After rejoining with the ladies' group, we all went to the Haha Kōdō, Mother Hall, to chant our final prayers for the day. The main image at the Haha Kōdō is Shiratōme, En no Gyōja's mom. The story goes that Shiratōme came looking for her son when she heard how dangerous the mountain was, and he had the villagers build her a hut at the foot of the mountain so she could stay close and keep an eye on him. I love that En no Gyōja, even after journeying spiritually into the far reaches of the universe, was still a mama's boy. Visiting the temple felt like visiting my grandmother's house, a wise elder ready to teach and nurture the sincere.
A big part of my experience at Ōmine was gratitude. When we stopped to chant at images of En no Gyōja on the way up the mountain, I felt thankful for the tradition he helped establish. When we visited the Haha Kōdō, I felt thankful to have wonderful teachers and guides along my spiritual path. After a hot soak, a wonderful feast of local food, and a wonderful evening of conversation and laughter (and beer), I fell asleep to the sound of frogs chirping in the river.
On Sunday we visited the Tenkawa Benzaiten-sha, an enormous and beautiful shrine dedicated to Benzaiten, a goddess of water, music, and poetry. We were given a blessing by the shrine's priest before ascending the steep wooden stairs to the upper sanctum. Entering the inner area was like walking into a bubble of quiet. Below, I had been distracted by the noise of a weed wacker outside, but upstairs it didn't seem to make a difference. The atmosphere seemed primed and ready to accept the vibrations of voice and instruments.
Since the Benzaiten-sha has a long history with Shugendō, which syncretizes Buddhist and Shintō practice, we did a bit of both. The ritual at the bottom of the stairs was in typical Shintō style while up top we chanted the Heart Sutra. As we chanted, shrine attendants below accompanied us on a huge Taiko drum and a mokugyō, a wooden percussion instrument. The shrine is built as a scaffolded structure against a cliff, so the instruments made the whole building and my body vibrate in rhythm with our chanting. I was dead tired from the previous day's activities, and that seemed to leave me in an especially receptive state. It was really powerful. After, there was a moment of stillness and quiet, then an attendant began to play a wooden flute. Its gentle voice blended seamlessy with the mountain air.
We made a brief stop at the Raigo-in, a nearby temple with an enormous Ginkgo tree said to have been planted by Kūkai himself. Whenever I see an old tree like that, I like to visualize the web its endless roots make and enjoy the feeling of being stood both above and below them, then take a moment to breathe with it. Thinking about the thousands of lives that have passed in the shadow of that venerable tree was very humbling.
We returned to Dorogawa to take part in the final activity of our workshop, a Saito-goma at Ryūsenji. The Saito-goma is one of the most important rituals in Shugendō, and it was my first time participating in one officially. Ahead of the ritual, we wrote petitions on small wooden plates to be offered to the fire. I offered prayers for my family, the land, and my coworkers and students.
The ritual was strong and beautiful. The main priest sat some distance from the pile of branches set for the fire and did actions that seemed to hold a strong barrier of security around the ritual precincts. I admired the precision with which the assistant priests carried out their parts of the ritual, turning quickly and aggressively as they walked around the fire. Once the fire was lit, we chanted the Heart Sutra several times and took turns offering our petitions to the flames, then chanted the mantra of Fudō Myō-Ō. The ritual was mesmerizing. Our voices, the fire and its thick smoke, the priests' focused intent, the powerful deity images around us, the sacred spring where we'd bathed two days before, the strong sunshine on my skin, the voices of birds and bugs in the nearby trees all became one fluid event, something to be experienced rather than understood. I had thought that the ritual under the hot sun would leave me exhausted, but I was surprised to find myself in a clear and cheerful state of mind at its conclusion.
At the end of the ritual, two of our members were ordained as Sho-sendatsu, the first rank of leadership roles granted to those who have done practices at Ōmine three times. They receive a pretty awesome yui-gesa, a stole unique to Shugendō that marks their status. They looked justifiably proud. Congratulations to them both!
As we took photos and started packing our things, I found myself already looking forward to my next visit to Dorogawa. Most of the members of our group are Sho-sendstu or higher, meaning they keep coming back year after year.
Talking with a friend who had been ordained the year before on the train back to Ōsaka, I asked her what difference she noticed this year, entering the mountains as a Sho-sendatsu. She said that while she felt a lot less nervous, she felt a lot more responsibility to take care of newcomers, especially people who don't visit the mountains much. Rather than feeling like she'd accomplished something when she became a Sendatsu, she felt like her journey had just begun. The path quickly turns from one of intense individual experience to one of service.
When I first visited Chichibu Mandara Koya, I asked Hōryū-sensei what practices I might undertake to start "doing Shugendō." I thought there might be some specific meditation, some set of practices like the Tibetan Ngöndro or some routine prescribed to newcomers. He replied, "The most important thing is to connect with nature. You can even go to a park, just feel the wind and be aware of what's around you." He repeated this advice at our orientation on Saturday. The first time I heard it, I felt a little disappointed. That's it? What about all the cool gear, all the impressive mudra and chants?
But Hōryū-sensei gave the best advice he possibly could have. Over the last year of learning Shugendō, and especially at Ōmine, I've learned that the basis of the practice is twofold: to build a connection with nature and its beings, and to be of service to others. Without those, Shugendō is just doing cosplay while hiking.
I'd been really looking forward to Ōmine Shugyō, but at the end I didn't feel any sense of accomplishment. Instead I felt a deeper sense of mystery, connection, and determination to continue learning. I hope that I too can one day help people to experience the richness of Shugendō with the patience and wisdom that the sendatsu at Chichibu Mandara Koya have taught me with.
I went to high school and university at Jesuit schools. A big part of the Jesuit tradition are the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola. These are usually done over a month long silent retreat, divided into one week meditations on some aspect of the life of Christ. The period after the retreat is referred to as "the Fifth Week," meaning the rest of the practitioner's life is to be thought of as a continuation of the retreat, a constant process of deepening one's relationship to the Divine.
This is very much how I felt returning to the noise, crowds, and heat of concrete-clad Ōsaka, my kongōzue still in hand. I didn't leave Ōmine, because that experience is something that I now carry within me, something that will unfold over time, wherever I go. I'm looking forward to continuing my journey with this wonderful tradition and the excellent people I am blessed to practice it with.
