88 Temples

Spring arrives with the ringing of pilgrim bells.

—Shikoku adage

We began as many do, awkward and clean scrubbed, bowing before the first temple, Ryozenji. The Australian, my companion, lit the incense. I offered coins, a folded bill, a slip of paper with our names, and then the Heart Sutra chanted in my own imperfect voice. From the ceiling hung dozens of paneled lanterns dusting the hall in a low golden light. The altar stood back, adorned with white and yellow chrysanthemums, scrolls and bowls of glowing joss sticks. Outside it was too bright. In the pond, the carp were brushed with orange; the turtles lounged on rocks. A little boy leaned dangerously close to the water, pointing, “Kame! Kame!” And for a moment, I was confused, hearing Kami— god, there is god.

That night we wound through the narrow streets of a neighborhood until it was well and truly dark. It was raining. I was worried. Where would we eat? Where would we sleep? And what if a car came too close and hit us? The low cement walls and boxy houses were beginning to look all the same. Why hadn’t we stopped at that wide parking lot by the pachinko parlor? What about that Shinto shrine? The bare, sandy lot was covered in puddles, but past the stork-legged tori gates, there was a narrow awning that would keep out the rain.

Hunger and worry boiled up in my mind. I did not feel like a pilgrim on the road to enlightenment. I felt nothing but frustration and then shame for my frustration. Finally, I gathered the courage to inquire about camping under the awning. It was my job to ask, to make small talk, to explain ourselves. The Australian did not speak much Japanese, despite his claims, and this was my journey anyway.

Years later, it all seems so simple. Of course we camped under that awning. And the neighbor wife fed us noodles and cake. The husband presented us each with a sword hilt that we could file down ourselves. In the morning, we left for the next temple. Looking back, I can call the pilgrimage beautiful. I can nod spiritually. I can flex my bike muscles: 1,200 km, oh yeah, we cycled it in a month. The truth is: I’ve forgotten. Only the poems keep me honest.

Here is a hill, they say, see it rise into a mountain. This mountain lining up with the others into a ridge, growing close around the river Awa that still carries dust. There is Tokushima, a city that in fertile soil grew tall and grey. It unravels; waves back to itself from the straits of Naruto that turn daily in whirlpools. There are the temples that swim upstream with veils of blooming wisteria. In late summer, the women put out baskets of persimmons. The fields of rice grow heavy and bend. In yellow hats children walk to school joined sometimes by pilgrims: white robes flapping, hat, staff, small pilgrim bell.

In the top drawer that smelled of sandalwood, I found it—a simple bronze against deep purple silk. It lay at rest next to her juzu, prayer stole, and white pilgrim’s tunic. As a child, I was forbidden from ringing the bell. And only with the utmost care could I open the book of rice paper and trace the signature of the temples as my grandma told the story:

“You know, the pilgrimage was very demanding. Back then there were no roads to the mountain temples. We had to walk up the stairs—not easy for an old woman! I still remember the bells we carried. They swayed, ‘Ting, Ting,’ echoing through the forest.”

On my pilgrimage, I would loop Grandma’s bell around my wrist and listen for its echo. “A bell calls one to prayer and it is a reminder of impermanence: its quickly fading sound is like human life—‘changing, inconstant, unstable,’ predestined to be transitory.”

My grandma is dead. The Australian and I have broken up. I gave up learning Japanese for Spanish. We are always arriving at the...