The ordinary and the sacred

A friend of mine's son is a stone carver. He fell in love with calligraphy years ago, so quit his job at IBM to become a carver of graceful messages on slate slabs. My father gave me one of these gems for my birthday one year. It translated as, 'The ordinary and sacred live together.' I love that stone and its wisdom, so even after many years I still have it carefully placed in my home.

Life has taken me to many places. Currently I reside in Japan, where I have lived for just shy of twenty years. Even though I have tried to immerse myself in this culture, I find I am not only still very much a foreigner, but am often caught by surprise by unexpected things that go on here.

The other day, for example, I was strolling home from my Sunday walk in this city's forest park, when I spotted red and white lanterns on the street. I knew that meant a festival of some sort. So, I went to check it out.

I have lived in this neighborhood for years. It is a network of twisting streets, packed full of houses, apartment buildings, teeny parking lots, and gardens. A favorite pastime of mine is to wander, get lost, intuit my way, and finally get my bearings so I can get home again. But in all those years of exploring, I had never come across a very steep staircase stretching up a miniscule wooded hill. But that is exactly where a little local festival was being held.

I teetered my way up the stone steps and was greeted at the top by three very polite old men. They were in charge of the day's ceremony. The blessing of Shinto shrines is a yearly event all over Japan. The date varies according to each particular shrine. For this day's special occasion the shelter, its interior altar, and tori gates had all been repainted a vivid red. It is quite unusual to have the building and inner sanctum crimson. Usually they are left as gorgeous natural wood. So, I was rather startled, but the gentlemen were so pleased that all I could do was to express my admiration for their efforts.

Soon we heard the shouting of kids and a lovely swarm of them came puffing up the hill, all in their bright blue jackets with bright red writing saying 'Festival'. Behind them were the mothers. And following them were the grandmothers. No fathers. They were probably at home watching TV or washing their cars.

Soon a young Shinto priest arrived in full glorious robe. He brought branches and a prayer stick with a multitude of white paper wings attached to it from top to bottom. Even though the shrine was very small, very local, and rather falling down (despite the vivid coat of red paint), he treated the occasion with the greatest of respect and dignity. He droned his chants, swished his prayer stick, and gave branches to all the adults so they could offer life, abundance and gratitude to the gods.

I stood at the back watching, but an old woman pushed my forward, saying, 'You are here. You are part of this ceremony. You should pray with us.' So, I took my place among the worshippers and did as they did. I placed my branch on the altar, bowed twice, clapped twice to get the gods' attention, bowed again, and exited.

I slipped back to my original spot and felt the subtle, but powerful energy of the visiting gods, the gracious essence of the people's focus, and the priest's solemn ritual. I felt the presence of the proud old men, the excited children, the inclusive women, and the elegant priest and thought, 'These are the carriers of the old ways. These are the ones who, in this materialistic world, maintain a route to the soul.'

Surrounded as we were by roads and cars, houses and concrete apartment blocks, it seemed extraordinary to be on top of a wooded hill with a teeny, vibrantly red shrine that somehow in its small, almost unnoticed way made it be true that the ordinary and the sacred do indeed together live.