10:14 PM - Pilgrim Mountain
Pilgrim Mountain
Nachi
1.
The foothills came almost to the beach near the station where the old man got off the train. He watched it as the doors closed and it started off towards its destination. Then he turned to the bay, walked down to the shoreline, and reached down to wet his fingers in the water. Luke warm. It was a warm day.
Turning, he stared up at the mountains that rose before him. It was impossible to see which one he was going to climb, but he knew how to find it. There was a river, and all he had to do was walk to where it flowed into the ocean, and turn right to follow it up. This he did. It didn't take long, not more than fifteen minutes at the most. Beside the road for cars there was a path for pedestrians. He waited for the light to change, and watched a couple of tourist buses three or four taxis, and several cars and trucks go by.
He was at the edge of a small coastal town that thrived on fishing and kelp, sculpting a quartz-like stone, and pilgrimage. The old man was here for the latter. In his hand he held a long staff, and on his back was a pack that looked like it weighed about 25 pounds. It’s contours said clothing, but considering the times, it’s also possible that it contained a small lap top computer.
Walking slowly he followed the pedestrian path for half a mile or so, then took a narrower path that branched off to the left and disappeared into the forest. This was the ancient pilgrim’s road, a sign explained. In a few minutes the sounds of the highway disappeared, replaced by the occasional murmur of a stream, or of the wind through the pines and the cedars towering above him. Breathing heavily, he stopped relatively often as the path got steeper. Soon he heard the sound of the waterfall, and it encouraged him to go further up the path towards it.
The path was basically dirt, although stones had been laid centuries ago for pilgrims to step on as they made their way up through the forest. His mind was filled with thoughts of them as he walked. There was no one else around. Birds sang at some distance from him. Occasionally he heard the cry of a hawk, far above him. The gurgle of the river, the roar of the distant waterfall.
Nachi. Sacred shrine, sacred temple. Here where nature and man and god fused into one. According to tradition, here well over one thousand years ago, a Buddhist priest had arrived from India. His boat had been lost in a storm, and he had ended up near the mouth of the river, and followed it up to the waterfall. Near it he had built a small meditation hut. Today there is a shrine, with a lookout directly across the river from the base of the waterfall. Close enough for the spray to gently splatter his face. He imagined trying to stand under the waterfall, with tons of water hitting his shoulders every second. Impossible. He wondered what the truth about the “Naked saint,” as the founder of the temple was known to posterity.
Staring into the waterfall, the old man’s mind traveled into the past. He was tired, and he sat on a wooden bench gazing at the waterfall, and fell asleep.
Sinking deep into meditation the Naked Yogi did not realize he was slipping slowly along the rock towards the pool below. Perhaps it was the force of the waterfall hitting his shoulders and back, perhaps the sound, perhaps the chill that had brought his body temperature down. When two young acolytes jumped in to save him, and brought him to the side of the pool, he chastised them. I’m in the middle of very serious meditation, why are you disturbing me? They only stared at him in wonder—should they have left him there, under the water, in his deep trance? They apologized, and promised not to disturb him again.
The old man woke from his dream, feeling the light touch of spray upon his face. He bowed towards the waterfall, looked up towards the top of it, and tried to imagine where it was that the Kazan, the retired emperor, had had his meditation hut. Images arose in his mind. They spread throughout him, giving him peace, restorative energy. He prayed, then turned and walked back up to the main path, then continued on to Seiganto-ji.
The temple was filled with a different kind of noise. The roar of falling water has been replaced by the chanting of pilgrims, by the sound of their bells, of their staffs on the wooden floor of the temple, scuffling, people talking in low tones, movement, a great deal of slow-motion movement. A woman behind a stand asked him if he wanted to buy a pilgrim’s record book – a page for each temple, a place for the warden of the temple to sign, giving proof of the visit, adding the date. She was young, had a pleasant smile, and answered his questions about it. Yes, it was official, and yes, the first temple had already been filled in – all he would need to do would be to take the book to the temple office, where they would add the date. He bought it, and took it with him as he went up the steps and into the temple. Behind him he heard her invite someone else to make a similar purchase.
The old man bowed before the image of Kannon, the Bodhisattva of Compassion and Mercy. He lowered his head and repeated the mantra for this particular form of Kannon. Then moved over to the side where he wouldn’t be obvious, sat with his back to one of the temple pillars, and continued. He added the mantra for Nyoirin Kannon to his own, repeating them again and again, silently, and seemed unaware that his body was slowly rocking back and forth. This lasted for about half an hour. When he went up to the images to look at them more closely, the head priest came over and they talked briefly. Then the old man bowed, and left the temple.
He walked over to the Nachi Shrine, and prayed there as well, then looked down once more at the waterfall in the distance, and decided to head on to the next temple.
The old pilgrim’s road is ancient. More than a thousand years of pilgrims have set out upon it. The old man started out on it, heading up into the forest. However, reaching a fork in the path, stopped and read the signs. Suddenly he turned off to the left, and his pace quickened. It was already mid-afternoon, and he would have to hurry if he would reach his new goal for the day: the summit of the mountain.
Nachi
1.
The foothills came almost to the beach near the station where the old man got off the train. He watched it as the doors closed and it started off towards its destination. Then he turned to the bay, walked down to the shoreline, and reached down to wet his fingers in the water. Luke warm. It was a warm day.
Turning, he stared up at the mountains that rose before him. It was impossible to see which one he was going to climb, but he knew how to find it. There was a river, and all he had to do was walk to where it flowed into the ocean, and turn right to follow it up. This he did. It didn't take long, not more than fifteen minutes at the most. Beside the road for cars there was a path for pedestrians. He waited for the light to change, and watched a couple of tourist buses three or four taxis, and several cars and trucks go by.
He was at the edge of a small coastal town that thrived on fishing and kelp, sculpting a quartz-like stone, and pilgrimage. The old man was here for the latter. In his hand he held a long staff, and on his back was a pack that looked like it weighed about 25 pounds. It’s contours said clothing, but considering the times, it’s also possible that it contained a small lap top computer.
Walking slowly he followed the pedestrian path for half a mile or so, then took a narrower path that branched off to the left and disappeared into the forest. This was the ancient pilgrim’s road, a sign explained. In a few minutes the sounds of the highway disappeared, replaced by the occasional murmur of a stream, or of the wind through the pines and the cedars towering above him. Breathing heavily, he stopped relatively often as the path got steeper. Soon he heard the sound of the waterfall, and it encouraged him to go further up the path towards it.
The path was basically dirt, although stones had been laid centuries ago for pilgrims to step on as they made their way up through the forest. His mind was filled with thoughts of them as he walked. There was no one else around. Birds sang at some distance from him. Occasionally he heard the cry of a hawk, far above him. The gurgle of the river, the roar of the distant waterfall.
Nachi. Sacred shrine, sacred temple. Here where nature and man and god fused into one. According to tradition, here well over one thousand years ago, a Buddhist priest had arrived from India. His boat had been lost in a storm, and he had ended up near the mouth of the river, and followed it up to the waterfall. Near it he had built a small meditation hut. Today there is a shrine, with a lookout directly across the river from the base of the waterfall. Close enough for the spray to gently splatter his face. He imagined trying to stand under the waterfall, with tons of water hitting his shoulders every second. Impossible. He wondered what the truth about the “Naked saint,” as the founder of the temple was known to posterity.
Staring into the waterfall, the old man’s mind traveled into the past. He was tired, and he sat on a wooden bench gazing at the waterfall, and fell asleep.
Sinking deep into meditation the Naked Yogi did not realize he was slipping slowly along the rock towards the pool below. Perhaps it was the force of the waterfall hitting his shoulders and back, perhaps the sound, perhaps the chill that had brought his body temperature down. When two young acolytes jumped in to save him, and brought him to the side of the pool, he chastised them. I’m in the middle of very serious meditation, why are you disturbing me? They only stared at him in wonder—should they have left him there, under the water, in his deep trance? They apologized, and promised not to disturb him again.
The old man woke from his dream, feeling the light touch of spray upon his face. He bowed towards the waterfall, looked up towards the top of it, and tried to imagine where it was that the Kazan, the retired emperor, had had his meditation hut. Images arose in his mind. They spread throughout him, giving him peace, restorative energy. He prayed, then turned and walked back up to the main path, then continued on to Seiganto-ji.
The temple was filled with a different kind of noise. The roar of falling water has been replaced by the chanting of pilgrims, by the sound of their bells, of their staffs on the wooden floor of the temple, scuffling, people talking in low tones, movement, a great deal of slow-motion movement. A woman behind a stand asked him if he wanted to buy a pilgrim’s record book – a page for each temple, a place for the warden of the temple to sign, giving proof of the visit, adding the date. She was young, had a pleasant smile, and answered his questions about it. Yes, it was official, and yes, the first temple had already been filled in – all he would need to do would be to take the book to the temple office, where they would add the date. He bought it, and took it with him as he went up the steps and into the temple. Behind him he heard her invite someone else to make a similar purchase.
The old man bowed before the image of Kannon, the Bodhisattva of Compassion and Mercy. He lowered his head and repeated the mantra for this particular form of Kannon. Then moved over to the side where he wouldn’t be obvious, sat with his back to one of the temple pillars, and continued. He added the mantra for Nyoirin Kannon to his own, repeating them again and again, silently, and seemed unaware that his body was slowly rocking back and forth. This lasted for about half an hour. When he went up to the images to look at them more closely, the head priest came over and they talked briefly. Then the old man bowed, and left the temple.
He walked over to the Nachi Shrine, and prayed there as well, then looked down once more at the waterfall in the distance, and decided to head on to the next temple.
The old pilgrim’s road is ancient. More than a thousand years of pilgrims have set out upon it. The old man started out on it, heading up into the forest. However, reaching a fork in the path, stopped and read the signs. Suddenly he turned off to the left, and his pace quickened. It was already mid-afternoon, and he would have to hurry if he would reach his new goal for the day: the summit of the mountain.
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