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Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Smiling with Light

Extracted from Edward Levinson’s Whisper of the Land (2014)

sitting in the lotus position     蓮華座組み
the Zen carpenter       禅の大工が
hammers nails         釘を打つ
along the long hall of his life   長い人生の廊下に沿って

renge-za kumi, Zen no daiku ga, kugi o utsu, nagai jinsei no rōka ni sotte

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Edward Levinson, aka Edo

My garden is not a Zen garden but it does have some symbolism, with little islands, dry rivers, and rocks that look like miniature mountains. Like life, where and how you look at it determines what you see. I try to balance local nature spirits with the global breath of the cosmos.

As a photographer, gardener, and lover of the old and sacred, I often visit Kyoto for inspiration. After Tokyo it is always a breath of fresh air, a small city but it has a cosmopolitan feeling. Because my first homestay was near there, it feels like my Japanese hometown, my furusato.

One fall I spent some time exploring the northeast of the old capital city. A beautiful woman in a seasonal chrysanthemum-patterned kimono walked ahead of me along the wooded Philosopher’s Path. With a little help from my will, we had naturally fallen in step together; it seemed unfair that she walk unescorted. As I walked and talked with the stranger, nature’s colorful maples and gingko trees grinned at the thought of us. Being separated from the other strollers, it must have looked like a scene out of a doomed Japanese love story.

We made quite a pair, I in a dirty down coat with a clunky camera backpack, attempting to walk philosophically in my green Reebok sneakers while she shuffled along gracefully in her clean, white tabi socks and zōri sandals.

We exchanged a few pleasantries; I was ready to stop and have tea with her, but she bowed her apologies and slipped off into the twilight, wanting to get to Ginkaku-ji Temple at the end of the path before it got dark. Or so she said. I guess our outfits and budgets didn’t match. I settled for a bowl of udon noodles alone at a greasy spoon shokudō (restaurant) watching near-naked sumo wrestlers on TV with a pack of smoking taxi drivers waiting for their passengers, who were eating at the expensive restaurant across the street.

Walking around Daikaku-ji Temple and vicinity the next day with my cameras, I was having trouble seeing what I was experiencing. As I reached the far side of an island in Osawa Pond which borders the temple, I was ready to give up shooting and move on to the next site. Suddenly, I found myself standing under a wonderful old tree. The tops of its big roots were bursting out of the clean swept soil, its thick limbs perfectly balanced in nearly every direction. A small torii and shrine confirmed the sacredness and majesty of the tree. From the right perspective, the tree is the center point of the Daikaku-ji area; it holds a position of power. Earlier in the day at another very crowded temple, red maple leaves attracted hordes of tourists. Here, I was alone with a magnificent tree that loved me for taking time to love it.

“You only pass this way once” (Ichigo ichi he) is one of my favorite Japanese expressions, but in Kyoto I often visit the same sacred places over and over again, trying to get to know them better. Sometimes I find something fresh. Over time, be it fifteen minutes or fifteen years, I savor the essence of the place. When I leave it’s as if I’ve been on retreat. I am on a high, and sometimes it’s hard to go back out into the city streets. Then I will encounter temple and shrine people doing real things, and it reminds me of the middle way, of balancing the spiritual and material worlds.

Every day a Japanese man dressed in white judo-like work clothes sweeps the stairway to Yoshida Shrine, putting the few leaves into small neat piles. In Shinto as well as Zen, the broom metaphorically sweeps the heart clean. He is only a shrine worker, not a monk or priest, but he seems content and focused on the work at hand. I wouldn’t mind his job or that of the elderly couple of cleaners who were polishing the railings and floors of Shōren-in Temple on a rainy summer day. Good daily exercises in polishing the heart. Even the parking lot attendant had a Laughing Buddha smile on his face as he bowed and collected my money.

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http://www.edophoto.com (Edward Levinson’s photography website)
http://www.whisperoftheland.com ( Whisper of the Land  book website)

This tree is at Shōren-in Temple in Kyoto. It sits on top of a stone retaining wall outside the entrance to the temple, blessing all those who walk by on the street under it. I always visit there, enjoy its energy, and take its photo when in Kyoto.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Gion Higashi

A Glimpse into the History of Gion Higashi
by Yuki Yamauchi

Scene from the first performance of Gion Odori in 1952 (Public domain)

The flamboyance of Kyoto has long been enhanced by the culture of five kagai (geisha quarters). Since my heart was touched by the performances of geiko and maiko in the Gion Odori of 2016, the focus of my interest has been in particular on Gion Higashi – a district, roughly speaking, bordered by Shinbashi-dori in the north, Higashiyama-dori in the east, Shijo-dori in the south and Hanami-koji in the west.

This two-section article focuses on the history of Gion Higashi (the district has also been called Zeze-ura, Gion Otsubu or Gion Higashi Shinchi in the past).

  1. The Birth of Gion Higashi

The start of what is now the Gion Higashi district marked a farewell to Japan’s feudal times. The area had hosted a gigantic residence for a samurai clan from the Zeze domain (current Shiga Prefecture), which was removed in 1870. It was replaced with ochaya (tea houses), which became part of the Gion district. In 1881, however, the expanded Gion area was split into the current two parts – Gion Kobu and Gion Higashi (known then as Gion Otsubu).

Kunimichi Kitagaki, the third governor of Kyoto Prefecture, ordered the separation. It happened not only due to administrative purposes, but also due to a fiscal problem. According to Nakunatta Kyo no Kuruwa (Defunct Pleasure Quarters in Kyoto), published in 1958, the issue had much to do with an educational institution for girls, known as nyokoba:

[The association of the Gion district] received a 50-percent refund of three yen (about ¥90,000) that it had paid to Kyoto Prefecture and was supposed to allocate the money for education expenses of girls attending the institution. The money from the prefecture amounted to 2,000 yen (about ¥6 million), but only 200 yen (about ¥600,000) was spent for tuition fees and the rest was kept, so the association amassed a substantial amount of cash. Therefore, people at Zeze-ura (Gion Higashi) insisted since spring, 1881, that 40,000 yen (about ¥12 million) be reimbursed to taxpayers.

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[The amounts in parenthesis are calculated based on a formula taken from a page in the Collaborative Reference Database.]

The establishment of the nyokoba was prompted by the Maria Luz incident in 1871, in which Chinese indentured laborers were rescued from poor working conditions in a Peruvian ship that docked in Yokohama for repairs. The occurrence helped raise awareness of human rights in Japan, and thus the country enforced the Geishogi Kaiho Rei (Emancipation Edict for Female Performers and Prostitutes) in the same year, which led to the launch of the educational institution.

The founding of Mima Nyokoba, a new educational institution, worsened the feud within the pre-separation Gion district, and it was in 1886 that Gion Higashi completely parted from Gion Kobu by establishing its own association.

In 1872 Gion Kobu and Pontocho started dance shows (Miyako Odori and Kamogawa Odori), and the new district of Gion Higashi began holding its own, Mima Odori, in 1894. It was a predecessor of Gion Odori, the now-existing annual performance that began in 1952. It is uncertain how long the performances were held regularly, but it could be speculated that such events, if they took place in the 1930s and the early 1940s, might have adored Japan’s militarism just like the Miyako Odori and the Kamogawa Odori – the former’s program title in 1942, for example, was Mikuni no Hokori, which translates as Pride of the Imperial Nation, while the latter’s in 1940 was Nanshin Nippon, which roughly means, “Go southward, Japan.”

  1. Post-WWII years and the present day

In the final year of World War II, the city of Kyoto was air-raided five times. However, its kagai quarters remained unscathed, according to a report in Kagai Shimbun (Nov. 1, 1948). Nevertheless, the journal also refers to the fact that some employees were forced to evacuate.

In April 1948, the entertainment magazine Shin Furyu described what the atmosphere was like then and what Gion Higashi was planning to do:

Despite gloomy social conditions brought by the defeat of Japan, the country greeted the flowery spring season this year. While kagai quarters in Kyoto are developing events to show their performers’ skill, Gion Otsubu will hold Onshukai dance performances on May 5, 6, 7 and 8,… In the meantime, the association has already purchased land to found an art school that can cope quickly with the changing times.

As explained in the magazine Kenchiku to Shakai, the offices of the Geiko Association of Gion Otsubu served as a dance hall for the Allied Occupation forces. By the time the issue was published in August 1949, the building had been returned to its original owner and rebuilt, resulting in the addition of a hall for dance performance upstairs and a Western tea room downstairs.

In the following year, Kagai Shimbun (Sept. 15, 1950) reported on events that would happen in the near future as below: 

When Kyoto enjoys autumn with beautifully colored leaves, there will take place the annual Onshukai for six days, from October 13 to 18, at Gion Kaikan; the performances of Gion Higashi Shinchi will be the leadoff and the choreography is arranged by Ryosuke Fujima.

The gala continued the following year when Gion Higashi Shinchi held the ninth installment of the Onshukai event, presenting pieces including the ambitious work titled Shikibu to Borei (Izumi Shikibu and the Ghost) from Oct. 25 to 29. The work, set in the Heian Period, was put together by film and stage director Akira Nobuchi and the historical research was made by traditional Japanese painter Hisako Kajiwara, with choreography overseen by Ryosuke Fujima.

The following year, 1952, is a watershed in the history of Gion Higashi as it launched the famed annual dance performance: Gion Odori. The inaugural edition of the festival featured experts including Akira Nobuchi, Hisako Kajiwara (she was also in charge of stage costumes and scenography) and Ryosuke Fujima and around 50 geiko and maiko. The performances are believed to have taken place at 1:30 p.m. and 5 p.m. each day between Oct. 21 and 30 at Gion Kaikan, but the Kyoto edition of Asahi Shimbun (Nov. 1, 1952) reported as follows:

The first installment of Gion Odori, which Gion Higashi Shinchi started instead of Onshukai, ended on [Oct.] 30. It did not draw a crowd during the first few days, but it came to enjoy more and more popularity. On the last day there was an additional show, which became a sell-out. There was actually another on the morning of [Oct.] 31. This is how the curtain finally fell, without a hitch.

Gion Odori has since served as an annual showcase for the public (there were no performances from 1955 to 1957 and in 1989 – the year the Emperor Showa passed away). To the chagrin of fans of traditional dance, Kyoto will have a second autumn without Gion Odori, as its cancellation was announced in August. Let us hope that geiko and maiko can show their proficiency to celebrate the event’s 70th anniversary, so that next year we can celebrate one of the greatest shows in Kyoto!

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Picture (Link to the photo of Gion Odori published in the 26th volume of Kyoto):
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gion_Odori_in_1952.jpg

(On a side note, the year 1900 saw Shogi Torishimari Kisoku, a new law to impose stricter rules on prostitutes. It helped the president of Gion Higashi in those days weaken the dominance of prostitutes in the district and improve the status of geiko and maiko instead. The status of traditional performers has been stable since the Prostitution Prevention Law came into effect in 1958.)

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For an introduction to Yuki Yamauchi, please click here. For his piece on Portraits of Uji, click here. For his portrait of prewar academic critic, Tatsuo Kuriyagawa, click here. And for his piece on theatre and film director, Akira Nobuchi, click here.

Kyoto Journal 100 Views of Kyoto

Kyoto Journal 100th Issue Published

Review by Rebecca Otowa     Sept. 24, 2021

Cover photo from Gion Matsuri’s mikoshi arai ritual, by Patrick Hochner

This month, throughout Japan and the world of people who love Japan, a great sigh of relief and satisfaction could be felt. The 100th issue of the prestigious Kyoto Journal was published.

Since it first saw the light in 1987, this quarterly publication has had many printing vicissitudes, and twice has had to go to online publishing due to cost considerations. But thanks to many generous donations, and to the SunM printing company, this 100th issue has been lavishly and beautifully printed and can be held in the hand. Devoted readers will surely raise a cheer.

Kyoto Journal and Writers in Kyoto have gone hand in hand for years, although KJ is much more venerable; we are both volunteer organizations. We can count several key members of the KJ editing and publishing team among our members, including John Einarsen and Ken Rodgers. In addition, this 100th issue contains many pieces by respected voices of the Kyoto foreign community who are also members of WiK, including John Dougill, Alex Kerr, Robert Yellin, Felicity Tillack, Mark Hovane, Catherine Pawasarat, Edward J. Taylor, and many more.

Spoiler alert! Herewith a few highlights from members’ contributions. John Dougill’s piece, View 2 “Dimensions”, describes the various facets of Kyoto, from the physical buildings to educational institutions, craft traditions and tourism, finally touching on the “unseen” city with all its historical milestones and panoramas. Robert Yellin contributes information about some of Kyoto’s contemporary potters in View 28, “Clay Play”. And Mark Hovane, expert on gardens, introduces a wonderful Japanese phrase that he learned while walking through Honen’in soon after he arrived, in View 59 “Komorebi”, the beauty of dappled sunlight through the trees.  

This issue includes articles from past Journals, as well as photography, poetry, and essays on every conceivable topic from “Heian Era” (View 3) to “Intoxication” (View 72) and “Pokemon” (View 39). Each View is accompanied by a cute stylized logo designed by Hirisha Mehta. Due to space considerations, this print version ends at “An Astonishing Amalgam” (View 82); the remaining 18 Views will be available to read on the KJ website. Each View shows a different aspect, and they are all imbued with the love that each individual has grown to feel for the fair city of Kyoto. The pieces are short and easy to read, and the visual content as always is superb, highlighting the talents of both illustrators and photographers.

If I may be permitted a small personal reminiscence, years ago I was pleased to appear as an extra in the film “Chikyu no Heso” (The Navel of the World, 2008), in which (in a not too far distant future) Kyoto’s traditions have been taken over by the people who love them most, the foreign residents. I had to wear a Japanese style white apron and pray at a roadside shrine; my little role was of a neighbor lady who was “more Japanese than the Japanese”. There are certainly many foreigners who have made this city their home, and their love of it shines through each page of this beautiful Kyoto Journal. And they may be more deeply responsible for getting the word out about the wonders of the city, particularly in other countries, than the Japanese themselves are. 

The cover shows a gathering for purification (Mikoshi-arai) at the end of the Gion Festival, which is very timely, considering the plight of Kyoto with fewer numbers of tourists since the Covid pandemic hit 18 months ago. We at WiK would like to express a heartfelt wish that our beloved city of Kyoto can recover and resume its place among lovers of all things beautiful and evocative in Japan.   

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Although the issue has sold out, readers can get a taste of the contents (plus some extras) by looking at this page from the Kyoto Journal website.

Cover full spread photo by Patrick Hochner

Storied (Rachel Davies)

Storied is a high quality glossy magazine in print as well as digital editions. It was set up by a resident of Kyoto, British born Rachel Davies, and thanks to Tina deBellegarde WiK was able to host her for a Zoom session on Sept 12.

The concept behind the magazine is to promote lesser known tourist places and facets of Japan in a way that is sustainable and responsible. Each issue is themed, and the first which focussed on Kyoto came out in the summer. Rather than the usual suspects, the magazine looked to steer potential tourists to off the beaten places and crafts in Kyotango and Keihoku. Volume 2 features Islands, which will be followed by Volume 3 on Cedar and Volume 4 on Water.

Tina deBellegarde who hosted the session and put questions to Rachel Davies (bottom).

Rachel has a background in PR marketing as well as doing freelance travel tourism. Frustrated by the focus among foreign media on only the well-known aspects of Japan, she found a business partner, and having laid out the details of how they wanted to proceed they turned to Kickstarter to raise funds for their venture. Thanks to their preparation it proved an unexpected success, reaching their target in the first three hours!

With the money they raised they were able to go about producing a print magazine. Though they realised they would have to have a digital version too, the print magazine was their priority. They also saw the need for social media, and thanks to quality photographs they have run up 12,000 followers on Instagram.

As far as outlets are concerned, most of the sales and retails are overseas. In Kyoto they have just three outlets, and interestingly none of them are bookshops. Instead they are using niche outlets such as art galleries and event spaces.

What has Rachel learnt from undertaking the project so far? ‘Everything takes much longer than expected.’ There have been a lot of delays, and each delay can have a knock-on effect. Also she learnt the wisdom in the old adage that you only get what you pay for. At first she and her partner tried to save money with a cut-rate printer, but the quality was so poor they had to reject the shipment. Instead they turned to more expensive printers who clearly love their job (it turned out to be the same printer as used by Kyoto Journal).

These are difficult times for print, and Covid-19 has made anything connected with tourism a daunting challenge. So it is refreshing and heartening to hear of a new high-quality product run by young entrepreneurs with optimism and a vision fr the future. Aware of the problems of overtourism, they are hoping to help with the expected surge that will follow when the great pandemic comes to an end by steering readers to the great wealth of experiences to be had off the beaten tracks.

Writers in Kyoto wishes them well and we look forward to future cooperation.

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With thanks to Tina deBellegarde for organising the event, and to Lisa Wilcut for running the Zoom session. To see the video of the event, please click here.

To see the Storied website, please check out https://storiedmag.com/
If you are a WiK member and would like a copy of the media kit for contributors, please send an email to John Dougill.

Jann Williams (WiK Anthology 4 Contributor) and the Gorinto of Kyoto

Award-winning ecologist, writer, photographer, and Writers in Kyoto member Jann Williams was a contributor to Structures in Kyoto (WiK Anthology 4) but unable to attend our virtual book launch on August 22nd. Having missed that opportunity to introduce her essay “Beyond Zen – Kyoto’s Gorinto Connections” about the essence and evolution of the five-ring pagoda, she has created the short video below. In addition to attaining your copy of the anthology to read more, Jann’s intriguing explorations of the elements in Japanese culture can be found on her blog Elemental Japan.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

The Last Ghost of Summer

by Fernando Torres

I have become a yūrei, my disembodied form drifting through the streets and back alleys of Kyoto — unseen — unnoticed. There on my left is my neighbor, frozen in time, her nose almost touching the ground from decades of "floor culture" and bones that stretch back to the Taishō era. "Ohayō gozaimasu!" I shout, but her broom doesn't move. There is no point to my aisatsu; I have become a fuyūrei, a wandering spirit. My neck pivots to the sky to gaze at birds who are still like flowers, preserved between pieces of wax paper. My neighborhood is surprisingly unchanged; our trash is even under the same blue net that prevents the large-billed crows from carrying it away. Walking further, I reach where our street narrows, as they often do in Kyoto, and I am unable to continue. I can see the top of my house, but no matter how much I strain, I am frozen but ten meters from my door. Is this Purgatory? No matter how much I yearn for my front gate, there is an invisible wall. My virtual reality headset comes off, and the 360-degree image collapses. Back in America, I experience momentary disorientation, or perhaps it is melancholy. No matter how complete the app's database, it lacks the final images to allow me to return home.
My transformation into a ghost begins at Kansai airport, which greets me as an apocalyptic wasteland, like something from a dystopian novel. My friends in Asia have urged me not to leave Japan. America is at the height of the pandemic, but life in Japan is only starting to become constrained. "You have a house in Kyoto. There is no reason for you to leave." But I know differently.

My last days in Kyoto are pleasant. People elsewhere in the world are in total lockdown, yet I enjoy strolls in Shosei-en Garden and buying the washi for the poetry lantern I'm creating. Aware of the shortages that hit America, I am one of the few prepared when the shelves start to empty. Hoping to get just a couple of small items, I stop by the large market at Katsuragawa, but everything is already gone. I have one final lunch with my neighbors where we exchange gifts of masks and toilet paper. That night, sitting by the Kamo river, the future is uncertain, but little do I realize how long it will be before I see Kyoto again. The next time I return, my physical form will not accompany me.

As I walk towards customs, I am a condemned man voluntarily pursuing their executioner. The airport shops are barren, their boxes of omiyage undisturbed. Thousands of empty chairs pass by, with not one weary traveler to fill them. I start to wonder if this is even real, or perhaps I am the one whose reality is deceived. Does this scene not resemble that of ghostlore, where spirits are forced to wander the places they once knew, ignorant of their circumstances? What else could explain how my backpack has no companion as it passes through the x-ray machine? I linger, but no one joins me. Where is the grumpy ojisan I usually encounter, the one annoyed at how long it takes for me to gather my things? Where is the multitude of other voices who drown out the announcements to which we pay no mind? I continue downstairs to customs, a vast area designed to process thousands of international travelers, but I am alone. Only those who work there remain, their eyes fixed upon me at once. They all look as if they have seen a ghost.

A few months later, back in America, I am in the emergency room, the ER ward's first VR-related incident. My finger is askew, and it appears like I won't be playing the piano any time soon. My misfortune is the result of a virtual ping pong game. The app's real-world physics are so close to reality that I subconsciously forget that the table doesn't exist and as I lunge for the ball, my finger jams into the wall. When I throw off my headset, it is discovered to be at a most bizarre angle—I am rushed to the emergency room. Only one doctor is available, as it is the weekend. With another patient in the midst of a heart attack, I clutch my hand and wait. When the doctor finally arrives to pull it back into place, I experience the kind of pain reserved for heretics and prisoners of the crown. Apparently, there really are a lot of nerves in your hands. When the x-ray technician returns, both he and the doctor are astonished; nothing is broken. But I know the reason. I have become a ghost, and y(u)rei are not susceptible to the injuries of men. My accident does not deter me; within twenty-four hours, I am back in the metaverse.

My first encounter with virtual reality was at the Aichi Expo in 2005. Hitachi had an exhibit that demonstrated AR, or mixed reality. Visitors to the unfortunately named "Ubiquitous Entertainment Ride" could interact with endangered species via a hand-held display that superimposed digital 3D graphics over moving dioramas.  A hand sensor allowed you to feed digital monkeys bananas or play with a sea turtle. It was an astonishing display of a technology that is only now becoming available to the general public. I had written about virtual and augmented reality in the early 1990s, but that material never saw publication. However, I revisited many of those themes in my recent novel, "More Than Alive: Death of an Idol," a sci-fi novel set in a near-future Tokyo and Kyoto. It retained the same premise that the yakuza had developed a drug that numbed suspension of disbelief, making VR seem real—but with a supernatural twist.
 
The story's ghost angle, however, came from a rather disturbing incident at Inari shrine. Wanting to impress a visiting friend, I waited until nightfall to show him how beautiful the shrine could be without tourists from Kansas taking selfies. An hour later, though, it almost appeared my friend was going to need counseling as he kept murmuring about the ghostly cat lady he kept seeing in random locations and the dark void he feared would swallow us. I'll admit I was a little surprised when I later learned that there had been many disappearances in that particular area at night, but I was more concerned about the sound of snorting wild boars in the shadows. Our neighborhood actually made the local news when some of those demon hogs came down from the hills and attacked a couple of people. There was blood smeared all over a metal door not far from my house. Still, I had only had a problem with ghosts the first night I moved into my 120 year-old-house, but that was most certainly a fluke.

For centuries, artists have attempted to illustrate the wandering spirits of Kyoto. For all practical purposes, I have become one of them; my mortal coil peeled away by technology and not death. I imagine my ethereal form illustrated upon a hanging scroll with a VR headset, something not often found in a kakejiku. 

Actually, a couple of my Kyoto neighbors have become aware of my plight through our message group on Line. They have seen the recorded footage of my virtual journey and how I am trapped at the point where our street narrows. What happens next is quite unconventional, though. My next-door neighbor, Kaori, has decided that she is not willing to accept the familiar mantra that "it can't be helped." Perhaps she has sensed my immaterial form at the end of the street, fixed in place by the policies of nation-states and the limitations of technology. Stepping into the sweltering Kyoto sun, she raises her phone and snaps several pictures. The database is complete, and as she clicks "send," I find myself immediately released. My spirit surges forward, and I complete the final leg of my journey, arriving beside my inuyarai gate. My hyosatsu greets me, and for once, I no longer feel like a stranger. For at that moment — if only within a waking dream — I am home.

Online Launch of Structures of Kyoto, the 4th Anthology of Writers in Kyoto

On August 22, 2021 Writers in Kyoto launched its fourth anthology, Structures of Kyoto. One blessing in this difficult year has been how technology has bridged the distance gap. We had attendees from across the globe tuning in from different time zones, some just waking, some staying up late, all happy to be sharing this moment honoring a special book.

Lisa Wilcut, our Zoom host, opened our event with the agenda for the evening and passed the microphone to the editors. Rebecca Otowa thanked the contributors and all those involved in bringing the anthology to print, especially John Dougill and her co-editor Karen Lee Tawarayama. She extended her thanks to the editors of prior anthologies with special recognition to Jann Williams, the chief editor of Encounters with Kyoto (WiK Anthology 3), for all of her guidance and encouragement. She also expressed her gratitude to Rick Elizaga for formatting the publication and acting as Amazon liaison, and to the illustrators, Stuart Ayre (who created the cover picture and other illustrations), Karina Takata (who illustrated the 100 Poems translations on the section head pages) and Sharon Sandberg (who provided illustrations in Karen Lee Tawarayama’s story  “The Life Dispensary”).

Kyoto has many physical, as well as cultural, social and psychological structures. Rebecca explained that she chose the theme of structures because of its broad scope and potential for variety. Indeed, the variety can be witnessed in the anthology, especially in the organization of the book itself. The order of contributions is aligned with the map of Kyoto from West to East so that the interconnections between the pieces become even more apparent.

Karen Lee Tawarayama offered special thanks to Rebecca for guiding her in the co-editing process. She led a toast to all the contributors and the previous editors and passed the microphone to John Dougill, the founder of WiK. John joined us from Hokkaido and commented on the evolution of the organization. He reminisced about starting as a small group around a table in Kyoto and marveled at how we have grown into a large international membership. We are now “writers whose hearts are in Kyoto.” John shared how he prefers to write in coffee houses, away from the distractions calling for his attention at home. In his anthology essay “Three Literary Cafes”, he describes his experience based on places associated with the Beats, Cid Corman and Pico Iyer.

Rebecca Otowa
Karen Lee Tawarayama

In her foreword to the anthology, Judith Clancy reflects on her fifty years in Kyoto and the evolution of the writing community. Judith was unable to join us but sent a message of gratitude to all involved with the publication.

The contributors then talked about their pieces in the order of the Table of Contents. The first contributors were Rona Conti and Brenda Yates, who unfortunately could not join us. Rona’s essay “What Does This Say, Sensei?” addresses her experiences learning Japanese culture through calligraphy. Brenda Yates was the third prize winner of the 2020 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition with “Interlude: Kyoto,” a beautiful poem on the four seasons in Kyoto.

With a diorama of Ryōan-ji garden in one hand, Mark Hovane explained that his essay “Rocks, Gravel, and a Bit of Moss” is about Kyoto’s invitation to forge new ways of seeing, how Kyoto challenges our structures of perception.

Amanda Huggins could not join us, but her contribution “Sparrow Steps” won Second Prize in the 2020 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition. She conjures up the city in this delicate piece about a precarious relationship.

Rebecca Otowa spoke about “Structures of Tea” and her personal, poetic, and aesthetic relationship to the tea ceremony and how it has the power to transcend ordinary sensations.

The banks of the Horikawa was the first place where Felicity Tillack felt a sense of community in her new home of Kyoto. She shared an experience from her first year, when her young students held a regatta of homemade boats on the Horikawa and how it inspired her to write “The River.”

Mike Freiling thanked Karina Takata for the illustrations that accompanied his translations of the Hyaku Nin Isshu. He read from those and from his own poems, “The Streets of Miyako.”

“Sunrise Over the Kamogawa” by Ina Sanjana won Second Prize in the 2019 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition. Ina wrote this poignant poem about a homeless man as a way to highlight a part of Kyoto that is not often witnessed.

Karen Lee Tawarayama discussed her story “The Life Dispensary” about a mythological creature’s attempt to survive climate change in a future version of Kyoto. Her striking story is illustrated by Sharon Sandberg who joined us from Michigan.

Robert Weis, who could not join us, wrote “Converging Waters: Kamogawa Delta Blues” using the delta shape of the Kamo River as symbolic of life choices.

Kyoto is a city of training structures and Reggie Pawle, speaking about his piece “The Magic of the Training Structures of Zen and Kyoto”, explained how the adherence to the structures allows one to reach the heights of mastery, then understanding (as well as pleasure), and eventually freedom.

“December” won Lauren E. Walker the First Prize in the 2020 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition. Lauren explained how she tried to capture the magic of Kyoto through a long walk from Kawaramachi to Ohara. Lauren’s discussion led us in to Edward Taylor’s “Ohara, After Scarlet Leaves.” Edward discussed the themes of impermanence and decay.

Jann Williams could not join us to discuss her fascinating piece “Beyond Zen: Kyoto’s Gorinto Connections,” an essay on the subject of Kyoto’s Buddhist Gorinto monuments.

The 2019 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition First Prize went to Lisa Wilcut for her atmospheric poem “Okuribi” about the send-off of ancestors at the end of Obon. Simon Rowe tuned in from Himeji and followed Lisa with a tale of two reluctant outlaws executing an escape using the festivities of Obon and the Daimonji fire as cover. Both Lisa and Simon expressed admiration for each other’s ability to capture the energy of that special evening.

Catherine Pawasarat had to sign off before she was able to share thoughts on her essay “The Gion Festival: A Hero’s Journey”, in which she poses such interesting questions such as “If we are present for a purification ritual but don’t know it’s happening, does the ritual still affect us?”

The photographs of John Einarsen and his short piece “The Gate” are a perfect respite from heady philosophical questions. John could not attend, but his photos of Nanzen-ji gate speak for themselves. They are lovely in the paperback edition and even more beautifully rendered in the e-book version.

Robert Yellin shared some ceramic pieces of various styles on screen and reminded us that touching them can be a way to connect with nature. He discussed his essay “A Kyoto Ceramic Dynasty”, about the eight generations of Kiyomizu Rokubey family ceramics.

Ken Rodgers, in “Sanjusangendo, Reinterpreted”, spoke on imagined structures. He shared 17th century illustrations of Sanjusangen-do created by Westerners guided by the written descriptions found in Dutch merchants’ accounts from their travels to Kyoto.

We learned that the 450-year-old candy shop located behind Kennin-ji and their “candy for raising children” was the inspiration for Marianne Kimura’s story “Yurei Ame/Ghost Candy”, for which she received Third Prize in the 2019 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition.

In closing, Alex Kerr spoke on “A New Philosophy of Tourism.” He believes Kyoto’s future is bound up in how over-tourism will be handled post-Covid.

We wrapped up the event with questions and further discussion as we sipped our cocktails and coffee.

In a time when Kyoto is inaccessible to many of us, this anthology has the power to transport us back to the city we love. The power of words and the power of technology worked hand in hand to bring us together and to honor the city WiK calls home. Our hearts are in Kyoto regardless of where we find ourselves on the globe.

We look forward to the next edition. There is no more appropriate way to end than with Karen Lee Tawarayama’s toast, “May Writers in Kyoto prosper, and may we all continue to inspire each other.”


Contributed by WiK member Tina deBellegarde, a novelist and short fiction writer. Tina lives in New York and joined Writers in Kyoto in 2020. Her poem “Sound Travels” won the USA Prize in the 2021 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition.

Writers in focus

Memoirs of a Japanese Nurse

Paul Carty writes…

In 2016, Writers in Kyoto held an event to commemorate the centenary of the Battle of Somme. There were many participants, who read poems, newspaper articles and in one case the journal of a family member who had served in WWI. One of those who took part was Araki Eiko, Professor Emeritus of Osaka City University. She was invited to join because she was translating the diary of a nurse who had been sent to Paris with the Japanese Red Cross Relief Corps to help with the war effort. Takeda Hajimeko’s diary was published serially in a newspaper in Fukuoka six months after the war ended, and below is Professor Araki’s introduction to that diary.  (The article was first published in Stand To! and the editor’s permission was given to republish.)

The memoirs of a Japanese nurse on the Western Front

© In Flanders Fields Museum, Ypres, Belgium

Hajimeko Takeda’s Notes by a Japanese Nurse Sent to France or Women Soldiers Dispatched to Europe: the Japanese Red Cross Relief Corps and the First World War
By Eiko Araki

‘Notes by a Japanese Nurse Sent to France’ written by Hajimeko Takeda was published serially in the local newspaper Fukuoka Nichinichi Shimbun, forerunner of the current Nishi Nippon Shimbun. It was half a year after the First World War had ended that Takeda contributed her memoirs as a nurse in a Paris hospital to the paper.

First, let me explain why and how she came to work as a nurse tending sick and wounded soldiers during the war in a foreign country far away from home. Japan’s involvement in the First World War is not very well known. When Japanese people talk about the ‘war’, it always refers to the Second World War. Even in Japan, the fact that the Japanese Red Cross Society (JRCS) had sent three detachments of a Relief Corps to Russia, France and England soon after the outbreak of the First World War is almost unknown. The foundation of the JRCS and its mission abroad brings to light a humanitarian aspect of imperial Japan, unfortunately ignored in the Second World War – an official denial triggered by the Senjinkun or the Japanese Military Code, issued in 1941, including the infamous rule ‘Never be taken alive. Never accept the humiliation of becoming a prisoner of war’. In 1854, after 200 years of maritime restricted trade, Japan was forced to open some ports and to end her isolationism. Twenty years later, during the civil war of Kagoshima also known as the Seinan War (1877), the JRCS was established under the name of ‘Hakuai-sha’. The staff of ‘Hakuai-sha’ helped rescuing both Imperial Army troops and insurgents, and thus observed neutrality, according to the spirit of the Red Cross. In 1898, when the Japanese Government became a signatory to the Geneva Convention, the organisation’s name was officially changed to ‘Nisseki’ or ‘the Japanese Red Cross Society’.

The JRCS provided relief in the 1894-95 Sino-Japanese War, in the 1900-01 Boxer Rebellion and in the 1904-05 Russo-Japanese War. On none of these three occasions were female nurses dispatched abroad. Women were only employed within the country in army and naval hospitals, and on hospital ships. Their work was successful, but the toll was great with the death of more than 40 nurses in 1904-05. The efficient medical services during the Russo-Japanese War greatly impressed many including Lieutenant-Colonel Sir W G Macpherson of the Royal Army Medical Corps, who admired the systematic relief work of the Japanese army, and the military-civilian cooperation during that war. His detailed reports to the War Office ultimately led to the establishment of Voluntary Aid Detachments or VADs in Britain in 1909. The VADs were modelled on the JRC nurses and were placed under the direction of the newly formed British Red Cross Society (founded in 1899). With a long Christian philanthropic tradition, Britain already had a number of charities who cared for the sick and wounded in wartime such as the Order of St John of Jerusalem or the National Society for Aid to the Sick and Wounded. The comparatively young British Red Cross Society (BRCS) had no intention to incorporate these existing organisations, but at least the VADs came under its authority.

By mobilising patriotism, discipline and subordination Japan strengthened its position in the world. The Russo-Japanese War was sometimes referred to as a humanitarian war on the part of Japan, as those wounded by Japanese bullets, which were smaller than Russian ones, quickly recovered, and the Japanese took great care of Russian prisoners of war. The Japanese humanitarian efforts were motivated by a wish to be recognised as a legitimate member of the powerful nations of the world.

Let me point out some distinguishing aspects of the JRCS or Nisseki, as it is now called popularly. Firstly, it was closely connected to both the government and the army and navy medical departments at its inception, which is extraordinary from a contemporary perspective, as Nisseki was a private charity organisation, independent from governmental authority. Secondly, it was under the auspices of the Imperial Family; the Emperor and Empress were both patrons and financial supporters, as they are now. The Empress Shoken Fund established 100 years ago still makes donations worldwide. Thirdly, it was highly centralised and bureaucratic: Nisseki set up local branches in every prefecture appointing governors as their heads with other civil servants following in a hierarchical order, and by doing so the number of Nisseki members increased all over Japan. Contrary to the initial assumption of the International Committee of the Red Cross that the Christian idea of benevolence was not congenial to Japan, Nisseki developed rapidly and soon became the envy of the world and the model to be looked at for guidance. Behind this expansion of Nisseki was the association of the seemingly contradictory ideas of patriotism and humanitarianism, which, they said, were deeply rooted in the Japanese spirit of chivalry or Bushido. The organised charity thus became more acceptable to the Japanese, and under military authority it mobilised non-combatants behind the war effort. Women were expected to play a part in ‘patriotism and comfort for the soldiers’ (Hokoku Jyuppei 報国恤兵) by nursing.

As for nursing, what was unique about Nisseki was that it centred on military nursing. In peacetime Nisseki gave strict training of three years to candidates at its own hospital in Tokyo and then the trained nurses were allowed to work in hospitals or private homes, and in time of contingencies they took care of the sick and wounded. After the Sino-Japanese War Nisseki hospitals were established in almost every prefecture to educate excellent nurses. (That is why there are many Nisseki hospitals in Japan.) It should be noted that the aim of Nisseki hospitals was the training of relief personnel for wartime rather than the treatment of civilian patients. Before this time nursing was given into the hands of old rough types of women without any knowledge of nursing. In Victorian Britain, nursing was an unskilled job and was done by the worst sort of women – dirty, sometimes drunken and glad to take bribes from patients. Mrs Gamp in Charles Dickens’ novel Martin Chuzzlewit is a typical example of such nurses. Older Japanese and Victorian British ethics did not allow a woman to nurse a man who was not her family member or relative. Owing to Florence Nightingale’s efforts nursing became a respectable job in the latter half of the 19th century. (The distorted image of Florence Nightingale as obedient and self-sacrificing was used as a model for a Japanese nurse.)

In Japan, the ‘Ladies Voluntary Nursing Association’ was started in 1887 by imperial princesses and aristocratic ladies, and it contributed to improving the image of nurses overall. The purpose of the association was to show ‘that nursing is no mean, mercenary profession, but … a very honourable one… in which a woman can aspire to be of direct service to the state in time of war’ (Ariga Nagao, The Red Cross Society of Japan: The Organisation and Activity in Time of Peace and War, 1904, quoted in Hutchinson, p 209).

When the First World War broke out, Japan took part with the Allies in accordance with the Anglo-Japanese Alliance formed in 1902. It soon captured the German concession of Tsingtao in China, and there Japanese nurses looked after the sick and wounded of both Japanese soldiers and German prisoners of war. (The prisoners were later brought back to Bando prisoner of war camp on Shikoku Island, Japan, and received humanitarian treatment, mixing with local residents and performing classical concerts. Some preferred to remain in Japan after the war.) This was the first time female nurses were sent abroad. The dispatch of Nisseki nurses was a result of their strenuous effort to provide medical services which they had displayed in past wars.

The society took the utmost consideration in selecting nurses: they were chosen at the headquarters and at each branch of the prefecture. Notwithstanding excellent nursing skills, they had to have a little knowledge of a foreign language, good health and a steadfast mind. Nisseki Toyota College of Nursing has extensive files from the First World War. In one of them the details of the nurses selected are kept: they were 20-40 years old, some had experiences of nursing in previous conflicts, some were decorated (after the Sino-Japanese War nurses began to be decorated for distinguished services by the Emperor), some were shizoku, descendants of samurai (at this time, shizoku became less powerful), some had special mentions of their looks – ‘good’ or ‘ordinary’. Summons to later military service written on a red postcard are also filed: Nisseki had a reserve system, and nurses had to keep themselves ready for service for 20 years (later shortened to 15 and 12) in time of contingencies, whatever their situation when summoned. During their term of reserve, they did not receive any fees, but they could easily find good jobs as they had received outstanding, expensive training at the society’s hospitals. It should be noted that all personnel employed by Nisseki worked on a non-voluntary basis unlike voluntary British or French Red Cross nurses. Relief workers had military ranks in wartime: doctors and superintendents were treated as officers, head nurses as non-commissioned officers and nurses as privates.

Below is a list of groups dispatched to the three allied countries (based on Toshihiko Kawai’s paper).

Russia (Petrograd)
1 chief nurse + 6 nurses (later 6 nurses added twice)
(+ 1 chief doctor + 2 doctors + 1 pharmacist + others)
December 1914 – April 1916 (16 months)
France (Paris)
2 chief nurses + 20 nurses
(+ 1 chief doctor + 2 doctors + 1 pharmacist + others)
February 1915 – July 1916 (18 months)

England (Netley)
2 chief nurses + 20 nurses
(+ 1 chief doctor +1 doctor + others)
January 1915 – December 1915 (11 months)

In Petrograd and Paris, they opened up their own Red Cross hospital, but in England they were allotted to several huts attached to the BRC Hospital in Netley, Southampton. A certain number of nurses were placed under Japanese doctors, the rest under British medical officers together with the British nurses. All three contingents were welcomed and treated as guests of the nation. The British contingent, on its way to Britain, calling at New York for a short time, was invited to dinner by the American Red Cross. They were greatly applauded as a model of the Red Cross Society in the world, referring to their strenuous work in Tsingtao and their humanitarian treatment of German prisoners of war. An American newspaper reported their arrival with a photo. Each dispatch was originally intended to serve for five months, but in Russia and France it was twice prolonged, and in Britain once. In spite of a language barrier their skill and attention were highly valued, as is shown by the prolongation of the term in every country. Olive Checkland, in Humanitarianism and the Emperor’s Japan, is rather sceptical about Japanese achievements, saying that ‘Were those Japanese units an embarrassment to the countries to which they were sent?’ or ‘Did the withdrawal of the JRC units – over two years before the end of the war – reflect the difficulties of the service?’ (p78). In spite of her sceptical opinion, it appears from reading the detailed history of Nisseki and other documentations from both home and abroad, their contributions were greatly appreciated. The main reason they had to withdraw before the end of the war was a financial one.

An interesting reference to Nisseki nurses in Netley is a memoir written by Morooka Sachimaro, a Japanese volunteer to the Canadian Expeditionary Force was. About 200 Japanese immigrants to Vancouver, who had been struggling for full citizen’s rights, eagerly volunteered to join the army and fought on the Western Front. About 50 Japanese were killed and the two names of the missing Japanese are inscribed on the Menin Gate along with the names of 55,000 other soldiers who died in Belgium and whose remains were never found. PHOTO Morooka was wounded after the battle of Vimy Ridge in Northern France and eventually sent to Netley. There he was surprised to hear British nurses speaking a little Japanese and found that Nisseki nurses had worked there some time ago.
The matron explained that those Japanese nurses were all very kind and conscientious and that many patients were attached to them as if they were their sisters. Morooka was a ‘blighty’ (wounded and not fit for fighting any more), so he went back to Japan via Canada and published, in 1934, On to the Arras Front, a memoir of his experience in the war, in Japanese. He wrote the book to record the chivalry of his comrades. In my research I have not come across any mention of this near encounter. However, this episode in the book testifies to how Japanese nurses were accepted and also how the world had become so small.

I‘ve been researching Japanese nurse memoirs for years and comparing them with the equivalent British and American ones. The First World War is sometimes called ‘a literary war’ because many educated young men volunteered to enter the British Army and wrote bitter war poems. Volunteer nurses, also well educated, wrote scathingly about their experiences. Some are comparable to modernist writings in their blunt, detached tone and fragmentary, collage-like style in depicting surreal hospital scenes and critical of the ‘war machine’. Up until now I could find only two articles written by two Nisseki nurses sent to France. One is Notes by a Japanese Nurse Sent to France written by Hajimeko Takeda, which is translated here. Another is by a chief nurse, Ume Yuasa, entitled Forty Years in White Uniform, an autobiography dictated by herself and written by the editor of a medical magazine at Nisseki Hospital in Houten or Mukden, (now called Shenyang) in Manchuria. It includes an episode on the dispatch to France.
Both referred to their motives in becoming a nurse. Takeda writes that she wanted to devote her life to humanitarian and charitable purposes in caring for the sick and the poor. Yuasa, devotional by nature, received baptism at the age of fifteen, and decided to remain single, devoting herself to God and the poor. She visited slums in Tokyo, as Victorian British ladies used to do. There she tried to care for the sick and gave her lunch box or what little money she had to old people. She was also impressed by the Nisseki nurses sympathetically taking care of the Chinese prisoners of war (with a pigtail), wounded in the Sino-Japanese War. These experiences motivated her to obtain qualifications as a relief nurse of the prestigious Nisseki. Takeda writes about how her family reacted when she was summoned to become a member of Nisseki Relief Corps.

She had already experienced relief work in the Russo-Japanese War. Her father said that this new mission would be a great honour not only for her but to the family for many generations to come. She felt honoured seeing the four ensigns of the Rising Sun, Tricolour and two Red Cross flags flying from the rooftop of the Nisseki Hospital near l’Arc de Triomphe. She, as well as Yuasa, was surprised to see many women from Paris society working at a pantry, comforting patients or washing their legs. The Japanese chief doctor, Shioda, an expert surgeon who was decorated by the French Government, had a different opinion about female volunteers who poked their noses into what they should not, and brought new women every day as if the hospital were a surrogate Paris society. Shioda’s story is told in the articles of Shimazaki Toson. He was a Japanese novelist living in France during the war, who sent reports to a newspaper in Japan. Takeda and Yuasa, on the other hand, greatly admired the philanthropic spirit of French Red Cross nurses working on a completely voluntary basis.

At first, the Nisseki hospital was unpopular because it was run by Japanese who did not know the French language and customs, but their devoted work and excellent skills soon changed this view: many French soldiers, especially seriously wounded ones, wanted to be admitted to the hospital. Takeda is reticent about their good reputation, but several of their heroic achievements are briefly recorded. For example, a corporal of the artillery shot deep in the chest at Verdun was kept alive as nurses continued pushing his heart for nine hours until his parents came to the hospital. He survived the operation, too. They were also reputed ‘dressers’ – the Italian Red Cross once inquired as to their skill in applying bandages. They also chided French soldiers who screamed with pain, telling them to behave like a man and a soldier. Comparing the wounds with those she saw in the Russo-Japanese War, she writes that she shuddered at the brutality of the wounds many times. Takeda also wrote, ‘As this hospital was only a two-hour drive from the battlefield, patients were brought in on stretchers. Nurses had to take off their bloodied clothes, wipe their bodies clean, and put Nisseki white kimonos on them’. It was the first time she ever took care of wounded brought in directly from the battlefront. Takeda also includes a terrifying experience of a German air raid in Paris in January 1915. Nurses were all prepared to die, some writing a farewell note, but they escaped a narrow death and were surprised to find the house next door completely destroyed.

These are just two examples of relief work experience given by the nurses themselves. Takeda’s notes provide vivid memories of her extraordinary experience. When I compare them with the writings of British and American nurses, Nisseki-trained nurses are more modest about their horrifying experiences. Vera Brittain and Enid Bagnold, both British VADs and novelists, wrote critically about hospitals and accused trained nurses of not being sympathetic enough to patients and of treating VADs as if they were inferiors. Bagnold, the more critical of the two about hospital staff, was dismissed after the publication of A Diary Without Dates (1917). Ellen la Motte, an American-trained nurse, is critical of the hospital, the army and the people on the home front. Her memoir The Backwash of War (1916) was immediately banned when America entered the war, as it would demoralise the troops. Another American woman, Mary Borden, a millionaire from Chicago, married to a Scottish clergyman living in Britain, volunteered for the French Red Cross soon after giving birth to her third daughter, though she had no experience of nursing. She proposed to General Joffre the setting up of a field hospital which she herself would fund. The general readily accepted. As the director of her own hospital, she employed la Motte. Borden was also downright critical about the war and exposed the miseries of wounded soldiers. They were all well-educated, intelligent and sensitive women in contact with intellectual circles. Japanese nurses, as exemplary women soldiers dispatched from the Empire, were obedient to their duties throughout. The reserve system imposed on them made it practically impossible to be married in spite of the encouragement from Nisseki that a woman’s place and womanly virtues are to be found at home. Nevertheless, they found satisfaction developing their own circles by being patriotic and being of service to the soldiers. European and American women were handed opportunities by the war, too, but the Japanese nurses, being a part of the Army and Empire, paradoxically gained more freedoms and played a part in the international world, a role which no Japanese women at that time could have dreamed of.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Poulton, In Transit

Lost Star

by Cody Poulton

The ridge up to Mt. Matchlee, overlooking Gold River, Vancouver Island (Photos by Cody Poulton)

In July my wife and I escaped Japan, its cursed Olympics, its damned pandemic, its incessant rains and constant heat, to spend a few refreshing weeks on the west coast of Canada. Even here, however, one can’t avoid extreme weather. It hasn’t rained in almost two months and the bone-dry conditions have led once again to another summer of forest fires. When the winds are off the ocean, the skies are clear, but when they turn, smoke from British Columbia’s interior turn the blue sky to grey or a menacing yellow when it’s bad.

Last week we made a road trip up-island. Living in Victoria on the southern tip of Vancouver Island—which is about the size of Taiwan though a good deal more sparcely populated—anywhere north is “up” for us. Our journey took us to Gold River, the island’s epicentre, a good five hour drive from Victoria. Gold River sits in the crotch of tall, snowy mountains, but it can be a furnace in the summer. During the recent “heat dome” that killed over five hundred people in this province, the temperature rose there to as high as forty-six Celcius. The day we drove up, however, we had our first rain in fifty days, intermittent squalls on the highway amid patches of sun.

The following day my cousin drove us in his 4X4 up a steep logging road pocked with washboard gutters to run off the winter rains, through clearcuts into the high country where we could see ranges of snow-capped peaks jutting out of the sweep of the long valleys of Strathcona Park. Mt. Matchlee, at 1,822 meters, was the closest; hiding behind it was the island’s highest mountain, the Golden Hinde, named after Sir Francis Drake’s ship, which sailed past the west coast of this island back in the 1500s, centuries before Cook stopped here. It was too stormy for Drake’s ship to make anchor, but the Nuu-chah-nulth paddled out in their canoes to meet them, hairy, smelly men. This coast is deeply serrated with long fjords and mostly accessible to this day only by sea. My cousin is an outdoorsman who had worked as park ranger in Alberta, Yukon, and the Northwest Territories, but even for him, traversing the interior of Vancouver Island or scaling its mountains is a tough proposition, bushwacking up to the tree line until one can find an escarpment to walk along. The higher peaks involve technical climbing; practically none of them are accessible on a day-hike. Even the natives of Vancouver Island hugged the coast, moving by water from their winter villages at the end of deep inlets down in summer to beaches on the open coast. Only a few trails crossed the island from east to west, and hardly anyone tarried in the interior, which was covered in dark rainforest and sustained little other life than the big cedars, hemlocks, and Douglas fir. Elk and deer, and their predators the cougar and wolf, kept to the high country. Flying over the island these days on my trips to Japan, however, I am continually shocked at how the terrain has been scalped by industrial logging. What forest remains is often second or even third growth, and very few plots of virgin rainforest remain. Environmentalists have waged pitched battles with loggers and the RCMP (the Mounties) to protect the last standing groves. A blockade is up to save one of them at Fairy Creek, near Port Renfrew.

On Upper Campbell Lake that night the sun set amid clouds and patches of clear sky, mountains like staggered shelves disappearing into a vanishing point at the end of this long, three-pronged body of water. The lake had been a deep valley of first-growth forest, but it was logged out after the Second World War and, in the 1950s, when Campbell River was dammed, it became a vast reservoir that merged with neighbouring Buttle Lake. Hemmed in by steep slopes, the lakes snake together for some forty kilometers through Strathcona Park. The dam provides all the electricity for northern Vancouver Island.

For all the talk of heat waves here, nights on the coast and in the mountains are cool, and we slept under down duvets. Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke and went out onto the porch for a look at the lake. The sky had cleared and the Milky Way poured overhead and emptied itself into the distant mountains. Stars flowed into snow, pooling into cold, blue patches on the peaks.

On this side of the Pacific I take some comfort that the sky I see, here in the northern hemisphere, is still the sky my family in Japan may see a few hours from now. That is, if they are fortunate enough to be clear of city lights. Usually one sees more atmosphere than real sky in Japan, but that is true most everywhere people live these days. I remember one time being astounded by the starry sky deep in the mountains of Wakayama Prefecture, of having a hallucination akin to that of Shimamura’s in Kawabata Yasunari’s Snow Country, of the Milky Way—or its chilly Asian name, the River of Heaven (ama no kawa)—entering inside me with a roar. Some summer nights when I was young out in the country in southern Ontario I could see the Northern Lights, a silent, shimmering, silver curtain. Far north it has colours and they say you can even hear it, but I never have. Far from the roar that Shimamura swallows, the starry night sky most of us are familiar with is silent, still. The stars are true; Drake sailed this far by them. However varied life on this planet is, we all gaze on the same sky. So thinking my thoughts slowed, became fixed like the stars.

It is August, time for the Perseid shower, and I didn’t have to wait long to see errant meteors streak across the sky, brief flares bent on their annihilation. Some masqueraded as stars, then suddenly moved like furtive chess pieces, rearranging the complex order of constellations. But stars are constant, that’s why the Greeks called planets “wanderers,” for which the inspired Meiji Japanese translation is 惑星 (wakusei): lost stars. It took Copernicus and Gallileo to teach the church that it was not heaven that moved around the earth, but the other way around. Our courses are erratic. Were I to stay up longer, I could trace the stars’ slow setting over the mountains as the Earth inclined toward the sun—already the Big Dipper lay low over the northern horizon. Are they so constant? To be sure, we know now that everything in the universe is rapidly running away from everything else, an echo of the Big Bang. We are all in transit.

Upper Campbell Lake, Strathcona Park, Vancouver Island

Writers in focus

David Joiner rewrite

David Joiner has been a supportive member of Writers in Kyoto since we began almost seven years ago. We have followed his career with interest, and were delighted when his second novel Kanazawa was accepted by Stone Bridge Press. He is now working on his third novel.

David writes as follows….

The last time I contributed to the WiK website, I shared the first chapter of a new novel I’d started writing – The Heron Catchers. Since then, I’ve nearly finished the novel but for a short, final revision to be completed later this summer.

The original first chapter that perhaps some of you read last year is no more (maybe I’ll use it for a future novel). I’ve deleted several characters and completely changed its setting. The major problem with the original was that it took place too far back in time for what followed, particularly regarding the protagonist’s development after his wife ran off. The new chapter now takes place nine months after she left, greatly simplifying issues of backstory.

Before I realized that was necessary, however, I tried to fix things by overwriting, coming up with filler chapters to cover the time gap mentioned above. It took me several months to realize I needed to scrap most of the novel’s beginning and start instead from a later point. The novel is now 75,000 words. But I’ve easily written twice that much. I’m probably lucky to have thrown away so little at this point.

In any case, following is the new opening to The Heron Catchers, the second in what I hope will be a series of novels set in Ishikawa Prefecture. As I write this, I’m coming down from the high of finishing research for the next novel I want to write. Maybe tomorrow I’ll begin outlining it…

*********************

Chapter 1

Sedge stumbled up Mayumizaka Slope into Kenrokuen, Kanazawa’s famous landscape garden, yawning loudly enough to hasten the full blossoming of its cherry trees. For the last two weeks, since permanently closing the ceramics shop that he and his wife Nozomi had run for six years, he had started each day increasingly late, sometimes even past lunchtime. He was grateful for a reason to wake up early today, though it had been a trial to get here.

Taking his ticket and a map from the entrance booth worker, he was keen to walk off more of his anxiety. In fifteen minutes he would meet the wife of the man Nozomi had run away with.

The woman’s name was Mariko. She’d asked him to meet her on the west side of Kasumigaike Pond, with a view toward Mt. Utatsu. She had included directions on where to sit and described what she would be wearing. Sedge’s brother-in-law, Takahashi, at whose ryokan Mariko worked in Yamanaka Onsen, had forwarded him her email.

Sedge hadn’t expected her invitation. After all, nine months had passed since their spouses had disappeared. But he had welcomed her suggestion that they “compare notes” about what had happened and try to help each other through this difficult time. He hadn’t bothered himself with her situation – had hardly even considered it – but it made sense that she’d be struggling, too. He wasn’t hopeful that talking to her would change anything, however.

The tourist crowds were small that morning, and the mild, late-March weather was perfect for strolling. He hadn’t visited Kenrokuen since last May when he and Nozomi came to see the garden’s famous irises. Afterward they had wandered to Kanazawa Castle Park to birdwatch, which was a tradition they’d started after moving to Kanazawa.

He stood on a short wooden bridge admiring a newly blossoming cherry tree, and pines here and there recently shod of their winter yukitsuri ropes, when a snapping of branches made him spin around. To his astonishment, a wild boar burst from a bush, colliding with a heron upstream and sending a cloud of feathers into the air.

Unaffected by the collision, the boar charged into an open space before rushing toward the opposite end of the garden. The tourists there swept themselves into a tight, terrified circle and watched the animal dash past them. After several attempts, it clambered over a low wall.

Sedge edged toward the heron. It lay sprawled in the shallow water, long and grayish-white. The current swept into it, billowing its plumage, and where the stream soaked its body it appeared half-melted. Before he reached it, it stood unsteadily and shook itself dry.

He noted the gray body and wings; the black nuchal markings; the dark crests on either side of its crown, like long painted eyebrows; and the drooping black topknot – an Asian gray heron.

One wing hung awkwardly against its body, no doubt broken. When the boar had knocked it over, the heron was fishing in the tree-shaded stream.

Someone tugged his arm. A woman in perhaps her early thirties appeared beside him, removing her jacket and gesturing for him to do the same.

“You want my jacket?” he said.

Her eyes widened at his Japanese. He repeated himself more forcefully, earnest in wanting to know what she meant.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to wrap the heron with my jacket. It will only hurt itself more if it tries to fly.”

“What about mine?”

“That’s to drape over its head. If it can’t see, it won’t be as frightened.”

Although he worried this would delay his meeting, he removed his jacket and handed it to her. Behind them, a crowd of people had gathered.

“Surely the gardeners will come soon with a net,” he said, not keen on endangering either one of them.

“A net might make things worse, especially if the heron stabs at them with its beak. Trust me, please. I’ve done this before.”

Hurrying forward with her, he said, “When and where have you caught herons?”

“I grew up around them and I’ve had to do this after finding them injured. I just never dreamt I’d have to do it here. You’ll need to be careful. A heron’s beak is like a weapon. And because it’s injured and probably scared, it may lash out.”

They reached the stream at the same time a middle-aged man from the crowd crouched before the heron to videotape it with his phone. He was much closer to it than Sedge would have been.

The woman told Sedge where to place himself and what to do. She barked at the man with the cell phone to back away.

The heron had been squawking since it regained its footing, and it now shook its long beak at them and released what could only be described as a warning cry.

The woman moved toward the bird confidently, shielding herself from it with her and Sedge’s jackets pinched together. She jumped behind it before it could turn completely to face her. One of the jackets fell to the ground as she draped the other over the bird’s head. She had covered its eyes, but its beak peeked out.

“I need the other jacket,” she yelled at Sedge.

He ran over to hand it to her.

“You do it.” She looked down at the bird as it squirmed beneath her hands. “Wrap it around its body. Gently so as not to aggravate its broken wing, but firmly enough to immobilize it.”

Sedge kneeled beside her and wrapped the second jacket around the bird, encircling its thin body. Beneath the light pressure he applied, the heron resisted more than he expected. Its strength surprised him, and he lost his balance. The jacket he’d wrapped around it fell to the ground again, and the bird took advantage of its freedom to raise its one good wing and try to escape.

The man with them continued to videotape, and he came closer again only for the heron, which somehow sensed his presence, to stab at him with its beak. The bird aimed well, striking his thigh. Its beak ripped the man’s trousers, and from a gash in his flesh blood oozed out. He fell to the ground and, crying out in pain, rolled to where the heron couldn’t strike him a second time.

Sedge managed to wrap the jacket around the heron again. And though it thrashed beneath his arms, it soon stopped struggling.

“Now what?” he said.

The woman looked unsure of herself. “We wait for someone from the garden to take over.”

Sedge turned to look for the injured man. He had hobbled toward the watching crowd, which was now collectively trying to help him.

Two groundskeepers finally approached them, while two others set up a barrier around the bird with ropes and metal poles. Because the heron had stopped resisting, it was a simple task to transfer it to these men.

“Thank you for what you did,” one of the groundskeepers said. “We’re sorry to have put you to the trouble. Are either of you hurt?”

The woman assured him that they were fine. The groundskeeper apologized once more, this time about the boar, which he said had made its way into the garden several times in the last few months, though always after hours. This was the first time it had been in the garden when it was open to tourists.

He walked away, coming back a moment later holding the jackets they’d used on the heron. He asked the woman for her name and phone number, saying that the garden might need to contact her later about what had happened. When she said her name was Mariko, Sedge laughed to himself.

She was not the type of woman who would normally attract his attention. But with the time he had to observe her now – the over-large eyes and slightly aquiline nose, the dimples that emerged in her cheeks when she spoke, and the messy bob that swept her forehead – her attractiveness, once he noticed it, stayed with him.

A moment later the groundskeeper turned his attention to Sedge.

Sedge glanced at Mariko to see if she recognized him, but she was staring at the heron, not paying attention to their conversation.

He gave his name and phone number. The groundskeeper led him and Mariko past the barrier they had erected.

Rather than move off, Mariko continued to look toward the bird.

“Aren’t we supposed to be meeting each other by the pond?” Sedge said.

Finally looking at him, she laughed and said, “I thought it might be you when I first heard your Japanese. What a way to meet.”

They walked toward a refreshment stand. He ordered coffees and brought them to a bench under a cherry tree, whose pink blossoms were on the verge of escaping from their buds. In front of them, the pond’s black surface rippled where a family of spotbill ducks swam by.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her coffee closer. She glanced at her watch and said, “We have a lot to talk about, but I’m afraid I don’t have much time left. That heron ate into our meeting quite a bit.”

“Do you have to get back to the ryokan already?”

She shook her head. “I have to prepare for an exhibition.”

“You’re an artist, too?”

“No. It’s my husband’s exhibition.”

“Will he be there?” Sedge said, confused.

“Only his work will be. It will make things easier on me in the long run if I represent him.”

“But he left you. Why are you still helping him?”

Her smile tightened. “His son and I could use the money. But this will be the last time.”

“Is he not required to support you?”

She laughed with the same tight smile. “We haven’t divorced.”

Sedge didn’t know why this surprised him. He and Nozomi hadn’t yet, either. A divorce was still too much to deal with. Once she disappeared, nobody she knew had been able to communicate with her. If she had left Japan and couldn’t be reached, he was unsure if the Japanese courts could legally issue a divorce. Similarly, he felt paralyzed about the money she had taken, leaving him with much less than he’d need to hire a lawyer.

“Why didn’t you want to meet like this at the ryokan?” he said. “I’ll be moving there in another week.”

She looked away for a moment, then turned back to him. “I didn’t know how awkward this would be, and I didn’t want either of us to have to endure that at the ryokan, where my colleagues often gossip and Takahashi and Yuki could interfere. Also, my preparation for the exhibition was a perfect excuse to meet you here.”

He appreciated her considerateness. It was unlikely that Nozomi would have given their circumstances so much thought.

“The exhibition’s over there,” she said. She pointed back toward Mayumizaka Gate, where Sedge had seen posters for an exhibition of kutaniyaki, local porcelain ware that he and Nozomi had sold in their shop. It was known for its colorful overglazes and named for the village where it had originated over 360 years ago. One of the garden’s teahouses, Shigure-tei, was holding the exhibition. “It doesn’t start until tomorrow. But the exhibiting artists are arranging their work today and have to sit in a meeting together.”

“What did you want us to talk about today?”

She looked toward the lake. “There’s no rule about what we discuss. I much prefer to know who you are than talk about our spouses’ infidelities.”

Sedge doubted that they could discuss what they’d come here for in only half an hour. Before he could suggest meeting again when she had more time, she went on.

“But I hate thinking that what they did – their selfishness – continues to drag us in their wake. I’m even worse off than I was when they ran away together.” She turned to him again. “Did it shock you when she left?”

“Of course. I had no idea they’d been having an affair. Maybe I was too wrapped up in work to notice anything but that she’d grown distant.”

“Yuki confided in me about the money she took. That must have been a shock, too.”

Sedge nodded, mildly surprised that Yuki had shared this. “She arranged for me to leave town on business, then withdrew most of what we had. She took everything from my personal account but left a bit in the one for our shop. I guess she thought she was being kind.” He tried to laugh.

“You could get the police involved, you know. Maybe that would help you find her. And my husband.”

“Takahashi made me promise not to involve the police. Anyway, I don’t care that much about the money. I would have given it to her if she’d asked.”

Mariko turned thoughtful for a moment. “How did your divorce lawyers deal with her if no one knew where she was?”

“We’re not divorced, either.”

“I see.” Mariko leaned back, her arms locked straight behind her, and stared into the crisscrossing branches overhead. “We’ve met before, you know. You look different now, though. Your hair, maybe, or it could be that you’re not wearing your work clothes.”

“Did we? I’m afraid I don’t remember.” It was true that his hair had been longer then, and he’d recently shaved off a beard.

“My husband and I came to your shop once. Looking back, I’m sure his interest had little to do with your business.”

On her phone, she showed him her husband’s photo. The face he hadn’t wanted to see stared up at him. It was a handsome face, if somewhat blocky like a boxer’s, and a bit aged and worn. He must have been nearly Nozomi’s age, since they’d been in high school at the same time – that much Sedge knew about him. But it was the very opposite sort of face he would have expected her to fall for. Her husband’s name, he remembered, was Kōichi.

“In his public photos,” she said, “he looks younger. Most people don’t recognize him in person. He preferred it that way. Do you remember him?”

Takahashi had apologized once for his role in Nozomi’s affair. He had introduced her to Kōichi. Because Kōichi was a well-known ceramicist, and the husband of one of his workers, Takahashi thought Nozomi and Sedge might sell his work at their shop. They had agreed to, but Kōichi never followed through with the arrangement.

“Yes, I remember.” He had entered their shop two-and-a-half years ago; that was the first time Sedge met him. He was highly esteemed by Kutani-ware artists and dealers. Though neither loud nor brash, he acted remarkably confident, and Sedge had failed in his attempts to engage him. He tried to recall Kōichi’s interaction that day with Nozomi, but nothing came to mind. Only that Kōichi had gravitated to her, talking to her for longer than their customers ever did. Because he was an artist, this wasn’t strange. “I don’t recall you coming in with him.”

“His presence overshadowed mine. For someone as successful as he was, maybe that was natural.”

Wanting to know who she was and hoping she might shine a light on why Nozomi was gone – and what he might yet do about it – he let her continue.

“He left me with his son, you know. His real mother doesn’t want him, and he doesn’t want to go back to her anyway. She lives in Osaka with another man. Her son’s no longer welcome in their flat or in the ramen shop they run. After his father left us, I sent him to Fukui to live with his grandparents. I just couldn’t deal with what had happened and with him, too. But now he’s back with me.”

“You mean you’ve recovered enough by now?”

She smiled to herself. “I don’t know about that. But it’s not the first time this has happened. I’ve built up a sort of endurance for it, I suppose.”

Takahashi had told Sedge about these previous times. “It must be traumatic for your stepson.”

“I’m sure it is. Like I said, it’s not the first time his father has run off. But this time it’s different. This time we know he doesn’t mean to come back.”

Sedge couldn’t tell who she blamed for the affair. Perhaps intentionally, she hadn’t said anything about Nozomi. He couldn’t avoid the idea that she wouldn’t come back, either, and Mariko’s words depressed him.

“Have you had any news about your husband?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t expecting to. Have you heard anything about your wife?”

“Nothing. I thought one of us would have by now.” He set his coffee down on the bench between them. “Why did you want to meet me?”

“How can I say this politely?”

Sedge attempted a smile. “You can be impolite with me.”

“I wanted to see if there was something wrong with you. Something that explained why your wife left you for a man like my husband. But all of it makes even less sense now. Why would she throw away a man like you?”

He could have told her about the arguments he and Nozomi had, the distance between them over their last few months together, and the financial problems they faced with their shop, but he didn’t see how it would help. He had a feeling Mariko wanted to know about the intimacies they shared, that she guessed this had been the driving force behind Nozomi leaving, but he wouldn’t volunteer it. His answer would have disappointed her, anyway.

“Maybe she left because there’s nothing wrong with you. There was so much wrong with my husband that she must have found that quality more attractive.” She looked at Sedge questioningly. “Maybe she had a lot wrong with her, too.”

“Sometimes I thought so. She became despondent about things in the end.”

“Despondent how?”

“I’m not sure how to explain. I think she was suffering from a kind of depression. But she also didn’t want to get better and seemed more satisfied being that way. I never understood it.” That he could state this so plainly surprised him.

“And that’s how it was in the end? With your wife, I mean.”

“It was like it always was between us, I suppose. Maybe a little strained at times, but isn’t that normal? I never guessed she had a lover. I have trouble explaining it even to myself.”

Mariko looked down as if contemplating her coffee, which, like Sedge, she hadn’t touched. “What would you do if she came back to you? Would you give her another chance?”

Sedge shook his head.

“I don’t feel sorry for her.” When he didn’t reply Mariko smiled half-apologetically. She looked at her watch and slowly stood up, giving him the impression that she didn’t want to leave. “What will you do with your shop?”

Sedge stood, too, and shrugged. “It’s closed now. I couldn’t keep it going.”

“You don’t make ceramics yourself?”

“No. I’m not an artist, either.”

She nodded a long time, a far-off look on her face. “I have to go. I’m sorry our meeting got off to such an inauspicious start.”

They bowed to each other.

“I’ll be moving to the ryokan soon,” Sedge reminded her.

“Then I suppose we’ll see each other there sometimes. By the way, what will you do in Yamanaka Onsen? Can’t you find work here in the city?”

“I can’t afford to stay.” To cover up his embarrassment he added quickly, “Takahashi promised to introduce me to some ceramics shops near the ryokan. Hopefully one or two will take me on.”

“You’ll hardly earn anything, you realize.”

“I can only worry about so much at one time.” Not wanting to make her late for the exhibition meeting he said, “Maybe we can talk again soon. I’m sure one of us will hear something.”

“Please let me know if you do.” She bowed again and walked away.

A moment later he called out to her. “You said you’d captured herons before.”

She turned around. “Every few years I find myself in a position to. Usually a car has hit them and I have to bring them to a rehabilitation center. This is the first one I’ve helped that was assaulted by a boar. I wish they were more grateful. You should see my scars.”

When Sedge glanced at her arms she laughed. “I keep them well hidden. They aren’t particularly disfiguring, but I’d rather not suffer those injuries again.”

After she left, a breeze lifted through the trees and cherry blossoms fell on the bench where she had sat. Aside from helping her catch the heron, he imagined he’d left a poor impression on her.

In another week the cherries would reach full bloom. He wanted to see them here before moving to Yamanaka Onsen, but he knew this was unlikely. As he stood to walk home, he felt that summer had eclipsed spring, that the seasons had advanced by some unnatural calamity. And that he was woefully unprepared for the days ahead.

****************

For the first chapter of David’s novel, Kanazawa, see here. For David’s article on the Kanazawa author, Izumi Kyoka, see here. For David’s literary homepage, see here.

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