Raymond Barnett

Historical Background

from Golf World, Nov. 25, 2005, Bum Ankle can't stop Woods from winning.
"Tiger Woods is perhaps the only golfer who can win while clearly injured, and he proved it by successfully defending his title at the Japan Tour's Dunlop Phoenix tournament... Noticeably hobbling throughout the final round, Woods shot a two-over 72 and was tied by Kaname Yokoo at eight-under 272. The pair had to play the 18th hole four more times before Woods was able to outlast the Japanese star."

from Golf World, Feb. 3, 2006, Japanese Star Ai Miyazato ready to rock'n'roll in U.S.
"The scene is surreal, and if scripted for a movie it would be rejected as over the top. The tiny woman, barely taller than a child, breaks into a wide smile and begins to speak, only to have her first few words obliterated by a cascade of camera clicks... Moving from the practice area to the first tee, she is swallowed in a sea of reporters and photographers jostling for position desperate not to miss documenting a single moment for millions of fans in Japan eager for every exploit of the nation's hottest sports sensation...She will make her debut as an LPGA member at the SBS Open in Hawaii, and plans to play at least 20 times on tour, while basing herself in Orange County, California."

from Golf World, Feb. 16, 2007, Souls in the Redwoods
"Those participating in this week's Nissan Open might notice that the two stately redwood trees on the bank left of the 18th fairway at the Riviera CC are no longer there. They weren't removed without considerable consternation, either. In Japanese culture trees are thought to have souls, and to ensure the redwoods were dealt with properly, Riviera owner Noboru Watanabe summoned a Shinto priest to perform the ritual ceremony. A small temporary shrine was erected in front of the green. The ceremony included traditional chants on behalf of the souls embedded in the trees."

PART ONE: Panther Irons' Ankle, Japan

Chapter One. Listening to the Land. Outside Miyazaki, Kyushu Island, Japan

I shoved my bag through the hole in the fence just as the first hint of pink glimmered over the sea's black horizon behind me. Soon I stood on the twelfth tee, dew glistening darkly on the fairway before me. No longer was I a novice Shinto priest at the Miyazaki shrine. I was Panther Irons, lord of the golf world, about to unleash another screaming drive. I flashed my trademark dazzling smile, raised the huge driver, and brought it crashing down on the hapless yellow irridescent ball. Whack! The ball popped nearly straight up, veered sharply right, as it always did, then bounced twice and died in the pine needles of the rough, a hundred yards away in the predawn gloom.
Not a great imitation of Panther Irons after all, I guess. Still, the most famous course in Japan belonged entirely to me--at least until the head greenskeeper arrived. Four triple and two quadruple bogeys later, as I retrieved my ball from the cup at seventeen, I glanced at the eighteenth fairway curving up to the fabled clubhouse of the Phoenix Country Club. No way a novice priest, sneaking onto the course before dawn, would ever play that hole. I paid my respects to the giant Suginoki cedar beside the green with two claps and two bows, the encircling yellow hanegawa rope indicating it as sacred, the abode of a kami, one of the powerful spirits animating the universe.
I hustled away from the clubhouse back to the second hole, next to the shore, flashed another Panther Irons smile, and whacked the ball--again into the right rough.
"Yer better off to play down th' left side of this hole, m' boy," said a raspy voice behind me. I jumped and gave a frightened yelp. Wide-eyed, I turned. Leaning against the ball-washer was a little man, short and wiry, wearing old-fashioned peasant garb of white shirt above blue pants tucked into gray leggings just below his knees. His tough, lined skin was sunburned dark, and his long white hair swept back from his high forehead to gather in a topknot--again, an old-fashioned look. But what caught my attention were his eyes--they gleamed, even in the dim light, and were incredibly alert, dancing this way and that above his hooked nose.
"I say, yer better off down th' left side of this hole," he said, with a lopsided grin playing around his mouth.
"Who--who are you?" I stammered.
His eyes and his grin widened. A laugh bubbled from his mouth. "Why, now, I suppose I be a caddy. Yes, that's it. I'm here to carry yer clubs, m' boy." And with that, he loped over to my bag in a curiously fluid gait, and smoothly lifted it to his bony shoulder, flashing me a mischievous smile, his eyes dancing with delight.
I knew the country club had caddies, but had thought they were all women. And besides, it wasn't even dawn yet.
"No, no," I managed. "I'm, uh, not a member here. I'm, uh, I'm just ..."
"Just sneakin' on, cause ya love th' bloody game, right?" he interrupted.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. Then nodded, very confused.
"Well, come on, m' boy!" he boomed with a gesture toward the fairway. "We'd best be goin' afore that kindly head greenskeeper comes a' roaring up in his old blue truck, or we might test his kindness beyond its limits, eh?"
He set off down the fairway in that curious lope of his, my bag over his shoulder, and I followed.
"I can't pay you," I said when I caught up to him.
Another laugh. "Ya love the game enough t' risk gettin' caught and bringin' shame to your father or employer or whoever--that's enough for me. But listen, boy, yer next shot ought to put ya on the left side of th' fairway. There's too much trouble to th' right. See those huge limbs from the black pines stickin' out like sentinels all th' way to th' green? They'll grab yer ball sure if ya tempt 'em. No, th' left is where ya belong on this hole, son. See how welcomin' and cheeerful it be over there. Not t' mention ya don't have to hit o'er that threatenin' bunker frontin' th' green when ya come into it from th' left."
I looked down the fairway, and saw that everything he said was true. I had played the hole maybe a dozen times over the summer, and never truly seen it as he described it. Or as I think he described it--he spoke in a strange accent, full of thick consonants and rough, rolling r's, and on top of that his voice was raspy, as if he didn't speak much. As I turned to him, I heard him humming something softly in a low register, a shamisen melody from a Kabuki play, it seemed.
"Your speech, honorable sir, seems ... different than the local dialect," I ventured.
I was hoping not to offend him, but to the contrary he laughed so loudly I looked around, hoping the head greenskeeper hadn't yet arrived to hear the outburst.
"Yer right there, m' boy. Like you, I love th' game, so I've spent some of me years in Scotland, where the game was mostly developed--tho' between you and me, the old Chinese and the Romans both had mighty sim'lar stick games. A wonderful place, Scotland. An island, like Japan. Extraordinary people, also like Japan. They love their land, the countryside, the smells and mountains and bays and skies. No wonder the most passionate golfers in the world come from Scotland and Japan, m' boy. No wonder. But you were remarkin' on my accent. Do ya' think some of the Scottish way of talkin' has rubbed off on me speech?"
He was laughing--again--as we arrived at my ball in the right rough. "What's yer thinkin' on th' club to get ya to th' left fairway from here?" he asked, unslinging my bag.
"I've a long way to go after such a poor drive," I answered. "Better give me my three iron, or even maybe my two."
His eyes grew wide. "Beggin' your pardon, guv'nor, but I'm thinkin' that what Lee Trevino said about one-irons could be just as true about your two- or three-irons, especially from th' lie ya've got here," he said, indicating my ball nestled deep in the pine needles. "Do ya' remember? He said if yer ever in a lightnin' storm on a golf course, be sure t' hold up yer one-iron, 'cause not even God can hit a one-iron!"
We both laughed, long and deep. "So you'd advise...?" I asked him.
"I'd advise what'iver club yer fairly confident a' hittin' well and putting where ya want it," he answered. I was beginning to pick up his bizarre way of speaking. And his evident enjoyment of himself was infectious, too.
"Closest I have to that is my six-iron," I said with embarrassment.
He pulled that club out of my bag quickly, as if worried I might change my mind.
"Six it is, then, guv'nor. Now mind ye, aim for endin' up in the left side of the fairway, but don't hit it straight across, or yer liable to trade the left rough for this 'un."
I concentrated over the ball and swung. I didn't catch all of it, but even so it stopped rolling while still comfortably in the fairway, a bit on the left side of middle.
"Good shot! There ya go, m' boy!"
Maybe it was the growing light of the morning, but my day brightened at his words, and I strode with excitement beside him as he loped up the fairway, the grass glistening in the soft light. He was humming again, his head swaying with the music.
"Is that a shamisen melody, honorable sir?" I asked.
"Aye, some geza background from Musume Dojoji, The Dojo Temple Maiden," he answered, humming it even more vigorously now as we processed down the fairway, the light growing steadily around us, the surf booming beyond the trees.
We arrived at my ball.
"Now ya got a beautiful lie, my boy, and an open shot to th' green," he said, setting my bag upright beside the ball. "But mind ya, let's again use our eyes and see what th' land is a'tellin' us. Th' bunker in front may not be in our line, now, but it's still there, so mind ya--trouble if ya go right. On t'other hand, notice th' left margin of the green, how 'tis banked such that a ball landin' left of the green will naturally bounce right and onto the green. So if ya pull the ball a wee bit, ya'll still end up on the green. So here's where we be: trouble right, the prize straight, help left. So where do ya aim, lad?"
I gazed at the green, seeing everything he had described, though before he mentioned them I would hardly have been aware of the features.
"Well, if I was Panther Irons, I'd go dead straight for the pin, but seeing as I'm Yoshi Mikato, I'd best aim a bit left of the pin. If I push it right, I'm still on the green. And if I pull it left, the bank there will bounce me onto the green. And if I miraculously hit it straight, I'm on the green, too."
He chuckled as I talked, nodding his head, humming some foreign melody, now.
"I'll have to really catch it, but I think I can get my six-iron there."
He handed me the club with a nod, and a confident wink.
I took my stance, shifting my feet several times until I felt like I was heading left of the pin. I swung, hard but smoothly I hoped. As often happens when I'm trying to hit it hard, I pulled the shot, and it landed on the left bank, bounced right, and rolled onto the green not twelve feet from the pin.
"Yes!" I howled, trading high fives with the old man. He smiled silently, letting me enjoy the shot.
I left the putt short and a bit to the right. "Never up, never in," the old man said gently. I glumly tapped it in for a bogey five.
"Nay, not so glum, my friend," the old man said as he put the flag back in the hole. He draped a thin arm over my shoulder as we walked off the green. "A two-putt is always fine outside of six feet, guv'nor. And given the drive ya started th' hole with, a bogey is a fine accomplishment. Ya hit several fine shots this hole, m' lad. Ya can be proud of those."
I brightened. "You know, you're right. That six-iron into the green was pretty good, wasn't it?"
"More than pretty good, m' boy. But even more important, ya learned how to let the land speak to ya this hole. Ya listened to th' land, boy, and that's what golf is all about. And when ya respond with a good shot to what th' land's tellin' ya, then yer conversin' with the land, which is an altogether fine thing, m' lad, a fine thing indeed."
I had a par and three bogeys on the next four holes, a great feat for me, mainly by the old man's "listenin' to the land," and favoring my six-iron short but straight to a mis-hit three-iron wild into trouble. The old codger may have been ancient, but his eyes saw things that escaped me. The two yawning traps fronting the green on three, prompting me to hit to the back fringe and chip close enough to sink for par. The steep punishing slope off to the right of four's green, advising me to stay left, regardless where the pin was. The perpetually wet apron of the long par 3 sixth, testament to an underground seep, recommending me to lay up short and chip over the ball-grabbing apron.
We soon arrived at the seventh tee, the last hole before eight and nine turned back toward the clubhouse, and thus my last hole of the morning. The fairway was wide, black pines lining either side.
"Well, what do ya think for this shot, m' lad?" the old man asked with a smile.
I scanned the fairway. "Trouble on both sides. Swing hard, split the fairway."
He laughed again. I'd never seen a person laugh so much.
"Aye, it looks that way. But you'll get a lot more roll on th' right side here. See that big black pine two hoonderd yards on th' right? It's got a huge root system, supports a mass of underground root fungi that sucks up every bit of moisture from the ground within a hundred yards. Ye'll get a good deal more roll on that side of th' fairway."
I looked at the fairway, then back at him. "Forgive me, honorable sir, but I don't see that, and I can't imagine how you'd know it."
"Good! Ya trustin' yer eyes. But they're not yer only sense, boy. If yer nose is sensitive, ya can smell the fungus on a wet day. But here--let me show ya, boy. May I?"
He pulled my driver from the bag. I was too surprised to object, and in a second he had two balls out and with a fluid motion teed them up beside each other. I backed out of the tee box as the old codger addressed the ball closest to him, waggled the club a few times, then slowly lifted a fluid backswing, paused at its top briefly, then swooshed the club down and through the ball with incredible grace and speed. I gasped as I saw the ball burst into flight down the right fairway, land, and roll forever. It must have rolled a hundred yards, ending up easily 300 yards away. I stared, dumbstruck.
"Th' dry side, eh?" he said, without looking back at me. "Now th' wet side. I'll put th' same swing on it, eh?"
A replay of the slow backswing, pause, and fluid hit and follow through, except this time the ball landed soft on the left fairway and only rolled 25 yards, ending up a mere 225 yards out.
"See what I mean, son?" he asked as he handed the driver to me.
I nodded dumbly as I took the club. I stared at it, not wanting to defile the club by putting my swing on it after his two masterful swings.
The old man read my hesitation. "Ah, go on with it," he said softly. "I've had longer to work on my game than you. Considerably longer."
"Could you...do you think you could, you know, give me some tips on my swing, I mean?" I finally stammered.
"If ya wish, m' lad," he said heartily. "But not this mornin'. Maybe next time. One thing at a time, eh? Ya learned to listen to the land this mornin', and began conversin' with it. Ya need to digest that and practice it yerself."
I hit a decent drive--up the right side of the fairway. It rolled forever, and a solid five wood left me a six iron to the back side of the green--avoiding the three little traps in front. Two putts gave me my second par of the morning.
"Aye, and a fine mornin' of golf it was for ye," the old man boomed in his raspy voice as we walked off the green, his wiry arm draping my shoulder. He had a fresh smell about him, like the forest floor after a rain, hints of ginger and earth.
'Thanks for your tips. On listening to the land, and conversing with it," I murmured, sorry to part company with him. "It saved me a stroke or two a hole."
"Aye, and that's good, m' boy," he replied. "But that's not the most important thing about listenin' to the land and conversin' with it."
"Oh? What's that?" I said, fishing my tees and balls out of my pockets.
"Why, listening to th' land means seeing it with new eyes, close-up eyes, smellin' it with deep pulls of air, tastin' it and hearin' it. All that connects ya, my boy. Connects ya to what is, after all, yer home. Listenin' to the land and conversin' with it as ya play golf brings ya home, m' lad. Home to where ya human kind grew up."
"What's that, now?" I asked, losing his meaning in all the words and strange sounds of them as I shoved tees and balls into my bag.
"Why, ya humans didn't evolve in little rectangular rooms with ceilings, now, did ya?" he asked, his eyes dancing over his smiling mouth. "Yer kind grew up out in the natural world, now, did ya not? Africa early, then the Old World, comin' through Japan on yer way to the New World. Yer home was open spaces full of trees and mountains and lakes and oceans. Stars above and fresh winds in yer faces. Everythin' ya miss these days, stuck in yer homes and yer offices. Golf gets ya out again, back to yer home. No wonder ya love it so. It's comin' home for ya. No wonder yer so happy on a golf course, in spite of all the frustrations ya bring to the game."
As he finished, he spread his arms wide above his head and turned around slowly, taking in the brightening blue sky, the dark green of the pines, filling his lungs noisily with deep gulps of air. He burst into a melody, some foreign song, probably Western opera, by the sound of it.
I chuckled, he cut such a ridiculous figure. Then I dropped my bag, lifted my arms high and turned slowly with him, breathing deep. Before I knew it, a deep gurgling laugh erupted out of me, setting me tingling from my toes to my scalp.
"On yer toes, boy. Yer home! Dance for joy, m' boy!"
We both went on our toes and capered about, dancing little jigs. The pines blurred as I twirled, and soon I tripped and fell to the ground.
Laughing, I scrambled to my feet and looked around for the old man.
He was gone.
I looked all directions. He had vanished. Would I ever see him again?
Then I noticed how light it was. The head greenskeeper would already be on his rounds. And I'd be late for my job at the shrine. I grabbed my clubs and lurched dizzily for the opening in the fence.

Chapter Two. The Guji's Photo. Miyazaki Shinto Shrine

I've really got to lose some weight and get stronger, I thought, as I pedaled my bicycle furiously up the last hill into Miyazaki and huffed through the surrounding park into the shrine courtyard. The drums signaling the start of the Sichi-go-san ritual of the children were still booming as I rushed into my room, changed into robes, and grabbed my flute. As Guji Takata and the other senior priests filed solemnly into the hall of worship, I fell into line at the end, where a lowly priest in training relegated to playing the flute belonged. The Guji saw me join the procession without registering any outward disapproval, but as a matter of fact I had very nearly missed the ritual.
During the purification phase of the ritual, as Senior Priest Ureshino waved the haraigushi wand over the heads of the wide-eyed children--three-and seven-year old girls, five-year-old boys--I remembered with shame that I had forgotten to cleanse my hands and mouth at the temizuya basin. What a miserable servant of the kami I was, coming uncleansed into their presence. My cheeks flushed hot as I stared hard at the lustrous cypress wood flooring on which I knelt through the Guji's petition to the kami, asking that they protect the children and give them vigorous health and happy lives as they grow into adulthood.
Even the children watched in silent fascination as Senior Priest Ureshino then paced to the very back of the hall and actually lifted the heavy heihaku pole off its stand, the black lacquer of the thick wooden instrument gleaming in the candlelight, the mother-of-pearl filigree work throwing off sparks as he carefully carried it towards the rows of children. The heihaku contained the very divine essence of the kami, and he held it gingerly, as if it might explode, the gold streamers shaped like bolts of lightning dangling from its top. No one moved as he reached the children. With infinite care, he held the heihaku above their heads, and slowly lowered it so that its gold lighting bolts brushed against the head of each child down the rows. The children were frozen in awe and wonder as they were touched by the kami. I glanced behind the children at their parents, and saw tears coursing down most of their faces. Ureshino replaced the heihaku carefully upon its stand, and everyone in the hall breathed an audible sigh.
It was time to entertain the kami with the kagura dance of the young shrine attendants. My lone flute accompanied their dance, and I played my heart out, determined to make up for my stumblings. I've always loved playing the shakuhachi bamboo flute. Making its pure, mournful music was one of my solaces growing up in our little fishing village down the coast, where my honorable father was the priest of the village's tiny Shinto shrine.
So I played, and well, imagining that the music inspired the two miko shrine attendants in their lovely slow swooping movements before the altar, and thus pleased the kami, who everyone knows love music and the kagura dance as much as they love the sake which sat in the place of honor amongst the food offerings on the altar. The children also seemed to enjoy the dancing as well, giggling and pointing as the white-and-red garbed girls swirled before the altar.
After the dance, the Guji briefly addressed the children, hoping they would grow up with the kami as companions to enliven their lives in the community and nation. Then with two bows, two claps of his hands, and final bow, the ritual was over.
The children and their parents streamed noisily out of the hall into the courtyard, where the miko attendants and us junior priests gave them bags with toys, headbands, and sweets, along with a shrine talisman, as parents snapped photos and television cameras whirled for the evening news. My biefly-raised spirits were quickly dashed, though, when the Guji approached me and asked if he could see me in his office after the children had left. I didn't think he wanted to congratulate me on my playing of the shakuhachi flute.
Thirty minutes later I sat stiff before his desk as he entered from the courtyard. I searched his face for a clue, but as always he was calm and pleasant. Just like my father had been.
"We were concerned that the miko attendants might be dancing without your flute, Yoshi," he said gently.
I hung my head. "My sincere apologies, Guji Takata. Something unusual happened this morning to cause my tardiness. I shall be more careful in the future." I felt genuinely awful.
A pause. "Flat tire coming back from the Phoenix Country Club?" he said gently.
I looked up quickly. His eyes were more sorrowful than angry.
"No, sir. I--" Maybe I shouldn't say anything about the old man, I thought.
"Yoshi, you've been here, what? Four months? You haven't struck me as especially happy to be here at Miyazaki Shrine," he said, trying to be gentle, but a note of disappointment in his soft voice.
A great sigh wracked my body. "I don't know, Guji. I genuinely want to serve the kami. But...other things just seem more...attractive to me."
A low laugh from the Guji. "Golf," he said, with a chuckle.
My face burned. "I like being outside," I blurted. "The earth, the trees, the wind. Surely the kami are present in all those?" The old man's words, but they had struck a chord in me.
"Well, of course," the Guji answered after a pause. "Particularly in Suginoki, the ancient cedar on the course." He leaned over toward me. "But unless I am mistaken, you are not a ... what is his name, the American golfer, who is half Asian?"
"Panther Irons," I whispered.
"Ah, yes. If you don't have the skills of this Panther Irons, then I don't believe you can make a living sneaking onto the Phoenix Country Club at dawn and playing golf. How can you support a wife, and children?"
"I'm not yet married. I can support myself well enough as a novice priest, Guji," I blurted, with more sharpness than was appropriate when addressing a Guji.
"My apologies, for the tone, sir," I added.
The Guji clucked his tongue, and turned in his chair to grasp a photo on the shelf behind his desk. He passed it to me.
"Recognize anyone there, Yoshi?"
I stared at the two young men and a pretty girl, standing on the steps leading up to the main shrine hall of Suwa Shrine in Nagasaki, Kyushu Island's most famous Shinto shrine, excepting the sea cave shrine at Udo, of course. I looked closer.
"Is ... is that my father? On the right?"
"Yes. Forty years ago. With me on the other side of that pretty young miko attendant. Any idea who she is, standing between us?"
I looked closer, and the hair rose on the back of my neck.
"Mom!" I whispered.
The Guji nodded. "We both were smitten by her, as young novice priests at Suwa Shrine. Well, in truth everyone we knew was smitten with your mother."
"Why, she's ... she's beautiful," I said.
"Is that so hard to believe?" the Guji said with a laugh. "When your father finally won her--thank the gods, because he deserved her, and if he hadn't, I would not have married my Rumi and fathered our two sons--he asked me to be a godfather to his children. Did you know your father and I were best friends?"
I looked up, dazed. "No. No, I didn't."
"Well, we were. When he passed away last year, your dear mother asked me to take you in and complete your training here. I was happy to. Your shakuhachi playing is truly exceptional. I like you for all the reasons I liked your father." He paused. I pretended to be looking at the photo still, to avoid his eyes.
"So I've been ... distressed to see you not bloom in your duties here. I've wondered why you haven't. Surely, I thought, you would want to master the rituals and the administration of a temple, so you can return to your village shrine and take up your father's role as head priest there--"
"No!" I said with more vehemence than was proper, again. I briefly tried to keep it bottled up, but it all came gushing out.
"I want more than wasting my life in an obscure little shrine in an obscure little fishing village. I want to do something with my life." I looked him square in the face. "And just because I don't know what, exactly, doesn't make it wrong. The only thing that feels right to me just now is playing golf, watching the sun come up through the trees, seeing the grass glisten with dew. I'm learning how to listen to the land, Guji. How to converse with it. An old man is teaching me, showing me all the things that the trees and earth and wind and even fungi under the ground can tell us--"
The Guji's face was full of shock and wonderment at the bizarre torrent of words pouring from me. So I stopped. The office filled with silence. From outside came the sound of a visitor clapping their hands twice in front of the altar at the main hall. They would be bowing, now.
The Guji cleared his throat. "Well ... I'm glad you find something, at least, to be passionate about. And I did promise your father, and recently your mother, to give you every opportunity and assistance here at Miyazaki Shrine." He rose, took the photo from my hand, and replaced it in what I saw was the place of honor on the shelf. "Udo Jingu shrine has requested a shakuhachi player to participate in the New Rice festival in several weeks--their player recently moved away. I am giving them you. Don't be tardy for the ritual. And don't omit your duties at the temizuya basin." There was a hard edge to his voice, for the first time.
I stood, and bowed. "I shall honorably represent our shrine, Guji. For my honorable father's sake. I thank you for your support and patience."
He nodded slowly, and I left, stealing a glance at the photo behind his desk. Yes, that was it. The look on my father's face in the photo. Open, eager, slightly confused but hungry for life. That was why I hadn't recognized him initially. I'd never seen that look on my father's face, whether young or old. He'd always been so confident, so sure of himself. So utterly different than me. Yet there he was--almost looking like I felt now. Confused, hesitant. Let's face it--lost. Lost and bewildered. Now that was something to think about--my father as lost and bewildered as I was now. It didn't fit, but the photo sure suggested it. I wondered how he got from the face in that photo to the one I remembered What had happened? And would it happen to me?
Did I want it to happen to me?

Chapter Three. Kagura Dancer. Udo Jingu shrine, coastal Kyushu below Miyazaki

The bicycle climb up the coastal road to the famous sea cave shrine of Udo was easier than I had thought it would be. My mornings on the golf course--conversing with the land in our ancient home, and all that--were making me thinner and stronger, at least. My game still stunk, but listening to the land made it more fun. I'd eagerly looked for the old man to reappear during the past several weeks, but there'd been no sign of him. He owed me that lesson on my swing, and I desperately needed it. So I kept showing up every dawn, and playing. After a fashion. Boy, did I need that lesson.
It was my first time to the renowned shrine on the coast below Miyazaki. Locking my bike in the small lot above, with shakuhachi flute in hand and my ceremonial robes and hat in a satchel on my back, I wound my way down the long stone stairs hugging the cliff face to the cave, the vast ocean stretching away to the right. Even well before the ritual--I made sure I was early, not wanting to disappoint the Guji again--I jostled hundreds of folks on their way to the cave also. The New Rice festival was one of Shinto's most important.
Approaching the cave, several huge stones in the ocean a dozen or so yards offshore came into view. They were circled with hanegawa ropes indicating the presence of kami, and they indeed were awe-inspiring, both in size and location. Waves crashed into them and the green sea rolled forever to the east beyond them. I bought a packet of the little clay cubes from a miko attendant at a railing and tried my hand at tossing the cubes onto the rocks so that they remained atop the rock within the depressions there. My luck was the same as the rest of my life--every one skittered off and plunged into the sea raging below.
The long, low entrance to the cave opened to the left, under a red torii gate festooned with white haraigushi streamers to catch defilements as you entered. The impurity-laden haraigushi would be thrown into the salty, all-cleansing ocean every day or two, I guessed.
The huge cave opened up past the entrance, and a gleaming shrine occupied much of it, every inch freshly painted and workmanship of the highest class. Miyazaki shrine was way more luxurious and impressive than my father's shrine in our village, and this shrine was that much more impressive than Miyazaki's. I admired the woodwork and colors for a few moments, turning to take in the dazzling view of the ocean outside, beyond the sumptuous shrine. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
Until I turned to a counter to ask directions, that is, and saw the miko attendant there. She took my breath away. Skin the color and radiance of peaches. Lips a rich vermilion to match the apron over her white kimono, but a natural color. Her eyes and hair, glossy black that shone even in the dim light. Her eyes sparkled with laughter and love of life, and somehow reminded me of the old man on the golf course. I stood there, speechless, like an idiot, dazed by her beauty.
"Yes?" she said with a full smile, in a voice as rich and lively and laughing as everything else about her.
"I'm, uh..." I croaked. She laughed, and I cleared my throat and tried again. "I'm, uh, the flute player." She stared, bewildered. I felt even more an idiot. "From Miyazaki shrine. For the New Rice ritual."
Her eyes widened. "You... you're a young priest?" she wondered, eyebrows rising and forehead wrinkling, as she looked me up and down, from my flipflops to my shorts to my black AC/​DC tee-shirt celebrating "The Highway to Hell."
"Well... robes and stuff in my bag," I stammered, jerking a thumb at my back. I noticed my shakuhachi in my other hand. "Here's my flute," I claimed, shoving it toward her as if it were vital evidence.
She stepped back a bit, laughing. "Yeah, well, right, Mister shakuhachi player." She nodded her head to the right. "The dressing rooms are over there, in the back. Good, uh... good luck."
I slouched in the direction she'd indicated, and joined the other priests donning their robes for the ceremony. The chief priest welcomed me, said Guji Takata was kind to loan his shakuhachi player, and that he'd known my father back in the old days at Nagasaki's Suwa shrine. I was getting a little tired of hearing about the good old days at Suwa shrine. Or maybe just envious.
When the drums were struck beginning the ritual, I was ready. No longer the awkward boy, I strode out with the other priests, standing tall and regal in my white kimono with the blue apron, my shiny clogs clacking a stately rhythm on the stone floor, my gaze formal and serene. True, I was last in line with several other musicians, befitting my junior status, but I'd show the most beautiful miko in the world that I wasn't the flustered boy she had mistook me for. I deigned to glance in her direction as the procession swept by. She was leaning against the side of the counter, arms folded, a vision of loveliness, trying to suppress a smile as she saw me. She flashed me a thumbs up, and I tried not to beam, which became easier as I stumbled over an electrical cord taped across the floor.
The cave was full of the smell of fresh rice, from the sheaves of rice stalks tied onto the red pillars everywhere. Entering the small hall of worship and kneeling on the tatami mats on the hinoki cypress floor, I discreetly kept an eye open for the beautiful miko through the purifications. I couldn't find her anywhere as the senior priest waved the haraigushi wand over the packed crowd of weathered rice farmers and their wives invited to the ceremony. Their grey-topped heads remained bowed as another priest flicked droplets of cleansing water from a leafy sprig over their ranks. Now that all were cleansed, it was time to call the kami. The musician on my left blew five long, eerie notes on his panpipe as the Udo Guji raised the bamboo screen revealing the Inner Sanctuary, an awesomely empty space of weathered wood and deep shadows. Everyone in the hall bowed deep to the recently-arrived kami.
I was busy joining the panpipe and drum players providing background music as the offerings were then relayed to the altar--eight trays of sake, water, salt, rice, fruits, vegetables, seaweed, and fish. After another deep bow by all, the Guji delivered his norito remarks, thanking the kami for the successful rice harvest, and recognizing the invited rice farmers whose diligent labor is their annointed way of praising the kami.
Everyone relaxed as the Guji finished, the old farmers switching from the formal kneeling posture to cross-legged sitting. The kami had been called, arrived, feted with food offerings and recognized by the Guji's remarks. Now was time for "reverent entertainment" of the kami, the miko's kagura dance. I stirred to get the blood moving to my legs and raised my shakuhachi flute to my lips at the prescribed time and manner. No stumbling here--playing the flute was home ground for me, the one thing in my life I wasn't faking. Three measures in, the miko dancers floated onto the floor fronting the altar. One of them, on the side away from me, seemed particularly graceful in her movements. She swooped low, pivoted on one foot, and spun slowly around to face me. It was my miko, the most beautiful miko in the world. And now I knew she was also the most graceful kagura dancer in the world.
Her face glowed with a shy serenity as she danced for the kami, the white tube encasing her ponytail swinging gracefully across her back, the bells on her wand tinkling soft and pure, the wand's streamers floating gently behind her hands as she swirled. I wanted to give her something, something precious as a gift from me, so I played the flute as I'd never played before, the tones coming out rich and resonant, quavering with emotion and loveliness, yet restrained and decorous. I could swear that she noticed, and that her dancing and my playing became one, her cheeks flushing pink over her peach skin as she swooped and swirled before the kami. All too soon it was over. Everything was blurred for me as the head priest collected his leafy sprig of the sacred sakaki tree and advanced to the altar, reversed the sprig, and laid it on the little table there, cut end facing the altar and the kami temporarily in residence there. My head cleared a bit as each row of farmers was presented with their sakaki sprigs, many of them having to be helped to their feet to stagger in choppy little steps to the altar. More than a few of them forgot their double bow and clap at the altar, or neglected to reverse the sprig as they laid it on the low table there, but it wasn't important. The kami know that humans are forgetful, and nervous in their presence, and are tolerant of our nature. The priests then removed the offerings from the altar, as I glanced about for a glimpse of my miko, failing to find her. The Guji uttered a long, wavering call upon which the kami rode away, closed the screen to the inner sanctuary, and turned to the guests.
"Thank you for coming, and for your hard work to produce the rice harvest which pleases the kami and nourishes the people of Japan. We invite you to join us now in a feast to celebrate the bounty of this land, given to us by the kami."
We priests stood and processed out, each accepting a small sip of rice wine outside the hall. My dancing miko handed me mine, eyes downcast, and I sipped it, feeling our connection beyond words. Then all the miko and us priests rushed to the banquet hall, where low tables fronted by floor cushions were laden with food, each place having ten white porcelain dishes of radish, raw sea bream, fish-paste cakes, seaweed, apples and oranges, rice cakes, pickled plums--all the food earlier blessed upon the altar. Plus of course a full cup of sake.
All too soon the feast was over, the last of the now-boisterous farmers making their way up the cliffside stairway. I changed back to my regular clothes in the dressing room, and looked around for my miko at the shrine entrance. She was nowhere to be seen. I lingered for a few moments, then reclaimed my bicycle at the top of the stairs.
My mind was sharp and crystal clear on the ride home. My aimless life was forever gone, shattered by my encounter with the most beautiful miko in the world. I had to have her in my life. She focused everything, made life beautiful, and gave me a clear direction--to do whatever it took to spend my life with her. I guess that meant marriage--whatever it took. My heart pounded, and blood coursed through me in exhilarating waves. Just knowing her made me more alive. Or maybe it was the bicycle ride. No, the ride was downhill mainly, and my blood was pounding anyway. It was her--the most beautiful miko in the world. I would make her mine, and my life would be rich and full.
Of course, by the time I reached Miyazaki, I had not the faintest idea how I might achieve that pressing goal.
And now that I thought about it, I didn't even know her name.