Perfect for each other with no emotional attachment, they jumped in a taxi to Hirosake castle gardens, filled with wide paths, cultivated plants, flowers, 300-year old trees, lotus blossoms in ponds and miles of lilies.
After crossing wide timber bridges, they passed through large wooden fortress doors into gardens. Ponds near bridges were filled with wild white swans gliding along green banks. A castle sat high above large walls of measured stone blocks with a tiered roof and metal ornamentation.
They walked down a long street to a wooden temple with fresh mythological symbols on archways and roofs. The temple interior contained ornate carvings with sand raked Zen universes. Brown robed monks sat in meditation.
Away from the temple, distant valley mountain peaks were covered in snow. High white gray clouds covered and protected peaks from sky. Fields of rainwater lay in small furrows of well- manicured attendance. Tight blue bundles of feed, grain and potatoes rested as a solemn oath to diligent pastoral life in the mud and meadows of reality.
“Come, I show you fabrics,” Akiko said, grabbing his hand.
The Yukara Ori Museum specialized in hand loom woolen fabrics of Hokkaido. Their brochure read, “When Hokkaido is mentioned, people think of long, severe winters and heavy snowfalls, but when the snow season ends, Hokkaido turns into a colorful world of greenery and flowers.
"An outstanding feature is that our weavings are based on such themes as ‘Ice Floes,’ ‘Lilacs,’ ‘Sweet Briar,’ ‘Lake Mashu’ and ‘Swan,’ drawn from the natural beauty and climate of Hokkaido.
"All of the work is done by hand - from the initial spinning and dyeing of the yarns into hundreds of colors - to the final weaving on the hand loom. It may take years to design and complete a new piece."
Colors ranged from white to black. Themes were ice, villages, cranes, meadows, rivers, mountains, land and sea, and combinations of extremes in clear intimate creations.
A woman at a large handloom gently worked threads creating a growing design. People watched in fascination, until, bored by the simplicity of her Zen, scattered.
She twisted threads into a balanced weight and line before pulling and pressing them into a pattern.
“I know her,” he said to Akiko. “Her name is Little Wing. She weaves old stories into life’s tapestry. I remember a dream she created. Would you like to hear it?”
Source: A Century is Nothing.
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