I used to live in Fukuchiyama, Kyoto Prefecture, and I made a habit of visiting as many onsens (hot springs), Shinto shrines, and Buddhist temples. I loved the Buddhist temples in particular -- the experience of visiting felt profound to me -- a meeting of spirituality, history, mystery, and adventure. These spots had been on the map, and attracted pilgrims, for hundreds of years, and I was adding my name to the long list of people who had gone before me.
Arguably the most famous sacred spot is Mount Koya. It's the home of Shingon Buddhism, of which I could say much more, but for now let me just say that it was a breathtaking place. Around May of 2000 I made arrangements to visit. I invited my friend Dave Walter, who was less into temples than I was, but was often good for a weekend's excursion. I invited him on trips to temples, and he invited me to parties, and between this we managed to stave off boredom.
Anyway, we got to the monasteries, and I was looking forward to a quiet, contemplative experience -- and Dave annoyed me by chatting up all the foreigners he saw -- and especially all the attractive women -- thereby disturbing my silence and contemplation. But, in true Buddhist fashion, I went with the flow, and it indeed turned out that this experience was much greater than the one I had planned. Several of the foreigners were cracking sarcastic jokes the whole time, but several of them were as moved and as serious as I was. And it was with them that I visited the oku-no-in, the inner sanctuary.
I could not possibly do justice to this place in this blog post, so let me say that it was the most breathtaking place I have ever visited, and move on with the story. The rest of the story is simple, and familiar. The group split up, we went back to the temple where we were staying, and Dave went back to his room to do whatever. But I stayed talking with one of the women; she told me about all of the sacred spots she had been to, and those she intended to visit. She was deep, adventurous, and unafraid. And she was equally interested in what I had to say.
Eventually curfew came (we were staying in Buddhist temples, and were to be woken early in the morning), and we traded contact information and promised to keep in touch. She worked as an English teacher somewhere in eastern Japan, far away. I took the paper with her e-mail address and saved it.
And didn't do anything. Neither of us contacted the other again.
The regret is obvious. I wish I'd called her up and asked if I could visit. What would have happened? I have no idea -- which is precisely why I should have gone.
It's a very forgivable mistake. She lived damn far away. (Tochigi, I want to say, but I could be wrong.) I've forgotten her name. Maybe that piece of paper is still with the stuff I saved from Japan, in my parents' attic. Probably not, but it could be.
Today, for better or worse, this wouldn't have happened. We have Facebook, and I friend more people than I actually keep in touch with. It is kind of funny how this drains some of the mystery out of life. I wonder what that girl I had a huge crush on in in high school is up to nowadays -- ? Well, I just checked Facebook, and she was exasperated because her daughter refused to participate in her YMCA soccer practice. (That said, she is also an oncologist.)
But, this one woman -- since I don't remember her name, I can't look her up. Perhaps she is volunteering in Africa; perhaps she is an entrepreneur; perhaps she lives some humdrum life in some suburb somewhere. I don't know.
Not knowing is most intimate. Such was the subject of a Zen koan workshop I went to, and it is true. I could have been brave and hopped on the train to visit this mystery woman eleven years ago. But I at least had the nerve to hold my chin up high and talk to her for an evening way back then. And the more I think back to the past, the more I recall oddball moments like these, that I didn't seek out or expect -- the more I have hope for the future and appreciation for now.
