Tag Archives: Edo period

Twenty Thousand Leaves Under the Trees

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I have come to Itabashi today to visit the Great Buddha of Tokyo, also known as the Tokyo Daibutsu. Upon exiting the train station, I realise that there are no maps in sight, so I decide to climb up onto a bridge that crosses over the road for a better view. Even though I am still within the city limits of Tokyo, I am surprised to see mountains in the distance. For some reason, the Great Buddha remains hidden from view.

I return to the train station in search of a map. In Japan, all train stations have a stand with free leaflets, pamphlets, and sometimes magazines. This particular train station has an odd selection of magazines, including one that has been published since 1922 and is entirely about sewage.

After finding a map, I set off towards Akatsuka Park. Inside the park, I find an art museum (which is closed today), a folklore museum (also closed today), some water fountains adorning a pond lined with old men fishing, and on the other side of the park, a dried-up dragonfly pond.

As I wander through the park, I am struck by the peaceful sounds of nature. The plum grove stands out to me, its branches now bare and skeleton-like after shedding their leaves, stripped of their colourful cloaks. The leaves, once vibrant and alive, now lie dormant on the ground, a reminder of the cycle of life and death. I follow the trail of leaves, before eventually coming across some rather steep steps.

Signs placed intermittently along the steps warn me of the risk of falling branches, but as I climb their steepness, it’s the slippery fallen leaves that prove to be more problematic. I am careful with each step I take, not to slip, not to trip, and not to be hit by a branch hurtling towards me from above. Eventually, I reach the top, where I find the Akatsuka Joshi Park Castle Ruins, the former site of a castle.

The open space where the beautiful castle once stood feels otherworldly. A single stone pillar serves as a testament to the castle’s former grandeur, the only remnant left in its wake. The bare trees surrounding the area add to the ethereal atmosphere, their stripped branches reaching towards the sky like ghostly fingers.

Yoritane Chiba was a prominent figure in Japanese history and played a significant role in the political and military affairs of the time. The Battle of Sekigahara, in which he played a leading role, was a decisive battle fought in 1600 that marked the end of the Sengoku period and the beginning of the Edo period in Japan. After the battle, he returned to Tokyo where he built this castle to be his home.

As I walk through the Akatsuka Castle Ruins, the empty space awash with fallen leaves, I can’t help but feel a sense of melancholy at the thought of Yoritane Chiba’s former greatness, now reduced to nothing but ruins. The castle was dismantled in the late 19th century, and once an important centre of power and cultural significance, now all its former grandeur is lost to the passage of time.

I continue my search for the Great Buddha, envisioning it to be a towering presence in the sky. As I look around, my eyes are drawn to a yellow sign in the distance, reminding me that this is a place for all to enjoy, free from harm, and to not go around shooting anyone.

Descending the steep steps, I notice that one of the signs cautioning against falling branches has itself fallen to the ground. Perhaps they should add a secondary sign as a reminder to watch out for falling signs.

I wander over to Akatsuka Botanical Gardens (also closed today). It seems that, if anything was actually open, this area in Itabashi would have a lot to offer. As I turn to depart, my gaze is captured by the sublime sight of the Buddha’s head rising above the walls of a temple, perched atop a hill like a beacon of tranquillity.

Jorenji Temple is a beautifully landscaped sanctuary that houses Japan’s third largest bronze Buddha, sitting tall at 12.5 metres. Within its walls, I encounter the fearsome King of Hell, also known as Enma-raja, along with the ten Judges of Hell, and Datsue-ba, the old woman who strips the clothing off the dead.

As I stand before the Great Buddha of Tokyo, I am struck by its powerful presence. Looking up at the Buddha’s face, I feel a sense of calm wash over me, and the placement of its head, tilted slightly forward, allows me to feel a deep connection with the statue as I meditate. In this moment, I am enveloped in the Buddha’s freedom from distracting thoughts, and I am filled with a sense of peace and enlightenment.

As I make my way back to the train station, passing Akatsuka Park along the way, I board the Mita Line train bound for Sugamo. The train is eerily quiet, its emptiness amplifying the sense of solitude.

As I sit on the train, surrounded by nothing but empty seats and silence, I attempt to pass the time by flipping through the pages of my copy of Tokyo Sewerage News.

The Time Traveler’s Strife

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Today, I decide to explore the Asakusa area once again. Recently, I engaged in a conversation with friends about Denbou-in Gardens, the secret gardens I visited, hidden in the grounds of Senso-ji Temple. Intrigued to discover more about this area and its hidden gems, I then heard a mention of the interestingly named Drawing Light Temple. Obviously, I wanted to find out more. In the blazing sunshine, I head to Asakusa once again and search for the temple.

It takes me about thirty minutes to wander through the huge complex of temples and shrines that make up the Senso-ji compound before I eventually find a rather obscure-looking tunnel with overhanging plants and nondescript flowers. Oddly, I have never seen this tunnel before, so for the second time in just over a fortnight, I have stumbled upon a new place in Tokyo, a city I have lived in for eight months now. Hidden beyond the foliage, on the other side of the tunnel, sits the impressive Drawing Light Temple.

lightdrawing

Built in 1609, this temple houses the goddess of protection from drawing light images. Fortunately, an English sign serves to remove any confusion and informs me that, “The Goddess in this temple protects against photography, portraits, and reflections.” Ironically, photography is allowed here. As I read the signboards about the history of this place, it becomes instantly apparent that if this temple was built in 1609, as the sign states, then it precedes the very first photograph, making it impossible for the goddess that resides here to know what she would be protecting against. It reminds me of the Flying God Temple, where people go to pray before they fly on an aircraft. The god there existed before aircraft were even invented. Even the story about the origin of Senso-ji, concerning the golden statue of Kannon fished from a lake, is riddled with confusion; the statue is no longer housed in Senso-ji Temple, and has never actually been seen by anyone who can prove it existed in the first place.

The inconsistencies and inaccuracies in religious narratives make me increasingly sceptical. Considering the possibility that religious stories and certain deities might be nothing more than fabrications is a notion I had never entertained before, but it now begins to take shape in my mind. What if it’s all untrue? I ponder this for a moment, and then, quite unexpectedly, I spot a magical cow.

magcow

“Look closely,” says a sign next to the cow. I stare at the cow, not really sure what I am supposed to be seeing. Everything here looks perfectly normal – just a statue of a cow. Below the sign, there is a description in Japanese, which later translates to read, “As a way to protect the stolen soul, in the cow, your image will be hidden from the drawing of light.” I take a photograph of the cow, and oddly, my image isn’t present. Very strange. I take seven more photographs from various angles, yet each time, the scenery behind me is visible, but my own reflection is mysteriously erased.

Why a cow has been chosen to symbolise the absence of reflection is beyond me, but some sort of wizardry is at hand here – a trick of light, perhaps. Continuing my exploration of this hidden temple, I discover that it holds the origin of the story that a photograph can steal your soul. It was said that when this temple was built before photographs were invented, the thought of an image of a person being taken was a direct link to the spiritual world. This history has also spread to the rest of the Senso-ji area, where no mirrors can be seen at any of the temples or shrines. It makes me wonder if the Edo Period in Japan was populated by time travellers, building temples everywhere that predict future inventions.

As I leave the Drawing Light Temple, I continue my exploration of the nearby area and discover another display of inconsistent historical information.

stonelantern

The Stone Lantern of Rokujizo was built in either 1146, 1150, or 1368, and already I find that there are too many contradictions. The sign even states that the details are unknown. Yet, the lantern itself features topography that wasn’t used until 1834. So somehow, the lantern features Japanese text that was first used 688 years, 684 years, or 466 years after it was originally built. My suspicions surrounding the history behind Senso-ji Temple are once again confirmed here.

I continue my tour and find a monument to Kume no Heinai. He was a samurai in the Edo Period and a master of sword fighting. Over the years, he killed many people before eventually turning to a life of virtue. Heinai began to live in Kongo-in Temple, inside Senso-ji Temple, and devoted himself to Zen Buddhism. He held religious services in honour of the souls of the people he killed. One day, he ordered his followers to carve his figure in stone and bury it in a busy district of Asakusa, so that forever, people would step on him—presumably what he thought he deserved after years of killing. Oddly, Heinai was in good health the day the statue was ordered to be built; however, the next day, he died suddenly, as if his fate was already known.

My final stop is the peculiarly named, Bell of Time.

belloftime

This innocent looking bell housed in a wooden structure, to the untrained eye, wouldn’t be significant. To my overactive imagination, this confirms my earlier suspicions that religion, or at least the area around Senso-ji Temple, was built by time travellers, and this bell was their time machine. Obviously, time travellers building temples sounds ridiculous, although the evidence is definitely here. If this isn’t the case though, then perhaps instead, religion is being used to make money here; exploiting the beliefs of innocent people, and making this area more attractive to tourists. It does seem from my brief attempt at investigating the area, that most of the information I have discovered is based entirely on lies.

Palace Under Fire

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Today is His Imperial Majesty the Emperor’s 81st Birthday. To celebrate this momentous occasion, the people of Japan will enjoy a public holiday, taking a day off work. The only person not celebrating, it seems, is His Imperial Majesty the Emperor himself. Today, he will address the nation from the inner grounds of the Imperial Palace, a place that is only open to the public two days a year. Not one to pass up an opportunity to go inside the Imperial Palace walls, I head straight to Kanda Station directly after breakfast.

I enjoy a leisurely thirty-minute walk. The sky is clear, the sun is bright; it feels far too hot on this December day to resemble the apparent winter. His Imperial Majesty the Emperor himself couldn’t have ordered better weather for this special day, even if he tried. I walk to the Imperial Palace, stopping to admire some trees along the way. It seems that I go through phases of fascination, and, as you might be able to surmise, this month’s juncture is trees.

kandatrees[1]

The trees here were once used by the Meteorological Agency to help further their studies into phenological phenomena. These Yoshino Cherry and Japanese Maple trees served as specimens. The long-term observations from studying these trees helped solve problems regarding changes in weather conditions almost sixty years ago. With this data, the Meteorological Agency can accurately predict the days when cherry blossoms will flower. An important and worthwhile discovery.

When I finally arrive at the Imperial Palace, I find out that I have missed His Imperial Majesty the Emperor’s speech by a mere two hours; I will still be allowed inside, though, if I can find the correct entrance. I wander around the outer Imperial Palace walls. There is a large statue of Wake no Kiyomaro, a preacher of Buddhism and once a trusted advisor to the Emperor during the Nara period.

palacestatue[1]

Wake no Kiyomaro had his share of good and bad fortune. He was once exiled for years and forced to have the sinews of his legs cut out, rendering him immobile. Luckily, some stone boar statues magically came to life and healed his legs, and he was freed from exile. Eventually, he was reinstated as a trusted advisor to the Emperor. Nowadays, he is remembered by the grand title of ‘God of healing foot disease,’ and at this location outside the Imperial Palace, he has become a regular target for defecating birds.

I eventually find the entrance to the Imperial Palace grounds. Here, I get told off by a policeman for walking against the flow of people. One-way system, no signs. I head across the coned-off concrete and to a security checkpoint. After being thoroughly searched, I am clear to enter the inner grounds, free of charge. At the gate, I stand and watch a lifeless guard. He doesn’t blink for well over five minutes. I speculate that this man is actually an android, but his lack of animatronic function appears to counter my observation. I want to stay and watch, to see how long he can go without blinking, but a policeman kindly asks me to move along.

statueguard[1]

Inside the Imperial Palace grounds, there are more security guards than visitors. I wander past some overgrown trees and toward the Imperial Household Building. Outside, a small marquee has been erected. At the marquee, I am given the opportunity to write my name, nationality, and a nice message for His Imperial Majesty the Emperor. I write ‘Happy Birthday, His Imperial Majesty the Emperor.’ I take care to write it down neatly and deliberately. A sign hanging above tells me that my message of ‘Happy Birthday, His Imperial Majesty the Emperor,’ will be duly forwarded to its highest destination as an expression of my warm congratulations.

palacesigning[1]

After signing, I continue along the one-way system. Still no signs. The grass here is completely overgrown and is in desperate need of a gardener. The Japanese taxpayer covers the cost of outer garden maintenance, which boasts neatly trimmed grass cut on a daily basis. It feels like a waste of money to me. Inside, it is a very different story. Perhaps the tax money doesn’t quite make it into the ‘inner sanctum,’ or maybe His Imperial Majesty the Emperor is required to cut the grass here by himself. I am not sure, but regardless, the grass inside the Imperial Palace grounds is an overgrown shambles.

I pass an Obansho Great Guardhouse, one of three remaining, and the final checkpoint on the way to the Imperial Palace. This place would have had the highest-ranking samurai guardsmen stationed here. Ironically, it is at this point that the security guard and police presence seems to completely diminish. Further along the path, someone appears to have forgotten their ladder.

randomladder[1]

I walk idly along, somewhat unimpressed. I head up a slope before passing through the remains of Chujakumon Gate and into the public gardens. These gardens are somewhat more remarkable than the rest of the Imperial Palace grounds; the grass here is cut really short. Before me stands an orchard. His Imperial Majesty the Emperor personally planted three of these cultivars in 2008: the Sanbokan Grapefruit, a sour orange; the Tangor, a cross between a tangerine and an orange; and the Cherry Orange, a variety of Mandarin orange. The orchard was created on the site of the Castle of Edo based on His Imperial Majesty the Emperor’s idea that visitors would be able to enjoy the popular fruits of the Edo era.

lemontrees[1]

Forgetting about fruit and foliage for a moment, I decide to check out the mysterious Ishimuro Stone Cellar. Some people say this was an emergency storehouse to supply the inner section of the Imperial Palace. Some people say that this stone cellar housed an underground passage that once led directly into the Imperial Palace. Some people say that this cellar was a secret passage that led to hoards of treasure. I personally hope it was used as a secret passage, but perhaps I will never know. Despite the angle of the photograph, it is not possible to explore deeper inside the Ishimuro Stone Cellar, thanks to a fence blocking the entrance.

dungeon2[1]

My final stop is the Tenshuku Donjon Base, the highest-ever donjon built in Japan and a symbol of the Tokugawa Shogunate’s authority. Just nineteen years after it was built, in 1657, there was a conflagration known as the Great Fire of Meireki. The fire lasted three days, claimed over 100,000 lives, and destroyed this donjon. It was never constructed again.

The view from the ruined donjon is the old Edo Castle Honmaru Goten Palace, now just a large lawn full of people sleeping and enjoying the sunshine. Formerly, this area was lined with buildings. Presumably, these too were burnt down during the Great Fire of Meireki; a fire that is considered to be one of the worst disasters in Japanese history. A fire that left the old Edo city, now known as Tokyo, in complete ruin.

palacegarden[1]

The fire was said to be caused by a priest. According to legend, there was a cursed kimono that killed teenage girls, and the priest decided to burn it on that day in March 1657. It didn’t help that the buildings of that time were made from flammable materials such as wood, were built closely together, and had thin paper walls. The fire spread to all parts of Tokyo, leaving destruction and devastation in its wake.

From the ruined donjon, there is barely a trace left of the fire. All that remains is the site of an old castle now replaced by a neatly cut lawn, an orchard of lemon trees, and the overly developed city skyline looming in the distance.