The Monks of Mount Kōya.
11th July 2024, 8:40am.
I woke up around six o’clock this morning to light gently washing through the Shoji screen which separated me from the vision of raining green outside my window. I could hear the soft sound of raindrops when I opened my eyes. The bed – a futon on the floor – felt like a luxury when it was brought in after dinner last night. The duvet felt like a cloud against my skin, soft from the onsen I had earlier in the afternoon. I am physically and mentally rested.
I slid the door open and put on my slippers, making my way down to the great hall. The monk who welcomed me into the temple yesterday, and served me dinner yesterday, was outside greeting people. Yesterday he told me he was from Germany. He looked young but I couldn’t place his age. I wondered what journey he went on to get here. I wanted to ask him but it felt too personal – intrusive, almost. Instead, I just sat with questions, full of intrigue and admiration. I gave the monk a bow good morning, took off my slippers, and went inside.
It was quite dark, lit up only by candles, but the gold tablets lining the walls and the centre of the hall radiated a golden glow which illuminated the room. I sat on the floor, legs crossed, to the left of the central altar. At seven o’clock exactly, the monks began to enter through a side door. Three came in, one kneeling in the centre facing away from us and one on either side facing inwards. They began chanting and sound filled every corner of the hall.
It was so intricate – the noises and the movements. They chanted for the next thirty minutes. Now and then they would individually do something, like play a cymbal or sound what looked like a Tibetan singing bowl. The monk on the right, the one from Germany, stood up and asked us to offer incense one by one and pray.
I was thinking about how embellished and visually rich the insides of temples are. This room was extraordinary, filled with rich reds and vibrant gold. I was thinking about what it means to live a rich life. These monks had presumably given up family life, desire, sex, and possessions to dedicate themselves to Buddha and Buddhism. They essentially lived very simple lives. At the same time, though, they spent their days in (to some extent) extremely extravagant surroundings. Calm and peace. Beautiful nature. It made me think about privilege of religion and the lines between sacrificing and living (in some way) in a form of luxury, as well as perceptions of luxury itself. This occupied my mind for the rest of the ceremony.
After they finished, they invited us to walk through the hall and pay our respects to Buddha. It was incredibly moving to walk through such a spiritual space. Beneath every statue there were offerings of bamboo, carrots (at least what looked like carrots to a British eye) and other pieces of food. We all bowed to Buddha, one by one, then made our way to the fire ceremony.
We went to the entrance of the temple, put our shoes on and a monk gave us umbrellas as we walked in the rain to a different part of the temple. We entered a room – taking our shoes off first, of course – and were greeted by the sound of drums. A monk welcomed me and directed me to sit right next to the altar. The three monks from the earlier ceremony were performing this one, too. The central monk from this morning was now drumming behind me, the German monk chanting and the monk closest to me on the left earlier was now sitting directly in front of me.
He began to light the fire, the drum and chanting increasing in volume and velocity. I felt the drum with my entire body. It felt like it was beating my heart for me. I was entirely in a trance. As the fire grew, the monk flicked small drops of liquid over the flame, causing it to increase in height. I could feel the heat so intensely, my face burning with the warmth. He put what looked like sage leaves into the fire. Whenever the fire dimmed slightly, I could feel the heat leaving my face. The monk went on to burn the wooden sticks that had been left in our rooms (I had written my name and my wish on it the night before). I felt very emotional, not that I could cry but spiritually moved. The monk’s face showed no emotion but concentration and blessings as he placed each stick on the fire, paying attention to the detail of every single one.
After the fire went out, the monk put more herbs and leaves the embers and invited us to cleanse our bodies with the smoke produced. I used my hands to brush the smoke over my head and my body. Afterwards, we took it in turns to pray to the three Buddha statues and left the hall. I went back to my room for breakfast, which was sat waiting for me. An array of tofu, rice, vegetables, miso soup, and more.
My body and mind are nourished.
I’m on the train to Osaka, now. I wanted to stay on the mountain longer but the trains were beginning to be cancelled due to a tornado warning. I’m listening to One Summer Day from Spirited Away. Whenever the music reaches the moment where Chihiro starts crying, I can hear it in my head alongside the music and I imagine myself crying on this train. It feels like an emotional release. This train journey looks like a Studio Ghibli Film: moss-covered rocks; misty mountains; stretches of pine forest lining the train walls; small shrines, and empty stations in the middle of nowhere. I must remember this, forever.
