Musashizuka Park

Miyamoto Musashi. I've spoken about him at length before. I reviewed his life's work, The Book of Five Rings, on this here blog a while back. I have alluded to him at relevant points concerning Korean/Japanese history, seeing as Musashi was alive and all when the Japanese invasions of Korea were happening. He figured into some of the civil conflicts that ripped through Japan shortly thereafter, too.

He features prominently in my big sci-fi novel series, too. One of my protagonists is reincarnated from him. Why? Well, Musashi was probably the greatest swordsman Japan has ever known. Famous for fighting in the Battle of Sekigahara and winning over 60 private duels (and never losing once), Musashi is renowned for inventing and promulgating the Niten Ichi-ryu (Two Heavens, One Style) school of swordsmanship—using two blades in combat. Seriously, it doesn't get much more badass than that. Watch this documentary on the man's life. It's incredible. 

What I haven't told you yet is that Musashi, the man, the myth, the legend, is a big part of the reason why I chose Kumamoto as the third Japanese city I'd visit. See, the city used to be his stomping grounds—or rather, his retirement home. After he got over wandering around Japan kicking the daylights out of any strong fighters he could find, he entered into the service of the Hosokawa Tadatoshi, the daimyo of Kumamoto Castle, and became one of his retainers. In return Musashi received 17 servants of his own, 300 koku of rice, a rank and title, and Chiba Castle for his residence. Being the utter badass he was, he still found time to indulge in some duels, all of which he won. But mostly he painted, wrote poetry, and worked to compile his techniques and philosophy in writing. He walked many times to a sacred cave on the far side of Mount Kinpo (called Reigandō, which you shall hear about later) to meditate and write. These memoirs became The Book of Five Rings mentioned at the beginning of this post.

When he finally became too infirm to live in solitude upon the mountain, he was brought down to die (probably of thoracic cancer) at the estate of his beloved lord. The legends say that when the venerable old kenshi felt death's veil falling over him, he asked to be propped up one knee, leaning on his sword. He died that way, and in his final will asked to be buried so he could always watch over his master's lands.

To that end, Musashi's remains were interred in full armor in the village of Yuge at the foot of Mount Iwato, near the road which the Hosokawa clan would take whenever they traveled to Edo (now Tokyo). Musashi's hair was interred upon Mount Iwato itself. His grave marker and tombstone, however, were set elsewhere: in a place appropriately called Musashizuka, in a park erected in Musashi's name. It was there that I headed on the morning of August 7th.

To my everlasting shame and chagrin, I dawdled and lollygagged a bit too much that morning; it was my last full day in Japan and I was feeling lazy. I didn't even get out the door until about 10:30, about three hours later than all the previous days. This would cost me greatly later that evening. 

I had purchased a Japanese headband, or hachimaki, with a red sun and an inspirational saying on it in Japanese, at the Suizen-ji Gardens a few days earlier. It was time to use it. Japanese people often wear these headbands when embarking upon a worthy enterprise, be it a late-night cram session or an election campaign. The headband symbolizes perseverance and success. I would not quit until I had knocked off the two great journeys on that day's to-do list, and to help remind me of my vow I donned the hachimaki and departed my hotel room.

I took the Kumamoto tram to the Shinsuizenji stop, and then I walked up the stairs to the JR commuter rail station and bought a ticket for Musashizuka, four stops and 4-5 kilometers northeast. After an uninteresting ride, I found myself on a hot, humid, sun-swept platform in the middle of nowhere.

I crossed the tracks, headed down a paved road...

...crossed a bridge, hung a U-turn, and walked another 200 yards or so before encountering the park. I entered and beheld these sights:
 

Looks like the venerable kenshi is still keeping watch over his charges.

Some of Musashi's classic moves. Illustrated on a rock. Peachy.

As you can see, the park itself was quite lovely: flowing water, knurled rocks, shady trees and buzzing insects. I bet it must be quite a quiet and reverent sort of place in the hush of winter snow, too.

But the killer-diller was waiting for me a few yards past Musashi's statue. This was his grave-marker:

 

I had this whole paying-tribute-to-someone-or-something-in-the-Japanese-way thing down by now. I flipped a coin into the offering box, folded my hands, and said a little prayer for Musashi's spirit. I had no doubt that he would have scoffed at this scruffy, flabby gaijin, who'd never taken a single kendo lesson in his life, come to pray over him. Nonetheless I hope he heard me.

While I was standing reverently before the marker, an old man in a bucket hat (seen off to the right in the picture below) noticed me and my unusual headgear. He spoke no English and I no Japanese, but nonetheless we managed a sort of conversation. He divined that I was vacationing here and a big fan of Musashi. So, naturally, he asked if I'd taken any kendo lessons. Chagrined, I answered no. It was then a third man joined our conversation: a sweaty, short-haired, middle-aged man in a polo shirt, who'd just walked in the main entrance. Through my pidgin Japanese, I guessed that he was the owner and headmaster of a notable kendo school in Kumamoto, and was here at Musashizuka Park to pay tribute to the great master. The three of us passed twenty minutes in awkward but happy conversation. It was a strange and nerve-wracking discourse, but I walked away feeling more edified by it than anything. It was good to reassure someone Japanese that Musashi lives on in the hearts and minds of the world, even if it was just a sweaty, sticky, flabby, scruffy foreigner like yours truly.

And then I waltzed out of there, taking as many nice photos as I could.

I walked around behind the park on my way out and took one last photo of Musashi's grave marker, from the rear perspective seen below. As I stood there, a cooling breeze on my face, the sun trickling through the leaves in golden droplets, and the peaceful hum of bugs and the songs of birds brushing my eardrums, I was overcome by a great and all-consuming sense of satisfaction. It was something akin to what I'd felt at Lafcadio Hearn's house, but a thousand times more pervasive. I felt calm, at peace, radiating contentment and quiet joy. I had achieved something of which I'd only dared to dream. I had knocked an item off my life's bucket list. I had fulfilled a goal that I'd set for myself years prior. I had paid my respects to a man who had a great influence on my writings. Each of those personal fulfillments made my heart and soul belt out an operatic number.

I wallowed in the feeling for some moments, and then turned and departed. I could feel Musashi rolling his eyes at me from the spiritual planes, but I didn't give a darn.

Next up: REIGANDŌ. Wanna hear how I utterly failed to reach the goals I'd set for myself this morning? Stay tuned.