Autumn Equinox Visitor

Autumn Equinox Visitor

This is the tale of who I, girl child, and resident Lab Lou met when we went for a respective night run, scooter ride, run last night. 

Once out on the riverbank, just opposite my Australian mate’s house, the hair on Lou’s back went up and he let out a Grrrr and couple cautious barks. I’d noticed he’d been sniffing with extra intensity up to that point, so turned back lickity split upon hearing a rustling down in the riverbed. 

It was then that I saw it. 

Whoa! Inoshishi! 

A huge freak’n boar! 

I fumbled for my iPhone as we stared each other down for all of a long 5 seconds--just long enough to increase my heart rate to the point of being relieved he opted to bolt rather than charge up the riverbank. 

Now, day after delayed reaction, it hit me.

 Last night, or more like early this morning just past 3 a.m., was Autumn Equinox. 

Autumn Equinox!  Why that's the time of Persephone’s return to Hades. 

But of course! 

Long ago, the boar’s tusks (much like the horns of the bull) became symbols of that mysterious orb in the heavens that perpetually died and resurrected, believed to be a god in its own right since the dawn of humankind, if not earlier. The moon’s disappearance was obviously a sign of decent into hell, where it’d remain for 3 days only to resurrect over and over again. World without end, Amen. 

The underworld is another common mythological motif, and no matter the culture or period it’s found in it’s always got a ruler. The earliest one that we know of was the Sumerian goddess Ereshikgal (sister of Inanna—first deity in recorded history to resurrect from the dead). She was queen of the underworld. In Japan it’s Izanami. There are countless others from other cultures and eras, but I've digressed long enough, it’s Persephone and her decent into the underworld that seeing the boar last night brought to mind, since it was a boar that killed her lover Adonis. 

Persephone and Aphrodite were both in love with the mortal Adonis actually, and love triangles are never pretty, right? So Zeus mediated and deemed each would spend a third of the year with Adonis. Zeus let Adonis choose who he'd spend the remaining third of the year with. I think he probably chose his dog. After eight months with feuding women no doubt he needed a break. 

In any event, Adonis wasn't so keen on spending four months of the year in Hades with Persephone, which she didn't like but it's a long story so I'll wrap it up by telling that this in a roundabout sorta way is connected to Adonis death via wild boar. The main thing to know is it was the boar that did him in. 

So there ya go! 

On the night of Persephone’s return to Hades the boar confused me with Adonis. This is my theory at least, since Adonis was considered the epitome of male beauty so Adonis? Casey? It’s an understandable mistake  😆  

Fortunately the boar, or the gods who sent the sinister swine assassin on its murderous  mission last night, weren't  counting on me having one of Cerberus’s more goofy, hyper-drooling, fun-loving, one-headed kin as my running partner. Thus Lou scared off the big bad piggy and I lived to tell this tale. 

And the moral of the story is? 

I guess there’s not one really, other than what a joy it is to get surprised by Nature. That and to contemplate these age old tales—all the myths and their metaphoric symbols about this Mystery—this Life thing we’re all swimming in.

Big M and little M at the old Numazu Public Gym

I used to see them in the weight room at Numazu city gym—the old one.

 I loved that place. It was raw. There was tape on the benches, welds on the dumbbells, a million black dropped-plate divots across the countless shades of brown, sweat and gym-shoe worn hardwood flooring. It was all Weider bars, racks and plates. Olympic stuff! The best there is.

The Japan powerlifting champion was there all the time. I haven’t seen him since the last day of training there. About twenty years ago, after some months of “konnichi wa's", when I first started going there, we got to talking a bit between  grunts and occasional “ganbatte ne” words of encouragement.  I’d always tell about me, as I still tend to do a tad too much. But he, true to man of greatness humility, spoke little of himself, and thus left me ignorant as to how much of a badass he was. It wasn’t till after years of knowing him that I heard from someone else that he was Japan powerlifting champion back in the ‘70s. He told of competing at the world championships in New York. Strongest man in Japan! My buddy at the gym. 

But today it’s not him, but them, that I think of—it’s their images that I hold in my heart.

With them too, it wasn’t till after months of cordial weight room macho man nods and “konnichi wa’s” that we introduced ourselves. They, like I, were foreigners in this land. Back then foreigners were still few and far between in the small city public gym. We stood out. I don’t recall which language we spoke. Was it English? Japanese? The one who did most the talking spoke English well. I remember that much. And it definitely wasn’t his native tongue, though years later results of a DNA ethnicity test revealed I’ve a long lost ancestor that must’ve known it.

من ایرانی هستم

man irani npastam

“I’m Persian!” 

Sure only 2%, but that’s 2% more than I ever imagined.

In any event, one day we introduced ourselves. We shook hands and I said something about never forgetting their names—about how it’d be easy to remember:

 “Mohammad and Mohammad”

Then he clarified:

“I’m Big Mohammad.

He’s little Mohammad.”

We laughed and laughed, and every time we met after that I would greet them as such.

Hey! Big Mohammad. konnichi wa

Little Mohammad. Yo! 

The names definitely fit. The little guy was thin as a rail. 

And Big Mohammad? The dude was freak’n huge.

I swear though his smile was even bigger’n his biceps. Back then, as I see yet again now and seemingly never ending, my nation and his were in conflict, and the leader of mine had said some stupid shit about his. I mentioned something to this effect to let him know most of us didn’t share in such dumbassery, to which Big Mohammad just smiled, shook it off and said:

“That’s politics my friend”. 

My friend.

I've yet to hear where my ol Japan powerlifting champ gym friend went after the old gym closed down. I see a few old faces at the new gym. The free weights part of the weight room's much smaller there. And they replaced all the Weider equipment with fancy rubber coated plates and bars that are already showing rust. There's about four times as many and all fancy high-tech new treadmills as in the old gym though, which brings in a lot more people. The old gym was leveled last year. Seeing the big vacant lot when I teach in a nearby building on Fridays always makes me think of it. I competed in my first and only Shotokan karate tournament there in 2000 and fought in a couple full contact Kyokushin karate tournaments there as well. But it's the weight room I miss the most. The weight room and folks I met there.

 Like Big M and Little M. 

I thought about them when skimming news this morning. 

I heard long ago that they’d moved back to Iran.

 I hope they’re doing well. 

Ganbatte ne

Prince Five-Weapons

Prince Five Weapons

A young prince had just completed his military studies under a world renowned teacher. Having received, as a symbol of his distinction, the title Prince Five-Weapons, he accepted the five weapons that his teacher gave him, bowed, and armed with the new weapons, struck out onto the road leading to the city of his father, the king. On the way he came to a certain forest. People at the mouth of the forest warned him. “Sir prince, do not enter this forest,” they said; “an ogre lives here, named Sticky-hair; he kills every man he sees.”

But the prince was confident and fearless as a maned lion. He entered the forest just the same. When he reached the heart of it the ogre showed himself. the ogre had increased his stature to the height of a palm tree; he had created for himself a head as big as a summer house with bell-shaped pinnacle, eyes as big as alms bowls, two tusks as big as giant bugs or buds; he had the beak of a hawk; his belly was covered with blotches; his hands and feet were dark green. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “Halt! You are my prey!”

Prince Five-weapons answered without fear, but with great confidence in the arts and crafts that he had learned. “Ogre,” said he, “I knew what I was about when I entered this forest. You would do well to be careful about attacking me; for with an arrow steeped in poison will I pierce your flesh and fell you on the spot!”

Having thus threatened the ogre, the young prince fitted to his bow an arrow steeped in deadly poison and let fly. It stuck right in the ogre’s hair. Then helmet fly, one after another, fifty arrows. All stuck right to the ogre’s hair. The ogre shook off every one of those arrows, letting them fall right at his feet, and approached the young prince. 

Prince Five-weapons threatened the ogre a second time, and drawing his sword, delivered a masterly blow. The sword, thirty-three inches long, stuck right to the ogre’s hair. Then the prince smote him with a spear. That also stuck right to his hair. Perceiving that the spear had stuck, he smote him with a club. That also stuck right to his hair. 

When he saw that the club had stuck, he said: “Master ogre, you have never heard of me before. I am Prince Five-weapons. When I entered this forest infested by you, I took no account of bows and suchlike weapons; when I entered this forest, I took account only of myself. Now I am going to beat you and pound you into powder and dust!” Having thus made known his determination, with a yell he struck the ogre with his right hand. His hand stuck right to the ogre’s hair. He struck him with his left hand. That also stuck. He struck him with his right foot. That also stuck. He struck him with his left foot. That also stuck. Thought he: “I will beat you with my head and pound you into powder and dust!” He struck him with his head. That also stuck right to the ogre’s hair.”

Prince Five-weapons, snared five times, stuck fast in five places, dangled from the ogre’s body. But for all that, he was unafraid, undaunted. As for the ogre, he thought: “This is some lion of a man, some man of noble birth—no mere man! For although he has been caught by an ogre like me, he appears neither to tremble nor to quake! In all the time I have harried this road, I have never seen a single man to match him! Why, pray, is he not afraid?” Not daring to eat him, he asked: “Youth, why are you not afraid? Why are you not terrified with the fear of death?”

“Ogre, why should I be afraid? For in one life one death is absolutely certain. What’s more, I have in my belly a thunderbolt for a weapon. If you eat me, you will not be able to digest that weapon. It will tear your insides into tatters and fragments and will kill you. In that case we’ll both perish. That’s why I’m not afraid!”

Prince Five-weapons, the reader must know, was referring to the Weapon of Knowledge that was within him. Indeed, this young hero was none other than the Future Buddha, in an earlier incarnation. 

“What this youth says is true,” thought the ogre, terrified with the ear of death. “From the body of this lion of a man, my stomach would not be able to digest a fragment of flesh even so small as a kidney bean. I’ll let him go!” And he let Prince Five-weapons go. The Future Buddha preached the Doctrine to him, subdued him, made him self-denying, and then transformed him into a spirit entitled to receive offerings in the forest. Having admonished the ogre to be heedful, the youth departed from the forest, and at the mouth of the forest told his story to human beings; then went his way.

As a symbol of the world to which the five senses glue us, and which cannot be pressed aside by the actions of the physical organs, Sticky-hair was subdued only when the Future Buddha, no longer protected by the five weapons of his momentary name and physical character, resorted to the unnamed, invisible sixth: the divine thunder bolt of the knowledge of the transcendent principle, which is beyond the phenomenal realm of names and forms. Therewith the situation changed. He was no longer caught, but released; for that which he now remembered himself to be is ever free. The force of the monster of phenomenality was dispelled, and he was rendered self-denying. Self-denying, he became divine—a spirit entitled to receive offerings—as is the world itself when known, not as final, but as mere name and form of that which transcends, yet is immanent within, all names and forms.  

--  THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES pp, 69-73

Disclaimer:  The photo is not an accurate representation of Sticky-hair I don't think, although the black ogre in the photo does try to eat everything.

In any event, I share this tale here because? Well, I'd been almost entirely news-free, at least as much as one can avoid news while still remaining plugged in to the online world, for over a month when I committed to teaching an advanced level adult ESL class at the start of this year. I've since returned to skimming headlines and of course can't avoid seeing opinions galore on social media, yet am glad I decided to use something other than current news or articles on contemporary global issues for discussion. It's no better or worse for helping folks increase their proficiency in a foreign language, just more in line with where I was at the time. 

Now at just over a month into the course we've covered Amanda Gorman's The Hill We Climb, Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot, and last night I introduced them to Joseph Campbell. Rather than model reading the text I played each by the charismatic miss Gorman, Carl Sagan and Campbell with his the intro to the Power of Myth, respectively. The outcome has been terrific.

 Some of the the poetic metaphor was a bit of a challenge but they all were more than up to it and learned something new. What's more is all of the materials thus far, especially discussing the life and works of Campbell and the seemingly countless rabbit holes that comparative mythology branches off into last night, has resulted in interesting discourse to say the least, not to mention they teaching me as much as I them. 

For example, I thought I knew about all there was to know about the symbols and rituals of Setsubun in Japan, (photo at the heading is of Setsubun ogre mask and beans) but lo and behold one retired university professor in  class told me things I'd yet to hear about, which in turn led to discussing ogres, demons, evils spirits and monsters and such and...

"Light bulb!"

I came home and searched online for the tale above only to be disappointed with the results, so looked it up in THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES and transcribed it to share with the students next week. It was easy to find in my copy since I had a post it note sticking to page 69 with the words "Bedtime story!" written on it. (and yes, for what it's worth all my kids loved and would sometimes request it at bedtime when they were younger) 

And so I put it here in hopes that maybe someone searching someday may find it--the Tale of Prince Five-weapons encountering Sticky Hair as told by the master storyteller Joseph Campbell. 

Here's to awakening to the thunderbolt