Where the Dead Pause, and the Japanese Say Goodbye: A Journey (5 page)

The nearly empty plane circled a wide berth around Japan’s east coast, still shuddering with aftershocks, and its shore a massive wound. The flight attendant alerted us to the damaged nuclear reactor, visible far in the distance, and the seven of us on the plane all rubbernecked to take a look. In the airport, everyone was dressed in black and moved with solemn, apologetic dignity. Already the Japanese energy commission had created a mascot for a new advertising campaign: a little lightbulb with two eyes closed shut. It seemed to be either sleeping or sad or both, and it reminded us to use as little energy as possible. From the airport, to the train, to the city of T
ky
, all was dark. Japan, an island nation, had lost its power. But as we wended our way west, away from the disaster, Japan was flowering with spring. Here, the Japan I remembered from childhood was still resplendent. The cherry trees were blooming, and for a moment we were able to forget our sorrow.

TWO

T
HE
T
EMPLE

M
Y FAMILY’S ASSOCIATION WITH
the temple in Iwaki began in the late nineteenth century, when my great-grandfather Senn
—my grandfather’s father—took over a temple known as Empukuji, which means “Circle of Good Fortune.” I like to think of the circle as being the mouth of a bag, and that the name implies the possibility of catching good luck in a sack and carrying it around with you. Empukuji, which was founded about five hundred years ago, belongs to the S
t
sect of Buddhism, which Americans know of as Zen. My grandfather, or “Ojiisan” in Japanese, was once slated to inherit Empukuji, but he rebelled, leaving the future of the temple in the hands of his younger brothers, all of whom died during the war years.

There are around eighty-six thousand Buddhist temples in Japan, but the number is falling as Japanese turn away from the traditions that support historical institutions. Most temples are run by families, with the ideal succession transferring from father to son. This creates the potential for a War of the Roses–like drama to be played out with each generational handoff. There are also the lures of Western-influenced modernity. Who wants to meditate or go through the punishing regimen required to become a priest when
a city like T
ky
, with its ever-morphing neighborhoods, undulates with excitement just beyond the horizon?

When I traveled to Japan as a girl, my mother and I often began our trips at the temple in Iwaki because it was closer to the airport in T
ky
than my grandparents’ house farther west. In those days, the temple was run by Great-Aunt Shizuko, my grandfather’s younger sister.

I have a letter from Senn
to Ojiisan dated around 1950, in which my great-grandfather expresses his worries about Empukuji’s fate. “I have not been feeling well for the past twelve months, and am writing this letter from my futon. I want to talk about the future of the temple. I am worried about your sister Shizuko. I can’t die and leave the temple to her, because she is not healthy.” My mother remembers Senn
coming for a visit around this time, bringing a sack of sweet, dried persimmons for the children to eat. On this visit, Senn
asked his recalcitrant son, my Ojiisan, if one of my mother’s brothers might take over Empukuji—or if a marriage could be arranged between my mother and a priest. But Ojiisan refused. Senn
died in 1968, leaving his daughter, Shizuko, alone to take care of Empukuji—and to search for an heir.