88 Temples

The signs posted outside the elaborate temple gate were written in a language Julianna could not read. Through her windbreaker, the foreign air felt chill and damp. At her back, morning traffic took on an exhausted monotone whir, and though she had only walked twenty minutes from the cheap business hotel, the weight of her pack already felt burdensome. Maybe everyone feels this tired and disoriented at the start, Julianna thought. Maybe that’s the point. Somehow, she doubted it, knowing she wouldn’t feel so disoriented if she wasn’t alone.

“Alright, then,” she said aloud, and with a self-conscious bow, Julianna stepped beneath the gate. By luck rather than planning, she had arrived in time for the plump pink and white cherry blossoms, their petals already collecting in snow-colored drifts by the wayside. The courtyard of the Ryozen-ji temple grounds smelled of sandalwood incense. Somewhere, a voice chanted sutras.

“Ohayo gozaimasu!” said a white-haired woman enthusiastically. Though the words were Japanese, the wide, flat pronunciation was distinctly American.

“Good morning,” Julianna replied in kind.

The woman and her husband wore matching white tunics and conical sedge hats. “Better hurry if you want to beat the crowds.”

“First time?” asked the husband.

“Yep. First day,” Julianna said, trying to match their gusto, and failing.

“Ah. Thought so,” said the woman. “You’ll want to get yourself a stamp book and

hakue before the lines get bad.” Sure enough, beyond the gate, Julianna could see a bus dropping off the first load of older Japanese tourists.

“The hat’s not a bad idea either,” said her husband, tapping the brim of his own.

“The locals are sweet, but they’re more likely to lend a hand if you’re wearing the uniform.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Julianna said.

“You going the whole way ‘round?” the husband asked.

“Gonna try.”

“You’ll be great,” said the older woman whispered confidently, as the couple trooped on by, their walking sticks tapping a syncopated rhythm.

They say a pilgrimage has no beginning and no end, but Julianna could pinpoint her transitional moment, the start of her pilgrimage, down to the minute. She had been sitting cross-legged on her swiveling desk chair, listening to rain pattering the dark windowpanes while she scrolled a list of Kyoto ryokan. It spoiled her sleep staring into blue-white screens late at night, but she hadn’t been sleeping well lately anyhow. She blamed anxiety, the same general concerns that elbowed everyone occasionally. Had she dared to put a name to it, she might have said it was distrust in the future.

Their vacation was right around the corner but her husband, Kit, had been hesitant to book accommodations. His excuses had puzzled her at the time: “That one might put us over-budget.” “The reviews are mediocre.” “It’s too far off the beaten track for people like us, who can’t speak more than two syllables of Japanese.” Given that the trip was to celebrate their anniversary, these objections felt feeble, less indecisive than obstructionist. True, it had been Julianna who’d chosen the former Japanese capital over European beaches and pastel-colored buildings, but Kit had insisted it was fine, he wasn’t that fussed one way or the other. Julianna could have pointed out he hadn’t been “all that fussed” about much of anything lately, but she didn’t want to hear the same tired objections, his insistence that it was just work occupying his thoughts. In quieter moments, when doubt more easily took hold, she allowed herself to believe his growing indifference was the result of that singular distraction. What she feared more than lies was his honesty.

“What about this one?” she asked, as her husband stepped into her peripheral vision.

“The rooms are a bit smaller, but they’ve got private onsen.”

He sighed, scratched the back of his neck. “I want a divorce, Julianna.” Her laptop screen reflected in his glasses, obscuring emotionless eyes. Now she understood why people advised sitting down before receiving bad news. Her heart bucked, warning her that a central pillar of her life was about to collapse. The last support shifted, then the whole structure came tumbling down in a swift landslide. Had she been looking in a mirror, she’d have seen nothing but rubble.

02. Circumambulation

Orbiting around a central site, a sacred center, is a common pilgrimage practice. No beginning. No end. The Shikoku Henro is one such circular pilgrimage. The entire route, through woodland, countryside, and village, along main roads, up mountainsides, around headlands, along rivers, and down into valleys, covered about 1,200 kilometers and visited 88 temples, ending in the same place it started. To walk it would take Julianna almost two months at an unhurried pace, which was the whole idea. To become a pilgrim was to set aside worldly concerns. To abandon haste. Cut the tether that bound her to any clock. Discard attachments, period.

Had her husband died rather than substituting her for one of the admiring nurses on his staff, Julianna likely would have been forgiven the eccentricity of her flight. Instead, her actions spoke of petty rebellion. It was reckless, trucking off overseas when she should have been apartment hunting. Yet somehow her homelessness and all the surprise expenses she was likely to incur during this unwelcome transitional phase didn’t seem to matter when stacked against her husband’s betrayal and the tenderness of her own bruised heart. What mattered was stubbornly asserting her newfound independence. Self-indulgent is what her mother called it.

“You don’t just throw away a marriage when things get tough,” her mother had chastised over the phone in the weeks preceding Julianna’s solo trip. “It’s a partnership. You need to work it out.”

“A partnership requires two cooperating parties, not just one.”

“Men get like this sometimes. Talk to him.”

“You think I haven’t?”

“So you’re just going to give up and walk away?”

The effort to suppress her curdling anger was nearly beyond Julianna’s ability to achieve. She rubbed her fingers against her brow line, as if to counteract the pressure building behind her eyes. On the other end of the line, her mother kept talking, belaboring the same points. Her aggressive conviction did not leave space for contradiction.

“The flights were nonrefundable,” Julianna said finally, loud enough to be heard over her mother’s objections.

“Besides, I need to get away for a while. Clear my head.”

“You could do that here. Come home for a few weeks,” her mother implored.

They were, in fact, incompatible activities, but Julianna decided against saying as much.

03. Momentum

There are many catalysts for a pilgrimage: a loss, a prayer, a sense of religious purpose or devotion, a seeking. For Julianna, it served as a demarcation between past and future events. When she offered prayers at the temples, she asked whichever gods were listening to fill her mind with nothingness, to counteract the relentless self-reproach she faced during the hours of endless walking.

The walking was as constant as it was tiresome. In truth, Julianna couldn’t remember being so tired. The villages no longer seemed quaint and tranquil, but undifferentiated. The endless roll of mountains obstructed her view, closing in around her. The forests became a wilderness, a web of tangled vines laid out to ensnare incautious footfalls. Whenever the route emptied her back onto a main road, she considered waiting for the bus or flagging down a passing car. Each time she slipped on a wet staircase rubbed smooth by 1,200 years of passage, she considered stopping altogether. But quitting was not about failure to complete the circuit.

Quitting would mean catastrophe, an invitation for insecurity and self-doubt to take hold and smother her. The pilgrimage was the antidote to her grasping, breathless uncertainty. The only way out was through. And so, heartsick and footsore, she walked.

At each temple, the drone of chanting filled the courtyard. Coins tinkled into offertory boxes. Temple bells clanged. While other pilgrims deposited prayer slips and recited sutras, Julianna clapped her palms together, once, twice, sensing the rub of blisters and the ache in her shoulders with fresh displeasure.

She turned from the shrine, searching for a shaded bench on which to set her heavy pack and bedraggled spirit, cognizant of the fact that even short breaks disrupted her fragile momentum. The idea of abandoning the pack was an attractive one. The comforts of home beckoned constantly, as unrelenting as a headache for which there is no remedy. She could so easily take her wallet, passport, and make her way to the nearest bus stop, the closest airport. She pictured an efficient woman in a smart uniform standing behind a desk, handing her a ticket. It would be effortless to stop now, disgracefully so. All she had to do was admit this whole episode had been a preposterous decision made by a mind engulfed in a tailspin of confusion and hurt.

For a while, Julianna just sat, massaging her aching calves and shoulders. What she really wanted was to lie down beneath the towering maples and ginkgo trees, allow the dappled sunlight to dance across her eyelids, drift into blissful unconsciousness. Her phone was in her pack, but she hadn’t turned it on in days, hadn’t responded to any of her mother’s concerned questions, nor Kit’s, for that matter. She wished she could summon up a shield of dislike against him, anything to protect herself from the grief which, somehow, felt worse than hatred. Anger was a fuel, a propellant. Sadness was a drain that leeched her of energy, motivation, and self-worth.

A woman pushing a stroller gestured to the seat beside Julianna, who nodded, a small forward bow she’d seen others employ. The woman sat, passing air across her face with a paper fan. A baby with cheeks as white and supple as mochi grinned up at Julianna from its pram. Julianna sensed the tension in her jaw slacken and instinctively smiled back. The baby gurgled and squawked happily, attracting the admiring attention of other visitors. One by one, solemn adults broke into grins, chuckling and waving at the baby and praising the shyly smiling mother. How infectious joy can be, Julianna thought, especially when shared in such an adorable package. More effective than any pill, Julianna felt the anchor of her weighted spirit buoyed for another go.

By the time she reached the 23rd temple, Yakuō-ji, Temple of the Great Healer, Julianna found herself abandoning items in bins: spare shirts in bright colors that appeared gaudy and gauche compared to the simple white pilgrim’s uniform; the little cooking set and dishes she hadn’t used, even once; she even tossed her makeup bag, deciding that any person critical of her bare face wasn’t worth the effort anyhow. Layer by layer, she sloughed off burdens. The walk from the 37th temple out to the tip of the Ashizuri Peninsula, where the Kongōfuku-ji, Temple of Everlasting Happiness, overlooked a breathtaking expanse of Pacific Ocean, took her thirty hours spread over two days—the longest stretch between two temples in the entire pilgrimage. By the end of it, Julianna retained only a single change of clothes, a water bottle, her stamp book, money, and passport, tape for blisters, and the kanji-inscribed sugegasa hat that shielded her from the punishing midday sun and intermittent rains. Her backpack, in the end, weighed more than the sum of its contents. It was astonishing, really, how little a person needed to get by.

04. Rhythm

The shared accommodations and cheap hotels in which she slept were purely utilitarian, lacking the elegant comforts of the ryokan, machiya, and onsen resorts she and Kit would have enjoyed as a couple, but at least they were clean. Some Shikoku residents even offered free overnight stays and simple, nourishing breakfasts—steamed white rice, a piece of fish, miso soup—not because they were assured their generosity would rebound, but because charity was part of the local culture. What a shame, Julianna thought, that selflessly helping others, irrespective of race, socioeconomic status, or global origin, was considered culturally unique to this island.

Despite the walking and the energy she expended daily, her hunger never felt ferocious. She ate for sustenance rather than indulgence. Prepared onigiri rice balls and premade bento lunchboxes were inexpensive, less than ¥300, and available at every convenience store. Sushi bars and noodle cafes were also common roadside fixtures. On a diet of fresh fish, rice, seaweed, and vegetables, her body, too, shed its excesses.

She spoke minimal Japanese, nothing conversational, yet “hello,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “water” proved enough to get by, to point her in the right direction. Everyone on Shikoku Island recognized the look of a bewildered pilgrim and readily offered help. The relief of discovering others who spoke even fragmented English was not as overwhelming as she would have imagined starting out. Having cultivated a rhythm in her cadence and a certain harmony in her solitude, she found she was reluctant to disrupt that synchrony with idle chatter.

Within the limits of this rhythm, she made other discoveries. Among them was that walking was the ideal pace at which to view the world. On a bicycle, or even jogging, it would have been impossible to notice small details. The timid wave of a child from a front stoop. An ululating songbird. An iridescent beetle. The scent of unfamiliar blossoms sprouting along the roadside. Walking was an invitation to the senses that would have gone unheeded had she chosen a podcast over nature’s music, the glow of a phone screen over a sunrise. It struck her, too, that her pace should not increase for the sake of haste. After all, there was no one on the far side of the day waiting for her with an eye to the clock. She would get there when she got there, late or early, and that’s all there was to it.

05. Unattachment

“Erm, excuse me,” Julianna said to a young man half a dozen years her junior, if she had to guess. She’d overheard him speaking into a cellphone in a curling Aussie accent. He was very tan and very lean, like a surfer or trail runner, though like her he wore the traditional white tunic of the pilgrim. “I wonder if you can help me?”

“I’ll try my best,” he said, sportingly. “But, fair warning, I’m a trail newbie, so do with that what you will.”

“I’m just a little confused.” Her map seemed to indicate that two sacred sites, the 68th and 69th temples, Jinnein and Kannonji, were located within the same temple grounds. “Can that be right?”

“Oh, yeah. Number sixty-nine’s over there,” he said. “Some Meiji government policy moved sacred objects from another site over to this one. So now they’re in the same compound.”

“You sure know your stuff.”

“Nah, just parroting the guidebook.”

“Amounts to the same thing, I guess. Anyway, thanks.”

She was about to walk away when he asked, “You hiking solo?”

“Just little old me,” she replied, though she wouldn’t necessarily have called it “hiking.”

“How you been handling it?”

“Alright. You?”

“All that time alone with only my thoughts as company gets a bit rough.” Then, switching tack faster than Julianna could think up an exit line, he said, “So, you been doing much sightseeing?”

“Aside from the temples, not really.”

“Not even the beaches?”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be visiting beaches?”

“Oh, God, you’re missing out. Hey, there’s one that’s just a short bus ride from here and

I’d kill for some company. Sorry, bad choice of words. I swear, I’m not a creep. I’m Alex.” He extended a hand, and unable to think of a reason not to, she shook it.

“Julianna.”

“Well, then, Julianna. Wha’d’ya say?” She wasn’t sure what to make of this guy, Alex. It was more the thought of sitting on a bus, taking the weight off her feet, rather than the offer itself, that had her considering it. “Come on, you’re thinking about it. Just say yes!” When she still hesitated, he threw in a free lunch to sweeten the deal. “They got burgers! Wait, you’re not a vegan are you?”

After weeks of plain white rice and pickled vegetables, the thought of a meaty burger, something fatty and dense, made her salivate. “Alright, you convinced me,” she said. With more energy than she would have expected, he shouted, “Yes!!” drawing critical glances from temple visitors and monks alike. “Sumimasen,” he apologized, with an urgent bow.

On the bus, Julianna learned that Alex was from Melbourne. At twenty-four, he was the youngest of three boys. Both parents were alive but hardly gave him half a minute’s peace, bemoaning the fact he was so unlike his upstanding, responsible brothers. Both, he said, had gone in for law: property and corporate. “Me, I took a gap year, thought about teaching English someplace, Thailand, maybe. Or Indonesia. Just can’t seem to settle. Got about two-thirds of bugger all in the bank, no plan, yet here I am, circling this damn island.”

“Yikes,” Julianna managed, trying to sound sincere.

“Still, I hate being tied down, you know. But what about you? Here I am, yakking your ear off.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, I mind, alright? Go on. Your turn.”

A shockwave of embarrassment she hadn’t expected bolted up her spine. But just as quickly, Julianna checked herself. The fact Kit had left her for another woman was on his conscience, not hers. “I was supposed to be here with my husband,” she admitted. “Well, not here exactly. He would never do this sort of thing.” She lifted her sedge hat from her lap as a way to differentiate the pilgrimage from the country. Alex folded his arms, as if to concentrate more fully on her words. “We were supposed to go to Kyoto for our anniversary, but we split up instead.”

“Fuck me!” Alex exploded, throwing his head back, hands raking his hair as if he was the one who’d been dumped. A few passengers turned, delivering disapproving looks.

“Afraid so,” Julianna continued in a much quieter voice, hoping to urge her companion to do the same. “He asked for a divorce a couple weeks before we planned to come here. Left me for one of the nurses on his staff, it turns out. I should’ve seen it coming. I think I did, I just refused to believe it, or consider what it would mean until it was happening.”

“Oh my god. What an absolute hero. Jesus.” Alex scratched the stubble on his chin.

“So, I guess, this is part of my recovery. Still trying to process everything.” To their left, the Seto Inland Sea reflected discs of silver light. Alex tipped his sunglasses onto his nose. Julianna could see a shadowy, distorted version of herself reflected darkly in the lenses: the short blonde braid, tall forehead, and slender face exaggerated by the curvature.

“I don’t know the backstory, obviously,” Alex acknowledged, “But from where I’m sitting, you’re not the one who needs redeeming.” The bus dropped them a short walk from the beach. Julianna had been right, it was too cold for traditional sun and water activities, but the breeze riffling the sea refreshed her in a way city air could not. The tide was out, so the beach stretched wide and flat.

“They call this beach the ‘Mirror of Heaven,’” said Alex, slipping off his socks, tucking them inside his shoes. The sand was still wet and firm enough that he didn’t sink into it. “We should’a come at sunset. When you don’t have wind like this, the sky gets reflected in the tide pools. You can take photos that look like you’re walking on water.”

Julianna could picture it, a dark silhouette against a pink, orange, and turquoise background, above as below. Walking on a sunset.

“It’s insulting to the beach if you don’t walk barefoot, mate.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You can’t wear shoes on the beach. It’s against the rules.”

“Really?” she asked, all too seriously.

He gave her a thumbs up, dropped his bag, then ran full pelt towards the water. When it reached his knees, he turned and called back to her. “Come on!”

“Someone’s gotta watch our stuff.”

“No, you don’t. Japan’s the safest country in the world! Stop making excuses and live a little!”

Julianna did not want to be coaxed, not by Alex or anyone else, but the expanse of packed sand, even the cold water, looked tempting to sore, tired feet. She slipped off her tennis shoes and her pack and, following Alex’s lead, ran into the sea. It was breathtakingly, bitingly cold. Submerged up to her kneecaps felt like stepping into an ice bath.

“Isn’t it great?” said Alex.

“I like the warm foot baths better.”

Without a towel, they walked barefoot, letting the wind air dry their skin. The burger place Alex had mentioned was near the north end of the beach and boasted an upper deck overlooking the sea. Alex ordered the BBQ cheeseburger with onion rings. Julianna opted for the bacon and Swiss burger with fries. Once their orders came, they shifted inside so the breezes off the water wouldn’t blow away their napkins or cool the food too quickly. Julianna went at hers with passion, hardly pausing to dab the grease from her chin.

“I like a girl with an appetite,” said Alex. “And I mean that in a purely platonic way. No agenda, I swear.”

“Every man’s got an agenda,” Julianna managed, between mouthfuls. “They all say they like girls who will eat anything but still expect them to look a certain way.”

“That’s a bit harsh, lumping me in with all men.”

“So, you’d date a girl who’s overweight?”

“Sure, if I liked her, and she could keep up with me,” he said. “Speaking of big people: have you noticed they’re big on fat shaming here? I was in Tokyo Tower and overheard some ojisan insisting that this really overweight tourist was in danger of breaking the glass floor. The old guy was dead serious. The tourist looked absolutely mortified.”

Julianna’s eyes widened.

“I kid you not. What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen since you been here?”

“A Sriracha vending machine, definitely. The number of vending machines, period. That, and the number of people who’ve asked to take a picture with me, or didn’t ask, and did it anyway.”

“Might be the hair. Not many blondes.”

Julianna tipped a fry in acknowledgement. “The other funny one was when I was passing a little park and there were two mothers there chatting. One of their little kids, maybe three or four years old, he was running around on top of a hill and slipped. He just tumbled down like a rolling log and when he got to the bottom he just lay there, completely unmoving. Finally, the mother noticed him lying there and was just casually like, ‘daijobou?’ I was half tempted to run over and check on the kid myself.”

“Yeah, these Japanese kids have a lot more free reign than I ever did. I saw one throwing an absolute tantrum, like nuclear meltdown level, stomping, throwing his little red backpack. His mom didn’t say a word, just kept right on walking without him. Eventually, she turned a corner and once she was out of sight the kid straightened himself out and ran after her.”

After eating, Julianna said she would head back to the last shrine and continue on from there. “Well then, I’m gonna go on to the next one,” said Alex. “Don’t want you to feel like you gotta walk with me, or anything.”

“Cheater,” she said, though she was oddly touched by this small gesture. The gift of solitude and independence.

“Thanks for trusting me with...” he held a palm out to the sea, where the tide was creeping back up the beach.

“Thanks for inviting me. I’m glad I came.”

“I’m not going to give you my number, even if you beg,” he grinned. “Let’s call it a chance meeting and leave it at that.”

“No attachments,” Julianna agreed, understanding.

“No attachments.” He gave her shoulder a small, encouraging pat. “Take care, Julianna.”

06. Beginning

Although her pilgrimage had mimicked life in many ways, with its literal highs and lows, unexpected meetings, lessons and hardships, through it all Julianna had noticed something different on the faces of the pilgrims, a quality she didn’t find on faces at the grocery store or those waiting in traffic. It wasn’t patience, per se. Nor was it boredom, attention, or purpose. Maybe, she thought, it was something like contentment. A serene acceptance, stepping from one moment to the next without expectation or judgement.

It was a four-hour walk between Nagao-ji and Okubo-ji, the 87th and 88th temples. It was the kind of day where she felt cool in the shade of the mountains, but too warm in the sun. She had hated those mountains in the beginning, climbing them, slipping down the countless spines of stairs, wishing for a straight line—just one—between two points, instead of the winding curves and switchbacks. Now Julianna savored the jagged topography she was unlikely to see again.

She had timed her final walk well. She arrived in the warm glow of fading light, just in time to enjoy a bowl of udon noodle soup made with holy water from the temple, served in a metal vessel at the shop near the entrance. It was a bittersweet meal. Tomorrow, she would take the train back to Tokyo, and from there, home.

After eating, she climbed the last set of stairs and offered her thanks at the shrine. The cherry blossoms were gone now, but the whisper of new leaves lent the temple grounds an air of rebirth. She had crossed four prefectures, walked nearly 800 miles. She had allowed the journey to do its work on her. Now, with eyes renewed, she marveled at the tall, ancient trees, the craftsmanship of the temple gate, the hummocks of moss. Her sense of pride was only exceeded by her sense of admiration and wonder.

She had hoped she might run into Alex here, at this final stop, someone with whom she might celebrate the completion of her pilgrimage. But if there was one thing she had learned to appreciate during the past weeks it was her own company. Perhaps solitude was the most fitting manner in which to conclude this most personal of journeys.

She was far from the only pilgrim waiting at the bus stop outside the noodle shop. When it arrived, Julianna found an empty window seat. Once everyone boarded, the bus heaved a pneumatic sigh, then shuffled forward. How quickly the scenery passed her by now. It felt anticlimactic, ending this way, boarding a bus. She pictured the sorts of races where people with bells and noisemakers lined the route to the finish line. A bit of pomp and circumstance. Then again, this wasn’t really the end. Her journey wasn’t over. It was just beginning again in a new way.

The End