Sodatsu

I don't remember exactly how old I was when I visited Sorayama-ji. I must have been at least seven. Yeah, seven seems about right. It all seems so far off now, but I can still remember it clearly. Memories are odd like that. They don't exist in time. Something could be twenty years away, but still seem as fresh in your mind as if it was just last week.

I remember the smell of the incense the most. I wasn't as if the scent was new to me though. I'd smelled plenty of different incenses burned at the shrine at home. Even though they might have smelled different, they all had something in common. It's hard to peg down, even for me. They all smelled like a slow smile. Like kindness and humility, honor and peace. At least, the good ones did. I'd smelled cheap incense too. They're ugly. They smell like factories and metal.

The smell at Sorayama was something completely different though. I didn't just smell the smoke wafting from the burning sticks. I could smell it in the temple itself. It had been absorbed into the wood, soaked into the bones of the place. It smelled old and wise. Every time I took a step, the smell would rise from the floor anew.

It was a mystical experience.

I had always felt a connection with the world around me. I could smell the flowers from my room in the earliest blooming of spring. I could feel the wind rushing from the sea. Sense the worms beneath my feet. Feel laughter, smell worry. The Present Moment had always been at my side.

But I had never felt the Past so strongly. When I walked into the temple, I could feel all of the history and tradition of the place. It ensnared me with the might of its antiquity. The strength and wisdom of my ancestors was resurrected from that wood and stone and loomed before me in all its grandeur.

In those moments, I felt my heritage more firmly than I ever had. I was in the Land of the Rising Sun. I knew I had returned home.

My father and mother held my hand and led me through the temple. I remember feeling honored to be in such a reverent place. Even at that young age, I had some understanding of honor. I remember my father taking my hand and guiding it, helping me to offer incense of our own. I remember kneeling with them and paying our respects to the Buddha and our ancestors. It was all so surreal at times, it would have felt like a dream to me now, had it not been for one thing.

It was the feeling of her voice that grounded me once again.

I'd felt it when we were introduced to the monk who watched over the temple in my family's stead. His voice was kind, but composed. She was with him. We all spoke Japanese, and greeted each other in the traditional manner. It was my first time speaking with natives besides my grandparents, and some of the other elders, so I was hesitant.

I felt my father's hand nudge me forward, so I instinctually bowed low and said, "How do you? It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nakamura Ume." Stepping back to my father's side, I kept my hands folded in the sleeves of my new kimono. The silk felt good. Much smoother than the cloth I usually wore.