After a series of famines in the 1830s here (likely global cooling from major volcanic clouds) in rural west Japan a group of people dedicated themselves to building a miniature pilgrimage ring that hearkens to the real-life temples that circle the island of Shikoku across all four prefectures there. That Shikoku 88 Temple Pilgrimage traces its origins back to Kukai (空海, 774–835; a.k.a. Kobo-Daishi, 弘法大師,posthumously) who returned to his birth island of Shikoku and is popularly thought to have visited many of today’s temples and to have made images in them.
This photo shows one of the stone figures; no two are alike. Some are in better condition than others. Many have been repaired when fragmented by using construction glue or by wrapping in stainless steel wire. The idea of making a miniature of the Shikoku circuit was to attract religious people who could not reach the distant island in person. By praying at each of the numbered figures a person could stir their religious sentiment and possibly improve conditions for self and others. What about the mountaintop ring of stone figures in 2024? In a world of mass communication, international package tours, and infinite distractions online, is there still a role for a miniature pilgrimage on top of a small mountain?
Although nobody was there during the hour I made my way to the top and around the ring, down below on the east slope was a man trimming some of the winter trees and bamboo there. And maybe 15% of the statues showed signs of repair (wire or glue or propping a fragment helpfully near the figure). Three or four wore fresh red bibs to give them a lively look. Maybe a few had faded or weathered bibs; most were not covered in any way, though. In other words, impressionistically, it looked like a handful of dedicated people of today do express some sort of care for the figures for some reason or a combination of reasons: for self, for others they now know, or in memory of people who used to frequent the mountaintop. That means the vast majority of people within walking, biking, or driving distance do not regularly visit the location, except perhaps when the cherry trees are in blossom — less for pilgrimage activity than for the blossoms and the glimpses of the valley floor visible between the branches and leaves. There is also a Shinto Shrine at the north end where the circle of statues slopes up. For some visitors that may be their destination, along with or instead of the 88 bodhisattvas.
I am not a practicing Buddhist, but I did visit a week’s worth of Shikoku temples the first week of this December. And I do find much in Buddhism that rings true in what little I see and learn. A local friend who heads one of the city’s Jodo (Pure Land) temples motivated me to memorize the five syllables used in their central practice of chanting the Nembutsu (Na-mu Am-i-da Butsu; the first and the final ‘u’ is nearly silent, thus making the five syllables). So one by one I stood to face each figure and repeated the phrase several times to see where my mind would go in the repetitions and for the length of the circle.
One thought was about people today versus the ones of the 1830s: much is different but much is probably similar with regard to the life-cycle sequence and existential questions of life and death then and now. Another thought was about the Nembutsu. People have been saying those syllables and its central sentiment (‘I call on the Amida Buddha of light to save me’) for centuries. By doing so in today’s world, there seemed to be a faint reverberation from past to present and possibly into the future, too. With each repetition and then speaking the same sounds at the next statue, and the next, and the next, the essential matter of “calling for help” (not one’s own merits or works) seemed to come into sharper and sharper focus to let me know ultimately that my own mortal efforts amount to little by comparison with the infinite mercy or compassion prayed for in each Nembutsu petition.
The third thought entering my mind was about the person or persons who looked at the block of stone and determined the general shape, the details and the facial features of the figure they carved from the stone: did the carver just look at this work as any other job, or did they put something of themselves into it, above and beyond basic pride of craftsmanship? In other words, did the task of making so many figures stimulate the person’s development of spiritual growth and confidence from this experience. Can visitors generations later still sense something from the hands of the carver by visually embracing the contours and expressions coming out of the stone?
Related to the previous focus on the physicality of the stone itself, the fourth thought was about the different time scales for mortal visitors going around the 88 stations on top of Funa-yama versus the longevity of stone figures themselves. Some statues are falling into pieces from the cycle of freezing and thawing year after year. Moisture finds its way in, water expands when crystalizing as ice and it shatters fissures in the rock. So while the statues are more durable than mortal flesh and bone, just as we return to earthly elements, so do the stone carvings, too. But the time scales are different: maybe 80 years for a person but 250 years for a stone figure.
The facial expression and posture of the hands was the fifth thought. Although each figure is different in style and position, some with and others without accessories, what seems alike in the 88 bodhisattvas is an air of imperturbability; as if nothing about the earthly world of people and things could disturb the deep internal tranquility and external patience expressed in the carved image. Considering the way that people’s brains use mirror neurons to resonate with what is external, by visualizing one’s own hands in similar position and one’s own face in similar expression there is some sort of non-verbal communication there to get to know something of that same air of imperturbability.
The last thought is about the net effect of what may result for stepping respectfully in front of each stone figure, then repeating the Nembutsu several times, trying to dwell on the sounds and the figure instead of being distracted or feeling preoccupied by other matters. Whether prayer effects change nearby or at a distance, synchronized in the moment or reaching forward or backward in time is a separate question. But whether prayer affects the person who undertakes the habit, that seems to be something possible to explore in one’s own limited experience. At least in this hour on top of Funa-yama, the circle from statue to statue did stir questions about self and others, about past and connections to present and future, and also on the basic outlook of gratitude or the attitude of humbly and respectfully receiving blessings large or small that may come one’s way. In other words, doing the miniature pilgrimage once or doing so many times does offer the possibility of forming certain habits of outlook and the way one walks through the day and, indeed, onward in all of one’s days. All this from the efforts back in the 1830s atop this small mountain far from the island of Shikoku that Kukai traveled around so many lifetimes ago. In sum, in 2024 there really is an ongoing value in doing this miniature pilgrimage.
