Chapter 3 Nothing Special

Nothing Special (hei hei bon bon)

Walking all the way from Kyōto,

crossing the old border station at Fuwa,

now completely quiet.

kyo yori no

tabiji haruka ni

ayumi kite

ima seki koyuru

fuwa no yamazato

Before the Pacific War was a very peaceful time for me. Hei hei bon bon, nothing special happened. My life was just normal.

I went to a private all girls’ school, which taught a way of life for girls. There were 30 girls in my class. In the home economics class, I learned how to grow vegetables and cook them. I learned how to raise tomatoes and make tomato puree. I learned the basics of sewing. I also learned typing. These skills have been useful in my life, even now, and I still enjoy cooking and sewing.

In addition, I learned about shinto and bukkyō (Buddhism), a mixture of both, not extreme on either side. Japanese religions are not exclusive. For example, marriage is performed before a Shinto kami, whereas a funeral is a Buddhist ritual. In most homes there are two altars, a Shinto kamidana and a Buddhist butsudan. Because of my upbringing, I am interested in religion. Especially I love Buddhism. Because of that I had good kone, personal connections, at a famous temple in Kyōto and Nara. I believe it was the will of nature.

I went all the way through six years of primary school and five years of secondary school. Most people started working after primary school or became apprentices. The first two years of secondary school were the same for everyone. After that you had to choose a specialization. Girls could specialize in home economics, office work or preparing for the entrance examination to university. Only one or two students in each class of primary school went on to secondary school, as primary school was usually the end of one’s education. Of those who finished secondary school, only teachers or professional workers would go to university. Not many did that and more boys than girls continued on.

I started secondary school in 1936, at a time when rumors of war were starting. Just before the war, in 1938, the Japanese government introduced education against the United States, especially in the boys’ school, where military training was important. In the girls’ school, we had a special budō class to learn naginata, long sword, as well as archery. The purpose was not to make women fight but to develop their fighting spirit. Naginata is the name of the weapon and also the name of the martial art. It is a long oak pole with a sword at the end, originally a Chinese weapon for cavalry, which was taught to women so they could defend themselves if the castle was stormed. During practice we would use all wood poles or poles with bamboo at the end.

I especially remember kangeiko, cold practice, early in the morning in the coldest part of the year. I had to take the first train out to commute to school. There were no heaters in the gym, so first we warmed ourselves on a bonfire outside made with scraps of wood. I wore a cotton practice uniform, kimono style, very thin, and we practiced for two hours. After practice we would eat breakfast and go to academic classes. Every year there was one naginata competition in the school, competing against our classmates.

For archery there was another class. There is a way to set up your shot, very precise. The target was 30 meters away. It was made of paper over straw and when the arrow hit correctly in the middle, it made a nice sound. It felt good when it made that sound, zook! It did not make a pleasant sound when it hit the dirt bank.

I practiced budō for five years. Budō is like Zen. There is nothing. If you aim at the target and think, target, target, you will miss it. You have to be one with the target. Once, a long time after I had graduated from school, I was walking down a street, carrying a shopping bag in each hand, when a bad-looking man came toward me. Without thinking, I shifted the two bags to one hand, preparing to defend myself. I gave the man a hard look and he turned and ran away. It happened automatically, because of my training in budō.

Traditional Japanese arts were not taught at school. Those were activities after school. At twelve I started learning shodō, the “way of writing” with fude, brush, and sumi, ink. I also studied ikebana, the art of flower arranging, and shamisen, a lute-like instrument. I did not start learning sadō, the way of tea (also know as chanoyu), until I was eighteen, after graduation from high school.

There was a school in Tōkyō, the Julliard of Japan, famous for both western and Japanese music. It was called Tōkyō Music School, which later became Tōkyō National University of Fine Arts and Music. My uncle taught the vocal music course at this school. I learned to play shamisen as an extracurricular activity from a lady who graduated from Tōkyō Music School. Shamisen is a long, three-stringed instrument which is plucked, and is accompanied by singing. In the old days shamisen was taught one to one, but when I learned it had changed and there were several students in my class. The style I learned was nagauta, one of the most popular styles. Usually when people hear nagauta, they do not understand because it is very stylized, but when you read the lyrics it is very poetic. Nagauta is designed to pass down the old songs written by famous poets and musicians a long time ago. I like the lyrics even when they are not accompanied by music. They are very traditional.

The origin of ikebana is a form of offering flowers to Buddha. The purpose is to show that humans are in between heaven and earth in this life. It was only practiced in the temple at first. Then it went to the warlords in the castles. Common people did not do it. The style I learned was very traditional. The tallest plant is called ten (heaven), the ones in the middle, jin (humans) and the bottom, chi (earth). You are making your own cosmos. That is the meaning behind ikebana. You could use one plant and have all three levels. I think nowadays people put a big bunch of fancy flowers together any way, as long as it looks nice, but you cannot see where heaven and earth and humans are. With true ikebana the three elements are clearly displayed and that is the most pleasing view. My teacher was from a temple. She taught me that each plant has its own history and it is alive, with its own spirit. You have to understand that when you cut the flower. Every time you do ikebana you put yourself into it. You make your own personal microcosm, so that is why every arrangement is different.

After graduation, I went to summer school, held by Tōkyō City Government (now Tōkyō Metropolitan Government), to get a license for teaching shodō for three years. During and after the war I was busy with my family and did not study. Later I took up the practice again and became a shodō teacher. I still continue to teach to this day.

I learned all these things from my teachers. When I was thirty-three, I started teaching shodō but I did not start teaching sadō until I was fifty, because when you are young you do not understand what all these things mean. Feeling is emphasized over technique. When you stir the tea, you have to put all other thought out of your mind and focus on stirring the tea, just like when you put the brush to paper. You cannot understand wabi sabi, simplicity and silence, when you are young. Also the cups are very fragile and valuable. I started learning shodō earlier, so I understood it better, and I also started teaching shodō earlier because you do not need so much equipment, just paper and brushes. To get the license for sadō used to be quite difficult. You had to take a test and also get permission from the master teacher. Now you can become a teacher just with money and the test is administered by the Culture and Education Ministry.

Many years ago I had twenty sadō students but now I am retired. As I get older I do not want to teach, I just want to enjoy the way of tea myself. Also, my knees do not like to sit folded under for long! Once you get to a certain age, most people stop teaching, although I still enjoy teaching shodō. I can sit at a table to make practice exercises and correct students’ work. Some of my students have been with me for twenty-five years. Teaching shodō is a blessing. I am able to pass on the old traditions, which I feel are very valuable as a spiritual practice, especially in these fast-paced times. And through the money I receive from teaching, I am able to support the humanitarian activities that are dear to my heart.