Staying with monks in Japan

The instructions were clear. You bow in front of the temple, you close your eyes, you pull on a long string of giant wooden beads, three times, and open your eyes to see which bead you are now holding in your palm. Its symbol will determine your fortune today. Mine was translated to Little Blessings.

I landed in Osaka the night before, staying at a hotel offering meditation services - on zoom, the heritage of the pandemic - and a book on Buddha's teachings in every room. In the morning, even my breakfast had clear instructions on how it should be consumed. With gratefulness, with the right words to be said before and after the meal (Itadakimasu! Go-Chiso-Sama!), making little noise when eating, using bowls and chopsticks gently, chewing well, finishing each dish to avoid leftovers. I was at a presence of a Shojin-Ryori meal, a vegetarian dish traditionally prepared by buddhist monks. Both preparing this meal and eating it is considered to be a part of training, following a strict etiquette - another set of rules. Each dish in the meal is cooked while balancing 5 colours of ingredients (green, yellow, red, white, black), 5 methods of cooking (raw, simmer, roast, deep-fry, steam) and 5 tastes of the dish (spicy, sweet, bitter, salty, light). I was in awe of tiny colourful plates on my tray and tried to honour the preparation effort by being as mindful of each mouthful as possible.

After breakfast, I ventured into the city, visiting the shrines in the neighbourhood. I used to associate Japan with buddhist temples only, not being aware of shinto shrines, deserving just as much attention, if not more - when speaking to local people, their beliefs often represent shintoism way more than buddhism, some would call it superstitions, but it can also be seen as deeply-engrained ancient wisdom, this magic, if you may, that the Japanese have not quite yet forgotten. The shrine around the corner has a plastic box full of white cat figurines, with a fortune reading wrapped around it, you can leave 500 yen right next to it and know your fortune of the day. And so I left a pile of coins on a wooden table, unwrapping the plastic packaging of my cat, and then unwrapping my fortune paper, tightly packed with characters. It reminds me a bit of Western horoscopes, with a bit more warnings. Yet another set of instructions. This time, on how to not get robbed.

My morning adventure leads me to the train station, as neither the intricate breakfast nor the shinto prophecy was my goal of the day, my goal is Koyasan, a complex of temples on Mount Kōya in Wakayama. My train passes green mountains as we speed South, away from Osaka. The carriage is full of advertisements for autumn colours celebrations. We pass many persimmon trees, the season of which seems to correspond with the reddening of maple leaves. I change to another train, then to a cable car, then to a bus, and before I know it I'm standing in front of the Jofuku-in temple, where I'll be staying for a few days with the local Japanese monks. That's when I notice the bead pulling instructions. That's when I find out that today is marked with Little Blessings.

I say Konnichiwa to a monk at the entrance, who gestures at a shoe rack outside. I take off my shoes, something that becomes second nature when staying in Japan, and step into the temple's lodging. There are more monks inside. And people visiting. We bow to each other, without discriminating monks and civilians, all deserving the same amount of momentary acknowledgement (I could write a whole separate piece on bowing in Japan and how it delighted me, and maybe I will, it's a game worth playing.) I sign some forms, confirming that I accept the fact that the monks don't quite speak English, and I do, smiling and nodding, the universal language. I'm told that every morning just after 6am there is a morning prayer ceremony, that I can observe, and it becomes my greatest source of excitement and anticipation. I'm given leather slippers to wear in the temple spaces, which keep threatening to slip away with every step, so I walk with my feet tense and stretched, desperate to keep them on. I'm sure there's a metaphor in it somewhere. Then I'm taken to my room, at the threshold of which I have to take off my leather slippers, as required when stepping on tatami mats, lining the floors of the space. Warm autumn afternoon light is flooding the room, filtered through green cedars and red maples, as the monk shows me how to use the heater - without which I can see my breath floating mid-air - powered by gas and an actual fire I can see blazing inside it, which feels like a bit of a risk in a wooden temple lined by bamboo mats, I got no choice but to trust the monks though - or freeze - and of course trust feels like the better call. The room also has a wide low table, a few flat pillows for sitting on the ground, a water thermos and some tea, and even a small TV in the corner. I turn the TV on and it shows news reporting on a sumo wrestling match. This whole episode feels like a parody of itself, a Japanese stereotype, that I indulge in with joy. A little balcony leads to a small bathroom with a traditional Japanese toilet, complete with a heated seat, water spraying from every direction, and some background noise you can use if you're feeling shy. There is no bath though. The baths are accessible only in the evening, and they are shared, onsen style. Which, of course, has its own set of rules.

As I go down the stairs to take a bath hours later, my clothes and the complimentary yukata clutched to my chest, toes curled up to avoid loosing my slippers, I pause at the bath entrance to look through some informational images. You are not supposed to put any soap in the bath, you're supposed to shower before entering the bath, you should not wear any clothes in the bath, your hair shouldn't touch the bath water. I go through the door, in a room lined with baskets and sinks, I grab a basket and undress, leaving my clothes in it, and enter the bath room. I can barely see anything at the first glance, a moment later I realise the room is empty, filled solely by steam and the sound of running water. The water in these Japanese baths is never static, always running in and out, constantly refreshing itself. There's a metaphor in here somewhere as well. After a quick shower I step into a hot bath, reminding me of a massive rectangular jacuzzi, and I finally start to warm up after the day spent in temperatures flirting with freezing. Once I'm warm enough I wrap myself in a yukata and go back up the stairs.

The evening highlight is the dinner, brought in by the monks, assembled from four trays, the meal following the same rules outlined by my breakfast instructions this morning. It has a pot of green tea and an open-flame soy milk stew, a pot of steamed rice and a bowl of pickled peanuts, a plate of steamed mushrooms and bowl of sesame tofu, a local delicacy. After a meal, I call a phone number indicated on the dinner tray, monks come up to pick up the dishes, and a moment later they come to unfold a mattress completed with sheets and pillows, my bed for the stay. This whole collection-unfolding process is completed in less than 30 seconds, including, of course, a number of bows as we say our thankyous and goodnights. Before falling asleep, I read Buddha's teachings, the very same book that I found the day before at the hotel. Here, it's laying at the table, appearing to be placed there just for me so I can continue my reading of Siddhartha Gautama's adventures. Siddhartha means “every wish fulfilled”, did you know that? He left the palace at 29 years old, and that fact hits me, as a 29 year old having left a secure job to pursue something way more meaningful. If he stayed, he was said to lead them all, if he left, he was said to save them all. My appetite for metaphors keeps growing as I constrain my wish to compare myself to troubled Siddhartha Gautama, falling asleep before my ego attempts to expand even further.

As I'm falling asleep, I am swimming in the delight of little blessings provided by today.

I get up in the darkness, searching for my clothes with numb chilly hands, soothed by the heated toilet seat and the prospect of participation in a buddhist prayer ceremony this morning. I walk in dark cold corridors (damn those leather slippers!), and I reach a door as I hear a bell ringing. I enter this dark space, floors covered in a red carpet, a gorgeous altar being uncovered in front of me as I keep moving into the room. Golden sculptures and incense, flowers and candles. A dizzying atmosphere, secrets hiding in the shadows. A monk in front me bows. I bow, and sit down. The monk who greeted me sits on the right of the altar, another monk walks in and sits on the left. And so it begins.

Things are often more than a sum of their parts, and as I’m writing this, I feel uneasy about the risk I’m taking, the risk to reduce all these beautiful happenings just to their appearances, tightly cut facts, emerging from an objective look. So when I’ll say that the following was a magical experience, you’ll have to trust me, even if you don’t see it in the details outlined. We can sign a contract of sorts. I know, yet another set of rules. But I promise, you can trust me. Deal?

The morning ceremony draws me in. There is chanting, ongoing chanting, that captures my mind and settles me gently into a meditative state. I notice my thoughts slipping away. Thinking thinking thinking. Worrying. Attachments. Thoughts feel important when you're about to let them go, I kept thinking. It feels like a breakthrough. During the ceremony I wonder if monks are able to feel my energy. My running thoughts, my emotions, my stillness. The more time passes, the more it seems to me that people sense more than they realise. So good thoughts will indeed shine like beams, and, indeed, you will aways look lovely. God bless you Mr Dahl.

The whole thing feels like one of the most unique experiences I’ve ever had. Alone in this dark room, this womb of sorts, being in presence of something truly sacred. The leading monk puts ashes on the incense. And gestures for me to do the same. And I do. As the ceremony ends, he takes out a piece of paper from the pocket of his robes, reading in English, apologising for not speaking English well, telling the story of the temple, and sharing some teachings towards the end. Accept and don't judge your wishes, the monk says. And at that moment I’m sure they’re able to feel everything.

Later that morning I’m at the entrance of the main temple again, I’m pulling on the string of the wooden beads again, ready to face my prophecy of the day. Out of all the available options, high highs and low lows (and neutral neutrals), it comes back to me with the now-familiar answer. Little Blessings.

During the day I visit other temples and shrines, full of colours and stories and offerings. There, you can buy charms for every goal in life, charms for fertility and successful exams, good health and good driving. I walk to the edge of the town, there’s a temple dedicated to women there, as years ago women would not be allowed to enter this sacred place, having to end their pilgrimage at this temple. Koyasan is on the pilgrimage route. It’s called Kumano Kodo, and is one of the two pilgrimage routes registered by UNESCO - the other one being Camino de Santiago (you can read about my experience of walking hundreds of kilometres of Camino here). As I see the Kumano Kodo path in front of me, leaving just from the women’s temple, I feel a stab of regret for not choosing to walk it, and not ending up having walked all of the UNESCO-certified pilgrimages of the world. But I reign my ego in again, and decide to go for a taster session, walking up the mountain, through a forest, the roots of trees lined with little charms and figurines, arriving at a tiny mountain shrine, passing a couple of pilgrims on my way, being glad to have touched Kumano Kodo just a little.

As I’m heading back to the civilisation, I pass a small lunch spot, a woman taking care of five tables. I order yakisoba and a ceremonial matcha, scribbling some notes in my notebook. When four of the tables get filled up, she changes the sign on the door from “Open”, to “Close”, and as a new customer walks in and tries to sit at a free table, she explains she can’t serve them any time soon, and sends them away. I saw it for a number of times in Japan, and I admire it deeply, knowing your limits and knowing when you deliver your best work, so you don’t get overwhelmed, so you can prepare the food well and on time. Knowing that you can manage the intensity, and how to do it.

It feels like a valuable discovery as my thoughts keep running, regardless of the fact that I’m travelling Japan with seemingly no other tasks or responsibilities at hand, my mind comes up with things to worry about. I rush without need. I come up with a list of gifts I should get to my family and friends, which suddenly becomes a source of yet another flavour of anxiety, finding everything, finding it all on time. When there is nothing to worry about, you create things. And then blame the culture of rushing. So much judging. Accept and don’t judge your wishes, the monk says. As crazy as it sounds, sometimes it seems that our wish is to rush and worry, just because it’s so familiar, that it becomes comfortable and soothing. Ah, anxiety, old friend.

I go through another cycle of temple walks and luxurious dinners, shared baths and chilly sleeping, morning prayers and communal breakfast. As I check out and put my shoes on, rejoicing in finally leaving my slippery slippers, we have a small talk with the monks, about the weather, about how busy it gets in summer. We bow goodbye. We wave goodbye. I leave. Ten steps in, as I look back, they are still waving. I wave back, chuckling and smiling, keeping that smile on for the rest of the day.

On my last morning, I stand in front of the temple, at the fortune-telling beads, and I decide to forego this ceremony today. My little blessings have been massive, little big blessings, and I’m a clever human, I can sense the pattern. I’ll just assume that I am blessed with little blessings every day. Assuming so will be my instruction.

The temple keeps shining in the sun. I keep walking.