Maria Knodt

These days, whenever I feel anxious about the current state of the world, I remind myself of my last visit to Japan in December last year, fifteen years after I did an exchange year with a host family and eleven years since I went back for an exchange semester. I hope this text encourages you to look back, find your own calm place in your memories and bring it into your present.

I am finally back in Japan and want to take in every small sensation – from Tokyo’s bustle and small shops to the soft hills and traditional castles covered with the first snow in the northern Aizu province. When I step into the ryokan, our hotel for the night, I feel like stepping back hundreds of years. The stairs bring us up to our icy room that consists of a roka, wooden floored passages that isolate the inner room from the glass windows. Sliding the shoji to the side and leaving our slippers outside, we step into the tatami mats that can be partitioned into two by another sliding door made of wood and paper. The only heat comes from the kotatsu, a low wooden table covered by a blanket with a heat source underneath. We get served our five-course menu consisting of a plethora of tiny plates with local seasonal specialties like royalty while our feet relish the warmth of the kotatsu. The taste of the nabe, a Japanese hot pot dish eaten during wintertime, brings up memories from when I lived here as a teenager.

After dinner, we prepare for the onsen, the hot springs for which this place is famous. The touch of the hot water tingling on my skin warms my senses; even the smell of sulfur does not distract my peace. My host mother tells me a story from when she was with relatives in this hotel years earlier. She went to the onsen and enjoyed a long time in the hot water as no one else was around. When she returned to their room, her relatives asked her where she had been the entire time as the onsen they went to was packed with people, and they couldn’t find her anywhere. She never found out which mysterious onsen she had gone to. I am looking around the small, meticulously maintained garden surrounding our small basin of steaming water and wonder whether we might be in the same mysterious onsen – every minute, I expect the ghost of a noblewoman from the feudal era to appear between the leaves.

Later back in our room, we look out to the garden and onto the river streaming down the narrow mountain valley in front of our ryokan – the only sound that will follow us throughout the night in its calming steadiness. When I lie down under the massive blanket of my futon, which has replaced the table in our room, I imagine what would happen if I fell asleep and woke up in this traditional Japanese house 300 years ago inhabited by kami (spirits) of Japanese Shinto folklore like in the movie Spirited Away by Hayao Miyazaki; foxes with nine tails or snake-like creatures with women heads. However, when I fall asleep, I conjure up memories from my last time in Japan.

The tranquility weighs heavy but calms my breath from the steep walk – I cannot remember the last time I heard anything except for the sounds of nature. Wafts of mist hang between the trees while hiking up the mountain, and behind us, the gentle waves of the calm sea can still be heard when stopping – all sounds seem to be dampened by the light fog. The only living beings surrounding us are little birds, and occasionally, a monkey tries to steal some food from passers-by. I find myself reminded of traditional Japanese horror stories and of Hasegawa Tohaku’s paintings. Between the lush green of the fauna, every now and then, I catch a glimpse of the vivid red of the toriis scattered around the shore and at the flanks of the hills – the largest one is emerging out of the waters between the island and the mainland in its ever-fresh looking bright color. I am almost alone and breathe in our surroundings’ fresh but wet air. It is pure peacefulness around me. The few tourists I meet are equally calmed by the stunning landscape, and the Japanese greet me silently with a friendly nod. I could easily walk around the whole island of Miyajima within a few hours. But the majority is covered with impermeable vegetation – only inhabited by animals and maybe some mythical creatures of Japanese fairy tales. I cross a red bridge; the rivulet underneath wiggles between small stones and dissolves into a polychrome flux of autumn-colored leaves fluttering down from the trees. The light rain that dribbles from above immerses the forest in a subtle shine. The magic of this moment lets me forget my wet clothes – I know tonight I will be awaited with a hot bath in a Japanese onsen and a scrumptious assortment of fish and vegetables this country has to offer when the days get colder. On my way back, I step into the holy realms of a complex of Shinto shrines. Shide, zigzag-shaped paper streamers are bowing gently with every gust. Komainu, statues of lion-like creatures, watch me lidless – but wait, looking closer, did this one just blink a little?

I am woken up by the gentle morning light flowing through the thin paper walls. Only the steady gurgle of the river sweeping serenely past can be heard. My host father is already up and is silently reading the morning paper. I remind myself that I am in the 21st century by turning on the TV and watching some morning show for children. Here I am, back in the country where reality and dream seamlessly flow into each other. I am home, and I am at peace.