I had the great privilege of traveling to Japan three times. My colleagues, Colin Jaundrill, a historian, and Eric Sung, a photographer, and I co-taught a course on Modern Japan and took our students there as part of the class.
We took the train to visit the statue of the giant Buddha in Kamakura. It was so memorable, probably because of the rain and mist. But while we were there, the sun broke through the clouds. Perhaps that’s why the memory remains so vivid even years later.
We bought inexpensive umbrellas at the convenience store. I took this photograph of four of my students, taken by the contrast between their umbrellas and the ancient statue.
It’s stayed with me after all these years. And finally, I gave the memory to one of the characters in my book.
Here’s the scene as I imagined it for Derek Wilkinson, a man visiting Japan and hoping to reconcile with the woman he loves.
The train slipped out of Tokyo’s sprawl and shot past wooded hills and rice paddies toward Kamakura Station. It had clouded over during lunch and started raining, giving the landscape a mystical feel. I followed the path past a wooden bridge painted in bright vermillion red. The waters below rushed over the rocks, sending the mist into the air.
When I got to the end of the wooded path, the land opened up in front of me. And there he stood. The giant Buddha called the Daibutsu. It stopped me in my tracks.
The massive bronze statue dates back to the 13th century. It was spitting rain, but he stood serene and immovable, as if he had been waiting there forever. Even I could feel it.
He was seated in the lotus position, his verdigris surface weathered by centuries of sun and rain. I had read that he was originally housed in a large wooden temple hall, but it had been destroyed repeatedly by typhoons during the centuries that followed. According to the legend, the people stopped rebuilding the temple around him and simply let him remain beneath the open sky.
My eyes were drawn to his face. He had endured. My own pain seemed insignificant compared to what he must have witnessed. But somehow, being here in his presence eased the knot in my heart.
A group of school girls in their navy blue skirts and crisp white shirts and blue bow ties approached, chattering like a flock of magpies. When they saw the Daibutsu, they lapsed into silence, staring up at him in awe. They carried bright red umbrellas. The teacher lined them up for a group photo in front of the Buddha. I loved the sight of those colorful umbrellas juxtaposed against the verdigris green of the statue. I snapped a picture.
Nora would love it.
Japan is a mystical place—both ultra modern and high-speed and historical and timeless. I discovered something new each time I revisited—something I do often in my memory.
I can’t think of a better way to process those memories than by gifting them to you via my characters’ experiences. One of my friends who has read all my manuscripts once said that my descriptions felt authentic and lived-in. I took that as a real compliment.
By the way, the scene above is from a manuscript called Freely Given. The release date will be sometime in 2027.
Thanks for tuning in,
With all best wishes,
Margaret
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