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If on a Late Autumn Day a Pilgrim...
Our entrance into the sanctuary of Doryuji was a quiet one, as we circled around the main hall from the rear instead of through the main gate. As we congregated in the space between the main hall and the hall dedicated to Kukai, we reflected on the nature of our coming path and of the six temples that were to be our day’s destinations. As a mere 17 people among the 150,000 who would walk this path during this year alone, we could better appreciate our own significance in the cosmos.
After donning our straw hats, collecting our walking staffs, and receiving our stamps, our time at the 77th of Shikoku’s 88 sacred temples was complete and it was time to go to the 76th Temple, Konzoji. As we backed out the front entrance with a last bow, it felt as if we were characters in a film running in reverse.
With the Sun Shining Brilliantly on the Brim of His Hat, Should Tread...
Distracted by a quiet shrine and a playful dog, we wound our way through the farms and rice paddies, uncertain of the road between the temples. But we were eventually beckoned through the entrance of Konzoji by the satisfying “Clack! Clack!” of the temple’s giant juzu beads, hanging from the main hall’s roof. Like 108 mantras in a prayer, or 108 satellites in a solar orbit, the beads traversed round and round the pulley’s edge. It would be like speeding to the end of one’s life-story to make them spin too fast. Best to take one’s time and enjoy the slow revolution of the orbs.
On the Path of Tranquility and Peace, a Mere Six Steps...
The brisk air barely stirred and the land gently sloped up to the hills in the south. Mirrored by a handful of white clouds traversing the expanse of blue sky overhead, our group stretched into a long line of white vests and straw hats weaving through the fields and roads.
At Mandaraji everyone’s minds drifted toward lunch when the citrus scent of freshly gathered mikan wafted over to us from a simple, unattended cart. Those who wanted a bag of them, had to place their two coins in the blue tin box. Trust is sacred on the pilgrim’s path.
Shall Propel Him Toward the Immense Depths...
Autumn’s red and gold swathed the mountain before us, framing the bald stone face of the peak like the patchwork hooded robe of a seated Dharma. And below the Dharma, Kukai looking out over the plains below from his statue’s serene perch on the hill.
Beneath the camphor tree in the temple yard of Shusshakaji, we sat down to our rice balls and mikan. Why does food always taste better at the top of a climb? We were joined by a newspaper reporter, who was eager to interview one among the young women in our group, but he was nervous to ask. A group of elderly pilgrims, just arriving, were eager for a group picture with us, and they were totally unafraid to ask.
Of Enlightenment, the Realm...
The path took us along the skirt of the mountain for some time to the simple gate of Koyamaji. Several pilgrims bounded up the path to the clearing on the hill above. Yet others peered into Kukai’s hall, carved out of the very stone of the mountain. Perhaps it was the dimming of the sky behind a cloud, but everyone seemed to be a bit weary in this quiet place. As we made our way out from under the gate, we noticed that the rear of the mountain had been carved into a quarry. Perhaps the weariness belonged to the temple itself, for having to bear two separate faces.
Of the Revered and Legendary Kukai...
At the temple of Zentsuji, we received an illuminating glimpse of the man who inspired the 88 Temple Pilgrimage, Kukai, and his view of the world. Seated on a dais, a knowledgeable priest described the generous philosophies of Kukai and the religion he founded, Shingon Buddhism. Our lecturer likened Kukai’s philosophy of existence to an invaluable web-work of Indian beads, where each individual entity is integral to the shining whole.
Rising from his seat, the priest invited us down to the kaidan-meguri, the circular path winding below the hall. We walked gingerly through the perfect darkness, as black as the belly of the cosmos. At the halfway point we noticed a faint, chanting voice and an even fainter light which gradually led us to the still form of a youthful statue of Kukai, portrayed with his parents as they would have appeared 1200 years ago here in their hometown of Zentsuji. Back through the darkness, we completed our subterranean circuit. Our footsteps landed softly on soil from each of the 88 Temples, which had been scattered throughout the passageway of the kaidan-meguri. In this sightless microcosm, we were like Shikoku’s true pilgrims, revolving around each of the temples on the island.
Back on the surface, we returned softly over the hall’s vermillion carpet to the stairs, put on our shoes and followed the priest to the temple’s treasure house. There we saw the temple’s true “face,” the only remaining vestige of Zentsuji’s first image of the Buddha. It was a mask made of clay that used to be part of a larger statue. Fire consumed the temple and the statue’s body many, many hundreds of years ago, but because the Buddha was dipping its head in deep concentration of the true path to enlightenment, this mask fell to the ground during the conflagration, and its features were protected by the cool earth.
Said the mask of the Buddha at our journey’s end:
“If on a late autumn day, a pilgrim, with the sun shining brilliantly on the brim of his hat, should tread on the path of tranquility and peace, a mere six steps shall propel him toward the immense depths of enlightenment, the realm of the revered and legendary Kukai.”
By Chris McCabe
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