Chapter 6 Pilgrimage Day 15

Diary of the White Bush Clover

Day 15 (20 October) Hamamatsu to Osugachu

At half past 5 o’clock in the morning the prayers had already started in the main room of the temple. The priest and his son said prayers for the people whose names were written in my notebook and for my journey so I thanked them. Half a month had passed since the beginning of my pilgrimage. The end of autumn had come and I felt the cold.

I had breakfast with the priest’s family. I tried to give the priest an offering but he gave it back to me and said, “Money is very important for your journey so it is better that you keep it.” He did not speak much but he was filled with love. I was deeply impressed by him. He worried about where I would go next so he called and arranged for me to call on a family he knew and gave me a map with directions to their house. The priest told the Suzuki family I would visit them at noon and asked them to please prepare lunch.

I took a little bit of a roundabout way because I wanted to see Fuji-san from Enshunada, a beautiful viewpoint. I walked toward Iwata, hoping to reach the Suziki house by noon. At 9:45 I crossed the Tendu-gawa. The river was so wide I could not see the end of the bridge. It took me fifteen minutes to walk across the bridge on the pedestrian walkway. In the middle I stopped and looked down. The water was dark blue and clear. The river was very low with many rapids because there was a dam upstream.

A little before noon I was still walking. I searched for the fire lookout tower in the town but I could not find it. Finally I found the Suzuki house. It was already 1 o’clock. They had prepared a big lunch and waited one hour for me even though they did not know me. I thought it was too much for me alone but I was walking for Buddha so I thanked them and ate. Usually I only had a quick lunch of pastry but today’s lunch was very delicious and I thought my stomach must be very surprised. After I rested for half an hour the kind family saw me off and I continued walking.

There was not much traffic in the city so I could walk easily. On both sides of the river there was a windbreak of pine trees but I could still feel the wind blowing through the trees. Maybe in places like this the heroic Jirocho family, who had helped the poor people, would walk with their shoulders thrust forward, breaking the wind. The road continued, with golden stalks of rice bending their heads on either side. I could see people working in the fields far away, cutting the rice.

A small stone Jizō, the deity who helps children, stood on the side of the road wearing a red baby bib. The name of an eight-year-old girl was carved on this Jizō and there were fresh flowers in front of the statue. Perhaps she had died in a traffic accident. I prayed for her in front of the Jizō.

I did not have a reservation for a ryokan that night and the houses were becoming fewer and farther apart. The sun was already setting and the lights were coming on. I stopped at one house and asked if there was a ryokan nearby. They said there was one in the next town, Yaojin. I had to walk another half hour. I was already tired so I tried to cheer myself up. At last I arrived at the ryokan. I was exhausted. This hotel looked so old I thought perhaps a servant would come with a bucket of water to wash my feet, the way they did in ancient times when people traveled by foot wearing waraji, straw sandals.

I was an unexpected customer but they were very polite and took me to a room. I spoke with the owner of the ryokan, a lady who was nearly seventy years old, telling her about my journey. She told me the story of her son. Before the Great Pacific War, when he was eighteen, he volunteered to go to Manchuria to cultivate the land, which was controlled by the Japanese government at that time. While he was there the war started and he was drafted into the army. He was sent to Siberia and died there. She was crying because she had not been able to take care of her son. Her old face full of sorrow, she said, “His friend told me the reason he might have died in the war. Every night the soldiers drew straws to see who would go out to steal food. One night my son was chosen to go out and did not return so perhaps he was killed by a farmer in the area. The government sent me a white box but there were no bones inside so no one knew how or where he died. He was an unfortunate boy.”

She said, “Please forgive me. It’s very noisy in the next room, but I want to talk to you about my son and my life.” A party was going on but the woman talked until midnight. I wanted to listen to her story all night long.

I said to her, “Your son died for the lives of his fellow soldiers. His sacrifice made him bosatsu, a servant of life. I am sure he is with Buddha now.” I made up a poem for mothers who lost their son in the war and recited it for her.

sen’yu no

kate o motomete

senjyo ni

chirishi sonomi wa

bosatsu narubeshi

In the war

you tried to find food

for your friends

and died on the battleground.

You are a servant of life.

The old woman was very happy. Before, she thought her son’s death had no meaning but now she could think of his death in a new light. Because he died for someone else he was godly. “Thank you very much,” she said.

I too felt happy. I had a wonderful experience in this ryokan.