Finding Good Fortune in Kyoto
Blinded by the bright sun, it took my eyes a few seconds before they could focus on the piece of paper in my hand. And then I saw it — the bold text in all caps shouting at me:
№28 BAD FORTUNE
You can’t go ahead and should go back to your homeland.
Moments before I received this ominous warning, people around me had formed multiple short lines, readying themselves to learn their fortune outside the Senso-ji Temple — a popular Buddhist temple in Tokyo, Japan. Intrigued and excited by the prospect of having my future told, I jumped into the closest line and waited for my turn. What would be revealed on this journey? What insights would I learn? What gifts would I bring home? My 12-hour flight from Washington, D.C. to the other side of globe had to be for something. Shaking the large wooden container, I retrieved a numbered stick that corresponded to one of the dozens of drawers containing an omikuji or fortune. The drawer initially resisted until I ultimately maneuvered it open and lifted one of the slips of paper from the stack.
There it was, in black and white: “go back to your homeland.” Less than 24 hours in Japan and already told to leave. Although receiving a fortune is a thousand-year-old tradition when visiting shrines and temples in Japan, this single piece of paper was not going to be a prediction for me today. Thankfully, I was not alone in my conviction. Others around me also refused to accept bad fortunes that were evidently in plenty. Those receiving their bad fortunes started tying their paper slips to a sacred tree branch, with the idea the bad fortune would not attach itself to the recipient and instead to the tree. I also folded my paper into a long strip and wrapped one end under the branch and over the other end, pulling it through the loop. Then, I walked away, leaving my bad fortune on the branch to fade in the bright, hot sun.
My eagerness to make a twenty-year dream come true was unwavering. Good fortune must be out there, waiting to be revealed, I told myself. And perhaps there were other places beyond Tokyo worthy of a visit. And so, the next day, in the mid-morning of late April, I boarded a Shinkansen bullet train bound for Kyoto.
The train glided across the countryside at nearly 200 mph, arriving in a quick two hours. Outside the station, the cool, grey sky began to shower beads of raindrops around me. Despite the appearance of a monotoned landscape, the rain gave the air a fresh energy that felt revitalizing with each breath. The streets were calm, with only the occasional passing car.
This was a spontaneous visit — my time in Kyoto did not have an agenda or planned tours. A handful of pop culture references fed my meager knowledge about this enchanting city. Maneuvering through the complex train and metro system of Kyoto only added to my confidence that good fortune awaited. I became humbly aware a wrong turn could be at any corner but finding my hotel was surprisingly simple! The large, square sign hung high beneath the streetlamp, proclaiming its presence with its modern logo amid a backdrop of low-rise, contemporary construction. I dropped off my bag, ready to leave this modern section for the more ancient neighborhoods. It was time to head toward the edges of town and into the fray of the unfamiliar. I crossed a ravine and raised my gaze at a sight of formidable magnificence.
Behold! A giant, red gate leading to Heian-jingu Shrine dominated the sky — a spectacle of grandeur. Towering and mighty, this gate, known in Japanese as a torii, stood a lofty 79 feet, securing its position as the second largest in the country. Kyoto presented me with an unparalleled welcome. However, as dazzling as the vermilion gate may have been in its grandiosity, the true treasure lay nestled within its tranquil gardens.
Shortly beyond the entrance of the Heian-jingu Shrine and in the spacious courtyard stood a visitor’s map, and to my surprise upon investigating, there was a network of expansive gardens surrounding the site. Named the Shin-en Gardens and translated in English to the Garden of the Gods, these expertly designed landscapes beckoned its visitors to take a stroll. Access to the gardens lies at the northeast corner of the shrine, a Zen paradise available for the small admittance fee of 600 yen, or about four dollars. As I stepped from the stone floor threshold, large branches folded onto each other over the soft, gravel path, forming a canopy of vibrant greenery and providing some light protection from the rain. Raindrops plopped into the stream, diving beneath the surface and creating rings of miniature waves, wafting to the water’s edge. Lemon and coral-colored foliage contrasted the verdant walkway. A tea house appeared across a pond, abundant with floating lily pads. Perhaps a cup of tea would make a delightful respite on this drizzly afternoon. But before placing my order, a winding, stepping stone bridge just ahead required measured precision in crossing. Named Garyu-kyo, translated to Lying Down Dragon Bridge, the stones created the fantastical characteristics of a slumbering dragon’s back. To navigate successfully required the finesse of a ballerina. Leaping from stone to stone, the mythical creature lying just beneath the surface drew me into his dance.
With my waltz a success and after confirming the dragon remained in his blissful state, an elderly group of volunteers greeted me with a bow and warm, octogenarian smiles. One joyful volunteer wearing a cream-colored smock apron invited me to take a seat on nearby bench, allowing me to rest my eyes back on the pond.
Holding a small, laminated card, “A menu,” she offered. Her words confident but noticeably practiced.
After a brief scan and pointing to a faded image of tea featuring a thin lemon slice, I replied: “This one.”
Delighted in the simple pleasure of the pond’s wildlife, another volunteer tiptoed toward the edge of the pond to toss bread in for the fish and a pink and white koi began to flutter and flail. She called over her friend just as the fish splashed water onto the woman and the surrounding banks. Erupting in laughter, their joy became instantly infectious. Like the ripples wafting in the stream, their jubilant spirit wafted outward toward those of us nearby.
But, with my tea now gone, it was time to keep moving. I followed the walkway through the tall grass and around Seiho-Ike Pond, where a beautiful wooden-covered bridge ushered me to my exit from the south garden. Back in the wide, open courtyard of the great shrine, the essence from the tea, the flopping koi, and the resonating laughter lingered in the air — each a small, unexpected treasure in my stroll through the artful Japanese gardens.
Situated between the edge of the gardens and the expansive courtyard stood a small kiosk full of charms and trinkets for sale.
“Are these for good luck?” I asked hopefully. Even though I left the bad fortune in Tokyo, it couldn’t hurt picking up some extra protection.
The shopkeeper bowed with an enthusiastic grin. Aware the language might be a barrier, we traded my phone back and forth to translate the meanings of the lucky charms.
Each infused with its own shield, the omamori offerings included success with money, love, happiness, protection from evil, passing exams, safe childbirth, and traffic safety, among more general protections. I chose luck with love and success with money as my charms. The merchant handed me my bag of fortunes, bowing a friendly farewell.
My omamori safely tucked in my daypack and the hours waning, I ventured further east as the sun gently descended towards the horizon, the enchanting allure of the Gion district drawing me closer.
With each of my steps, darkness embraced the streets, weaving an atmosphere of intrigue and secrecy. A hushed stillness greeted me, for the district had transformed: shops shuttered, once-bustling streets now devoid of tourists.
Renowned for its association with geishas, the Gion district also enticed me with historic machiya houses, offering a glimpse into traditional Japanese living. As the soft glow of lanterns cast gentle shadows over the narrow streets, facades of machiya houses emerged. These architectural treasures displayed wooden exteriors adorned with delicate latticework and sliding doors.
Despite the fact I had missed the opportunity to witness geishas gracefully gliding over the cobblestones, each moment of my visit unfolded like a carefully curated gift. The Yasaka Pagoda stood tall against the golden glow of the nearby street lamps, lighting my path. The sky had darkened to a deep navy blue and clouds hovered, resembling fluffy white cotton balls awaiting a gentle nudge from a light breeze. With ample space to explore, I embarked on the ascent up the steep road. Midway up the majestic mountain of Mount Otowa, the grand temple of Kiyomizu-dera emerged before me. Stone sculptures of dogs flanked the staircase, leading to the grand entrance. While a rope prevented me from getting closer, the temple’s red roof loomed large, making me feel I was already underneath it. Practicing Buddhists come here to pay respects to the deity Kannon, a goddess of great mercy and compassion whose purpose serves to end human suffering. Arriving at the summit, my quick and heavy breath began to calm. By now the clouds had drifted into the distance, revealing a bright glowing aura surrounding the temple. Gion unveiled a splendor of stillness and simplicity of the past.
Back at the hotel, my body flopped on the bed, grateful to not walk another step or dodge any mud puddles for the rest of the evening. My eyes gently closed as the rain tapped against the window pane, lulling me to sleep.
The next morning, a coffee shop around the corner seemed to be the ideal starting place for the day’s adventure. Armed with a warm latte, a map in hand, and feeling well-rested, I ventured forward into a new day in Kyoto.
I stood at the foot of another mountain, the impending climb remaining just out of sight. This time, I started at the base of Mount Inari, a sacred place most celebrated for its mesmerizing spectacle of vermillion torii gates, which form a vast network of trails intricately winding their way around the enchanting forest of the mountain. The Japanese believe that torii gates hold the power of purification, allowing visitors to rid themselves of negative energies and embrace a renewed sense of tranquility when walking through them.
Whether it was the refreshing raindrops or the symbolic significance of passing through the initial torii gate, a surge of energy coursed through me, becoming the motivation to embark on what would turn into a three-hour hike up the nearly 800-foot climb.
But I first had to make it to the initial torii gate and through many gathering tourists. Shops with purveyors tempted visitors with their novelties. Displays in front of the shops showcased little, porcelain foxes, poised with meticulous care in several rows running the length of the table. Similar to the charming rabbit figurines that adorned a shrine I had visited earlier, my curiosity was sparked again about the role animals played in each setting.
I made my way through the extensive passageway of vermillion-painted gates and arrived at a burial ground about thirty minutes into my hike. Tombs and miniature shrines rested in stark contrast to the trail gates. The branches and foliage from the tall trees shrouded this sacred land. Birds sang and trilled to the heavens, making their calls of praise to the gods. An older gentleman protected from the rain by his olive-green overcoat and umbrella stepped with care and precision, leaned over a tomb-stone, and tenderly placed a small wooden tablet adorned with an inscription. Known as the ihai-tō in Japanese tradition, this wooden tablet serves as a vessel for prayers, poems, and profound reflections, reverently dedicated to the memory of the cherished loved one. Empathetic to his offering, my mind flooded with memories of the loved ones in my own life who have passed too soon, and I greeted their arrival silently and reverently, breathing in the cool, damp air in the tranquility of this garden of remembrance.
En route to the top of the mountain is another burial ground, stone foxes held rolled scrolls between their jaws and sat attentively atop several of the tombs. To my surprise, some of these cunning creatures were elegantly cloaked in vibrant red bibs, reminiscent of the smaller ones found at the gift shop. These mystical reynards and vixens, known for their trickery and shapeshifting abilities, were also entrusted with the vital task of protecting spiritual believers against malicious spirits. Serving as devoted messengers between the esteemed gods and their followers, the foxes skillfully harnessed their red bibs as a powerful shield, warding off both illness and harmful energy.
As I continued my ascent up the soggy mountainside, a jarring chime shattered my inner serenity. Its high-pitched peal grew increasingly disruptive and maddening. Just beyond a small shrine, a composed and stoic woman appeared with a small bell fastened to her waist. As she moved, the piercing sound overwhelmed the chatter of nearby tourists. Approaching her, the volume only escalated. Now only a few feet away, I pondered her intentions. Fushimi Inari, once a sacred land for prayer and meditation had now transformed into a tourist hot spot. Slowing my pace, I paused to observe, striving to withhold judgment. Her gaze fixed on the path, purposefully placing one foot ahead of the other, I concluded her steps were simply following the ancient footsteps of Mount Inari’s monks. Her chime, resonating through the air, established a spiritual boundary between her and other visitors. Her bell, ultimately a precious offering, symbolized an awareness to remain mindful and respectful.
Upon my descent from the peak, a little gift shop showcased some omamori charms, tempting me to take a closer look. A row of round, ceramic doll heads stylistically painted in vibrant red and deep obsidian lined the shop walls. Throughout my trip, versions of these figurines had appeared all over Japan, varying in size and some staring with blank, empty eyes.
“What are these heads and why don’t they have eyes?” I asked the shop attendant, pointing to a row of them on a shelf behind her.
“Oh, daruma dolls!” she exclaimed as she gestured to the same row above her head. “When you make a goal, you paint in the left eye and after you achieve it, you paint in the right eye.”
Imbued with the spirit of Zen Buddhism, it reminded me of the profound influence diverse cultures possess, offering fresh perspectives. In this case, a tiny doll holds the key to evoke self-reflection and meditation, unleashing the potential for inner transformation.
But I was concerned the delicate daruma might become damaged traveling home. Two alternate omamori gems caught my attention: a tiger eye and an amazonite. Often associated with courage, strength, and confidence, the tiger eye gem is believed to enhance one’s willpower, boost self-confidence, and protect against negative energies. Complementary to that, the amazonite, often associated with harmony, balance, and communication, is believed to alleviate stress, enhance clarity of thought, and promote peaceful interactions. After taking my payment, the shopkeeper pulled out a black and gold pouch from a small drawer for me to secure my two gems. Known in Japanese as a zukin, this brocade pouch was decorated with several embroidered torii gates stacked along three mountain peaks reminiscent of the climb I had just completed. Tucking away my new charms, I continued my journey down the mountain.
A few minutes later a growing sense of unease washed over me. I paused while a sudden flurry of hikers maneuvered past me. Like a bolt of lightning, the realization struck me — I had left behind my bag of omamori, the ones signifying luck in love and success with money, from the previous day’s adventure! I sprinted back up the steep hill. Gasping for breath, my heart pounding, I arrived to find the proprietor on the verge of closing up shop.
Just as she was lowering the storefront blinds, concealing everything but her feet and knees, my voice erupted in a desperate plea, “I forgot my bag of fortunes!”
She quickly lifted the blinds, making clear she knew my plea was for her ears. Peering through the glass and pointing into the shop, she opened the door, allowing me to reenter. Together we rushed toward the register. And there, nestled amongst the trinkets and baubles, was my forgotten omamori. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I bowed deeply in a saikeirei manner, uttering the words, “Arigatou gozaimasu.”
There was enough time for one more stop to see if a nearby Buddhist temple had any final secrets to whisper to this appreciative American. With the rain intensifying, I ambled my way onto the grounds of the Shokoku-ji Temple — a distinguished member of the Kyoto Gozan, the Five Great Zen Temples of Kyoto. The tranquil absence of tourists, coupled with the serene atmosphere, amplified the symphony of raindrops dancing upon the top of my umbrella. An elderly volunteer kindly directed me to the main hall, humbly requesting I exchange my boots for a pair of slippers. The oversized clog-shaped shoe forced me to shuffle across the tatami-style flooring of the outer hall just to keep them on. I gingerly stepped upon the floorboard, which emitted a discordant creak beneath my weight. Crossing the threshold, I entered the hallowed sanctuary.
The docent warmly invited me to direct my gaze upward, where I saw an awe-inspiring wood ceiling, featuring a painted dragon coiled with its piercing gaze fixed upon me. Encouraged by my guide to walk the edges of the hall, I kept my eyes in contact with the dragon’s watchful eyes. In this captivating experience, my senses sharpened. Wherever I positioned myself within this immense, cavernous space, the dragon’s unwavering gaze remained constantly on me, like a silent guardian keeping watch.
The guide had one more surprise to offer. Suggesting I stand at the altar, he encouraged me to engage in an unexpected act: to clap. Though clapping is permitted at Shinto shrines, I had never witnessed it at a Buddhist temple and was nervous I might break a rule. Indulging in the enthusiastic guide’s request, I faced the altar and raised my hands, bringing them together with a resounding clap. The resulting sound echoed throughout the hall, like the powerful roar of a vigilant dragon.
“Dragons protect our world,” said the docent, excited to practice his English. In Japanese tradition, dragons are believed to possess the power to bring forth abundant rains for bountiful harvests and good fortune.
Charmed to hear not just a whisper but an exclamative roar from this confiding temple, I stepped from underneath its protection and back into the downpour, shielded only by the small, transparent canopy of my umbrella. The collective raindrops pelted the top of my umbrella with a force akin to the dragon’s howl, bestowing the gift of rain and its timely presence — a stroke of fortunate luck.
Reflecting on that bad fortune prediction at my journey’s start raises the question: what does it mean to have good fortune? Is it the raindrops bouncing off my umbrella and the cobblestone paths, birds chirping atop towering trees, stepping stones quietly awaiting a dancer’s leap, or meditative strolls through the ethereal streets of an ancient city? Is good fortune a radiant sun fading an abandoned parched paper tied to a tree, rendering its words of bad fortune impotent? Or, is good fortune, simply, observing new worlds and being grateful to take home the best of this enchanted place. In the end, this journey unveiled a tapestry of good fortune woven with the threads of serendipity, gratitude, and curiosity. Like an omamori, I am filled with it.
