, the people of this peaceful village will be devoured by the oni!

Casting around for an idea, he raised his voice as loudly as he could and called out, “Ko-ke-kokkoooo.”

When that sound reached the oni, he stood straight, perked his ears, and panicked.

“The rooster is crowing! It’s already dawn! If I stay here, Gogen-sama will eat me! There’s nothing to do but run!”

The oni ran as fast as his stout, hairy legs could carry him, shouldering the 100th stone as he went.

Dazed and flustered, he crashed through the mountain forest for six long kilometers. The oni finally emerged onto flat land and stopped to catch his breath, painfully gasping. It was only then that he realized he was still carrying the last stone. Disgusted, he tossed it away, but instead of tumbling, it landed upright. To this day, the place the stone landed is called Tateishi, 立石, or standing stone.

After that final great effort, the oni collapsed, his utter exhaustion extinguishing his breath.

When the villagers heard of the death of the oni, a great rejoicing spread among them.

Thanks to Gongen-sama and his quick thinking, grateful villagers continue to climb the rugged stone staircase every morning and evening to honor the benevolent protector Dainichi-sama, whose gentle countenance is carved into the cliff at the top of the staircase so hastily built by the hungry oni.

The post Gongen-sama, the Persistent Oni, and the Jumbled Stone Stairs first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Rabbits, rival gods, and the father of the first emperor

As we walked along the path to Udo Shrine on the Nichinan coast of southeastern Miyazaki Prefecture, the morning sun sparkled on the clear blue sea. It was a beautiful day, and although cold, the sun warmed us.

After passing through the initial torii gate, we soon came to a magnificent two-story vermilion and white gate, much like those that stand at the entranceway to Buddhist temples. Indeed, until the Meiji government forcefully separated Buddhism from Shinto in 1868, this shrine shared its grounds with 18 temples.

A bit further north along the windswept coast, we came across cute statues of rabbits. I stopped to read about them. Curiously, they are the shinshi, 神使, divine messengers of Udo’s illustrious deity who bridge the gap to this world.

Most Shinto shrines have komainu lion dogs as guardians. Although, there are Shinto deities that have other shinshi animals:

• The more than 30,000 Inari shrines have fox messenger guardians

• The more than 12,000 shrines dedicated to Tenmangu, the God of Learning, have cows

• A few shrines to Wake no Kiyomaro, the Great Protector of the Emperor, have wild boars

• Rare shrines have cats as guardians, such as the Omatsu Daigongen Shrine in Shikoku

• And shrines to Bishamon, the God of Warriors, have tiger guardians, such as the Kurama-Dera Temple, north of Kyoto.

But rabbits? Why does Udo Shrine have rabbits?

To answer that question, we need to go back so far in history that we enter the realm of legend.

The Tale of Two Brothers — Umisachi-Hiko and Yamasachi-Hiko

Long, long ago, on the great plains of Heaven, the sun goddess Amaterasu sent her grandson, Ninigi no Mikoto, down to rule over the earth. He descended upon Mount Takachiho, in southern Kyushu.

Ninigi raised his eyes and spied the distant town of Ata in the land of the Hayato. He deemed this a good land and there he settled. He married a lovely maiden, Konohana no Sakuyahime, and they had three sons, two of whom were Umisachi and Yamasachi. Umisachi, whose name means “blessings of the sea,” made his livelihood by harvesting the bounty of the sea, while his younger brother Yamasachi, whose name means “blessings of the mountains” — well, you know.

One day, the younger Yamasachi asked his brother, “How about if we trade hunting tools? You take my spear and I get your fish hook? Please.”

Umisachi brushed him off, but Yamasachi persisted. After Yamasachi pleaded three times, his brother gave in.

Yamasachi, filled with excitement, took his brother’s fish hook and went to the seaside. Hours later, not only had he not caught a single fish, but he lost his brother’s hook.

Meanwhile, Umisachi was off in the mountains hunting. He, too, caught not one animal. He returned to the seaside and met his distraught brother.

“I lost your fish hook in the sea!” Yamasachi blurted out his confession.

This was not good news. Umisachi was enraged. “You find it and give it back!” he shouted.

This seemed an impossible task, so Yamasachi took drastic measures. He broke apart his prized long sword and used it to fashion 500 fish hooks which he presented to his brother.

Umisachi did not accept them.

Yamasachi then made 1,000 fish hooks to give his brother.

Umisachi refused to take them, saying in his petulance, “I want my fish hook.”

In despair, Yamasachi sat by the seaside and dissolved into tears.

The God of the Tides, Shiotsuchi no Kami, passed by and saw his distress. He listened to Yamasachi’s troubles and offered to help. Shiotsuchi built a small boat of tightly woven bamboo and said, “Get in and let the boat follow the tides. It will take you to the gate of the palace of the Sea God. Climb the katsura tree before the gate and wait there. Toyotamabime, the daughter of the Sea God, will help you.”

This Yamasachi did. As he waited atop the tree, a servant of Toyotamabime saw him and went to call her mistress. When Toyotamabime saw the beautiful Yamasachi atop the tree, their eyes locked, and her heart was captured.

She ran to tell her father. Upon setting eyes on Yamasachi, the Sea God recognized him as the son of a god.

He set out skins of sea lions and laid upon them many layers of silk to make a comfortable seat for Yamasachi. The God of the Sea presented a feast to him, after which he gave the hand of his daughter in marriage to the bewildered Yamasachi.

Yamasachi and his wife lived happily in the palace of the Sea God for three years. Then, one day, Yamasachi remembered why he had gone there in the first place.

The lost fish hook.

Recalling his brother’s anger, Yamasachi revisited his former despair. Toyotamabime, seeing his uncharacteristic sadness, went to her father.

The God of the Sea listened to Yamasachi’s troubles. He then called to him all the fish of the sea, asking if any knew of the missing hook.

Rumor among the fish community told of a sea bream with a bone stuck in its throat. They brought the unfortunate fish to the God, and lo and behold, the missing hook was in its throat.

The Sea God washed the fish hook and presented it to Yamasachi. He put a curse on the hook and instructed Yamasachi,

“When you present this hook to Umisachi, tell him, ‘This fish hook muddles the mind and makes its owner poor and foolish.’

“When Umisachi makes rice fields in the mountains, you make them in the valleys. When he makes them in the valleys, you make them in the mountains. I control the water, and your fields will be fruitful while his will be desolate.

“If your brother attacks you, use this orb to raise the sea level and drown him. If he begs for mercy, use this other orb to lower the tides.”

This he said while placing two magical orbs in Yamasachi’s hands.

Yamasachi returned to his land on the back of a shark. He did as the Sea God had instructed him, and he was blessed with three years of bountiful rice harvests. Umisachi, meanwhile, languished in poverty.

Seeing his brother’s good fortune, Umisachi’s anger rose, and, just as the Sea God had instructed, Yamasachi used the orb to raise the sea and drown his brother.

After long struggling in the waves, Umisachi cried out, “I promise to forever serve and protect you.”

Yamasachi used his other orb to lower the sea and rescue his brother. From thenceforth Umisachi and his descendants, the Hayato people, served Yamasachi and his descendants, the Yamato people.

But wait! What about the rabbits?

Udo Shrine’s origin

Yamasachi’s wife had gotten pregnant, and as the custom of her people was, she traveled to the shore to give birth. A birthing hut was constructed and was to be thatched with cormorant feathers, but before it was finished, her pains were upon her and she rushed into a cave.

Toyotamabime warned Yamasachi that she would return to her natural form while giving birth, and she made him promise not to look upon her.

Overwhelmed with curiosity, he peeked into the cave. His beloved had transformed into a large crawling, undulating shark. Yamasachi was beside himself. He ran and hid.

Knowing she had been seen, Toyotamabime, in her shame, returned to the sea, but not before exchanging poems of everlasting love with her husband, Yamasachi.

Udo Shrine is built within the cave where Toyotamabime gave birth. Udo, 鵜戸, means “Cormorant dwelling.”

To reach the seashore, Toyotamabime had ridden on the back of a turtle. This turtle has since turned to stone. Beaten by the waves, it has been sanctified and crowned with a shimenawa rope. Those who successfully toss a lucky stone into the indentation on the top will have their wishes fulfilled.

The child born to Toyotamabime and Yamasachi was named Ugayafukiaezu no Mikoto. He eventually married his mother’s younger sister, and they became the parents of Japan’s first emperor, Jimmu.

Ugayafukiaezu no Mikoto, written 鸕鷀草葺不合尊, has the sound “u” at beginning of his name. This “u” is written using the old character for cormorant, 鸕. In ancient Japanese, characters were sometimes used to represent sounds rather than their meanings.

The word rabbit, usagi, when written in combinations is also read “u” — although it uses completely different characters, 兎 or 卯. Sometime way back before the 8th century, this play on words — or characters, if you will — became the reason that rabbits were chosen to serve Ugayafukiawezu no Mikoto at Udo Shrine.

Not as satisfying an explanation as I had been hoping for.

Nade Usagi for healing

Like the Sasuri Neko cat statue at the Omatsu Daigongen Shrine in Shikoku, Udo Shrine has a Nade Usagi, or stroking rabbit, within its cave. Visitors rub the rabbit’s body to receive healing, stroking its body in the place where they themselves have ailments.

If you are ever in southern Kyushu, I hope you will take the time to seek out Udo Shrine, enjoy the magic of its legends, and explore the beautiful Nichinan coastline.

References:

Udo Shrine signage, the Kojiki, Professor Nakamura.

The post Udo Shrine—Secrets of a Mysterious Seaside Shrine first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

A tragic woman and her cat, now Shinto deities

Down a narrow road beside the Naka River in rural Tokushima Prefecture, a two-meter-tall Maneki Neko cat statue beckons all passersby to visit the Omatsu Daigongen Shrine, お松大権現.

I was one of those beckoned.

I followed cat footprints up the steps through the torii entrance gate and was overwhelmed by the sheer number of cat statues.

Cats were everywhere. Instead of traditional komainu lion-dogs guarding the shrine, there were cats. Instead of shachihoko fish-tigers guarding the roof against fire, there were cats.

Why all the cats?

To answer that question, we turn to a story that takes place during the iron rule of the Tokugawa shoguns during the Edo era (1603-1867).

The tragic tale of Omatsu

In the late 17th century, the village of Kamo in what is now Tokushima Prefecture was struggling. Years of bad harvests had taken their toll on the people, and their tax burden had become unbearable.

The village headman, a kind-hearted man named Sobee, wanted to help his people. He borrowed money from a wealthy neighbor, Nogami. As collateral, Nogami was granted use of several of Sobee’s rice paddies.

All seemed well. The money helped the struggling villagers, and Sobee was recouping what he needed to repay his debt.

As the agreed-upon date to repay the loan drew near, Sobee noticed Nogami along the road by his fields. He grabbed the cash and brought it out to Nogami, who assured him he would send him a receipt when he got home.

Unfortunately, within days, Sobee fell ill and passed away. His lovely wife, Omatsu, was left to tend the fields alone.

Omatsu visited Nogami and asked him for a certificate of repayment for the loan. Nogami insisted Sobee had not paid. Omatsu knew her husband had, and she repeatedly asked Nogami for the receipt.

Nogami, angered by her persistence, shouted that he had never received the money. He sent his men to collect on the collateral by taking Omatsu’s remaining rice fields.

Now desperate, Omatsu appealed to the local magistrate. He agreed to help her — that is, as long as she would be his lover.

Omatsu had no idea that the magistrate was receiving money on the sly from Nogami. When she turned down his advances, he dismissed her, refusing to honor her claim.

Desperation

Then Omatsu did something very few in the Edo era dared do. She risked her life to appeal to higher authority.

On a cold winter day in 1686, Tsunanori, the lord of Awa Domain, was passing through Omatsu’s town. His procession of samurai vassals was long and intimidating. In the center was Tsunanori’s palanquin.

Omatsu held in her hand a petition. Suddenly, the vassals saw what seemed to be a white shadow break through their ranks near the palanquin. Confusion broke out with yells and cries. Samurai unsheathed their swords.

Then a quiet voice stilled them, “Stop.”

It was the voice of Tsunanori as he peeked out of his palanquin. He saw the lovely Omatsu, dressed all in white, bowed to the ground in humility.

Tsunanori allowed Omatsu to approach. She handed him the letter she had written, her heartfelt, desperate appeal for truth and justice. The daimyo gazed upon her face, pitiful, yet full of such mysterious beauty that he couldn’t help but lose his breath.

When he regained his composure, Tsunanori read her appeal.

He announced, “I will consider this,” and Omatsu’s beautiful eyes filled with tears.

The procession continued on. Omatsu’s appeal had taken but an instant.

The Tokugawa shogunate maintained absolute control. Nearly all crimes were punishable by death. One such capital offense was appealing directly to any daimyo or the shogun.

No matter how worthy the cause, simply appealing to a daimyo was punishable by death.

Thus, Omatsu was taken to the jail behind Tokushima castle to await her execution.

The execution was to be carried out three months hence. Forlorn and alone, the lovely Omatsu had only her beloved cat to comfort her. The sympathetic cat never left her side, patiently listening to her troubles and tears. Only this calico cat knew the true depth of the tragedy that befell her beloved Omatsu.

On the day appointed, Omatsu was taken to a dry riverbed. She was dressed in white, her long hair hanging free. A sudden breeze blew Omatsu’s robes and lifted her hair, causing it to reflect like an eerie halo in the evening light. The men preparing her execution cried, “She is a Bodhisattva!” How could they dare to kill such a one?

But if they did not do their job, they themselves would be killed.

As the executioner raised his sword, all present joined the weeping Omatsu in praying to Amida Nyorai for salvation, Namu Amida Butsu, “I take refuge in Amida Buddha.” From their hiding places in the woods, villagers joined in, bidding a sad farewell to the tragic Omatsu.

In mercy, the executioner’s sword also fell upon the neck of Omatsu’s calico cat, allowing her to remain together with her beloved owner in the afterlife.

Soon, the villagers began to quietly honor Omatsu as a deity for those seeking justice. They told the story of her courage to their children and grandchildren, keeping her memory alive yet secret from the authorities who would punish them for honoring one who was a criminal in their eyes.

The vengeful cat

Not long after Omatsu’s execution, in the pitch black of night, the corrupt magistrate who had refused Omatsu was awakened by what sounded like a cat. Looking all around, he saw nothing and heard only the faint sound of running water. Yet he was sure he had heard the scream of an angry cat.

Then, another cry reached his ears. This one seemed to be a woman’s voice. He turned to see what he thought was a maidservant lighting a lantern. When the light fell upon her face, he saw it was that of a terrible cat.

He ran to fetch his guards, but when they inspected his room, only a lantern quietly burned.

That fateful night marked the end of the magistrate. He soon lost his job, fell ill, and died.

Next, the ghostly cat sought out Nogami, and mysterious deaths followed. His family line was soon extinguished.

The locals saw these deaths as the result of a curse put on those men by Omatsu and her feline friend. To appease the kaibyō, 怪猫, “monster cat,” they built a shrine to honor Omatsu and her loyal companion.

Omatsu was deified as the god of victorious triumph and her cat, her avenger. The Omatsu Daigongen shrine became a mecca for those praying for the tenacity to triumph, be it in business, competitions, or in passing entrance examinations.

A custom developed where people who visited the shrine to pray for success would bring a cat statue back home with them. When their prayer was answered, they returned the cat and donated another.

After decades of this, there are more than 10,000 cat statues on the grounds of the Omatsu Daigongen Shrine. There are fanciful statues of Buddhist deities merged into cat bodies, beckoning Maneki Neko statues, and several traditional Buddhist statues.

Sasuri Neko for healing

In front of the main shrine building is a special cat statue called the Sasuri Neko. Visitors with ailments rub the cat’s body to receive healing. For sore knees, they rub the cat’s tiny knees. For headaches, the cat’s head.

Beside the shrine, a trail leads through another torii gate, between ancient, sacred inumaki yew plum pine trees, past a small pool and waterfall, and further up stone steps. All around this path and the entire shrine grounds are mind-boggling numbers of cat statues. A separate building dedicated solely to Maneki Neko statues is filled with thousands of beckoning cats.

After about 50 minutes of wandering through this wonderland, I was ready to continue my hike along the Henro, the 88 Temple Pilgrimage of Shikoku.

No matter how you feel about cats, I’m sure you will agree that this is an extraordinary place. If you ever visit Tokushima, please allow yourself to be beckoned into the shrine of Omasu and her beloved Neko Kami-San, 猫神さん, Cat God.

References:

Japanese Lucky Charms, Omatsu Daigongen Shrine

The post Omatsu Daigongen—The Amazing Cat Temple of Shikoku first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

A former battleground, now a sanctuary of peace

I had arrived in Hiraizumi, Iwate, in the early evening, checked into the humble inn where I was to stay, and ate some hot bibimbap while chatting with the elderly Korean proprietor of the small, cluttered restaurant next door.

After a good night’s sleep on comfortable futons, I borrowed a bicycle from the innkeeper and was on the road before 7:00 AM, riding west to visit the Takkoku Saikōji Temple. Along the way I passed harvested rice drying in the fields in a manner I learned was common in Iwate and Miyagi. The drying rice looked like characters from a Studio Ghibli film.

Or like rows of the old-style straw raincoats worn in Japan in yesteryear. They were nothing like the straightly hung rice I was used to seeing in other parts of Japan.

After stopping to take photos of the rice and chat with a farmer, I rode a bit further and arrived at the temple, six kilometers east of Hiraizumi. I expected to find a Buddhist temple, yet before me stood Shinto torii gates. 

Takkoku Seikōji Temple’s origin

In the late 8th century, Sakanoue no Tamuramaro was appointed as Seiitai-Shōgun, 征夷大将軍, Supreme Commander Against the Barbarians, by Emperor Kanmu. 

The “barbarians” he was sent to subjugate were the Emishi, tribes who inhabited northern Honshu and Hokkaido — the wilderness “beyond the road,” or Michinoku. These people, considered by some to be the ancestors of the Ainu, had resisted the rule of the Japanese state. 

Unfortunately for the Emishi, Sakanoue no Tamuramaro succeeded in subjugating them.

In 801, to give thanks to Bishamon, the god of war, Sakanoue built the Bishamon Hall in what is now the Takkoku Seikōji Temple in the very cave that had been the Emishi leaders’ headquarters. Henceforth, it was to be a place to pray for peace.

Takkoku Seikōji Temple through the years

In the 11th century, Minamoto no Yoriyoshi visited the temple to give thanks for his victory over the powerful Emishi Abe clan and their ally, Fujiwara no Tsunekiyo. 

Other luminaries of Japanese history had contact with this now quiet and somewhat forgotten temple. In the 12th century, the first of the Northern Fujiwara, Kiyohira, and his son Motohira, endowed buildings. Not long after, the first shogun, Minamoto no Yoritomo, stopped by to give thanks after his army defeated his half-brother Yoshitsune in the nearby battle of Koromogawa. 

Originally, the Takkoku Seikōji Temple complex held 108 statues of Bishamon, one for each worldly desire according to Buddhist teaching. But in the 15th century, as a result of fires — the bane of Japanese structures made of paper, straw, and wood — many of the statues, as well as the temple itself, were destroyed.

The temple that stands today was built in 1961, modeled after the famed Kiyomizu Temple in Kyoto which was also founded by Sakanoue no Tamuramaro before he set off on his journey to the north to conquer the Emishi.

Twenty of the original 108 statues of Bishamon remain at the Takkoku Seikōji Temple, as does the main object of worship, kept safely in the deep recesses of the cave within a cabinet donated by the famous 17th century warlord, Date Masamune.

There are smaller buildings in this temple complex, among them a temple to Benten, the goddess of intelligence, happiness, and skillfulness. She is depicted through a beautiful Heian-era statue.

Beside the main hall, a 16.5 meter statue of a seated Buddha is carved into a sandstone cliff. Called the Ganmen Daibutsu, this thousand-year-old image of Amida Nyōrai, the Buddha of the Pure Land, was created to remember the souls of those who died during local wars of the 11th century.

Only the face and part of one shoulder remain, as much of the image was destroyed by an earthquake in 1896. 

And what about the Shinto torii gates at the temple’s entrance? They are a legacy of the centuries that Buddhism and Shinto had a syncretic relationship, both existing in harmony. A situation we enjoy again today.

Takkoku Seikōji Temple, surrounded by rice fields and forests, is a short drive — or bicycle ride — from Hiraizumi station.

The post Takkoku Seikoji Temple, One of Iwate Prefecture’s Hidden Treasures first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Although not a sightseeing spot, Nanzoin is well worth a visit

Nanzoin (南蔵院) is a Shingon Buddhist temple just 20 minutes by train from Hakata Station in Fukuoka City, Kyushu. I was lucky to be able to visit it during a recent trip to Fukuoka.

The temple was originally located on Mount Koya, the center of Shingon Buddhism. During the anti-Buddhist movement of the late 19th century, along with other temples, statues, and sutras throughout the country, Nanzoin was to be destroyed. But due to the persistent petitioning of the local people, it was saved and moved to its current location in Sasaguri, Fukuoka, in 1899.

Visiting Nanzoin

On a bright, sunny, summer morning, I arrived early at the tiny Kido-nanzoin-mae train station, chatted with the friendly stationmaster, and set off for the short walk to the temple. 

I turned a corner and came upon a bridge spanning the Tatara River, aptly named “Melody Bridge.” Along both sides is a sort of xylophone, which you can strike with a mallet to play a sweet melody while you walk across.

Around another corner and I started up the path that leads to Nanzoin temple. Nestled on the side of a lush green hill, the grounds are filled with innumerable statues among which is the largest bronze Buddha statue in the world.

All the other large statues of the Buddha in Japan are in a sitting pose. The Nanzoin statue, though, portrays the Buddha lying down as he is entering Nirvana. The statue is 41 meters long, 11 meters high, and weighs approximately 300 tons. 

For reference, New York’s Statue of Liberty is 46.05 meters tall, made of wrought iron with a copper shell, and weighs 220 tons.

The Reclining Buddha Statue

In thanks for continuous gifts of medical supplies, stationery goods, and other aid sent to the children in southeast Asia and Nepal, in 1988, the Buddhist Congress of Myanmar presented Nanzoin with the sacred ashes of three Buddhas. This reclining Buddha was built as a repository for those ashes.

I donated to the temple which allowed me to enter the hallowed area behind and within the statue. I was given a long, thin wooden plaque upon which to write a prayer. This I carried into the sanctuary. I removed my shoes and was given a bag in which to carry them.

Before me lay a long, narrow hallway. The floor was tiled with a line of 88 square tiles, each of which contains sand from one of the 88 temples of the Shikoku pilgrimage. This important pilgrimage on the island of Shikoku was established by the founder of Shingon Buddhism, Kukai, in the 9th century. 

Stepping on each tile within Nanzoin’s Buddha is like stepping foot on each of the pilgrimage temples’ grounds. It brought to mind another one-stop pilgrimage, the amazing spiral Sazaedo temple in Aizuwakamatsu, Fukushima.

When I reached the middle of the hallway, I climbed a narrow staircase to the right and offered my prayer plaque to a woman standing in a small darkened area shared with Buddhist statues and offerings. I paid my respects to the Buddha, then went down another staircase to continue along my 88 step pilgrimage.

At the end of the hall, I put my shoes on and stepped back into the sunlight. Before me was a stall selling amulets, and I was given 3 small darts with rubber tips to toss into boxes several meters away. If I got one in, I would be awarded a free amulet. Although this temple is famously lucky — rumor has it that one of its chief priests once won the lottery — I was unable to score even one amulet.

No worries, though. Next, I checked out the Buddha’s marvelous feet.

The Soles of the Buddha’s Feet

Long ago in India, believers felt unworthy to make statues of Buddha, so instead, they carved images of the soles of his feet and worshipped those. According to a sign nearby, the patterns on the feet represent the gentle teachings and mercy of Buddha.

Connect with the Buddha

Attached to the Buddha’s hand are ribbons that lead to an offering box. Praying, while holding onto the five colored ribbons, allows you to be imbued with spiritual power from the Buddha as he is reaching enlightenment. 

Enchanting Statues

Five hundred disciples are portrayed in delightful form in front of the statue, with more in other areas of the temple grounds. Each one is remarkably detailed and filled with life and personality. I’m sure I could spend all day admiring them.

There are Jizo statues, and a shrine to the Shinto deity, Inari, an enormous and fierce statue of Fudō Myōō, and many other works of fine craftsmanship portraying deities throughout the grounds, much of which is off-limits to photography.

Respectfulness

Nanzoin has signs to remind visitors that it is a temple, not a sightseeing spot. Visitors are reminded to be quiet, not to eat or drink on the grounds, nor to disturb the atmosphere in any way.

Keeping those points in mind, I highly recommend a visit to this amazing temple, filled with beautiful statues, quiet paths, and pleasant waterfalls.

The post Nanzoin Temple — Little-Known Home of the Biggest Bronze Statue in the World first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Walking “The Great Waterfall Road” and exploring Tsutayacho Forest in Aomori, Japan

Hidden away in southern Aomori Prefecture is the wonderful Oirase Gorge. I had wanted to visit since I read about it years ago, and I finally got my chance last fall. 

The gorge is famed for its many waterfalls, which I love, so I was looking forward to this trip. It far exceeded my expectations. The natural beauty was breathtaking.

Koyo, colored autumn leaves, canopied the clear, clean cascades of the Oirase River. The smell of the earth, the trees, the moss, and the sound of birdsong and rushing water enveloped me. It was the ultimate in forest bathing.

Walking in Oirase Gorge

As I was staying by Lake Towada, I drove about 10 minutes from my inn in Yasumiya, on the lake’s south shore, to Nenokuchi on the eastern side, where the Oirase river begins. The parking lots were empty just after 7:00 AM on a Monday in late October. 

It was cold and a little rainy, but that didn’t dampen my spirits.

I snapped a photo of Lake Towada in its autumn glory, and then made my way to the start of the Oirase Gorge trail.

The trail is 14 kilometers long, following the Oirase River to the Towada Bridge in Yakeyama. Visitors are encouraged to stick to the trail to protect the natural environment. I was glad people had done that, as the more than 200 different varieties of moss covering rocks and trees gave a fairytale feel to the forest.

I had read that the most spectacular waterfalls were to be found within the first nine kilometers, so hiking those nine was my plan. Although there is a narrow road that also follows the gorge up the river, thankfully, it was mostly out of sight and there were few cars.

Soon, I met a photographer who had parked his tiny truck by the road and set up his equipment to capture a rushing cascade backed by glorious fall colors.

I joined him to bask in the beauty. 

As I continued along the path, some movement across the stream caught my eye. I stopped to watch an adorable little bird hop along the side of the river, then dive, swim underwater, and pop back up onto a rock. I had never seen such a bird before. I later found out that it was a Brown Dipper, called in Japanese kawagarasu, “river crow.” I feel lucky to have seen it.

After walking for a couple of hours and enjoying the stream, the forest, and the many cascades and falls along the way, I arrived at Kumoi Falls, 雲井滝, “well of clouds.” This waterfall got its name from the spray that splashes up like clouds as it falls and bends along its 20-meter drop.

As you can see by the photos, not only moss, but many varieties of ferns flourish on the forest floor. 

Before long, the river grew loud and violent as it tumbled and crashed around the Kujyūku-Shima, 九十九島, 99 Islands. So powerful is this section of the river that it was named after Ashura, 阿修羅, a fierce guardian Buddhist deity — the Ahsura Rapids.

There were waterfalls large and small along the way. I particularly liked a delicate stream that fell in several tiers, called Chisuji Falls, 千筋の滝. Several people were taking photos of it, standing in the lightly falling rain.

After a full morning of exploring, I reached my destination of Makodoiwa Rock, beside which is a bus stop. Having checked the schedule ahead of time, I knew when to catch the very few buses that plied that route. 

I was soon back at Lake Towada after an unforgettable walk along the Bakufu-Kaido, 瀑布街道, “The Great Waterfall Road.”

The next stop was Tsutayacho no Mori, Tsutayacho Forest, a 30-minute drive to the north.

Tsutayacho Forest

Visiting the Tsutanuma Pond area was not part of my original plan, but when I saw it on the map, I wanted to check it out. I am so glad I did.

The area is a peaceful haven of trees and foliage reflected in still, clear ponds. A 2.6 km hiking trail leads from the parking lot around six small marshy ponds, the largest of which is Tsutanuma with a 1 km circumference.

I walked alone through the quiet forest, only the sounds of birdsong and the rustling of leaves to keep me company. Occasionally, a cute little bird would pop out of the underbrush onto the path ahead. 

After about 20 minutes, I came upon the peaceful Suganuma Pond. I took a moment to sit in a small covered rest area to soak in the solitude.

I followed the path uphill and, after another 20 minutes, reached Naganuma Pond. I felt like I had stepped into a postcard, so picturesque was the setting. 

Naganuma means “long pond or marsh.” The shallow pond changes its shape depending on the amount of rainfall. It was relatively small when I visited, but no less for beauty.

As I saw in the Oirase Gorge, the Tsutayacho forest floor was covered with moss and ferns, along with sasa bamboo and other grasses. The cool, crisp autumn air was filled with smell of the fresh earth, the fragrance of the trees, and the gentle sound of the wind in the leaves.

Yet another 20 minutes of leisurely walking and I went around a bend to behold Kagaminuma, Mirror Pond. So named because its clear water reflects the beautiful beech trees and foliage that surround it.

Then it was a downhill walk to Tsutanuma pond where I met other people who had skipped the longer walk, only wanting to visit this largest pond. 

The trail took me past a shrine, an onsen (hot springs) hotel, and back to my car. 

I settled in for the 90-minute drive to Hachinohe City. There, I would visit the beginning of the Michinoku Trail before catching the bullet train to Hiraizumi, the former fabulously wealthy capital of northern Japan, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The post Oirase Gorge — Wonderland of Waterfalls and Otherworldly Beauty first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.