The Deity
The old man created river and rice terrace by raking gently across the pebble-stone. A Japanese garden is more than landscaping. It is dreamscaping. His bow legs, clad in wooly pantaloons, straddled the earth of the small plot, no larger than any suburban backyard. But to him it is a misty mountain in spring time, cherry blossoms in the morning sunshine, the duck pond a roaring cascade, the boulders mountains. A tall column behind him signified the distant horizon. Atop the column was set a large bronze goose in flight. To the old man the goose was he. The goose was free. He continued raking as I passed nearby on the stepping-stones leading toward a temple. He didn't look up, but I felt him notice me. A young monk met me at the temple entrance.
"Konichiwa. Genki desuka," he beamed.
"Konichiwa. Genki desu, arigato."
"Australia kara desuka?"
"Hai, Australia kara desu." I removed my shoes and he showed me inside.
Later that evening the old man spoke as I sat on the floor next to the three monks, residents of the temple. He spoke in passable English, primarily for my benefit, my previous discourse with the young monk having exhausted my Japanese repertoire.
"Christmas is a time for peace," the old man said, smiling gently. "Especially here in the mountains of Hokkaido. The bear rests, snow monkeys laze in hot springs, and nature spirits are quiet." He gazed at me through time ravaged eyes, but with a twinkle of wisdom. Or was it just age? He adjusted the thick shawl covering his bony body, and continued,
"Do you want the crooked path, or do you want to go to the light?" I looked at the others, who sat unmoving, and guessing it was me being questioned said, "I suppose I would prefer the light."
"Then go to the light," his voice crackled with strained force as he thrust a hand through loose folds of the shawl, signaling me to view the bronze goose outside, on top of the column. Before I turned, I noticed him fumble with his other hand under the bolster cushion, searching for something. He flicked a hidden switch, and flame appeared behind the goose, illuminating the pebble courtyard in a bronze-red glow. The old man reclined against the bolster cushion, smiling mystically.
"Go to the light and fly free as a lone goose, and life will be an adventure." He cast his gaze searchingly at me. Surely he didn't expect me to act amazed at such an obvious trick. However as I was a guest, and politeness the custom, "beautiful, very impressive," I said with wide-open eyes, feigning surprise and bewilderment.
The ancient one continued speaking. "As this is Christmas time, it is a time for harmony and a time for love, a time for giving and sharing, not just in the western world, but also here in Japan."
"A time for dinner, noodles, and lots of em," my mind replied, wondering how long he intended to talk now he had me as a captive audience. I noticed one of the others settling into an awkward cross-legged configuration, searching for elusive comfort on the straw matting.
Oblivious to us, the man continued, "We in Japan have a history of acceptance. Our Shinto past is just a memory for most. The young people worship the western ways now. They want city life, American style. We forgive past indiscretions in exchange for Mickey Mouse and Snoopy, just as thousands of years ago we in Japan embraced Buddism from China and made it into our own Zen." He fell silent for a moment, eyes frosting over in trance, or was it just a micro-sleep, before clearing a mucus laden throat in a choking shudder, and said,
"More recently we abandoned our emperor, the sun god incarnate, and embraced western democracy. We walked off the land, out of paddy field, and chose instead to worship the mighty yen." The old man shook his head in a gesture of loss, as if he had personally lived through the centuries past.
"How old is this guy," I thought to myself. For all I knew he may be only sixty or seventy.The frigid climate of Hokkaido can dry and wither a person prematurely, leaving a wrinkled shell around a still active mind. I focused ahead, the old man looking at me, or was it through me?
He smiled. "It is an honor to have a western traveler with us tonight. It will now be my pleasure to show you our humble temple, which I have decorated on this day for the glory of the prophet, whose kindness has reached all corners of the world, just as the Buddha had done. Everyone worships the prophet, especially at Christmas time, on His birthday, to give thanks and share gifts with loved ones." He smiled broadly, facial creases around his mouth taking up temporary residence around his eyes.
"come," he said, and got up gingerly, pushing his wooden cane down against the floor. He was fragile and a little hunched, but walked unaided toward the temple room. I followed obediently. He stood at the doorway leading to the temple, and clapped his gnarled hands softly. A young monk came running, then reached up to ring a shining brass bell. The monk opened the door, bowing slightly as I followed the old man inside.
The small temple room was sparsely decorated, but beautiful. Paper lanterns glowed from within small alcoves along the walls, colorful prayer wheels hung from solid oak beams. The polished floor shone, a single expanse of faultless granite. The alter steps, floor, and walls were made from shimmering black marble, reflecting the light of a many-candled chandelier. Gifts were stacked up against the steps; bags of rice, fresh fruit and vegetables, and colorfully wrapped parcels, all for the pleasure of the Prophet. I stood before the alter, mouth agape, transfixed by the work of devotion before me.
The crucifix stood almost from floor to ceiling. The Deity, almost too close, too real, and firmly fixed to the crucifix with large iron nails. The face was authentic, pained yet serene, slumped in exhaustion and agony, eyes turned upward to the heavens, caught in the moment, "Forgive them Father, they know not what they do."
"i'm pleased by your reaction," the old man said.
"yes, He is larger than life, so realistic."
The reverence of the old man was contagious. The temple room a hushed silence.
"I made Him myself," he said, "based on authentic paintings and story books. He is a work of devotion and an offering to the God. Do you think I have succeeded?"
I looked the Deity over from head to toe. It was indeed grand, yet something was missing. I realized there was nothing on the Deity's head.
"ah, yes...you have noticed," the old man said as he handed me the crowning glory."I am too short and could not reach the top of His head. Do you wish to do the honor?"
I approached the Deity reverentially, treading lightly on the marble steps, and with humble decorum stretched up, making sure it sat at the proper angle. I stepped back down and stood beside the old man, marveling at his amazing creation. The red and white felt hat, with fluffy pompom had indeed completed the picture.
"Santa Claus on the cross... only in Japan," I thought to myself.
"So, I have succeeded?, the old man asked me gently.
"Yes, you have succeeded," I replied, feeling at that moment, a little Zen.
"Then, it is time for candlelight carols," he beamed, while opening a small cupboard and pushing a button. From well concealed speakers a song filled the temple room.
'You better watch out, you better not cry
You better not pout, I,m telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town.'
END
"Konichiwa. Genki desuka," he beamed.
"Konichiwa. Genki desu, arigato."
"Australia kara desuka?"
"Hai, Australia kara desu." I removed my shoes and he showed me inside.
Later that evening the old man spoke as I sat on the floor next to the three monks, residents of the temple. He spoke in passable English, primarily for my benefit, my previous discourse with the young monk having exhausted my Japanese repertoire.
"Christmas is a time for peace," the old man said, smiling gently. "Especially here in the mountains of Hokkaido. The bear rests, snow monkeys laze in hot springs, and nature spirits are quiet." He gazed at me through time ravaged eyes, but with a twinkle of wisdom. Or was it just age? He adjusted the thick shawl covering his bony body, and continued,
"Do you want the crooked path, or do you want to go to the light?" I looked at the others, who sat unmoving, and guessing it was me being questioned said, "I suppose I would prefer the light."
"Then go to the light," his voice crackled with strained force as he thrust a hand through loose folds of the shawl, signaling me to view the bronze goose outside, on top of the column. Before I turned, I noticed him fumble with his other hand under the bolster cushion, searching for something. He flicked a hidden switch, and flame appeared behind the goose, illuminating the pebble courtyard in a bronze-red glow. The old man reclined against the bolster cushion, smiling mystically.
"Go to the light and fly free as a lone goose, and life will be an adventure." He cast his gaze searchingly at me. Surely he didn't expect me to act amazed at such an obvious trick. However as I was a guest, and politeness the custom, "beautiful, very impressive," I said with wide-open eyes, feigning surprise and bewilderment.
The ancient one continued speaking. "As this is Christmas time, it is a time for harmony and a time for love, a time for giving and sharing, not just in the western world, but also here in Japan."
"A time for dinner, noodles, and lots of em," my mind replied, wondering how long he intended to talk now he had me as a captive audience. I noticed one of the others settling into an awkward cross-legged configuration, searching for elusive comfort on the straw matting.
Oblivious to us, the man continued, "We in Japan have a history of acceptance. Our Shinto past is just a memory for most. The young people worship the western ways now. They want city life, American style. We forgive past indiscretions in exchange for Mickey Mouse and Snoopy, just as thousands of years ago we in Japan embraced Buddism from China and made it into our own Zen." He fell silent for a moment, eyes frosting over in trance, or was it just a micro-sleep, before clearing a mucus laden throat in a choking shudder, and said,
"More recently we abandoned our emperor, the sun god incarnate, and embraced western democracy. We walked off the land, out of paddy field, and chose instead to worship the mighty yen." The old man shook his head in a gesture of loss, as if he had personally lived through the centuries past.
"How old is this guy," I thought to myself. For all I knew he may be only sixty or seventy.The frigid climate of Hokkaido can dry and wither a person prematurely, leaving a wrinkled shell around a still active mind. I focused ahead, the old man looking at me, or was it through me?
He smiled. "It is an honor to have a western traveler with us tonight. It will now be my pleasure to show you our humble temple, which I have decorated on this day for the glory of the prophet, whose kindness has reached all corners of the world, just as the Buddha had done. Everyone worships the prophet, especially at Christmas time, on His birthday, to give thanks and share gifts with loved ones." He smiled broadly, facial creases around his mouth taking up temporary residence around his eyes.
"come," he said, and got up gingerly, pushing his wooden cane down against the floor. He was fragile and a little hunched, but walked unaided toward the temple room. I followed obediently. He stood at the doorway leading to the temple, and clapped his gnarled hands softly. A young monk came running, then reached up to ring a shining brass bell. The monk opened the door, bowing slightly as I followed the old man inside.
The small temple room was sparsely decorated, but beautiful. Paper lanterns glowed from within small alcoves along the walls, colorful prayer wheels hung from solid oak beams. The polished floor shone, a single expanse of faultless granite. The alter steps, floor, and walls were made from shimmering black marble, reflecting the light of a many-candled chandelier. Gifts were stacked up against the steps; bags of rice, fresh fruit and vegetables, and colorfully wrapped parcels, all for the pleasure of the Prophet. I stood before the alter, mouth agape, transfixed by the work of devotion before me.
The crucifix stood almost from floor to ceiling. The Deity, almost too close, too real, and firmly fixed to the crucifix with large iron nails. The face was authentic, pained yet serene, slumped in exhaustion and agony, eyes turned upward to the heavens, caught in the moment, "Forgive them Father, they know not what they do."
"i'm pleased by your reaction," the old man said.
"yes, He is larger than life, so realistic."
The reverence of the old man was contagious. The temple room a hushed silence.
"I made Him myself," he said, "based on authentic paintings and story books. He is a work of devotion and an offering to the God. Do you think I have succeeded?"
I looked the Deity over from head to toe. It was indeed grand, yet something was missing. I realized there was nothing on the Deity's head.
"ah, yes...you have noticed," the old man said as he handed me the crowning glory."I am too short and could not reach the top of His head. Do you wish to do the honor?"
I approached the Deity reverentially, treading lightly on the marble steps, and with humble decorum stretched up, making sure it sat at the proper angle. I stepped back down and stood beside the old man, marveling at his amazing creation. The red and white felt hat, with fluffy pompom had indeed completed the picture.
"Santa Claus on the cross... only in Japan," I thought to myself.
"So, I have succeeded?, the old man asked me gently.
"Yes, you have succeeded," I replied, feeling at that moment, a little Zen.
"Then, it is time for candlelight carols," he beamed, while opening a small cupboard and pushing a button. From well concealed speakers a song filled the temple room.
'You better watch out, you better not cry
You better not pout, I,m telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town.'
END
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