Pa and I enjoyed our stay in Beppu. How could we not. The mountains, the sea, the good food and friendly people, the leisurely walks. It’s likely we’ll return for a day or two, having yet to experience even one of the city’s many onsens.
But we were itching to get on the road and explore Kyushu Island to the south. The valleys and mountains, Mt Aso in particular.
There’s a tension that exists when one travels - that between getting to know a place and discovering the new, on the road everyday. It’s akin to what we all experience at different times and in different ways. The need for both autonomy and family; solitude and fellowship. If we have the good fortunate in this life to have some equal measure of both, we must consider ourselves blessed.
Anyway, we rented a car for ten days, as the hidden places on the Island are difficult to get to otherwise. With Golden Week hovering over everything, there were no cars available in Beppu. But Avis in nearby Oita had just what we needed.
So we hopped on a local
and enjoyed the twenty minute ride to our destination.
A wonderful young woman patiently educated us, and by noon we were on the road - the left side of the road - with the first of many mountains straight ahead,
and Mt Aso two hours beyond.
What happens though, whether walking or driving, is that places along the way have their own agenda and need for attention.
The little towns,
tucked in the foothills,
the tiny shrines that accompany them,
and the bridges needed to get to them.
We finally succumbed,
and deviated from our intended route,
coming upon a bridge,
of course, and the little world beyond it.
But with Mt Aso our goal, we couldn’t linger . . .
except a view in the distance called out.
Pa recognized it first and said there was time to pause. Fortuitously, a lane appeared,
providing parking and an easy stroll back.
It was well worth the stop, rice fields and ponds,
stunning even under cloudy skies.
Of course we had to move on, as time was slipping away. But mid-way to the lane’s beginning, there was a small shrine
hidden in the greenery, yet marking the way to another lane,
leading to its own little world of farm land,
green fields,
and gentle creatures.
Our day might well have been complete, yet there was light enough for Mt Aso. So back to the car we went,
but rooftops called for attention.
Near enough to cause little delay, we walked toward them, but on the right was a whisper, a gate to be more precise.
And knowing by now, we bowed to pass under,
pausing at the poetry,
before making the ascent,
believing the climb would do us good.
At the top, however, was a marker,
pointing to a path,
which led to another ascent,
where we paused before bowing and crossing the threshold.
There was a sentry, of course,
as there should be at the entrance to such places. And we offered our due respect before proceeding.
Soon enough however, we were halted, recognizing in the moment that before us was hallowed ground.
If you’ve ever been to such a place, you know there’s a feeling that arises, difficult to express absent poetry or song.
So we merely bowed our heads.
But faintly, as if carried by the breeze, lyrics by Peter Mayer arrived, taking hold of our thoughts:
When I was a boy each week
We would go to church
And pay attention to the priest
He would read the holy word
And consecrate the holy bread
And everyone would kneel and bow
Today the only difference is
Everything is holy now . . .
And Pa and I acknowledged the truth of it, as we proceeded slowly,
and with reverence.
Moving away, so as to no longer disturb, we walked to the other side, it’s own country
in this little world we’d stumbled upon,
where ancestors still offer their wisdom to all who all would listen.
Believing we’d been sufficiently prepared, we approached the shrine,
tiptoeing gently until the final steps,
where we found them to be much too narrow for our Western feet.
So we stood. Mt Aso could wait another day.
But rain began to fall, so we retreated, looking back a last time at the great beings that provide shade and protection over it all.
Just before crossing,
we dipped our fingers in the shallow well, Peter Mayer at our side.
When holy water was rare at best
It barely wet my fingertips
But now I have to hold my breath
Like I’m swimming in a sea of it
It used to be a world half there
Heaven’s second rate hand-me-down
But I walk it with a reverent air
Cause everything is holy now . . .
Descending, we bowed again, before Pa, Peter and I walked back to the car.
This morning outside I stood
And saw a red-winged bird
Shining like a burning bush
Singing like a scripture verse
It made me want to bow my head
I remember when church let out
How things have changed since then
Everything is holy now
It used to be a world half-there
Heaven’s second rate hand-me-down
But I walk it with a reverent air
Cause everything is holy now.
Comments