Free A Thousand Stitches by Constance O'Keefe Page A

was the special time with Father.
    That first summer, one morning when we were staying in Yanai-machi, Father walked me up Okaido, Matsuyama’s shopping street, to the city’s main street, where municipal and prefectural buildings flanked the broad boulevard beyond which the Castle hill rose. From there we took the trolley out to the city’s far suburbs and Dogo, Japan’s oldest hot spring. But the hot spring wasn’t our destination that afternoon. From the trolley station we climbed the hill and hiked to Ishiteji Temple, which was having a festival. This was my first time in a Buddhist Temple. Outside we saw a large group of people dressed all in white. Each of them was wearing a large inverted-bowl-shaped straw hat.
    â€œFather, why are there so many priests?” I asked.
    â€œIsamu, they’re pilgrims, not priests,” he laughed. “You really are still an American kid, aren’t you? There may be lots of priests, but not that many. Here in Shikoku there’s a special pilgrimage tour. The pilgrims dress in white and walk all around the whole island. They visit eighty-eight temples. It usually takes months. They are following the steps of a pilgrimage circuit established by Kukai, Kobo Daishi. Do you know who he is?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œWell, he was born in Shikoku more than a thousand years ago. He became a monk, traveled to China, and brought Buddhism to Japan. He was also a great educator. He opened schools that were open to everyone, not just aristocrats.”
    â€œOh,” I said hesitantly, trying to absorb all of this religious talk.
    â€œAnd,” said Father, who probably understood my confusion all too well, “one more thing to help you remember what we’ve seen today. Do you know that daruma dolls are in the image of the Indian monk ­Bodai-Daruma, or Bodidharma, who three centuries before Kobo Daishi, brought his version of Buddhism to China from India? He taught martial arts as well as Zen Buddhism.”
    â€œYes,” I said with relief. Daruma gave me some footing in the conversation.
    â€œSo the next time you get one of those roly-poly dolls with just one of its eyes painted in and make a wish with a promise that you’ll paint in the other eye when it comes true, you’ll think of Buddhism, the discipline of martial arts, the pilgrimage, and Ishiteji Temple. Let’s go in.”
    The main gate and the pagoda were impressive, and the temple’s many gravestones eerie. Father mentioned that the temple’s architectural style was Chinese and told me that both the main gate and the pagoda dated from the fourteenth century.
    An alley of stalls was set up for the festival. It was crowded, but everyone was smiling and cheerful. There were stalls with games, stalls with fortunes, stalls with second-hand goods, and stalls with all sorts of food and drink. I inhaled the sweet, pungent scent of miso paste on grilling seafood. It made me hungry, and the happy crowd and the rich smell filled all my senses and reminded me of an excursion in San Francisco. The Japanese fleet had come to town and opened one of its frigates to the public on the weekend. Mother, Father, and I toured the ship. I was awed by the power of the vessels and the vigor of the seamen. They were young, strong, and very handsome in their uniforms. They stayed in town for a week, and after our visit to the port, we saw them walking the length and breadth of the city, taking in all the sights. What stayed with me the longest, however, was the smell at the wharf of the paint of the frigate. That smell still filled all my senses as we stepped back on land. From then on, my idea of the Navy was positive and linked with the smell of paint.
    As we walked away from the Temple, Father stopped and pointed out a large weathered stone outside the gate. “We probably should have stopped on the approach to the Temple,” Father said. “This is something you