Director, Stanford Japan Center
One of the most vivid and fond memories is of a walk through the woods in the Shugakuin foothills of Mt. Hiei. In those days, as today, I was drawn to the beauty of the mountains of eastern Kyoto-the gentle contours of the Higashiyama range and the majesty of Mt. Hiei rising slowly to its commanding height in the northeast. Working at the Stanford Japan Center in the Okazaki district, I bicycle eastward on Nijo-dori to the Center almost everyday with visions of the temples and shrines, especially those stretching along the Philosopher's Path between Nanzenji and Ginkaku, hanging like fine art against the backdrop of Higashiyama. Even after a rain when the clouds begin to lift, some linger in the valleys among the thirty-six mountains that form the Higashiyama range-as they did, of course, forty years and many more ago.
Mt. Hiei, just a few kilometers to the north of the Stanford Center and Higashiyama, was even more an everyday presence for me forty years ago. Living and working in Iwakura, then more a farming community than the up-scale suburban settlement it has become, the daily and seasonal changes of the mountain were etched sharply in my mind--perhaps none more so than the pink and white puffs of clouds around the northern mountains and Mt. Hiei, reflecting the setting sun and, perchance, yielding up one end of the arch of a huge rainbow in the clearing sky. Hiking the mountain trails with students and friends provided different but no less memorable experiences.
Hence, shortly, before I was scheduled to leave Japan for graduate school in the States, I decided to take a last, solo stroll through the woods, beginning in the Shugakuin district. Not long into the walk yet what seemed to be deep into the woods, I happened upon a small Shinto shrine amidst tall cedars. In the opening was a stage (butai) where the priest was instructing a number of young people in richly clad traditional costumes in a highly stylized dance while a couple others were performing on instruments that pierced the air and drew me ever closer. Catching sight of this young wanderer, the priest paused then interrupted his instruction. With a sign to me to approach the stage, in the most kindly of manners he explained that the shrine was one of the few still preserving and teaching the ancient court dance of gagaku. I was fascinated particularly by one of the instruments most, a kind of mouth organ known as the sho. The priest explained its origin and other linkages between the performance I had viewed and Japan's broader Asian heritage. Soon thereafter I returned to the States and graduate studies, carrying this fond memory in the recesses of my mind.
Twenty-six years later, after a couple decade of university teaching in the States, I returned to Kyoto to head the educational programs at the Stanford Japan Center. My wife and I settled initially in a pleasant suburban area of Shugaku, still close enough to the mountains and some paddy fields to retain a rural feel. Each day while walking to the bus or train station, we would pass by an attractive local shrine, Saginomori Jinja. With its long Japanese maple-lined pathway from torii to shrine, it was a favorite of young neighborhood families and, in the fall, of tourists with sophisticated cameras in hand. In addition to the main shrine, Saginomori Jinja features a small stage and also a series of mini-shrines. One day, on closer inspection, my wife and I noticed that each mini-shrine was named after a well known shrine elsewhere in Japan. Catching sight of the resident priest, we asked about this and heard the most fitting of explanations: Japanese, he said, are very busy people and cannot often visit the famous shrines. Fortunately, gods in Japan are very accommodating; hence, mini-shrines are kept to house them when they are called on-assignment away from their home-base.
By this time, my curiosity had been aroused further, since the surroundings seemed somehow very familiar and comforting. When I inquired about the stage, the priest invited us into his residence for tea. There, just inside the entrance way, I spotted a folding screen (byobu) on which was painted a scene from a gagaku play. While we sat down for tea, the priest explained that he had grown up performing gagaku and now instructed others. There seemed to be more interest in this ancient art now than during his youth and a number of other shrines were also active. The folding screen had been painted by his father, who had also been his instructor.
Like twenty-six years earlier, I once again felt the commitment and kindness of a local priest. Moreover, he was surely the son of the person I had met in this very same spot long before. Life holds many surprises; and sometimes the continuities are more surprising than the changes.
