This story starts like a life starts.
With one step, one journey, the planting of a seed.
My first trip to Japan.
The gentle sliding back of a paper screen to reveal a world beyond.
I sit in a park with my eyes shut listening to the gentle rustling of a thousand delicate spring-green maple leaves far above my head and then the slow, even, single tone of a Shakuhasi flute rising and nearly disappearing.
I breathe in.
There is a bond between myself and the Japanese musician standing so close with his back to me. The sound seems to come from his heart to mine like a first kiss, or the soft skin on a baby’s tummy. Perfect.
I feel my heart rate slow as I watch women and their daughters walking hand in hand; a single silver bicycle passes with a tin pig-tailed girl in pink sneakers tucked in front basket; teenaged boys with sagging jeans and school books; a middle-aged man in Elvis glasses walking slowly backwards. Paths cross.
In a temple garden miles away I try to photograph the un-photographable. I look through my Japanese lens at the impenetrable grace of this place - a bumpy carpet of intense green, the colour of praying mantises, a single small black tree, white pebbles, sharp maroon Acer leaves cutting into a background of bamboo punctuated with cherry blossoms the colour of clean pigs.
Women volunteers with white silk sashes sweep the paths. Slowly, an ancient man picks tiny berries from between the white pebbles under a tree.
A deep sense of respect seems to run under the surface of everything I see. Carefully tended front gardens and smoothly sanded wood, just enough space for things to fit perfectly as if intended by nature.
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She holds her mobile phone up to watch the tiny display as stations tick past and I watch her. Her shoes have the smallest little wooden funnel-heels and are made of brown leather etched with a fine herring bone pattern, they come to a sharp point peeking out from under jeans that bear horizontal white slashes the full length of her thin legs. Her white jacket is, I realize, a white shirt expertly gathered, cut and sewn into an elastic band to form a short jacket. Her hair is cut in angular levels that curve to follow the smooth line of her pale jaw. Caught in a pin on one side a lone strand longingly traces the nape of her delicate neck. Brightly-coloured miniature animals dangle from the phone emitting a soft tinkling sound as the train moves. Her lips are painted the colour of pink grapefruit, her eyes expertly lined in black kohl.
Another girl stops on stone steps to look at the cameras, golden charms in her tar-black lacquered hair blink in the sunshine. Her lips are Maraschino Cherry 'red' on the bottom lip only - the sign of a novice. Her chalk-white face makes reading emotions difficult. She walks stutteringly on wooden sandals with supports like little tables, her steps limited by the silken folds of a silver-blue kimono. Crimson ribbons circle her waist over a wide sash that holds in place a pillow of pale pink embroidered fabric at the small of her back. At the top of the steps I see her through the trees. As she steps into the sun she raises a red bamboo umbrella and turns her head so gracefully. She looks at me. Two women.
Rachel and I twist through narrow stone streets lined with stalls. We are discussing snack possibilities with a level of detail and attention to nuance that is a cornerstone of our relationship. Sweet edamame bean rolls, pasty white dumplings dusted with powdered sugar and filled with plum-coloured aduki bean paste, crunchy soy-coated rice crackers criss-crossed with strips of green-black seaweed. We agree unconditionally on a red and white paper packet containing hot, soft donuts. Then I hold her hand as she walks with her eyes closed between two sacred stones - if she makes the trip without opening her eyes she will have love.
She does.
"God is the trees, the rocks, the mountains" a man tells me on the steps of Fushimi-inari.
"A nice idea" I say smiling,
"Not idea. Fact" he insists.
"Yes" I say.
As the sun sets the lanterns come on in the temple following the path up past stone fox sentinels to a corridor of hundreds of giant red Tori gates tucked into the folds of the mountain. I can see the orange-red glow of the gates through the trees and far, far away.
The foxes that lived on the mountains around Kyoto are thought of as gods. A visit to the temple dedicated to them brings prosperity. Later on the 'Path of Philosophy' I see it out of the corner of my eye. It’s bouncing gait and golden-orange fur unmistakable. He wears a thin leash and trots quickly beside an old man.
An old woman smiles at me. The water is hot - from the earth’s core but my skin tingles as I enter the bath. In front of me the teal-green water laps at the perfect porcelain skin and the rounded shoulders of a young girl. She is exquisite. Her round red lips, expressionless beauty and soft wisps of black hair misted slightly by the steam rising between us. Cold rain falls on my face; I can smell the mountain breathing.
A strong smell fills my nose as we leave the subway. Fish. Then there are the carts- spinning mechanized platforms driven by man men who grip the horizontal steering wheel like riders on the 'Mad Hatters Tea Party' at Coney Island. They spin at full speed in every direction transporting Styrofoam boxes of live and semi-live fish. I am in a maze of stalls surrounded by the most incredible sights: ancient old men battling 6' slabs of frozen swordfish with chainsaws; strange spiky orange fish with bulging blue eyes pulled from the bottom of the sea and gasping for air; rows of bottles filled with millions of one eyed worm-fish the size and colour of toenail clippings; blood red hunks of tuna and rows of gleaming silver scales and blue fishes and white buckets filled with live conch and pink octopuses with flailing tentacles. Men in white jackets and blue overalls and black boots rush from stall to stall. My stomach turns over slightly as I walk by flounder drawing desperate breaths in a bucket of blood.
But I could spend days here. Every inch of this market is alive with struggle and life and smell and colour. I buy a knife from an old man with a worn face and tired eyes and he sharpens it lovingly on a wheel and whetstone.
Sitting at a dark wooden counter on Imadegawa I study the chef as he prepares one of ten courses of our Kaseiki dinner. His round, slightly damp face is accentuated by a small black paper hat that sits on his head like a crown. He has kind eyes and rubs his hands deferentially as he nods and bows.
This meal is a gift to us from him.
Kaseiki meals are an art form, flavours and textures, balanced presentation, exquisite detail and flavour. A bamboo shoot pancake toasted golden brown is served on a hand painted porcelain plate with orange and blue flowers, nestled beside it a deep-fried aubergine with fermented plum sauce. Warm, soft, melting flesh. I watch the chef spooning green, pea sauce into a tiny ceramic dish the size of a jar-top to taste the steaming liquid. He whisks it violently and then spoons the green soup lovingly over butter-soft slabs of fermented tofu in soft grey bowls.
Life is an art form here, a meditation in practice.
At night we lie on tatami mats side by side. Moonlight falls through the paper screen and the smell of jacaranda fills my head.