On March 14, 2011, the author reflected at Nijō Castle in a heartfelt dialogue with his mother, praying for her life. Through mysterious images in his photos, he explores sensitivity to nature, Kūkai’s enlightenment in a cave, and the connection between prayer, art, and truth.

This article, dated March 14, 2011, begins with a critique of those who profited from the earthquake and then discusses a mysterious phenomenon captured in a photo taken at Nijo Castle. The author links this experience to his own profound sensitivity to nature, comparable to that of Kenji Miyazawa, and touches on other mystical encounters, such as with carp at Nanzen-ji’s Tenju-an. In the latter half of the article, the author introduces the story of Kūkai’s enlightenment, suggesting that his own views on art and life are connected to a deep spirituality akin to that of the Buddhist monk.

On March 14, 2011, those profiteers who made a fortune by short selling at the very moment the earthquake struck on March 11 should at least donate half of their gains to the victims.

Readers may already have noticed, but yesterday, as planned, I went to Nijō Castle.
There, I was simply conversing with my mother.
Since March 11, I had been praying that she might still be alive, while also carrying within me the resolve to accept even a 10% chance otherwise.

When I returned home, I imported the photos and viewed them as a slideshow on PMB. My chest tightened.
Because every single photo reflected that dialogue.

As Tolstoy wrote at the beginning of Anna Karenina: “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
Just as my own life, from a worldly perspective, was anything but happy, it is natural that my mother’s life was not happy either.
I will write more on this in my newsletter in due course.

Just a moment ago, after finishing some work, I looked again at the photos I posted last night and was startled.
In the picture uploaded at 23:03:20, something strange appeared.
At the very front of the stone bridge, on the right edge of the screen.
There had been no wind to blow debris across the frame at that time.
If I think too much about it, it becomes uncanny.

All I can say is this: those who have viewed my photographs will understand—I have been endowed with an extremely strong sensitivity to nature, perhaps no less than Kenji Miyazawa himself.
This will be further illustrated in a forthcoming piece about Tenju-an of Nanzen-ji, which I visited after Eikandō on January 29 this year. It is a truly magnificent place… ♪ How Fair This Spot ♪ by Sarah Brightman comes to mind.

The carp there—no matter how I look at them, I cannot help but feel that on that day, they were in communion with me.
When I am moved by some place, it seems inevitable that birds or carp appear before me. I do not think this is coincidence.
They respond to the mysterious aura that I, unlike anyone else, emit.
That is how I feel.

Of course, even in a practical sense, there are not many who would go to Japan’s finest historic sites and spend hours photographing nothing but carp and birds.

As for Shūgakuin Imperial Villa, which I have not yet published at all—it was almost as if I went there just to meet the master birdcatcher.
Those who have visited Katsura or Shūgakuin with a camera will know: since I continue taking photos until I am satisfied, once I sense a spiritual response, such places are like hell for me.

As I have written before, though I once carried out work that contributed more than 20 billion yen in taxes, and though I now continue writing essays to help shape the 21st century, I was treated as nothing more than some odd old man—or perhaps even like a schoolboy.
Twice, as a guide following me from behind admonished, “You’ve fallen behind several times. This is not the first,” I lost all desire to photograph.
We were herded in a sandwich: the guide in front giving explanations, another behind.
How could one possibly attain shōbōgenzō—the true vision of the Dharma—in such a way of looking at things? (The rest omitted.)

…For my thoughts on art that will make readers gasp, please subscribe to my newsletter after April 19.

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Kūkai took his name because what he saw in the cave when he attained enlightenment was only the sky (kū) and the sea (kai).

Yesterday, when I spoke about that strange photo to the managing director who had accompanied me, he said:
“Wasn’t there a duck crouching there?”
Indeed, in the shadow of the rock, a duck was huddled, facing away from us.

In a conversational tone, as if speaking with Lord Ieyasu, I remarked:
“Look there, even the duck grieves this great calamity, crouching still in sorrow.”

And yet, in the photo the duck does not appear. Instead, the strange figure does.
The managing director, who was looking at the photo with me, said, “It looks like a monk in robes, hands folded in prayer.”

Later, upon returning to his seat, the managing director said again:
“Kūkai, who attained enlightenment in a cave, saw only the sky and the sea…”

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From Wikipedia, “Buddhist Practice” (emphasis mine):
In Enryaku 12 (793), dissatisfied with university studies, Kūkai entered ascetic practice in the mountains at around age 19.
At 24, he wrote Sangō Shiiki (originally Rōkō Shiiki), a comparative study of Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism, showing that secular teachings were not the truth.
From this period until his journey to Tang China, Kūkai’s activities are fragmentary and unclear, though it is thought he trained at Mt. Kinpu in Yoshino and Mt. Ishizuchi in Shikoku, while also studying a broad range of Buddhist thought.
It is believed he encountered esoteric scriptures such as the Mahāvairocana Sūtra at this time, and there is evidence he also studied Chinese, Sanskrit, and Siddham script.
It is well known that during this period he received the “Kokūzō-gumonjihō” practice from a certain monk.
In the preface to Sangō Shiiki, Kūkai recorded that he practiced this ritual at Mt. Ōtake in Awa and Cape Muroto in Tosa. Especially at Mikuradō Cave at Cape Muroto, while practicing, a morning star is said to have flown into his mouth.
At that moment, he is said to have attained enlightenment. At the time, the cave was closer to the shoreline than today, and within it Kūkai saw only the sky and the sea. It is said that is why he took the name Kūkai.