Preface

Preface (jobun)

At the ancient temple of Butsuryu-ji,

amongst the autumn beauty

of colorful changing leaves,

I slept

one night.

kaibyaku no

hiraki tamaishi

butsuryu-ji

hitoyo yadorinu

momijiba no aki

I first met Goto Hiroko in the spring of the year 2000. For me, it was an auspicious beginning to the new millennium. But then, according to the Japanese calendar, it was simply another year in the reign of the current emperor, nothing special. A group of us, adults and youngsters, had come all the way from a little town in Iowa, nestled in the middle of corn fields that had once been tall-grass prairie, to a little village in Japan, nestled at the base of Fuji-san, the most sacred mountain in Japan. We stayed one week as guests of Goto-sensei’s International Cultural Academy.

Sensei’s house sits about halfway up a hill of pines overlooking Fuji-san. We slept on futons on the floor all over the house. We were crowded but happy. With Sensei’s smiles and quick attention to our every need, we felt like “mother is at home.” Brenda Wright, who hails from New Zealand but has taught English in Tōkyō for many years, translated for us, effortlessly switching from Japanese to English, then English to Japanese, and once, to our amusement, from English to English! Sensei’s students, a close knit group of women who have studied calligraphy and tea ceremony with her for some 30 years, came every night and cooked delicious meals for us.

One evening as we sat around the living room, on chairs or on the floor, Sensei suddenly brought out a small album of her childhood photos. In one she appears to be 4 or 5, dressed in a sailor suit with short hair, one arm resting on the table and a take-charge look on her face. In another she looks like a teenager, striding down the street in a short dress, bobbed hair framing a striking face. She laughed and covered up the photo, perhaps embarrassed by her bold stride, the same one she still had at 79 (80 by Japanese reckoning). That evening Sensei also showed us a small book with a delicate painting of white clover blossoms and calligraphy on the cover. It was the diary of her pilgrimage from Kyōto to Tōkyō to pray for those who died in the war. She hoped some day it would be translated and published in English. Looking at those old photos and hearing little bits about her spiritual journey, I wanted to know more.

Four years passed. I visited Sensei once more, this time with my three sons, and Sensei visited my sons’ home in Chicago and my home in Fairfield. Between times we kept in touch by email. The idea of translating her little book kept nudging me. However, I wanted to do more. I wanted to record the whole story of Sensei’s remarkable life. That would require an extended visit to interview her at length. Sensei speaks English but not fluently, so we would have to work through a translator. Naturally I thought of Brenda, so I asked her to ask Sensei for permission to record her memoirs. At first Sensei modestly demurred. The Japanese say, deru kui wa utareru, “the nail that sticks up gets hammered down.” Publishing a memoir would certainly involve standing out. But finally she agreed because she felt it was her duty to pass on to the younger generation the stories from the old days.

We picked a month early in 2005 for the project, when Sensei and Brenda would both be on break from classes. This time I traveled alone to Tōkyō, where Brenda met me and then we took the bus to Fujiyoshida. Sensei’s youngest son, Sumio-san, who was now living with his mother, met us at the station in his taxi and drove us up the snow-covered mountain to the familiar house. Brenda, who still had tutorial students in Tōkyō during the week, could only translate on weekends, so four other volunteers took time from their busy work schedules to help with the translation. In the evenings Sumio-san translated for his mother as we sat around the kitchen table after dinner. And sometimes, when Sensei and I were alone, huddled together with our legs under the quilt covering the heated kotatsu table, she would pull out an electronic translator and her huge dictionary and translate for herself.

It was not easy. I remember the very first day. I began by asking a simple question. Being an American, I was probably too direct, a very un-Japanese quality. The translator, who was, after all, not a professional translator, was nervous. Brenda murmured assurances in Japanese and I smiled encouragement. What followed appeared to be a delicate feeling out of nuances of language and meaning. Meanwhile, I sat, hands poised over my keyboard, and waited and waited and waited. First the translator translated the question, which took many more words than I expected. Sensei responded, at length. Then the translator and Sensei talked back and forth for awhile, apparently clarifying her answer. Finally he turned to me and spoke in English, but I had difficulty understanding his accent. I looked helplessly across the table at Brenda. As a teacher of English as a second language, she understands how Japanese pronounce English, so she repeated his words for me. Two hours and less than one page!

There were other difficulties. Memories are sometimes pleasant, sometimes not. And Sensei is a traditional, reserved Japanese woman. At one point, talking about young men going off to war, lovers separated, Sensei got teary and said, “I do not want to talk about it.” Sometimes Sensei got a bit grumpy when I asked questions that were too personal, or when we went back over the translation and she had to correct some mistakes again. With so many different translators, inevitably there were differences in the translation. Sorting them out took a lot of time and patience. Thank goodness for the dish of sweets Sensei always kept on the table! Translating her poetry was the most difficult of all. Poetry is so subtle and Japanese poetic language has many nuances. Following one of these sessions, Sensei told us a “ghost story” from one of her adventures. Then she said, “I love stories. It is a lot easier than translating poetry. I can just burble along.”

Between sessions we played. Some days Sensei gave me calligraphy lessons, making many corrections in bright orange on my attempts. One time her calligraphy students treated us to a traditional Japanese meal at a restaurant. After sitting at a low table with legs folded under for awhile, they all urged me to “be comfortable.” Another time Sensei took me to a public bath, where we sat outside in a pool of steaming water surrounded by snow, with a view of Fuji-san.

In working with the interview material, I felt that the best way to organize it was somewhat chronological and somewhat topical. I have tried to retain the formal style and tone of Sensei’s words, as much as is possible in English. However, I have also included explanatory material to help English readers understand the background of some of the events as well as historical and cultural references.

In this translation, Japanese names are given in Japanese order, with family name first. Dates are sometimes given according to the Japanese system, based on the ruling emperor, as well as according to the Western system. The first occurrence of a Japanese word, except proper nouns, is italicized. Long syllables are transcribed with a macron: ā, ī, ō, ū. Long syllables are pronounced as a single unbroken sound twice the length of the corresponding short syllable. Omitting long vowel sounds can often totally alter the meaning of the word. For example, o-ba-san means “aunt,” whereas o-bā-san means “grandmother.” Double consonants should be pronounced separately and distinctly. For example, Kannon should be pronounced with a slight pause between the double consonants: Kan-non. The suffix -sensei (Goto-sensei) following a name indicates a teacher, -san shows respect to the person (e.g., Ama-san) addressed, -sama (e.g., Kannon-sama) shows extreme respect to the one addressed.

From the beginning Sensei wanted to go where the famous haikai poet Bashō had traveled. I see many parallels in their spiritual journeys. They were both in their forty-sixth year when they began their pilgrimage. Bashō began his journey in Edo in 1689 with his disciple Sora, walking in pilgrim garb, visiting temples and making poetry on the spur of the moment. He called the book he wrote about his journey, Oku-no-hosomichi, Oku’s Narrow Path. Oku is the region north and west of Edo (old Tōkyō), which was quite remote in those days, a difficult path. Goto’s route was not exactly the same but it had its difficulties. Their journey went north, then west to the coast and south to Lake Biwa, near Kyōto. Her journey began in Kyōto and she followed back roads as much as possible, north and east to Tōkyō. She was also walking, visiting temples and making poetry as it arises spontaneously, although she was traveling alone and not dressed as a pilgrim. Their journey took over five months whereas hers is took less than a month. Bashō kept a journal of his travels as she did, an ancient tradition among pilgrims. Both used a pen-name. His family name was Matsuo but he took the name Bashō, which means plantain tree, from a humble tree growing outside his hermit’s hut. Goto was given the name Suigetsu, moon water, by her tea ceremony master. Bashō was a pilgrim of nature; Goto was a pilgrim of peace.

Goto-sensei’s roots are deep and mysterious, but now, thanks to the blessings of Kannon-sama, some have come to light.