September and the spider lilies are one of my joys! I’ve written a novel, Spider Lilies Bleed, so of course, they hold a special place in my heart.

It’s fun taking pictures and seeing the different feelings you get depending on the background, the surrounding elements, the number of flowers in the photo, the width of the focus (how much you allow into the frame), and of course, the angle of the shot. And when I think about that, I think that writing fiction is not so different from taking photographs: there may be a central character (a central element) focused upon, but the angle of “the shot,” how much you decide to widen your lens, what characters (colors) you decide to surround the central one with, the “lightness” or “darkness” of the background, will make all the difference in how readers perceive that central character.

Anyway, enjoy the flowers below, as well as the snippets from Spider Lilies Bleed.

Do you get different feelings from the different shots?

In their little clumps, the spider lilies seem to stand guard. They’re unarmed soldiers. They watch over the voice. When I run Guru’s weak beam of light over them, they shimmer scarlet red. I sit down. It’s a good spot. I don’t see any reason to leave.

I’ve had one of those dreams that feel so real. I was in the middle of a giant field of yellowing rice, protected by a circle of spider lilies. The spider lilies were three times as tall as I was. Electric currents were racing around the curling petals that formed their red halos. The halos squealed with red light. The power generated flowed into the long red antennas and shot out into the dark sky.

“Everywhere you go,” she says, “people have different nicknames for them. Grave flowers. Funeral flowers. Snake flowers. Razor flowers. Ghost flowers. Dead man flowers. Hell flowers. Orphan flowers. . . .

“At the equinox, spirits become active. That’s why people visit gravesites this time of year. It’s the time of year when people need to feel close to the ones they’ve lost–and the spider lilies help them. . . .

“But most people don’t want to think about death more than they have to. That’s why they don’t want them in their gardens.”

Different color, different feeling?

She waves, then walks over into a little gravel area and guides our car in. She’s holding a pair of scissors and a single spider lily. She’s got one of the sweetest smiles I’ve ever seen.

A single flower under an azure sky, a patch of flowers among dark green weeds and shaded by trees. Same feeling?

Thanks for reading! When September rolls around again, enjoy the spider lilies–if they grow near you!

Tamami and I had been crazily busy, but we decided to take July 2, a Saturday, and drive up into Yamanashi Prefecture to the Nishizawa Gorge. From Shizuoka City it was a bit over two hours in the car.

The round-trip up the river and back through the woods was a bit over three hours. You can just walk up and down the river if you like, or you can return on a trail up above the river, from which you get a nice view of the surrounding mountains.

The waterfalls and pools are aplenty. Endless, it seems.

And if there is anything to learn, as you walk along, it is that WATER FALLS.

See. Waterfalls. Water-falls. Water falls.

Still falling.

From WHEN A SISSY CLIMBS A MOUNTAIN IN MAY

I got all confused abut something called “effortless action.” How could an action be effortless? If you were sitting down and wanted to stand, you had to make an effort, didn’t you?  But there were passages about the nature of water, and after I’d read them a few times, I could kind of grasp the idea. . . . A drop of water might bead up on a level surface (surface tension?), but you can’t make a big mound of water. It runs downhill. It falls. Water. A waterfall. A water-fall. Water falls.

Still falling.

And falling.

Still.

Water is not contentious. If a raging, flooded river knocks over your log cabin, you might think water is a contentious bastard . . . but you’d be wrong. It. Just. Falls. Falling is its inner nature. Everything has an inner nature. Every PERSON has his or her own nature. So if you’re going to do the DO UNTO OTHERS thing and do it well, you’re going to have to learn to recognize different folks’ inner natures. I’m afraid, that includes, at least, folks all over the planet. Might include some beyond.

The name of one waterfall brought a smile to my face: “LOVE THREAD WATERFALL.”

Still falling.

Frog Rock.

The river takes a sharp turn, as you can see, but the water still falls. Actually, this is the last series of falls on the hike. Damage along the trail prevented us from getting the best view, but maybe they’ll get that worked out before you go!

from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out Steve’s latest novel, Spider Lilies Bleed, published March, 2022, or his other books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street.  And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)

This year I followed the maples until the trees were bare, until every leaf had fallen. They always have my attention, but this year especially so, or so it seems, perhaps because this year the larger trees on the mountains (in particular, the magnificent beeches) went, in large part, from green to brown, with not much other color in between. In any case, as every year, the color of the maples warmed my heart.

Light. Bending. Reflection. Color. Feelings of love. . . . That’s it.

So here are some photos for you to enjoy. . . . Some of you may wonder, “Followed the leaves? Roamed here and there? Had so much time for loafing? Don’t you work?” The first three questions to which I answer, “Yes. I did indeed.” Regarding the fourth, well, If I were Walt Whitman, I probably wouldn’t bother to reply at all–or might begin a reply that never ends–but since I’m not, I’ll only say that despite all the time spent roaming, not a single class went unprepared for, not a single paper went ungraded, not a single meeting was unattended, not a single student seeking advise was turned away, not a single row of vegetables went uncared for, not a single meal went uncooked, not a single plate went unwashed.

Whitman. Somehow he works his way into the many quotations that circled my brain as I enjoyed the leaves. . . . Please, enjoy the quotes below and enjoy the leaves, too! If no caption is provided it means the photo was taken somewhere along a weeks-long trail down from the mountains of Shizuoka and into the city. Through the gate we go!

Those who are able to see beyond the shadows of their culture will never be understood, let alone believed, by the masses.

Plato

The kindergartener, who learned the day’s lesson well, turned to Plato’s ghost, and shouted, “Can’t never could!”

. . . she lives in a world of people moved by strange, conflicted, poorly comprehended, and, above all, devious motivations which commit them inevitably to conflict and failure.

Joan didion

Every human being on the face of the earth has a steel plate in his head, but if you lie down now and then and get still as you can, it will slide open like elevator doors, letting in all the secret thoughts that have been standing around so patiently, pushing the button for a ride to the top. The real troubles in life happen when those hidden doors stay closed for too long. But that’s just my opinion.

The secret life of bees (sue monk kidd)

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer grass.

Leaves of grass (walt whitman)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand . . . . nor look through the eyes of the dead . . . . nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

Leaves of grass (walt whitman)

. . . the sky above the ridge [was] a lovely azure, the maple leaves fiery orange and red, the beech leaves a dozen different yellows and golds, all of which became, when a breeze swept through the ridge, a swirl of glowing embers–stars in the brightest, most gorgeous night. . . .

(continued)

Yes, stars. Stars are what I saw everywhere. The creator’s breath had whistled through a special sort of prism, and now everything was a primary color. I felt as if I’d walked in through palace doors, into the grandest party that the history of the world had ever known. All the guests were of the strongest moral character, all so magnanimous. They were all there to please each other, to please EVERYONE–and that included me.

(continued)

And I thought that you could take any two people in the universe, two people who’d spat on each other for forever and a day, two people who’d lived every single day for their mutual hatred, and you could set them down, in October, on this Opikkari ridge, get them to gaze up, and they’d never ever EVER have a bad word to say about the other ever again.

(continued)

I sat down and wrote this: Look up to the gold leaves of the beech / Think about the lives of each and each / What they know is so within your reach / Hear the words with which they beseech.

When a sissy climbs a mountain in may

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. Steve’s new novel, Spider Lilies Bleed, is scheduled for publication in March, 2022. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)

It’s August here in Shizuoka, which means that a hike up Ryuso Mountain can include a side jaunt out to see the Fox Razor Lilies. That expanse of orange mountainside is about 45 minutes from either Hozumi Shrine or the top of Ryuso.

On August 5th, my hike went something like this: 45 minutes from the riverside parking lot to Hozumi Shrine, 40 minutes to the top of Ryuso, 40 minutes along the ridge trail to the fox razor lilies, 45 minutes back to Hozumi Shrine, and 40 minutes back down to the riverside parking lot.

A fellow walker. Bumped into him between the top of Ryuso and the lilies. Poor guy had a bum hind leg.

The lilies prove that sometimes the human eye is better than a camera. It’s hard to take a good picture of lots of small things over a large area–but the human eye can feel the beauty very easily.

The birds converse. The leafy branches and the sun converse. The roots and microbes converse. Spiders converse with the silky strands of their webs. And what a beautiful language it is. For it cannot be induced to present a lie. Yes, that’s why the Wise Ones come back again and again. There is no lying here. No lying and no liars.

When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May.

It’s often said that human beings’ exceptional language ability is what makes them the superior creature, but that so-called language ability also seems the source of a lot of anxiety. People feel the need to represent themselves and their ideas, but often find it hard to find the exact words that best fit what they need to say. Even if they think they’ve “nailed” the words, they know that others may misunderstand. People know that their ability–their desire–to frame all sorts of piercing questions can make others uncomfortable. People use words to judge, sometimes to judge harshly, but their words don’t always correspond to any particular reality–in essence, they become fiction–and yet they can still hurt. And of course, with a “skillful” use of words, people can flat out lie.

In all, the communication “ability” of human beings seems, at best, a fickle friend.

But out on a mountain trail, human beings seem to be strongly influenced by the birds and the trees and the sky–the non-liars. I’d be surprised if you hadn’t experienced the feeling. You’re out with a friend on the trail and you somehow feel more in tune with what you feel must be true–and you feel more compelled to have your words stick to the truth.

No, it’s not a perfect science, but the “noise” of human society has quieted and the natural flow of things seems more obvious. It’s easier to be honest.

Walking back toward the shrine from the lilies, the view clears a couple of times. It’s one of the best non-Alpine views in the area, I think.

Mt. Fuji’s out there, too.

And so is that sweet, dear girl, chabohotogisu. How she pulls at our heart strings! (For more on her, visit Cha-bo-ho-to-to-gi-su | Persimmon Dreams (persimmon-dreams.com) ).

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out our music/nature videos on our “Persimmon Dreams” YouTube channel, or Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)

April 7th. A hike up from the town of Umegashima to the Abe Pass, and then up Bara-no-dan. There was some talk of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five.

The simple scoop for anyone not familiar with the area: Take Route 29 up to Umegashima. At the end of 29, turn right onto the mountain road that goes across the pass to Yamanashi. The road closes in winter (through April). The road also closes when there is a landslide. There was a landslide a year and a half ago and the road has not been opened since. I will call the city office soon to check on the prognosis. If the road is open, you can drive up to the red dot. If it’s closed, you have to start at the yellow cross. Walking times are estimates. From the yellow cross to the red dot, you walk up a steep trail through a cedar/cypress forest (50 min). From the red dot to the Abe Pass, you walk along the mountain road and then the Sakasa River trail (50 min). From the Abe Pass, you can climb up to Bara-no-dan (50 minutes, green cross). If you like, from Bara-no-dan, you can keep going until you get to Opikkari Mountain . . . and on and on. Back down at the Abe Pass, you can cut across to the Hakkorei trail and climb Mt. Hakkorei . . . and Oyarei . . . and Yambushi.

There are almost no characters in this story, and almost no dramatic confrontations, because most of the people in it are so sick and so much the listless playthings of enormous forces. One of the main effects of war, after all, is that people are discouraged from being characters.

KurT vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

The kibanahana (yellow flower) nekonome (cat-eye) grow close to mountain streams. A few years ago, we met a photographer who’d come all the way from Tokyo to take pictures.

By the way, the quotations in this post are not intended to insert thoughts, but rather to provoke them.

Trout, incidentally, had written a book about a money tree. It had twenty-dollar bills for leaves. Its flowers were government bonds. Its fruit was diamonds. It attracted human beings who killed each other around the roots and made very good fertilizer.

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-five

If what Billy Pilgrim learned from the Tralfamadorians is true, that we will all live forever, no matter how dead we may sometimes seem to be, I am not overjoyed. Still–if I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that, I’m grateful that so many of those moments are nice.

Back down through the cedar forest, we enjoyed the mountain azaelas. Most of the yashio trees are farther up the mountain, but not that farther. Usually, the yashio bloom late May, but it could be a littler earlier this year. The only way to make a good judgement is to go hiking every weekend!

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out our music/nature videos on our “Persimmon Dreams” YouTube channel, or Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)

Given it’s a pandemic holiday season, it seems reasonable to limit the pictures this time to places that I could get to by foot or bicycle—or see by looking out my window. All pictures from the last few weeks.

And for better or worse, what’s in my mind right now is one of the books I’m teaching, Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle, which among other things asks us to ponder where truth is most likely to be found—in religion, in science, in both, or in neither.

School failed me, and I failed the school. It bored me. The teachers behaved like Feldwebel (sergeants). I wanted to learn what I wanted to know, but they wanted me to learn for the exam. What I hated most was the competitive system there, and especially sports. Because of this, I wasn’t worth anything, and several times they suggested I leave.

Albert einstein

The more I read, the more puzzled I was by the order of the universe and the disorder of the human mind, by the scientists who didn’t agree on the how, the when, or the why of creation.

Albert Einstein

Then one day this student brought me Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Reading Kant, I began to suspect everything I was taught. I no longer believed in the known God of the Bible, but rather in the mysterious God expressed in nature.

Albert Einstein

The basic laws of the universe are simple, but because our senses are limited, we can’t grasp them. There is a pattern in creation.

Albert Einstein

If we look at this tree outside whose roots search beneath the pavement for water, or a flower which sends its sweet smell to the pollinating bees, or even our own selves and the inner forces that drive us to act, we can see that we all dance to a mysterious tune, and the piper who plays this melody from an inscrutable distance–whatever name we give him—Creative Force, or God–escapes all book knowledge.

Albert Einstein

As Bokonon says: ‘Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.’

Kurt Vonnegut (CAT’S CRADLE)

But no sooner had the sun slipped away from the leaves than the temperature dropped. In a matter of minutes, a profound sadness washed over me. And somehow I knew, in this kind of light, in this kind of late-afternoon December light, it always would.

When a sissy climbs a mountain in may

Science is never finished because the human mind only uses a small portion of its capacity, and man’s exploration of his world is also limited.

Creation may be spiritual in origin, but that doesn’t mean that everything created is spiritual. . . . Let us accept the world is a mystery. Nature is neither solely material nor entirely spiritual.

Albert einstein

If we want to improve the world we cannot do it with scientific knowledge but with ideals. Confucius, Buddha, Jesus and Gandhi have done more for humanity than science has done.

Albert Einstein

Religion and science go together. As I’ve said before, science without religion is lame and religion without science is blind. They are interdependent and have a common goal–the search for truth.

Albert Einstein

Lean into December light

Feel the warmth before the night

Lean into December light

Watch the ravens taking flight.

NDuaduo

Hence it is absurd for religion to proscribe Galileo or Darwin or other scientists. And it is equally absurd when scientists say that there is no God.

Albert Einstein

Tiger got to hunt / Bird got to fly;

Man go to sit and wonder, ‘Why, why, why?’

Tiger got to sleep / Bird got to land;

Man got to tell himself he understand.

Kurt Vonnegut (cat’s cradle)

The mejiro come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The mejiro come and go

Telling us all the things they know.

When a sissy climbs a mountain in may

Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling recognition of the truth—against which all seekers sooner or later stumble—that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us nothing but results. She permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and like a jealous patentee, on no account to make.

Nathaniel hawthorne

Birds were talking. One bird said to Billy Pilgrim, “Poo-tee-weet?”

Kurt vonnegut (slaughterhouse-five)

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out our music/nature videos on our “Persimmon Dreams” YouTube channel, or Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)

And Jackson had known—yes, over there in America—had known that today, October 29, the sky above the ridge would be a lovely azure, the maple leaves fiery orange and red, the beech leaves a dozen different yellows and golds, all of which became, when a breeze swept the ridge, a swirl of glowing embers—stars in the brightest, most gorgeous night. . . . Yes, stars. Stars are what I saw everywhere. The creator’s breath had whistled through a special sort of prism, and now everything was a primary color. I felt as if I’d walked in through palace doors, into the grandest party that the history of the world had ever known. All the guests were of the strongest moral character, all so magnanimous. They were all there to please each other, to please EVERYONE—and that included me.

When a sissy climbs a mountain in may

They call it Opikkari—“The Big Shiny Mountain”—because, well, it is a big and shiny mountain. At least, it is in mid to late October.

I came, as I had in October of 2016, to share my political views with “the stars.”

My political views are rather simple: There is light. It comes from the sun. The leaves of the trees, the green of all the plants, turn the light into energy. The energy feeds us all.

Look up to the gold leaves of the beech,

Think about the lives of each and each,

What they know is so within your reach,

Hear the words with which they beseech.

When a Sissy climbs a mountain in may

To make sure we don’t miss the significance of this, nature performs a little magic for us. Nature takes the light and breaks it up into primary colors. In my eyes, and I hope in yours, too, the primary colors —side by side, vibrant in the shine—are beautiful.

Beauty is truth.

Color in a picture is like enthusiasm in life.

Vincent Van Gogh

Stimulated by the beauty of the primary colors, your lungs become conscious of the deliciousness of the air along this ridge. Your lungs tell your brain—and your weary legs—that they’d like to breathe this type of air and look upon this kind of spectacle for as long as they can breathe.

The spectacle belongs to everyone, and everyone is part of the spectacle.

Your lungs don’t want to hear any excuses.

Respiration.

Inspiration.

There is no blue without yellow and without orange.

Vincent van Gogh

Your lungs, more adamantly than any politician on his tree stump, proclaim this: “Don’t misconstrue what it means to breathe free! Breathing free only means, this lovely air, flowing inside me, flowing inside you, flowing inside all of us, as long as we all live.
It does not mean hording the air. It does not mean pushing a ‘lesser’ pair of lungs off the ridge. It certainly doesn’t mean fouling the air that every other pair of lungs so needs to live joyfully and to know dignity.”

Light, primary colors, sweet air.

Vote.

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out our music/nature videos on our “Persimmon Dreams” YouTube channel, or Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)

The autumnal equinox.

In my neighborhood at least, the August haze has dissipated, and the bright blues have returned. The rice has yellowed up. In the midst of the yellow and blue, the higanbana (spider lilies) have risen. The primary colors are meant to be looked at. To be felt. It’s a time when some (many?) folks recognize the lack of disconnect between the so-called “living” and the so-called “dead.”

. . . the simple perception of natural forms is a delight. The influence of the forms and actions in nature, is so needful to man, that, in its lowest functions, it seems to lie on the confines of commodity and beauty. To the body and mind which have been cramped by noxious work or company, nature is medicinal and restores their tone. The tradesman, the attorney comes out of the din and craft of the street, and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In the eternal calm, he finds himself. The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see far enough.

“Nature” Ralph Waldo Emerson

The nicknames for the spider lilies seem unlimited. But a few:

Hakabana (Grave Flower), Hebinohana (Snake Flower), Soshikibana (Funeral Flower), Kamisorabana (Razor Flower), Jikokubana (Hell Flower), Yureibana (Ghost Flower), Shibitobana (Dead Man Flower), Sutegobana (Foundling Flower).

For some people, these names might be offputting. For others (maybe those who don’t feel the disconnect), they might seem quite reasonable—even comforting.

Many people long to see them bloom, but very few plant them in their own garden. Many people cut a few from a canal bank, or the edge of a rice field, and decorate a grave.

“When I meet someone,” the Dalai Lama said, returning to what was becoming an important theme, “I always try to relate to the person on the basic human level. On that level, I know that, just like me, he or she wishes to find happiness, to have fewer problems and less difficulty in their life. Whether I am speaking with one person, or whether I am giving a talk to a large group of people, I always see myself first and foremost as just another fellow human. That way, there is in fact no need for introduction. If, on the other hand, I relate to to others from the perspective of myself as someone different–a Buddhist, a Tibetan, and so on–I will then create walls to keep me apart from others. And if I relate to others, thinking that I am the Dalai Lama, I will create the basis for my own separation and loneliness. After all, there is only one Dalai Lama in the entire world. In contrast, if I see myself primarily in terms of myself as a fellow human, I will then have more than seven billion people who I can feel deep connection with. And this is wonderful, isn’t it? What do you need to fear or worry about when you have seven billion other people who are with you?”

The Book of Joy

“Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament.”

“Nature” Ralph Waldo Emerson

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out our music/nature videos on our “Persimmon Dreams” YouTube channel, or Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)

September, 2020.

Cooler days here in Asahata (Shizuoka City, Japan). Sauntering, seeing, daydreaming.

“The Mioyama sun,” he says. “The tangerines and kumquats. The persimmons. The vegetables. The soil. We have been so blessed, Kenta. And this rice. Especially this rice. Just look at this beautiful, beautiful rice.”

Along the Same Street

I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks—who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going a la SainteTerre,” to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes aSainte-Terrer,” a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander. They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. But I prefer the first, which, indeed, is the most probable derivation. For every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us, to go forth and reconquer this Holy Land from the hands of the Infidels.

“Walking,” Henry david Thoreau

Do you still believe there are places you can go?

Can you still conceive of faces you’d like to know?

And, oh, do you remember?

Oh, do you remember?

Sunlight kissing leaves so new.

Your hand holding all that’s true.

And, oh, do you still tremble?

WHEN A SISSY CLIMBS A MOUNTAIN IN MAY