Where the Dead Pause, and the Japanese Say Goodbye: A Journey (68 page)

“I want to tell you,” said the priest, after the sutras concluded, “that we have a special sutra for you today. For centuries, we were not allowed to reveal its contents. But now that it’s been around for a thousand years, we are allowed to open it, and you are the first people to have its benefits. You must now line up, and we will hit you on the head and evil spirits will fall away.” I got in line with everyone else and subjected myself to yet another of Shingon’s unusual exorcisms.

Once purified, we moved on to another part of the temple to ring a bell. There are a lot of bells during Obon. One temple I had visited earlier in the day had had a bell soundtrack on continuous loop. At Rokuharamitsuji the pilgrims rang the bell—named the
mukaegane
, which is literally “receiving bell”—to get the attention of the dead. While most temple bells hang in a specially designed wooden tower that stands separate from other temple structures, Rokuharamitsuji’s bell hangs underground, suspended over a pit, so beings in the underworld can hear it more clearly. In case you are confused about where the dead are supposed to be—underground or in the air—clearly the location of the ancestors isn’t a fixed position. If the Japanese don’t seem to mind this, it’s because they recognize that they are engaging in a ritual activity and not a literal one.

There is a trick to ringing this underground bell, and there was much hand wringing over a failure to produce a good sound. I gave the rope attached to a wooden pole a good tug. I tugged so hard that the bell rang particularly loudly, and I was startled, if also a
little pleased. Then we moved over to a statue of Jiz
. I poured water over the strips of paper with the names of the dead and left them at that statue’s feet.

By now it was dark. A group of neighborhood volunteers was going through the street with flashlights on the lookout for anyone who might be lost. Blocks away, the porcelain festival was breaking down. In the narrow streets of this old part of Ky
t
, the modern city felt far away. We walked to Chinkoji, the next stop on the pilgrimage, and it was the same here as it had been at Rokuharamitsuji; we could buy strips of paper in addition to a little pine branch to help bring our ancestors down to us. Here too there was a large bell to ring. The line to ring this bell went all around the bell tower, and as people stood in line—nervous, joking, apprehensive—I kept hearing, “I hope I can ring that bell.” And, “That guy did a great job.” And, “Oops. Poor woman. Bad sound.” It was a curious mix of peer pressure and sympathy and group comfort.

My bell ringing—less successful this time—was one drop in a sea of collective mourning. Here in this country often chastised for its lack of mental health services, for its lack of a language to discuss suffering and depression, we were out in the open, ringing bells, writing down the names of the people we missed, praying for them, and planning on spending several days in their company because we missed them.

There was nothing private about our grief.

Perhaps it was a combination of heat and exhaustion, but I slept better that night than I had in years. I slept without medication. I dreamed of stars in the night sky. I watched them tumble down slowly, like marbles falling down a slope. They cascaded down a hillside onto a valley floor and into my hands.

In the morning, I woke up and told my mother, “It worked. Everyone is here with us.”

I
N THE MORNING
I returned to Goj
D
ri. The porcelain stalls were gone, and the street was quiet. Almost all the trash had been cleared, and there was little trace of the frenzied carnivalesque energy of the night before. Most of the shops were shuttered, with signs on the doors and windows declaring that business had stopped for now due to the Obon holiday. But at the top of the hill, where Goj
D
ri leads to the entrance to Kiyomizu temple, a few porcelain stores were open. This included the shop where I’d picked up the
raku
bowl and been given the dragonfly cups, and which was now overseen by a woman.

“We have to stay open,” the shopkeeper said to me. “Someone will always come by looking for new candle holders or teacups to put on the family grave.” I looked at the pile of dishes outside the shop. There, neatly arranged on a table, were rows of incense burners, candle holders, and tiny dishes—the very things a ghost would need for a tea. The porcelain festival’s original mission was not to give people like me a reason to buy lots of pretty things, but to give Ky
t
ites the chance to replace porcelain teacups and plates used on family altars and cemeteries with something brand new.

The shopkeeper served me cold tea, which I drank gratefully. It was still morning, but it was already hot and my bags had once again grown heavy.

“Where are you going now?” the shopkeeper asked me kindly as I dabbed my wet forehead with a handkerchief.

I told her that I planned to climb to Kiyomizu temple. The altar in the
hond
, which was usually closed from view, was open to the public, and I wanted to see the main images.