Shomyo is Buddhist chanting — the kind that would have been part of the daily soundscape for anyone living in Muromachi-era Japan. I've been trying, slowly, to build some of that scaffolding for myself.
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In Sokun's old manuscripts, we can read that the yuri in ichikotsu should begin like the quiet of a thatched roof. I have no idea what rain sounds like on a thatched roof — but a Zen monk from the 19th century pulled me directly into the scene.
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I wasn't particularly interested in Ōmori Sōkun. His name would pop in my lessons but I hardly paid attention. He eventually managed to reach me the way most important things do — by appearing again and again until I stopped ignoring him.
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I've known about the Saikō-sui koan for a while now. It's engraved on Ōmori Sōkun's tombstone — along with a note saying it was upon hearing it that the master found his vocation.
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This story begins on a damp Spring morning in Fukuoka, Japan, in 2020. I never wanted to go home ever again. Maybe in a way my wish came true.
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