A Tale of Three Shrines

by Joyce Wan (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Japan

I. It started snowing again the day after my birthday. Older, supposedly wiser, and feeling tender, I went for a solitary walk through the streets of my new home in Hokkaido. Prior to moving to Japan, I’d eagerly envisioned a life where I passed shrines on every corner, my days filled with perpetual magic. But on this northern island, which was only settled by the Japanese in the 19th century, such traditional sights are less common than wild vistas and snow covered fields. The town’s Shinto shrine, which I’d never entered, cast a particularly enigmatic pull in the snow. Passing beneath the stone torii gate, the boundary between the ordinary and sacred, was like entering a monochrome picture. The dark gates and trees were united under the briskly falling white snow, which silenced my footsteps and occasional passing traffic in what already felt like the other, outside world. The grounds were empty, the shrine doors shut. My eyes landed on the only pop of colour: ema prayer plaques, featuring illustrations on one side and handwritten wishes on the other, strung up for gods to find. The top halves were obscured by piles of snow, but I resisted brushing them off, knowing that the gods would be able to read them. I’d been mistaken, believing that the shrine grounds contained not a soul except mine. I realized I had been holding my breath, scared of disturbing the spirits beside me. II. In every city I travelled to afterwards, I sought out the ethereal beauty of shrines and temples. The famous shrines I visited later were far more impressive, but gradually their magic became commonplace–they blended together in my mind, as I crossed back and forth under the torii until I began to feel that I myself was other and outside, drifting comfortably through my temporary stay without forming any deeper connection. Seeking a transformative spiritual encounter, I booked an overnight stay at a temple in Koyasan, one of the country’s holiest sites. I dreamt of a whirlwind immersion into the austere life of a monk, but was instead brought into a comfortable room with a TV in the corner. Refusing to turn it or my phone on, I sat in silence, the only buzzing in the room my own anticipation for an enlightenment that wouldn’t arrive. III. Tokyo was my last trip, from where I’d fly home. Distressed at how suddenly I was approaching the end, I dragged out an already long day trip, pulling my tired friend off the train for a last stop at historical Kamakura. It was nighttime when we arrived. We walked quickly under the streetlights to the town’s most important Shinto shrine. The approach was long, and as we panted to the top of the stairs, my heart sank. I craved a meaningful experience to neatly conclude my journey, but the shrine that had loomed into view was simply a shrine. Gazing at its familiar features lit up in the dark, I acknowledged that I had run out of time. Japan would reveal no more of its secrets to me. I explored the vacated grounds halfheartedly, avoiding the night guard and his closing call. All was still–the sticky summer’s night air; the water in the purification fountain; my spent momentum. Away from the main shrine, we came across a staircase sheltered by many torii, arranged so closely that they hid whatever was at the top. Intrigued, we climbed the stairs, which wound around the hillside to an empty clearing ringed by impermeable black forest. In the dark we could see only what the moonlight touched. Even the cicadas were hushed. I stood in awe of the moment and the enigmatic darkness. Without exchanging a word, my friend and I became simultaneously aware of a presence besides our own, and we turned and ran all the way back down the stairs, where we were unable to explain what had happened. It’s a magic I still can’t put into words–but if you’re a traveller too, then I think you know the feeling. The paradox is that it gets harder to find the further you search, and yet the only solution is to faithfully persist.