It has been a cool spring, but first, down in the city, the plum blossoms came and went, and then the cherry blossoms came and went, and the weather forecast said it was going to be a sunny, sunny day, so we Hearty Hiker’s headed up to Umegashima and the Abe Pass . . . believing that we’d see the spring being repeated—or at least beginning to be repeated—up in the mountains.

Once we’d climbed (in the car) up to the trailhead, though, we looked about and saw a lot of bare branches, no new leaves popping out, only the tiniest signs of spring (the flowers above), and above us only a grey, grey sky. So much for the weather forecast.

Then, as we walked, the morning side of noon, the temperature dropped.  I’m not sure why.

It wasn’t that cold (I say), and from time to time, we saw a strip of blue sky or two, but maybe because of expectations, my fellow Hearty  Hikers started shivering in their boots. (Later I’ll have them tested, to see if they’ve got any reptile blood in them.)

Anyway, when most of your team feels a little cold, there’s only one thing to do: dip inside a museum. Fortunately, when you’re up in the mountains, you can almost always find a good museum open. And what I like about the mountain museums is they are fairly comprehensive. They don’t split up art, science, natural history, and religion into different buildings.  You can study all those things all at once.

The first artifact/relic/artwork/cosmic sign we saw was entitled “Mountainside  Seashell.” For those of you who understand evolution in its standard form (all life rising from the oceans), or those who understand it in it’s more cosmic form, you will realize the value of this piece.

This one was my favorite this day: It was called “Energetic Creature Born of a Cosmic Bubble Swimming and Flying the Ocean and the Sky in All DIrections All at Once and Dreaming of the Glucose Produced in Green Cells Absorbing Light–the Light which was the Beginning of All.”

This piece is extraordinary, too, I think. “Stick and Moss,” it’s called. Some, I know, have said it’s childish and too simple to warrant much attention, but we can never be encouraged enough to appreciate green, and I would dare anyone who scoffs to pick up your paint brush and see if you get all that moss configured just as it is. I bet some of your canvasses may end up looking a lot like a plate of green peas after a young boy who’s determined not to eat a one has mussed them up a bit with his fork, squashed a few, in a futile attempt to convince his mother that he has tried a reasonable amount.

This one was called “Blurry Woodpecker In Blurry Red and Grey.” You may wonder if there really is a bird that looks so, or if it’s just a sort of “conceptual” rendition of some twisted idea that only live’s in the artist’s brain—and I’m not sure the answer, but I do like the pattern on the bird’s back, the touch of red on the top of his head, and how everything seems to blend.

There are also performance pieces. These two trees, as you can see, have grown together. That is true dedication to their vision, their craft, their art, their beliefs, their whatever, I’d say. It is a bit hard to say for sure how this insistence on non-duality is trying to influence us, but it did remind me of the way tree roots often share glucose with friends who are having a hard time getting the resources to make their own.  It made me think a little bit about what all might be going on beneath the soil the soles of my feet were pressing so ever slightly into. It is important to feel what’s going on in your soles.

The other Hearty Hiker’s, though, were most fascinated by the water color painter who is always on hand to paint the sky, as it is right then. As this guy painted, my teammates kept looking back and forth between the canvas and the sky, and the more they did, the more they seemed to get confused about which one seemed composed of the most real colors.

One even felt compelled to get as close a look at the sky as he could.

I suppose it’s one of those things you have to experience for yourself–so if you’re ever up this way on a surprisingly cold day, please step into a museum and have a look for yourself.

We forwent the souvenirs shop, got back in the car, descended the mountain a couple hundred meters, and took another walk. Here the springtime was a little further along.

We got to enjoy the cherry blossoms again.

And those lavender-colored azaelas, you won’t find those down in town. If you want to get a hold of that color, you’ll have to partake of some high ground somewhere or another.

Last time, I wrote that the cherry blossoms have gotten some awful good press over the years—and that other flowers that bloom at the same time have gotten less coverage—and less love—than they deserve. This was not meant to take anything away from the cherry blossoms.

I love them.

And today, we at Persimmon Dreams are happy to have with us an expert on the beauty of nature, one of our Hearty Hikers, Ms. Tamami Kano.

What credentials does she have? She has the most essential one. She constantly has her eyes on nature, is always seeking something new, and is constantly finding and celebrating beauty.

PD: Tamami, thank you for meeting us to enjoy the cherry blossoms today. Just in your own words, what do you feel standing here surrounded by all these cherry blossoms?

Tamami: Just happy. And grateful. I’d like to thank them for being here with me.

PD:  Do you have any favorite song or poem about the cherry blossoms?

Tamami: “Sakura, hira hira, maiochiru.” (The dancing cherry petals flutter, flutter, flutter down.)

PD: What do you think about the color of the blossoms?

Tamami: Impossibly delicate.

PD: Where is your favorite place to see cherry blossoms?

Tamami: If it’s daytime—and the sun is shining—I like the trees that cascade down over the moat, on the north side of Sumpu Park. The view from the bridge is marvelous. The color of the water and the grey of the moat-wall rocks and the pink of the blossoms harmonize perfectly.

PD: We know that you are a great connoisseur of beauty. Is there some difference between the beauty of the cherry blossoms and other flowers?

Tamami: Yes, there is. Should I try to explain it?

PD: If you don’t mind.

Tamami: With cherry blossoms, it’s the balance, the shape, the sweep of the limbs that creates the beauty. And then, also, I think . . . they are really Japanese.

PD: “Japanese”? What does that mean?

PD: I mean, they are a part of Japanese culture. When I stand under them, I feel a little bit of wabi sabi.

PD: Sorry to keep following up, but what is wabi sabi?

Tamami: Wabi sabi is a basic idea about Japanese aesthetics, finding perfection in imperfection and transcience.

PD: Is that your original definition?

Tamami: No, that’s the definition of my friend from Hungary. (laugh, laugh)

PD: I’ve noticed the shaga are blooming here in Johoku Park, as well as all the cherry trees. What do you think about the shaga? Are they beautiful, too? Is it the same beauty?

Tamami: Of course, the shaga are beautiful, too. But they are a bit different from cherry blossoms. I feel a wild energy in the stalks of the shaga. The flowers of the shaga seem both cute and elegant at the same time.

PD: Are the cherry blossoms cute and elegant?

Tamami: They are elegant. They have more of a mature beauty than a cuteness.

PD: Thank you for your time today. One last question. You said you feel grateful to the cherry blossoms. Is there anything you’d like to say to them now?

Tamami: Now I’m just thinking that maybe we have a lot of things to learn from not only cherry blossoms but from all plants. They never complain and accept things as they are. And just enjoy living. That’s really beautiful.

The cherry blossoms get good press.  For many, they are the Jimi Hendrix of the spring flowers: virtuoso rock stars who come on stage and dazzle—then leave us all too soon.

Here in Japan, at least, they have the status of great tragic heroes. They are Juliet, so pure and passionate, then, at such a young age, gone.

When people say hanami party (hanami–literally, “viewing the flowers”), they are almost always thinking about the cherry blossoms.  No one I know, here in Shizuoka at least, has a hanami party sitting beside a tulip bed.

Do you know how to count the blossoms on a mature cherry tree? As far as I know, there is only one way.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!!!!!”

But a few days ago, as I commuted to work on my bicycle,  I could see, easily (anyone could), that the cherries weren’t the only ones out showing themselves off.

The cherries weren’t the only ones shining bright, for what (yes, they knew) would only be a short time.

The nichinichso.

The shaga.

The daffodils.

The camellias.

Not everyone puts the cherries above the camellias.

Not everyone puts the cherries above the na-no-hana.

And what about the harujion? Are they truly just weeds? Sure, maybe they need to comb their hair—but don’t they have their own sort of charm?

And the daisies—lord, what bad press they’ve gotten!  They make the soil soft and clean. They’re full of potasium, calcium, vitamins A, B, and C.

Maybe you’ve gotten the idea that you don’t like them. Maybe you don’t want them in your yard. That’s fine. But don’t tell me that the dandelion flowers are not beautiful. Don’t tell me that some of your children don’t think they are beautiful.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the cherry blossoms, too. I love them on a blue-sky day, and on a rainy day, too.

I just don’t like all this ranking. And all this ranking is probably the main reason why I’ve lost interest (for the most past, not completely, I admit) in competitve sports. Somebody beats somebody else 121-120, and somebody becomes the glorified champions of the universe—while somebody else becomes a footnote. They’re the losers. Maybe they even choked.

Choked 121-120.

Ranking is dividing. Dividing is divorce. Divorce, in all its meanings, is one of the worst—if not the worst—thing there is.

Nature is a Unitarian.

Anyway, when it comes to the dandelions, if you’re determined to exterminate them, you’d better have a pretty damned good plan.  They like living just as much as you—and they’re ready.

It’s April, but there was a bit of rain yesterday, and the temperatures have been unusually low, so when we decided to head off this morning for a hike up Aozasayama, we thought we might run into a bit of snow.

A bit. Boy, were we wrong!

When you see this much snow from a distance (above), you know it’s going to be deep on the trail. We should have remembered what we did yesterday. An English study group asked me to facilitate a discussion on Lafcadio Hearn’s short folk tale, “The Snow Woman.”

Do you know the story? Two woodcutters, on a bitterly cold winter day, take refuge in an old hut. In the middle of the night, the snow woman comes and breathes on the older one, killing him. Upon the younger one, though, she takes pity—for he’s “pretty”—and she spares his life.

I don’t think you have to read any more to conclude that the forces of nature can be capricious and cruel.

The young woodcutter promises the snow woman never to speak of the experience.

Back to our hike: The jizo, as always, welcomed us to the neighborhood. Keep the jizo in mind as you climb, and you can be assured of your safety, no matter how severe your physical situation becomes.

Back to the snow woman: A year later, the young woodcutter meets a demure young lady (with pale, snow-like skin . . . Hearn certainly doesn’t want you to get confused!), and before you know it, they’re married with ten children. Ten! How lovely and peaceful those years were.

But one day, the once-upon-a-time young woodcutter suddenly remembers the night his co-worker, the old man, died. He tells his wife, the mother of his ten children, about it.

She flies into a rage. She reveals her true identity. He’s broken his promise and must pay the price. He must die. Only she loves her ten children—and without him they will not be able to eat. So she spares him—again—and she “melt[s] into a bright white mist that spired to the roof-beams, and shudder[s] away through the smoke-hole.”

Which leaves me with a whooooooole lot of questions, but it does explain why the trail up Aozasayama was knee-deep . . . and then hip-deep. It was the Snow Woman—she knew we’d been talking about her, knew it was a good time to make her presence felt.

For sure, nature can be capricious and cruel. And if you don’t respect her, you can get yourself in a whole lot of trouble. So if you hike in the snow, make sure you keep your legs and feet dry. If you’re wondering how safe it is to go on, go back.

Most of the time, though, nature just wants to be your Best Friend Forever. To nurture you, and to give you great joy.

I love the patterns of the branches above. How they seem to be reaching into the white and blue, stirring it up. But you don’t have to search for ages to find branches that are playing with the sky like this. They know to grow like that.  They are light eaters—and they know how to share.

These budding flowers are hanging down from a mitsumata bush, the bark of which was (is still???) used to make paper.

The jizo atop the ridge understands nature and the capricious snow woman very well. That’s why he’s built himself this nifty hut. Keeps him dry—and keeps you safe. If you’re in the neighborhood toss him a couple of coins. It’ll be money well spent.

Some hikers may wonder who reigns on the mountain, the snow woman or the jizo, but actually, the answer depends on each hiker’s mindset. Just as the trees channel the energy all about, so do you.  Which energy do you channel most, fear of the snow woman, or gratitude to the jizo? The answer to that question may influence what energy you believe this tree . . .

. . . is channeling. 

Finally, we made it to our favorite Fuji viewing spot. It took us three times as long as it usually does to get here. We were only a third of the way to our destination—the top of Aozasa.

We decided that it was a good time to call it a day. Our feet were still dry . . . more or less.

In the above picture, you may think there is no Mt. Fuji, but if you are eagle-eyed and look closely, you will see a tiny bit of our dear friend.

LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!

Okay, I’ll give you a hint.  Follow the most vertical branch down to its twigs. Look just to the right of—and a bit below—the twig on the right.

So much beauty. The trees know how much can be done with water and light (okay, and a few minerals), and so should we.

Turn these wet cedar needles upside-down . . .

. . . and you might just see a Christmas tree, nicely decorated, shining bright.

I, for one, think it’s lovely.

Thanks, guys, everyone in the Saturday study group. Your thoughts on “The Snow Woman” were insightful and thought-provoking. I feel so happy to be able to hang out with such inspiring folks.

Thank you, thank you.

No, no, that’s not the snow woman flying into the upper right corner of the pic below. That’s the sun. That’s the light that enables you to see.

One of the good things about living on a temperate plain on Japan’s Pacific coast is that you’re never too far away from the mountains. Thus, you can enjoy two seasons at the same time.

The plum’s in my garden started blooming before the New Year began, and the blossoms have long disappeared here around town now that it’s mid-March, but just today, up in the mountains, in the town of Umegashima, they were holding their plum blossom festival.

We got there about eight—when the skies were bright and clear.

Plum blossoms love to pose.  Raise their chins. Flutter their eyelashes.

In town today, the temperature went up to about 17 degrees Celsius (about 62 degrees Fahrenheit).

But the hike we took up from the town of Umegashima to the Abe Pass was snow most of the way.

In March, in the snow, you’re bound to meet a lot of hearty snow hikers.

As we were walking the creek up toward the pass, two deer jogged down the slope to our left, down to the creek, saw us, then tore up the slope to our right, up to the ridge.

When they were down by the creek, they were terrified of us. When they were up on the ridge, they stood nonchalantly, studying us leisurely. They knew we weren’t going to run them down up that slope. Everyone feels better on a mountain. Everyone likes to see things spreading out beneath them.

Everyone feels a part of everything—and safe—atop a mountain, or at least, up on a ridge.

Of course, the hot springs were ready for us when we came down—and because we’d only been on the trails for about four hours, we had plenty of daylight on the way home.

Plenty of time to walk among the plums again.  

Plum blossoms . . .

. . . are . . . 

. . . bursting open . . .

. . . now.

White-eyed birds . . .

. . . are sucking at the source.

Cherry petals soon will paint the sky.

The yashio will give us reasons why.

Red-tipped leaves will glisten . . .

. . . like the stars.

It’s bound to give your closed-up heart a jar.

Open it, pump in that mountain air.

Then you’ll see it’s not all so unfair.

You can find so much happiness—just open your heart—

—just live with your heart—

—just light up your heart.

Lyrics courtesy of Shizuoka Duo (from “The End of Me”)

From Shizuoka City, the closest place to find a snow hike is probably Aozasa Mountain. There you can be pretty sure that there will be a bit of snow, but that it won’t be so deep.

We’d walked Aozasa recently, though, so we decided to drive all the way up to Umegashima, where it’s a bit colder, and where you’re a little closer to the snow blowing in from Yamanashi. The snow’s usually a bit deeper along the trails above Umegashima.

We had hoped to enter the town of Umegashima, turn right, and drive another three or four minutes to the trailhead . . . but we had neither chains nor special snow tires, and we came to a slippery stop halfway up the climb into the town, maybe a hundred meters short of the right turn.

Well, it seemed like a good place to park.

So we walked to the trailhead and started into the woods at 8:53.

It wasn’t snowing, but  with the wind, snow dust would drift down from the cypress trees and glitter in the sunlight—and highlight how the sun was slipping into the woods.

Admiring the sun dust and sunshine slowed us down quite a bit.

The first leg took about an hour, then we had to decide whether to head up to Hakkorei Mountain, or up to the Abe Pass.  We took the trail up toward Hakkorei, thinking we’d go as high as Fujimidai, “The Mt. Fuji Lookout,” and then re-consider our options.

We were the first ones up that way, so the snow was fresh, about 20 cm of it . . . the first ones up except for the kamoshika (Japanese antelope-goat). Their prints, and the prints of some small animals (weasels???) were pretty much everywhere. The kamoshika prints were a bit difficult to discern at first, because it kind of looked like one kamoshika had been running and another had been riding a bicycle, but then we realized the “bicycle” tracks must have just been the way their hooves dragged through the snow, step by step.

The tree below is a famous “climbing tree.” We’ll be back in the spring.

We got to Fujimidai around 11. Which meant our pace had been about half what it usually was. It wasn’t really so hard to walk in the snow—mainly we just took a lot of pictures.

We decided, rather than go on up to the top of Hakkorei, we’d cut over to the Abe Pass. The woods were a little more open there, not so steep, so we could imagine larger sweeps of pristine snow.

And that’s what we did indeed find.

The trail that connects the Hakkorei trail with the Abe Pass provides one of my favorite views (below).

And then, the Abe Pass (below).

Heading back down from the Abe Pass, along the Sakasa River, we were still walking in pristine snow, making our own path. I think it got about 50 cm deep. As long as you’ve got leg covers to keep the snow out of your boots, there is no problem!

We got back to the trailhead at about 2:15.

Our usual hot springs, Kogane no yu, was closed for repairs, so we stopped by Onogiso. 500 yen a person. A very nice, peaceful rotenburo (outdoor bath).

Please join us next time!

Christmas Day, 2016, we strolled along the ridge connecting Kita Kamakura Station with downtown Kamakura. Along the way, we stopped at an outdoor restaurant for clam chowder and sausages. At the table next to ours was sitting a single flower.

Just a flower. No people. No plates, no bowls, no coffee cups.

It looked a bit like a dahlia—or maybe a chrysanthemum—but for sure it was a vivid, energetic lavender-pink (Pink! my companion said), and had, I thought a certain lotus-like quality to it—it didn’t burn but stayed ablaze.

We hadn’t ordered so much food (we were sharing a single bowl of chowder and a single order of sausages), but compared to the flower’s table, ours seemed jammed pack.

So I couldn’t help myself. I turned to the flower and said, “You’re a light eater, aren’t you?”

Yes, it’s a terrible joke—but it’s a joke, a line, that I can’t get out of my head.

Most of us, in so many ways, could benefit from becoming light eaters. And there is so much we can learn from the flowers in the fields and the trees in the forests.

And just what do they know? Well, they’ve learned to get the bulk of their sustaining energy directly from the sun—something our scientists are trying to mimic, though in a much more humble way. Yes, the trees and flowers take essential minerals from the soil, but the vast bulk of their intake is water and light. We, on the other hand, tend to consume—eating, playing, working—bigger chunks of solid things, heavier things, and we surely have to wonder how long these big, heavy chunks of things, at our current rate of consumption, can sustain seven billion of us.

So one small piece of advice: From time to time, think a bit about the “light” eaters. They help us a lot, and they help to keep things in balance. They will keep things in balance, if we let them.

Winter, especially, is good for contemplating light. As I go for walks beneath the trees or out about town, I feel, maybe imagine, at least three different types of light. One I call New Year’s Light. This is the light that warms you to the bone, that makes you ask yourself, “Wow, is it really January?” Maybe this light cannot be experienced everywhere, but it certainly can be here in Shizuoka.

And then there is what I call December Light. This is, to me, a somewhat melancholic light. You can feel the cool all around. Just before twilight, you feel the temperature dropping. You wish your gloves were doing a little better job. You know it’s going to be a cold night, but just then, you are happy to be there beneath the maple tree, the tree that has kept its leaves longer than any maple tree anywhere else in town. You are happy to see the December sun slice into the yellow and red, setting it ablaze. This light, you know all so well, is one you can only hold your palms up to for a few more minutes.

And then there is something I call Persimmon Light. This light is warming, certainly, at least a little bit, but that is not its main appeal. Persimmon Light is something I feel must stay in the sky. There’s something spiritual and mystical about it, something that seems to connect me, here on Earth, with something far out in the universe. I’ve never actually seen a persimmon tree, leafless, full of fruit, atop a mountain, but I can imagine pretty clearly the feeling I would have if I hiked up a snowy trail, beneath the bare-branched hardwoods and the shimmering evergreens—here and there, the sun lighting up the bamboo grass—

—and came out into the open air, the sky azure, and there a single persimmon tree, its dark, spidery branches seemingly etched into the sky, the hundreds of translucent-skinned, orange fruit glowing.

Oh, man.

So I’m happy to have this opportunity to say thank you to the light.

Light, thank you.

You sustain me—and give me joy—all the year round.

Ah, and now I’m imagining the lovely komorebi (more or less, sunlight filtered through green leaves, the lighter green the better) that is to be had (for free!) this spring on the trail up Yambushi. I can see myself bathing in it.

Hearty Hikers, get ready!

Persimmon Light

 You led the way

Through the sunlit day

For me.

Through the powdered snow

Bamboo grass aglow

Beneath the trees.

The truth was in your hand,

I heard no stern command,

I felt so pleased.

We climbed up through the glare

Gleaned through crisp, clean air

Persimmon light.

All discord fell mute

As we gazed up at the fruit

Shining bright.

What comes next I am not sure.

But we dreamed of the azure

That night.

Can you conceive

Why I believe

Persimmon light?

Can you conceive

Why I believe

Persimmon light?

Can you conceive

Why I believe

Persimmon light?

NOTE: Only the pink flower pic and Buddha pic are from Kamakura. The snow pics are all from Aozasa Mountain, Shizuoka. The persimmon pics are from here and there in Shizuoka City.

The back yard.

The mejiro, the white-eyes.

The mejiro come and go . . .

. . . talking of Michelangelo.

The mejiro come and go . . .

. . . telling us all of the things they know.

Telling us all of the things they know from right there in the back yard.

The Hearty Hikers have had a great year with  lots of great hikes. As 2016 was coming to an end, we decided to take an “easier” walk, a two-day sightseeing tour of Kamakura. Actually, “sightseeing” is not the best word for what we were up to. Our trip to Kamakura was a chance to relax and reflect—to consider how all our time this year in nature had affected us. If you’ve read The Tao of Pooh, you can just imagine that we were up to the same thing that Pooh was up to about every day: effortless action. (This involves listening to your “inner nature.”)

Kamakura, of course, was the capital of Japan from the end of the 12th Century and into the 14th, an important period for the development of Buddhism—and temples from that period still dot the area, nestling up against mountains, or spreading up mountainsides.

Thus, our two-day trip was a somewhat spiritual opportunity.

We ended up walking about eight hours each day, so it wasn’t so “easy,” but it was more relaxed and slow paced than usual, and as soon as we got off the train at Kita Kamakura Station (about two hours from Shizuoka and about 6 km from the town of Kamakura), our eyes were open to everything.

The side of a house.

A rain spout.

Daffodils.

I think it was a day or two before the trip that I read a New York Times article, actually a conversation between a columnist and his perhaps pastor, the gist of which was, the columnist esteemed Jesus greatly, but had trouble accepting some aspects of Christian thought, specifically the virgin birth and the resurrection. Unwilling to accept the truth of those two things, he wondered, could he still be considered a Christian? His pastor’s answer was pretty clear: No, he could not. Other pastors may have answered differently, or given a more nuanced answer.

But what struck me was how the columnist (and he may have played this up a bit), still wished, despite his serious problems with the basic beliefs of Christianity, that he could be a Christian. This seems strange to me. There are probably lots of “religious” groups with views on existence more closely aligned with what he feels true in his heart. Why insist on being a Christian? Is it just a tribal instinct to belong? Is it what makes a square peg think it can fit snugly in a round hole? If you’re comfortable with your faith, then that’s fine, but if you’re uncomfortable?

But if he is sincerely scared of doctrine and specific beliefs that are (no matter from what religion) a bit hard for his rational mind to accept, well, he may have enjoyed Christmas Day with us.  All we did was reflect and breathe and walk and see and feel the world around as best we could. I should have invited him in a comment.

Anyway, we enjoyed Christmas Day with us.

The first stop was Jochi-ji.

Basically, from what I’ve seen over the years, a Buddhist temple is a few buildings, often quite simple, surrounded by a lot of nature. More or less, Buddhism is (he says) nature—or an awareness of all nature is.

At Jochi-ji, the three statues of Buddha, past, present, future, are the most valuable assets, but another statue intrigued me more. What would you think if you came across the below sign?

1. Let’s go!
2. Ha, ha, ha.
3. Wait, it could be dangerous!
4. Thank goodness history fell out the way it did and we’ve got a sign in English!
5. Hey! they’ve got Aerosmith!

We went with #1, and this is the fellow we met. Hotei is his name.

The sign said the God of Happiness, but to be honest, I don’t know what the word “God” means in Buddhism. I don’t think there are gods (he says), only folks who are completely enlightened (Buddha) and those who are well on the way to enlightenment but still wanting to stick around and see how they can help out (bodhisattva). The guy above is obviously still hanging around, and he seems, jolly as he is, able to help you be content even if you’re poor. (Benjamin Franklin had something to say about that, too.) Some people believe you can rub his belly for good luck, but I  think it is more likely that an awareness of an idea that he brings to mind can lead to contentment.

Awareness. I think that basically (he says) that’s what Buddhism is all about.

We Hearty Hikers are keen on awareness.

After Jochi-ji, we headed up the hill into the woods and hit the ridge we’d follow over to the main town of Kamakura.

Yep, camellias were everywhere.

And we were having such a nice walk that it never occurred to me that I might be cold—but this guy sure seemed to be.

Before descending down into the town, we came to a restaurant—yes, a restaurant, up there on the mountain, you can only walk up, and we enjoyed a hedonistic hour—clam chowder and sausages.

A cute purple flower sat across from us. A light eater, apparently. (That’s a joke.)

And then we descended into town and made our way to Kotoku-in . . .

. . . the home of the Big Buddha.

Construction on the Big Buddha began in 1252 and was completed in about ten years. He? is 13.4 meters tall and weighs 121 tons, all bronze. He lived in houses for a good many years, but strong winds (kamikaze?????) blew them down. From the 15th Century, he’s been out in the elements.

But that’s good. He seems to have nothing to hide.

But who is he? What is he?

The universe. Awareness. An enlightened educator of non-dualism.

That’s it. And you got it right here, on this blog, knowledge acquired after a long day (single day that it was) of contemplation. Any Buddhist priests out there, please correct me if I’m wrong.

Knowledge? Contemplation? Oh, dear.

In front of the statue is a prayer pot, a round ball, that you can place incense inside of. I don’t know about anyone else, but in a temple like this, with that big guy right there in front of me, it didn’t seem right to pray for something. It only seemed right to try to feel as calm and aware and compassionate as the Buddha himself. That is, as calm and aware and compassionate as I thought the Buddha was.

A Hearty Hiker! Feeling more content already!

But I’d like to hear everyone’s opinion. What do you see in this face?

1. Calm
2. Love
3. Awareness
4. Compassion
5. False Prophet
6. Evil
7. A bore
8. Something else

You can step into the Big Buddha for a mere 20 yen (18 cents, US). Well worth it.

The hole is his neck. And you can see that putting him together was quite the task in the 13th Century.

Two windows in the back, necessary for construction way back when, “enlighten” the inside of the Buddha.

I pledge to you on my Hearty Hiker’s heart that this is a sincerely peaceful moment.

And then we walked through town, toward the ocean, and made our way to the day’s third temple, Hasedera.

If you’ve seen some of our hiking pictures, you might know that up on the trails we sometimes come across little Jizo statues. Often they’re wearing red bibs, as they keep an eye on children, especially.  At Hasedera, there were thousands (literally) of Jizo. I think, technically, they may rank as bodhisattva.

The pride of the temple, though is the eleven-headed Hase Kannon statue, about 9 meters tall.

No pictures allowed. No pictures taken. So no pictures here. Kannon (literally “see” and “sound”) is often translated into English as “the Goddess of Mercy” but is strictly, as I’ve suggested, neither masculine or feminine. She? is destined for enlightenment, but has promised to stick around a while longer to offer compassion, mercy, and love to all.

Good for her.

Kannon and others, often have lots of heads and arms. That’s because it is a wide, wide world with lots of stuff going on, some of it not so nice. Extraordinary awareness is necessary to take it all in.

Lesson to be learned: Do your best.

Housed in the building next to the Hase Kannon is the Buddha.

The gardens are lovely.

Nature, nature, nature.

There’s a walk through a stretch of hydrangeas (nope, neither blooming nor greening in December) that leads up to a view of the bay.

Should you stumble and fall? Don’t worry? Someone will see you. Someone will lend you a hand.

A lovely, lovely Jizo family!!!

And then off to Hase train station . . .

. . . where it is still Christmas.

See you guys later.