A chill bit the tip of my nose as the shadows lengthened, the late afternoon sunlight bathing the red leaves of Mt. Koya in sublime gold. Dressed in the black robe and orange nyoho-e I'd put on at my ordination and stained with sweat during Shido Kegyo training, I was now standing at the threshold of Hoju-in , the venue for Dembo Kanjo .  The big event was set for the next day; today all the participants would draw water from a sacred well for use in the ceremony.  Kanjo , in

The rainstorm beating Mt. Koya had turned the trail to Shimbessho, the venue for the annual Precepts Ceremony, into a gushing stream of mud. A priest ahead of me splashed his way along the brook in toothed sandals called geta , while I found myself regretting my decision to come in sneakers, which were soaked. In spite of the rain, someone had taken the trouble to come and light a thick candle before a stone statue of Jizo, seated on a lotus.  After a slippery climb, the clus

Sacred Flames  I moved to Japan primarily because I was interested in Buddhism. I encountered and practiced occasionally with some meditation groups, and though I was fascinated by the aesthetics of Zen could never seem to hammer down a good meditation routine. On the other hand, I found myself almost weekly in a section of the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art in which a Chinese temple hall is fully reconstructed around one of the world's most well-known images of Guanyin (Kannon

As I knelt before my preceptor on my ordination day a little over two years ago, I found myself looking just over his head at the face of Kannon , the main image of my teacher's temple. Unlike many Kannon statues in Japan, the image at Fukusho-ji is not a gentle mother; she has a fixed jaw and determined eyes, and stares intently at who's before her. Her many arms drip with potency, and her skin is ruddy, as though all her muscles are clenched in the desire to save.  Fukusho-