Sad, Sad, Sad Sado ga Shima

My father fell and broke his hip on September 22, 2017, the day after his birthday. Before his fall, I had scheduled a trip to Japan for the second week of October. We had talked about what I planned to do in Japan several times in the months before he fell. It would be my first time in Japan, and he knew I was excited about going. After his fall, he declined to receive any medical attention, entered a hospice, and died a few days later. I left for Japan a couple of days after his funeral. While I was still anxious to see Japan, I felt partly responsible for his decision to die quickly because I felt he knew how much I had wanted to see Japan and didn’t want me to cancel it due to his condition. He had made extraordinary sacrifices throughout his life to ensure my happiness and easement, and his rush to death seemed to me a continuation of his typical selflessness.

Unlike all my previous trips, I set out under a heavy wrap of guilt and sadness. When I arrived in Japan, it layered on the misery of overcast skies and a constant cold drizzle. The stitching came out of one shoulder on my raincoat, and I was soaked whenever I went out. I had traveled to Japan to photograph its fall foliage, not knowing that Japan’s leaves wouldn’t begin turning for another month. Halfway through my trip, I decided to travel out to Sado ga Shima, an island off the northwest coast where I thought I might find some lively color. I didn’t. Sado ga Shima is a summer resort where many Japanese families spend their summer vacations. During July and August, the island bustles with picnics, beach parties, and even the occasional rock concert. Its numerous museums and temples are open to satisfy the public’s curiosity or spirituality, while Its many stores and restaurants indulge their more material requirements. In the heat of summer, Sado ga Shima surges with quotidian life and abundant happiness. I arrived in the middle of October, however. The beaches were empty. Most of the stores were shut up for the season, and when I arrived, the ryokan I had booked for my stay was locked, and no one came to the door when I knocked. I walked the streets of Sawata, killing time until the ryokan reopened (I hoped). I looked into the closed storefronts for about an hour while not seeing a single car pass or any other human beings on the street. Around 5:00 p.m. I saw an old man unlock the front door of the ryokan. I checked in and learned that the rooms were not heated and that food was not served there during the off-season. By the time I was settled in, it was getting dark. I set out onto the side streets looking for a restaurant. Nearly all were closed. I finally saw a building with a flag out front that had a light on. A young man and an old lady were the only people there. They didn’t seem too happy to see me. The young man said the business wasn’t a restaurant but a bar that didn’t have a menu. He hesitated and then muttered he could have the old lady make a couple of skewers of yakitori for me. The lady was so old she could barely make her way around the kitchen while loudly cursing the young man, who I think was her son. I quickly washed down my two yakitori skewers with a beer, paid the young man, and walked home in dark silence through the empty streets. It occurred to me that I was being given a preview of the true nature of hell.

I found a tourist map in my room, and the next morning I set out to see and learn as much as I could about this desolate island. Its role as a recreation haven turned out to be a relatively recent one. In the 8th century, it became a place to exile people who were a problem to whoever was in charge but too popular or prestigious for them to execute summarily. The first recorded person to be exiled to the island was Asomi Oyu, a poet who wrote poems critical of the Emporer. The Buddhist monk Nichiren was sent here after trying to start a new Buddhist sect. The founder of Noh theater, Zeami Motokiyp, was also exiled here, and the oldest operating Noh theater in Japan continues to operate here on the island (see below). Even an Emporer, Juntoku, ended up here in exile. The Emporer wasn’t alone when cast away here; his entire court and a few noble friends were sent here with him. Though exile was intended to eliminate the influence and power of those interned here, the exiles’ status required that they continue to live in a level of comfort that most Japanese could not. The Emporer lived in a castle. The exiles watched Noh plays and engaged in other entertainments, and perhaps most importantly, nourished their spiritual needs at many temples across the island. These temples were clearly marked on my tourist map, and I headed toward the one my map told me was the closest. Perhaps some spirituality would rub off on me and provide some sense of direction for the day. Unfortunately, the first temple I came upon was, like much else on the island, forlorn and closed.

The Japanese take a rather eclectic approach to religion. They celebrate Christmas, though it is more the Santa Claus, elf, and reindeer variety of Christmas than the Christ in a manger type. They are usually married by a Shinto priest. Shintoism is a religion where people see spiritual energy pretty much wherever their intuitions tell them to look. The beginning of a marriage fits well with such spiritual optimism. Buddhist monks, on the other hand, usually officiate at funerals. I saw nothing but Buddhist temples on Sado. Perhaps this is due to Nichiren’s influence. Perhaps the people sent to the island felt closest to Buddhism because they saw their exile as the end of their careers and their inevitable descent toward death. Whatever the case, they fit my mood of the moment. There is usually a large rope hanging before the door of Buddhist temples. After you say a prayer, you are supposed to tug firmly on the rope. This sends the prayer…where? Buddhists do not believe in the existence of God or heaven. Possibly the tug is meant to push the prayer into the one praying. The tug is meant to confirm his or her commitment and sincerity about the prayer. I thought my prayer and pulled the rope. I felt a little bit better, and I moved on to the next closed temple. The sun had come out, and my intuitions told me this was a happier place. I made another prayer, tugged the rope, and looked around at what appeared to be a better world.

My next stop was at an open temple. It was open, but I could see no one watching over the place.

The open but unattended temple made me uncomfortable. It felt a bit like walking into someone’s house and finding food cooking on the stove and a cigarette burning in an ashtray but no one home. I quickly moved on to the next temple on my map. I was now well outside the village of Sawata. Green hedgerows rose up on both sides of the dirt road I was walking on.  Here I suddenly caught a glimpse of a large temple complex through the greenery. I found the entrance and wandered through it.

The uninhabited complex felt naturally peaceful and quiet rather than abandoned as the previous one did. This temple complex consisted of a number of buildings, and I wandered among them for about 20 minutes, looking for meaningful moments to preserve with my camera. As I made my way down the walkway toward the closed temple door, I decided that this temple overflowed with a kind of spirit that spoke directly to me. There was something about the place that I already understood, that already lived within me. When I finally reached the temple, I looked down and saw a rustic offering lying on its front steps. People usually drop money through a hole in the door as an offering to the temple. Here, on the steps, someone had left a handful of acorns. Perhaps a child had left it in gratitude for experiencing and knowing a moment similar to the one I was experiencing. I couldn’t match the child’s offering and probably couldn’t match his or her understanding of the moment. I pushed a handful of yen through the hole in the door. I envied the child, but I felt the most honorable I had in a long time. I had been walking for about three hours before I stumbled on this wonderful temple complex. I was now in an area of small farms, and, perhaps as a result of my experience at the temple, I began taking a closer look at them. They were rustic but very well kept. Their gardens were carefully weeded, and everything seemed laid out not only with an eye toward efficiency but also for beauty. I thought that possibly these small farmers were advocating a life lesson that, in time, I could learn. Perhaps there WAS an optimal way to tend your own garden.

Taking a different route back to Sawata, I came upon the cheerful temples and sights that I’m sure are crowded with tourists during the summer months.

I was exhausted by the end of the day. I had experienced a lot of different feelings during my odyssey around Sawata, but the sum result of these condensed into tranquility and self-acceptance. Perhaps the prayers and tugs on my soul I had made that day had finally washed away all my regrets. Even if they did, I was sure I would soon locate and step into new ones. The final temple I visited offered up a golden moment of happiness. I basked in its glow for a few moments before I headed back to my unheated Ryokan.