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Hawaii’s Hiroshima Ceremony

August 10, 2018 / John D. / 6 Comments

Thanks to Ray Tsuchiyama for this visual report of a true multifaith ceremony at the Izumi Taishakyo shrine in Hawaii to commemorate the dropping of the Hiroshima bomb 77 years ago. Ray writes: ‘Rarely do you see a Buddhist (Nichiren) priest singing “Ave Maria” and a Hawaiian song (to a Hula accompaniment). We had a Jewish speaker, Native Hawaiian, and a young people’s group (we all sang John Lennon’s “Imagine” — including the Shinto priest).’

Further details on this poster below…

The Jewish representative giving an address, with Hiroshima bell replica behind

Ray Tsuchiyama giving the closing address

Baikal and Back 5: Korean connection

August 6, 2018 / John D. / 1 Comment

Seonbawi rock at Seoul, ghostly guardian over the city below

‘Actually not many Koreans know much about the shamanic tradition. It’s strange,’ scholar David Mason told me. ‘It’s as if they were ashamed of it. Few Koreans could face their past until the 1980s because it was all too painful. All that devastation. All the heritage wiped out. All the shame. It’s only recently that they want to look back and claim their past. But if you look around, there really isn’t that much. In Seoul there are the Royal Palaces, the City Gates, the Insadong craft street. That’s about it. So it’s strange they don’t embrace the shamanist heritage more fully. Until recently they were ashamed of it as primitive, and after the war they even tried to stamp it out as superstition. But you’re going to see how much a part it is of a living tradition.’

We were on our way to Mt Inwang, a shamanic hill with sixteen brightly-coloured Buddhist temples, garish by Japanese standards, which had once stood astride the old road to China. Inside were paintings of Sanshin, an old man with a beard, invariably accompanied by a tiger, who acted as protective deity to Buddhist temples.

On the hill stood the national shaman shrine, Guksadang. The main feature was an old Spirit Tree, spanning the three worlds, in front of which were offerings of alcohol. It was decorated in cloth strips of symbolic colours, the dominant being blue to signify the source of the cosmic order. (It is why the Korean president occupies a Blue House rather than a White House.)

For a national shrine it was unprepossessing, but Korean shamanism had never been institutionalised like Shinto and its structures were makeshift and homemade. There was no official form of worship, no set liturgy, and shaman practices were conducted in homes or outdoors. The closest it had come to organised religion was in its alliance with Buddhism.

Beyond the temples lay the rocky crag of Seon-bawi, one of the most worshipped rocks in the world. From the side of the slope above us its weathered features stood up tall and proud, looking like a giant old man. Dubbed the Benevolent King, he casts a protective eye over Seoul in the valley below. From a certain angle it was possible to see too a companion resting his head against him. ‘They’re known as Zen rocks because they resemble praying monks,’ said David, ‘but to me they look like Sanshin and his tiger.’

Rock worship Korean-style, not so different from rock worship in Japan

Ancient tradition holds that rocks like this are spirits rising out of the ground, and there was indeed a palpable sense of presence. Before them offerings of food and soju (rice alcohol) had been laid out, while entreaties and prayers were given voice by earnest worshippers.

Interestingly, the positioning of the sacred rocks were similar to those I’d seen on the Inland Sea in Japan, along which migrants from Korea passed in ancient times. I’d often wondered what made a particular hill sacred. One thing I’d noticed was that the hills were often steep on one side with a long extended slope on the other. The shape was mirrored in that of shrine roofs, surely no coincidence. The position of the sacred rock was not, as might be expected, at the peak but a third of the way up. Seen from below, it serves as focal point for the mountain as a whole. Indeed the background of the rising mountain could be seen as a kind of aureole. Sacred rock, holy hill.

While we were at Seon-bawi, David told me about hyeoul, or energy point. Shamans were sensitive to these in much the same way as the ‘wise folk’ of Western witchcraft responded to the power of place. In hyeoul it was important to balance the forcefield of heaven with that of earth, resulting in the locating of sacred rocks at a keypoint on the lower part of the mountain where magnetic forces accumulated. It was a vital ki point, as it were. Very interesting! Surely Yayoi-era emigrants had taken notions of hyeoul with them as they made inroads into Japan along the coastland of Kyushu and the Inland Sea.

‘What you find in Korea is mountain-worship at particular cliffs and boulders,’ remarked David. ‘The rocks act as a focus for prayer, much like the crucifix in a church acts as a focus for Jesus and God. There’s a tradition of worshipping particular rocks, such as these with special shapes or rocks that seem somehow special.’
‘Yes, it’s the same in Japan,’
‘Well, don’t forget that the ancestors of modern Japan came from hereabouts, so it’s all linked.’

Meditation at a shaman’s rock in Korea

Baikal and Back 4: Korean links

August 6, 2018 / John D. / 0 Comments

Udu-san in Korea, which legend claims to be where the gods descended (courtesy Douch)

Shamanism in Korea tends to be overshadowed by Buddhism, Confucianism and even Christianity. Though it flourished in ancient times, its influence waned after 1392 when the Joseon Dynasty promoted Confucianism. This was primarily concerned with ethical behaviour and promoting harmony in a top-down social order, which was at odds with the individualistic, spontaneous and unpredictable nature of shamanism. Moreover, it was male-oriented in contrast to the female world of shamanism.

Spirit clothes, used in Korean shaman ceremonies

During the colonial period after 1910 all folk religions had been forbidden, and after liberation the forces of modernisation and secularisation had proved further impediments. Yet remarkably shamanism still continues to play a part in the life of the people, like a stream that has been diverted underground but continues to water the fields.

‘You see, it’s basically like this,‘ Sanshin expert David Mason told me. ‘There was a kind of village shamanism all over East Asia. Regional variations, sure, but basically the same. There was a shaman-chief or shamanness in control or supporting the leader. In China it went philosophical with the emergence of Taoism. In Siberia it retained its village form but got wiped out by the communists. In Korea it merged with Buddhism and sort of got sidelined. And in Japan it was used to legitimise the ruling dynasty. That’s the way I see it, anyway. That’s why you have these differences all over East Asia, even though they all share the same basis.

Korean shaman dance in Jeju (unknown source)

For me Korea’s the most interesting because shamanism remained strong in folk culture but didn’t become institutionalised. It managed to co-exist with Buddhism but was suppressed by Confucianism under the Joseon Dynasty. During Japanese control it suffered even more as it was regarded as a potential source of nationalism. In the postwar period Christianity and Westernisation have contributed to the view that it was somehow evil or backward, and even as recently as the regime of Park Chung-Lee in the 1970s it was portrayed as an enemy of modernity. Throughout it’s been primarily a woman’s religion, and though it managed to remain vibrant it has always been marginalised or driven underground. That’s what makes it so interesting.’

‘Koreans are still Confucian on the inside with a shamanistic center,‘ writes Woo-Young Choi, professor of sociology at Chonbuk National University. His book ascribes Korea’s rapid economic growth to its Confucian heritage and brings up the concept of sinbaram, which has to do with inhalation in the sense of drawing in the breath. It’s the sort of breathing that takes a shaman into trance, and some say it’s the very basis of Korean culture. It’s where the energy and vitality of the country come from. You can sense it in the poetry, and it’s how the country survived being crushed between its mighty neighbours, China and Japan. It’s how it manages to keep breathing so heartily, even now.

Model of an ancient Korean shaman – did immigrants long ago bring their religion with them to Japan?

Baikal and Back 3: Similarities

August 2, 2018 / John D. / 2 Comments

Shaman flags of the Buryat Mongols near Irkutsk

As elsewhere, Buryat shamans not only have a strong connection to the land, but they serve as guardians of the cultural identity. Under Communism, however, the ethnic distinctiveness was seen as threatening to the party’s official line of universalism. In the interests of uniformity they tried to stamp out shamanism altogther.

The Saio-dai’s headdress in Kyoto’s Aoi Matsuri is suggestive of the shamanic miko of early history

The motivation was reminiscent of the way seventh-century Japan had clamped down on shamanic activities in the name of centralisation. Women in trances uttering messages from an unseen world did not meet the needs of the expanding Yamato state, and a network was established of imperial shrines with male functionaries. Miko (female shamans) were suppressed or incorporated into the new institutions in subordinate roles, with formal ceremony replacing spontaneity. As ritual became a matter of correctness, shamanism was replaced by Shinto.

The ‘fossilised remains’ of shamanism remain evident in today’s Shinto. The ethereal noise uttered by priests to mark the descent and departure of the kami, for example. It’s a nod towards shamanic possession, but it’s pure form.

If one can presume that ancient Japanese had close links with Korean shamanism, and that Korean shamanism derived from that of Siberia through southern migration, then it would be surprising if there were not close affinities between Shinto and Mongolian shamanism. My journey to Siberia seemed to bear that out.

Shaman masks, now treasures of Kyoto’s Gion Matsuri

Shamanism in general is animistic, polytheistic, and aims to establish balance between humans and spirits. There are countless deities, including ancestral spirits of place and beings that live in the upper world. There’s no fixed doctrine and no holy books. Ancestor worship blends into a sense of sacred nature. All of that applies to shamanic cultures – and to Shinto too.

Many if not most religions make a fetish of threesomes. Three in one; the Buddhist triad; the three Wise Men. Even atheistic communism came up with Marx, Engles and Lenin. Personally I’ve always attributed this to the father-mother-child template of human life, but psychologists ascribe it to the workings of the mind along past-present-future lines. In shamanism too there is a threefold reality in terms of an upper, middle and lower world, and this is reflected in the Buryat tradition. The human self is divided into body, breath and soul; blessings are done in threes; there are three parts to the soul; and the sick are given life extensions of three or nine years. Worship involves walking three times round an ovoo shrine. There are nine disciples for a shaman, and there are 99 heavenly spirits, triply divided and subdivided. So how about Shinto?

Unsurprisingly, three also lies at the very core of the religion. The triple tomoe mark is the tripartite symbol of Shinto, borrowed from Taoism where it represents Earth, Human and Heaven. There are three imperial regalia that show descent from the sun-goddess (mirror, sword and jewel). Purification is done by waving a stick with paper streamers three times. There are three cosmic children born of the first ever misogi (cleansing), Amaterasu, Susanoo and Tsukinomikami, and you walk three times through the chinowa circle of purification. But perhaps most striking of all is the wedding ceremony of san-san-kudo (3-3-9), by which couples exchange three times three cups of saké to signify eternal union.

Jingu Kogo, shaman leader in Japanese mythology, here part of Gion Matsuri

Mythologically there are close parallels too. In Mongolian folklore the sun goddess Naran Goohon becomes sick and makes the world dim but is restored after a meeting of the gods. In Shinto, Amaterasu retreats into a cave and throws the world into darkness, but light is restored after a meeting of the gods.

In Mongolian mythology a rainbow connects the upper world and this world. In Shinto the two worlds are joined by Ama no Ukihashi, the floating bridge of heaven (ie a rainbow). Both Shinto and shamanism privilege intuition as a means of knowledge, typically in the form of dreams which are interpreted as messages from the spirits. They may disclose sacred sites or events of special significance; indeed, the location for many Shinto shrines are revealed in this way (most famously Ise Jingu when Amaterasu appears in a vision to say that she is ready to stop her wanderings).

In both traditions the pollution of the material world contrasts with the purity of the spirit world. Spirits are offended by disrespect, lack of hygiene, the violation of taboos, or contact with blood and death. Consequently purification is carried out before rituals with such means as smoke, salt, fasting and washing. A ‘spiritual cleaner’ is used to sweep away impurities, known as minaa in Mongolian and haraigushi or onusa in Japanese. The minaa can be used like a whip to clear negative energy; applied to the body it acts as a means of healing.

Mongolian ‘minaa’ used to whip away impurities (courtesy 3worlds website)

For Buryats trees are a manifestation of earth’s power, and remarkable trees represent a special mark of the life-force. Ribbons or silk scarves are tied to their branches, whereas in Japan sacred trees are marked with a shimenawa rice rope. In both Mongolian and Shinto traditions, human spirits are thought to remain behind after death as protector and helper of the household. After several generations they no longer remain as individual entities but merge into an anonymous whole. Those who exhibit exceptional power, such as Chingis Khan and Nobunaga, are worshipped as deities regardless of any moral considerations. In both traditions, people who die too young or unjustly may plague descendants and need placating. Those who are too strongly attached to things in this world may linger on unrequited.

In both traditions a ‘spirit-body’ is constructed out of objects such as wood and rock, or simply a doll or paper drawing. The spirit is drawn into the object in a special rite conducted by the shaman or priest. In shamanism the rhythmic repetition of the drum, quickening in tempo, leads to an altered state of consciousness. In Shinto the drum is used in shrines at the beginning of rituals with a quickening beat, as if to alert worshippers to the arrival of an unseen presence.

In Mongolia bells and rattles attract the attention of spirits; in Shinto a bell is rung to call the kami. While dancing miko use a kind of rattle (suzu) to catch the kami’s attention, another legacy from shamanism. In both religions the mirror plays a central role in terms of using divine light to disspell evil spirits. Mirrors on the shaman’s costume provide protection as well as facilitating possession by ancestral spirits by providing portals. In Shinto the mirror in the shrine symbolises the supreme source of life, the spirit of the sun-goddess herself.

Mirrors can be hung on costumes as in shamanism or as part of the misakaki in Shinto

Baikal and Back 2: Throat-singing

July 28, 2018 / John D. / 0 Comments

(Pics from google)

The traditional ger (Mongolian tent), aligned to the south, is more than a portable tent for it also serves as spiritual sanctuary. In the north stands an altar with mirror, so that any evil spirit entering the tent is frightened off by its own reflection. The central pole serves as a domestic axis mundi, allowing access to both upper and lower worlds. Men are seated on the left and women on the right to facilitate a yin-yang flow of energy, and in the middle of the tent is a fire above which an opening enables the smoke to escape. It is through that opening that the shaman’s soul soars when taking flight.

The group ate to the accompaniment of Buryat folksongs, the first of which was about the falling snow, another about the beauty of the mountains, and a third about the greatness of Chingis Khan. One of the instruments comprised two strings of horse-hair along a piece of wood carved to resemble a horse, and if you shut your eyes the sound sent you galloping away across the plains.

All of a sudden I was startled from my thoughts by the strangest of noises, as if an otherworldly voice had spoken from the space above us. For a moment my heart beat anxiously as I looked around for an explanation of the source, and slowly it became apparent that someone was doing traditional throat singing. Even then the effect was unnerving, for the reverberations were deep, guttural and quite unhuman.

Afterwards one of the musicians, a teacher at the Ulan Ude’s music academy, explained that throat-singing may have originated from the wind whistling round the side of the ger and reverberating through the openings. People wanted to mimic the noises, which vibrated simultaneously in different pitches, and as they strained ever harder to capture the sounds they developed their vocal chords and created new effects.

Eventually the noises took on otherworldy qualities, with shaman-singers using the techniques to project the voice of the spirits with which they communicated. It was the shamanic way of speaking in tongues. Most of his students took a year or so to acquire the skill, he told us, though some were incapable. When done properly, it didn’t hurt at all and was known to be good exercise for underused muscles.

The Siberian shaman’s costume has a fringe covering the face, which acts as a protective veil. The official reason is to shield viewers from the unnerving sight of a spirit taking possession of the shaman. From one of the musicians we learnt that even for those versed in such matters, the phenomenon cold be perplexing. ‘I was at a shaman’s session once,’ he said, ‘and the spirit’s voice was so deep and bass that when the fringe was raised afterwards and I saw it was a woman, I got a weird feeling and gooseflesh all over.’

Baikal and Back 1: Shaman

July 21, 2018 / John D. / 6 Comments

On a trip to Lake Baikal, I hired a guide to take me to a local shaman, intrigued to see what similarities there may be with early religion in Japan. Here’s a short account of the meeting.

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Siberian shaman drumming up the spirits

Prompted by my guide, I proffered the bottle of vodka we had brought. The shaman wetted his fingers and flicked the liquid away in offering, then took an enormous gulp and called on the Sky God to intercede with my father and bring harmony between us. Other exchanges followed about my path in life, including a prediction that I would find success in later years. Then with a few guttural sounds and jerky movements, the shaman opened his eyes and looked with glazed eyes as if searching for something in the distance, then slowly his focus returned. ‘So there you are,’ he said, back in his normal voice. He smiled, but he was clearly drained of energy.

From the vodka bottle he poured us each a shot, and with the guide to translate I asked a few questions. How had he become a shaman? ‘My father was a shaman, but under Communism it was not allowed to practise. So we did in secret, just inside the house. I learnt from him. Entering a trance requires training and practice. It’s not something undertaken lightly. You feel something mysterious getting closer, rising within you, like a dark force taking over your consciousness, so.you have to make way. After some time, it’s impossible to say how long, that other being, that spiirit departs and your consciousness returns and takes over. It’s exhausting. It’s difficult to explain unless you’ve experienced yourself.’

Siberian shamanism: did it pass into Japan through Korea?

Give the ban on shamanism, I wondered if he had ever had another job? ‘Yes, I used to work for the police,’ he laughed. ‘I was in administration. Everyday working in an office. My salary was good, my position was good. It was interesting work. But when I was 30, I became troubled, I got a high fever and had to stay in bed. Something was wrong with me, my body hurt, so I went to a doctor but he could find nothing. I tried other doctors, but they could not see anything wrong. But my condition was so bad I had to give up work, then in desperation I went to a shaman who said the spirits were calling me. It was a shock, because I had never thought about those matters since childhood. I didn’t feel a connection to the spirit world at all. But when I consulted him, my pains stopped and I felt better. For me it was proof that I was on the right path. The spirits knew better than the doctors.’

So-called ‘Siberian illness’ is common among those destined to be a shaman, as if the suffering is a necessary prelude to the acquisition of wisdom. Being chosen in this way leads to an apprenticeship, which includes techniques like fasting, purification, visualisation and learning how to invite spirits into ritual implements such as the drum. The ascetic rites are so severe that many drop out. Who knows, but perhaps ancestral memory of this underwrote En no Gyoja’s austerities which led to the foundation of Shugendo. Still to this day shamanic rites are held by those who have undergone fasting and ascetic exercises in the heart of the mountains.

Power spots

July 18, 2018 / John D. / 1 Comment

The queue to pray at Tokyo Daijingu, a noted ‘power spot’

The following piece draws on an academic article by Caleb Carter in Japanese Journal of Religious Studies Vol 45, no. 1, p.145-73

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In recent years the boom in power spots has seen an increase in visitors to shrines, motivated by connecting with energy sources and entering portals into other worlds. One might think the authorities would welcome this, and many individual priests do, but official Shinto is far from pleased. The organ of the Association of Shrines, called Jinja Shinpo, had this to say (Aug 18, 2004):

Shrines are preserved for the devotion of kami and those who worship them. These long-worshipped sites are now thought to be power spots by some. However, when we recognise the term ‘supotto’ implies a single point, then the timeless history and traditions that have been passed down to us are ignored. Instead, only certain objects within the shrine receive attention. Take the example of a sacred tree reconceived as a power spot: because this spot is conceived as ‘the point’, all other areas of the shrine become neglected. As a result strange behaviours like stroking and hugging sacred trees have become rampant… Feverishly laying their palms on the trees to ‘receive energy’, these visitors fail to appreciate the solemn atmosphere of the shrine premises and forget to pray before the kami. Captivated only by the word ‘power spot’, they truly mistake the original essence of the shrine.

Avebury stone circle in England exudes a special kind of energy

Power spot evolution
But where did the idea of power spots come from? The roots lie in the seminal The Old Straight Track (1925) by Englishman Alfred Watkins. This promoted the idea of leylines, or currents of energy flowing through the ground. Underlying the notion was a belief that the earth was a living organism. Modern science did not recognise the phenomenon because it could only handle physical matter.

By the 1960s certain places were championed for their ‘special vibes’ – Glastonbury in England; Sedona and Mt Shasta in America. Then in 1972 John Michell brought out The View over Atlantis, which drew on geomancy, astro-archaeology, feng shui, pyramidology, numerology and other ancient traditions to claim that there were energy centers all around the world. When the Harmonic Convergence took place in 1987 in celebration of the idea, Mt Fuji was included as one of them.

It was around this time that the first indications of New Age thinking in Japan became evident, introduced by a Shinto priest., head of the Daibenzaiten Shrine in Tenkawa, who published a book called Tenkawa: Super Psychic Spot (1986). Since then Tenkawa has become something of a gathering spot for New Agers, popular with spiritualists, experimental dance groups, UFO seekers and counter-culture artists.

The Tenkawa book was followed by a spate of spiritualists on popular tv programmes being interviewed about their powers, and asked to tell fortunes or identify places with special power. One such person was Kiyota Masuaki, who drew on the Gaia thesis, ley lines, channeling and the Age of Aquarius to produce Hakken! Pawasuppoto (Disovered! Power Spots) (1991.) It took a comprehensive view of the phenomenon, including nature spots as well as temples and shrines.

Praying to a sacred rock at Tenkawa Jinja

The rising popularity of power spots can be seen as part of the spiritual reaction amongst young Japanese against the barren materialistm of the economic drive from the 1970s onwards. The relentless focus on consumerism led on the one hand to new religions and cults like Aum Shinri Kyo, on the other to nature bonding programmes such as the healing power of woods and a fad for weekend riceplanting.

Another influential figure was Ehara Hiroyuki, a television celebrity who was noted for having special ‘power spot’ abilities. His Spiritual Sanctuary series (2005-7) was basically simple tourist-style guides to ‘power shrines’ with their attractions, specialities and souvenirs. They became an enormous success, particularly among young females. Ehara was originally a Shinto priest, and it was he above all who cemented the association of ‘power spots’ with particular shrines.

Neo-nationalism
Following Ehara’s popularity, the power-spot phenomenon was picked up by proponents of neo-nationalist Koshinto. This claims that the Japanese of ancient times had a special relationship with nature, which people of other countries cannot fully appreciate. Ludicrous as this sounds, the idea had gained ground following the election of Shinzo Abe to power. In this way the notion of ‘power spots’, which ironically had originated in England, became increasingly tied into nihonjinron theories about the uniqueness of the Japanese. Power spots were even said to be special to Japan, or specially numerous, because it was ‘kami no kuni’ (the land of the kami).

Ehara’s influence remains evident in the young people at shrines who hold out their hands upturned in front of a rock or waterfall to feel the energy. Similarly, they can be seen sometimes touching or hugging trees. At Kurama, just north of Kyoto, people queue to stand and pray on a ‘power spot’ in front of the temple. Such ideas have been fostered by numerous anime and manga, in which shrines provide a spiritual haven and energy boost.

Tenkawa (Heavenly River) flows past the Daibenzaiten Shrine and emits an energy of its own

Direct engagement with otherworldly power undermines the authority of the priest, which is why shrines are ambivalent about the newfound popularity. While welcoming the attention and increase in visitors, they are concerned about the disregard for hierarchical authority. Just as shamans in ancient times threatened the primacy of the state, so modern ‘power spot seekers’ have opened up direct and democratic ways of tapping into the divine.

Another important lesson to come out of the power spot phenomenon is the mistaken description of Shinto as nature worship. This is such a common idea in the West that it is regularly trotted out as a definition. It is not so much a nature religion, however, as a religion of kami worship. It is why you’ll find shrines located on the top of buildings or in places where not a spot of nature is to be seen. It ignores too the whole ancestral deity aspect of Shinto.

Personally as a child of the 1960s, a hugger of standing stones, I’m partial to the idea of power spots and to the whole idea that different places give off different types of energy. As D.H. Lawrence put it, ‘Different places on the face of the earth have different vital effluence, different vibration, different chemical exhalation, different polarity with different stars: call it what you like. But the spirit of place is a great reality.’

In the end, then, this curious phenomenon is even more intriguing than it seems, for it raises the crucial problem of who has power over the ‘power spot’? It’s a question that in these troubled times is of increasingly vital interest: power to the people, or power to institutional authority?

Like John Lennon, Green Shinto has little doubt where its allegiance lies…

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For previous postings about power spots, please click the righthand category.

Kyoto power spot, Shimogawa Jinja sacred grove, at the junction of two rivers, the Kamo and the Takano

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For previous postings about power spots, see the category on the righthand side of this page.