Where the Dead Pause, and the Japanese Say Goodbye: A Journey (61 page)

I couldn’t help but be spooked. Everyone had told me that Osorezan was full of ghosts, and though I did not expect to see anything otherworldly, the mere suggestion was enough to make me want to stay in my room. Still, I put on my
yukata
(a lightweight kimono), grabbed a towel, and met the other two women in the lobby.

The wind was quite strong, and though I could not see much, I could hear the whir of countless plastic pinwheels all around. Pilgrims brought these pinwheels to entertain the spirits of deceased children, and then they left the toys next to statues of Jiz
or at altars. We crossed the gravel courtyard and then went into the creaking, wooden shed and began to strip off our clothing. There is a phrase in Japanese—
hadaka no tsukiai
—that means “naked friends.” The concept is not at all sexual, though it does imply intimacy. When you bathe together, you are in a vulnerable state and you can’t help but share confidences and become closer.

Three years earlier, after a breast-cancer diagnosis, the woman from Hokkaido had begun to receive messages that she needed to undertake a spiritual journey. In her previous lives, she had been
a shamaness, and many of her previous forms had been killed—usually by men. She needed to do a pilgrimage to as many “power spots” as possible to appease the angry spirits of her former selves. The term “power spot” in Japanese refers to locations said to harbor strong
reiki
, or “healing energy,” and are a reflection of Japan’s growing New Age movement. Conveniently, a great many power spots are on the sites of traditionally sacred temples and shrines. She was quite convinced that there was a reason—some act of fate—that had brought us together in this same spot. We must have met in a previous life.

A
T 6:30 IN
the morning, we went up to the main
hond
for the morning prayers. Then, after breakfast, we three women went for a walk.

The word often used to describe the grounds of Osorezan is “lunar,” because once you move past the temple structure and onto the plains behind it, you find yourself surrounded by white and gray rock, the exhaled detritus of a volcano. There is something decidedly otherworldly and alienating about being in a place that is composed of the earth’s innards. Because of the high sulfur content, few things can live in and grow on Osorezan, save for crows, an unusual species of fish in Lake Usori’s poisonous waters, and a rare fungus. Beyond that, there are a few patches of grass, but no trees, no flowers, and no insects.

The grounds roll gently, with congealed towers of rock, under which sulfuric hot springs burble and steam. Punctuating this terrain were tall statues of Buddhist deities, often in the form of Jiz
, forming a skyline of mourning and longing. Along the pathways were brightly colored pinwheels, offerings, piles of coins, and bouquets of daffodils. There was my old friend Fud
My
-
, the Buddhist deity whose form I had seen at Sh
j
shinin, and whom my
father and I had so loved, and one odd pile of rocks with a pair of chopsticks. It was a
harikuy
shine, a place to pay respects to broken combs and pins and needles. In the old Japanese tradition where everything was animated, one had to pay respects to the pins and needles, lest they harm you.

I began to notice a pattern. People had left little offerings in front of the statues. Usually they were worn river rocks on which someone had written with a permanent marker. But sometimes someone had done something more personal. There were three wooden figures in front of a Jiz
, which I assumed were representations of the people who had died. I picked one up and turned it over. It read, “For Taki. Fourteen years old.
Sake
.” There was also a smaller statue: “For Kiyo. Two years old.
Miso
soup.” And then: “For my one-year-old. Yogurt and a park.” Someone, perhaps a parent, had made these little dolls to represent the deceased and, on the bottom, had written out offerings to their spirits. It is common in Buddhist temples in Japan to leave an offering for someone who has died. At Empukuji, for example, offerings to the deceased children were grouped together, and parents usually brought little bottles of milk or packages of candy—just as Hina, the little girl who had “played” with Ewan, had had on her altar. Such actions aren’t meant to be taken literally, but figuratively, so the living feel they are doing something constructive on behalf of the person whom they miss so much.