The Gods and Scents of the Eastern Mountains

The world of the Eastern Mountains above the Philosopher's path was illuminated by an iridescent glow. We are protected here in Kyoto, surrounded by mountains, each of which has been sanctified. The deities of the mountains protect us from the outside world while enchanting the world within. Immediately over the mountains in Tohoku lies disaster and turmoil. Further beyond lies the Asian continent, a hotbed of activity, economic, military and otherwise. And even further beyond the valley is the political upheaval of the middle east. And these anxieties do penetrate the valley, but as an energy which stirs the deities of the mountains to greater levels of activity. The gods are alive and they are protecting us. They dance and sing to protect us. The gods inhabit the Eastern Hills and the temples and shrines which dot the Philosopher's Path. Never was a philosopher so much possessed of the shamanic energy of the gods. Never was a philosopher so much favored--ney, not merely favored--but a force which presenced the gods in the midst of the human as Nishida. But this is ultimately appropos as Kyoto is the land of the gods first and foremost. All arts emerge from the ecstasy of the gods.

And the gods become present when a space is opened up for them. Last night all my faculties were engaged, and I smelled, saw, heard, and felt that space open up. Initially, it was the smell. We exited a small cafe a few paces, and just down the hill, from the Philosopher's Path. The air was ripe. In the misty dusk, I looked up and saw the forests draped before me along the hill slopes. There was a mild glow behind us as the lights from the center of the city refracted dimly in the evening fogs washing over the city. Approaching the Philosopher's Path, which snakes along the Eastern Mountains, we met wave after wave of smell--pungency, blending with a silky velvety sweetness. The texture of the air and the smells which ran through it experienced indistinguishably. Touch and scent woven together into a silky tapestry.

There had been rain all day. The chill of the previous week left one with the feeling that yesterday morning was an early autumn rain. But by dusk, it was most certainly an early spring rain. The drizzle peetered out leaving only a quiet misty echo of the down pours of the early afternoon--the trees still reeling, greening really, being suffused with their heavenly nourishment. Heaven, and earth, cloud and dirt united into a single delicately intense heaving organism as the rain suffused the trees and the verdant forest undergrowth.

There was a silent, almost warm glow beyond the canal which ran along along the Philosopher's Path. There were the lights of the city, of Kyoto, of the Miyako--the Old Capital. Their warm mild glow was an invitation... The palace, the temples, the shrines, the ancient homes were beckoning the gods to their hearths.

Seeing the mild glow over to our right as we walked south against the mountains, along the Philosopher's Path, bathed in the intense scents of the mountain ceders, buoyed along by the rushing of the stream in the canal below, my mood shifted from pensive to gleeful. Energy suffused my body and I felt my physical self break off from the rigid shit stick of deep interiority. My arms and and legs and the feeling bits on my finger tips pulled away, attracted to a beautifully manicured garden sitting at the edge of a grand old house. The moorings of isolated self-hood pried off, I could sense my deepest loneliest interior pouring out into the world, into the garden, into the fabric and fibers of the garden bamboo, the majestic beams of the house visible from the street due to massive bay windows and a warm bright illumination emerging from within.

The world around me flooded into my lonely soul as the loneliness poured out. In this exchange, my faculties were charged with the shamanic energy of the mountain gods, and I felt protected again.

Melancholy of the Evening

Melancholy of the Evening -- The forest, which widens deceased -- And shadows are around it, like hedges. The deer comes trembling out of hidden places, While a brook glides very quiet And follows ferns and ancient stones And gleams silverly from tangled foliage. Soon one hears it in black gorges - Perhaps, also that stars already shine. The dark plain seems endless, Scattered villages, marsh and pond, And something feigns a fire to you. A cold gleam shoos over roads. In the sky one anticipates movement, An army of wild birds migrates Towards those lands, beautiful, distant. The stirring of reeds rises and sinks. Trakl

Melancholie Des Abends – Der Wald, der sich verstorben breitet – Und Schatten sind um ihn, wie Hecken. Das Wild kommt zitternd aus Verstecken, Indes ein Bach ganz leise gleitet Und Farnen folgt und alten Steinen Und silbern glänzt aus Laubgewinden. Man hört ihn bald in schwarzen Schlünden – Vielleicht, daß auch schon Sterne scheinen. Der dunkle Plan scheint ohne Massen, Verstreute Dörfer, Sumpf und Weiher, Und etwas täuscht dir vor ein Feuer. Ein kalter Glanz huscht über Straßen. Am Himmel ahnet man Bewegung, Ein Heer von wilden Vögeln wandern Nach jenen Ländern, schönen, andern. Es steigt und sinkt des Rohres Regung. Trakl

Sommersneige

End of Summer

The green summer has become
So quiet, your crystalline countenance.
By the evening pond the flowers died,
A frightened call of a blackbird.

Futile hope of life. Already the swallow
In the house prepares for the journey
And the sun sinks at the hill;
The night already beckons to the starry journey.

Silence of villages; the abandoned forests
Resound all around. Heart,
Now bend more lovingly
Over the calm sleeping woman.

The green summer has become
So quiet; and the stranger's footstep
Rings through the silver night.
Would a blue deer remember his path,

The harmony of his spiritual years!

Trakl

Colorful Autumn--Take 2

Colorful Autumn

A fountain sings. Clouds stand

In clear blueness, white, delicate.

Silent people wander thoughtfully

Through the old garden in the evening.

The marble of the ancestors has faded to grey.

A line of birds streaks into the distance.

A faun with dead eyes gazes

After shadows that glide into darkness.

Leaves fall red from the old tree,

Rotate inside through the open window.

A firelight glows in the room,

And paints dim specters of anxiety.

Opal smoke weaves over the grass,

A carpet of wilted smells.

In the fountain the sickle moon shimmers

Like green glass in freezing air.

Colorful Autumn

Colorful Autumn--Trakl

The fountain sings, the clouds stand
In clear blueness, white, delicate;
Silent people wander thoughtfully
Down there in the evening-blue garden.

The ancestors' marble has turned grey.
A line of birds streaks into the distance
A faun with dead eyes gazes
On shadows that glide into darkness.

Leaves fall red from the old tree,
Rotate inside through the open window.
The room glows in dark fires,
In it shadows, like ghosts.

Opal smoke weaves over the grass,
A cloud of wilted, bleached scents,
In the fountain the sickle moon shines
Like a green glass in freezing air.

Stok-La--The Peak

When I woke up on the third day of the trek, my headache had dissipated and I was ready to hit the peak. After a hearty breakfast of milk tea, eggs and porridge and some sort of greasy fried bread, I had enough carbohydrates in me to take Everest itself.

Ascent to Stok-La Day 2

The second and third days of our trek up to Stok-La began at about 3500 meters, the same altitude as Leh. From the campground we set off to conquer at 40 degree hill that, combined with the thin air, immediately challenged the feeling of confidence (about the nature of the 2nd and 3rd days trek) we had woken up with. Arriving at the time of that hill, Paul looked winded and I was gasping for breath.

To Stok-La and Back

"La" means pass (as in moutain pass) in Tibetan. Stok is a village located in a fertile valley that is home to the Ladakhi royal family. The trek we began 4 days ago began about 65 kilometers to the Northeast of Stok, which is several valleys away from Leh, Ladakh. We knew that the trek up to Stok-La was going to be challenging at best and possibly even miserable at times.

Letter from Leh

Our second day in Leh. Have walked the streets of the 30,000 strong old capital of Ladakh. A beautiful town, with a large 17th century castle, modeled on the Potala Palace in Lhasa. We are staying in Old Leh, a district of narrow winding streets that a pinto would have trouble navigating, lined with 6 foot walls made out of a mud brick that matches the color and consistency of the mountains that encircle the city.