Returning to Japan
by Dale Neibaur
June 2001
I've had an extraordinary experience the last 10 days.
Returning to Japan
was a real mind game. I came to realize how profoundly the experiences of
my mission shaped my subsequent preferences and interests, and also how
inadequate my 19-year-old frame of reference was for evaluating and
understanding that culture. We revisited 3 of the 4 areas where I
proselyted, and it only took 5 minutes on the streets of Tokyo for me to
remember vividly why I was so grateful when I was transferred out of that
city. I just don't like crowds! But I did have some wonderful moments
wandering quiet byways at dusk and dawn, and twice I found myself alone in
formal Japanese gardens for a few minutes of meditation. The boys quickly
grew tired of viewing Buddhist shrines and old buildings, and though they
were good sports and good travelers they weren't really enjoying or
appreciating the cultural aspects of the trip. So I'd let the others rest
in the hotels at evening or morning, and ramble alone.
There were many moments that would be worth sharing, but I'll limit myself
to two. The first was in a Zen garden just minutes before its closing. I'd
walked alone for about an hour to arrive there, and when I paid my entrance
fee most other guests had already left. The smiling gardener/monk said he
could give me 20 minutes, and thanking him I passed through the gates and
into the garden.
The books and photos don't make it clear, but the sand and rock Zen gardens
are invariably embedded in a larger traditional tea garden with its
reflecting lily pond, symbolic lake, and miniature streams and bonsai
forests. As I sat looking at the shifting shadows of a rock against the
sculpted waves of white sand, it occurred to me that the Zen gardens were
designed to be visual white noise: just enough to stimulate the visual
cortex without overloading it. Not enough to focus and entrap the
attention, but not so little that the mind would paint over its own busy
images. This seemed a new thought to me; I've never heard Zen gardens
described as the visual equivalent of white noise. But it seemed to fit.
The rest -- the appreciation of subtlety, the meditation on symbolic
meaning -- comes after, or else overrides, this chance to pause and fully
enter the moment. There can be a cleansing of the visual palate, a shedding
of the baggage of things to do, lists to check, points to make. It was a
beautiful and exhilarating moment. But when I brought some of my family
back during the day, the place was crowded and noisy. I was of course
unable to recreate or explain the earlier effect the garden had made on me.
On another day the family visited the Zenkoji temple in Nagano, Japan.
Zenkoji is the huge shrine that was often shown during the 1998 winter
Olympics; it was built in the 6th century A.D. After a few hours Terry took
the 3 younger boys and returned to the hotel, and Holly, Shawn and I
continued exploring lesser shrines and museums. We found an interesting
English-language explanation that sent us back to the main shrine. Zenkoji
was founded by a Buddhist monk who believed all men were already
enlightened, but just didn't realize it. To aid in recognizing
enlightenment already gained, the monk designed an unusual experience into
the temple. A winding maze was built below the main temple floor; this maze
had one way in and one way out, and only one path through. Supplicants were
told that somewhere below there is an iron key ring that must be touched and
knocked against the wall on which it hangs. Doing so will guarantee
salvation. Currently, one pays a doorkeeper 500 yen (about $4.50) for the
privilege to descend into the maze. Shawn said that salvation so cheap
couldn't be worth anything, and he elected not to come. But Holly was
interested, so she and I paid the doorkeeper and entered.
There were many smiling tourists shuffling one after another, and the line
moved slowly. We first moved beside the huge golden triple images of
Buddha, then past a smaller chapel. We were then directed down an
incredibly steep, narrow staircase. At the bottom of the staircase the side
walls were perhaps 4 feet apart, and the beams supporting the temple's main
floor were just a few inches above my head. The light from the stairway
faded within a few feet of the bottom, and we were quickly in a completely
lightless dark. To me, the symbolism seemed clearly to be a descent into
the grave. And for the first time it occurred to me that perhaps the
journey after death would not be a lonely, quiet one. For here there were
noises everywhere, as the floorboards below us creaked and people called one
to another. With no way to see it was inevitable that we were constantly
bumping into each other. Hands were sweeping the walls on either side;
occasionally I'd check overhead to ensure that the clearance wasn't coming
any lower. I'd shuffle my feet and sweep them to check if the way was clear
ahead before I'd move. I'd try to pace myself the the old woman just ahead
of me, but of course I kept bumping her. And Holly kept running into me.
Voices came from all around, because the maze would double back on itself,
so in addition to the people before and behind, there were others separated
by only a thin wooden wall. And eventually there was a faint metallic thud
repeated unevenly. Voices ahead began to say, "Ah! here it is!", and "On
the right!", and information was passed from person to person. The sounds
were just ahead of me, and then, after a gap, just behind. Somehow, in that
strange darkness, I missed the key. But still I found the symbolism, and
the experience, fascinating. And the returning light was so welcome!
[This is part of a letter I wrote describing my first return to Japan since I'd been there as a missionary, February 8, 1975-February 8, 1977. I was amazed and delighted at how much language came back to me, and at how good it felt to explore Japan again. -ed]