New Year, New Fire
Daitondo 大とんど (Sagichō 左義長), Kisshōsōji 吉祥草寺, Gose 御所, Nara 奈良
January 14, 2017
That all-too-familiar cold, whipping wind; silvery clouds and bright stars above. I could have been home on the ranch in Wyoming, were it not for literally everything else that met my eyes. I’m deep in Nara prefecture on the grounds of Kisshōsōji, a modest Buddhist temple best known as the place where En no gyoja, the putative founder of Shugendo, had his first bath some 1300 years ago.
It’s early January and one of Japan’s largest fire rituals is about to take place. But not before a lot of milling about in the cold, unsure of what to do and where to go. Then, a welcomed invitation to a light-filled tent outfitted with portable heaters and long tables. A giant conch shell on my left, the head priest on my right, and images of Fudo all around. We enjoy a bento dinner of special New Year’s white miso soup (with red carrots and sake lees). I receive two paper talismans, one featuring En no gyoja and the other the fiery divinity Fudo perched atop a giant torch. Together they will burn away all my challenges and give rise to various fortunes, I am told.
We step back out into the cold. Distinctive music from the Taisho era of the early twentieth century broadcasts over a loudspeaker, followed by a short biography of the eminent En. Then back to the song, and so on.
More milling about in the cold, unsure of what to do and where to go. Then we are invited into the main hall where the priests will perform the ceremony. Or are we? No one seems sure. “Lindsey you go first and if there’s a problem it’s okay because you can say you don’t speak in Japanese.” We have taken our shoes off in preparation for entering, but uncertainty stops us in our tracks. Shoes back on, we circle once around the hall. I spy no other women, and no other foreigners in the crowd of perhaps 300. We go back in. Incense fills the room, accompanied by heaters and people huddled around them. Everyone is talking about the weather. The men from Kada on the seaside say it’s snowing there and how rare because usually the reverse pattern transpires (snowing in Gose). A strange weather day—everyone feels certain.
The hall feels warm despite the cold…the handiwork of fiery Fudo? Everything can, and often does, have an underlying meaning in the here and now. Wait, there is a young girl opposite me in the hall, maybe 3 or 4 in age. Is she the Dragon King’s daughter? Sensei offers his coat to cover my legs.
Priests in striking violet and tangerine robes (one in olive green and one in baby blue with a strange broad-brimmed hat) gather at the front altar, upon which a giant bronze two-pronged vajra sits. A bell gongs. It’s time to begin. The wall at my back is lifted to reveal a perfect view of the massive torches. A perfect place for viewing, although now we are totally exposed to the crowd. Indeed, a burly man shrieks “I’m embarrassed!”
Groups of yamabushi in pillowy robes of white and yellow parade in from the parking lot, each blowing a conch shell. They chant the Heart sutra five times then light the flame. A man in baby blue robes and hat—clearly for fire protection—transports the flame out the back door of the hall into the wind, around the temple. He circumambulates the two massive torch-shaped structures, each six meters tall and weighing in at more than 700kg. He makes a figure-eight shape, with methodical footsteps to the west then the east. Flame start to engulf each mass of bamboo and straw.
Flames have a mind of their own, especially when wind comes to call. I watch the flames. I watch the others watching the flames. I envision the flames of years and centuries ago. The yamabushi lead everyone in five rounds of Heart sutra chanting. I find myself chanting the parts I know with no consciousness of it. My mind is deep in a historical daydream, hypnotized by the flames. Heat grows and expands. My cheeks flush. My hands are cold. Chanting and crackling and jingling of bells on staffs of yamabushi and flickers of flames in the eyes of people young and old. All are entranced by the spectacle. The eastern tower, I realize, is larger and more sturdy. Its western counterpart crumbles at the fourth chanting of the Heart sutra, and bits and pieces of flaming matter take flight. The eastern tower remains standing, its flames reaching higher and higher, much higher than the hall—many meters up into the col night air.
The moon wrestles itself out of windblown clouds for a view of the action. A magnificent 300-year-old tree, adorned with the robe belt and white-paper sashes to show its godliness, seems to gaze on too, warmed by the dangerously close flames. I wonder if the people to the west of the blazes, where the winds and now heavy smoke are blowing, are okay—the flames seem to lick their jackets and faces. And so, a new year is ushered in.
