Bujōji 峰定時

I woke today and rode my bicycle through winding alley streets across Kyoto to her northeast edge. There I met a friend from Africa who's been eager for me to 'share my mountains, even just a little' with him. We hopped an almost empty northbound bus.  One and a half hours later it dropped us at the entrance of Daihizan 大悲山 (Great Compassion Mountain), and drove away with a cheery mechanical song. From there we walked just over two kilometers into the dripping green along a milky green river, cicadas promenading us in song, until the road ended, at the entrance of Bujōji 峰定時, a hidden gem among Japan's sacred mountain temples.

Mrs. Nakamura, the sweet older lady who managed the temple, smiled widely when we met, eager to converse and share stories of the mountains and their glory. I imagine such opportunities are somewhat rare for her, being posted here in the center of Great Compassion Mountain, which certainly doesn't appear in many guidebooks. We picked up wooden staffs and were told to leave all belongings at the temple office. No groups, children, cameras, food, drinks, or tobacco are allowed in its sacred inner precincts. "Chant 'Rokkon shōjō' 六根清浄 as you climb up!" she said with vigor. It means "purify the six roots" and is the mountain ascetic's mantra to eradicate thoughts of the mundane world whilst enduring physical hardships and purifying the mind and body. She also have stern warning to return in forty minutes, lest she worry about our safety (or maybe our potential mischief). 


Through a twelfth-century wooden gate and up some four hundred mossy stone steps to the main hall. I rang a giant bronze bell on the way up, bowed to small rock shrines and meandering waterfalls. The main hall, also from the Heian period, houses a secret Thousand Armed Kannon Bodhisattva image. We wouldn't be able to see her/him/it today, as the icons of Bujōji and most mountain temples are only revealed twice a year. I clanked a small bell to announce my presence nonetheless, and admittedly tried to peer through the wooden lattice for a glimpse. Alas, none. This mattered little, however, because I was standing on a porch overlooking a most majestic mountain view. Mountain temples like this are built hundreds of years ago with meticulous care on precipitous slopes. Imaging the laborious process bends my mind. My gratitude for the process is manifold. Purification of the mind and body, indeed. Quiet and still, yet full of life and song. The cicadas, again. One that way, then another, more distant. 


Once we descended, I chatted with Mrs. Nakamura at length of imperial pilgrimages of yore, forest preservation, and above all the power of mountains to move you. Feelings beyond words. My friend and I, as expected, were both moved. On the return walk, he put his headphones on my head and played me two songs from his favorite African artist. We walked side by side through the forest, him in silence, me in musical bliss. Two white tailed deer looked on. We sat by the milky river, talked of our homes and different shades of green. Bus to bike to home, then yoga, and now these thoughts take shape in words.