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Preface

There is always a beginning, and looking back, perhaps the idea behind this book first took hold in February 1993. At that time I was living in a run-down, traditional, Japanese-style house I had heard was connected with Koizumi Yakumo, also known as Lafcadio Hearn (1850-1904). Details of this link were hazy, but as a writer I liked to think of this drafty old structure as somehow having inspired that long-dead chronicler of Japan’s ghostly and weird. Already I felt sad that I could only be here for a short time, and hoped I would find another place in the neighborhood.

Although the interior was inconvenient and cold, especially in winter, I had taken this room because the rent was reasonable for central Tokyo, and, what’s more, my windows opened out to a large garden filled with birds and sheltering trees. Owned by the adjacent Buddhist temple, the house itself seemed to sit right in the cemetery, and coming home late at night, I was often startled by the wooden markers at graves clattering in the wind like old bones.

One morning I had just pulled shut the wooden gate and turned into the street, when I saw a Japanese woman who looked at me intently. We walked silently in the same direction for a few minutes, when suddenly she turned to me and asked, in English, “You are living in that old house?” I nodded, and she then explained that the house had been lived in by the Koizumi Yakumo family, and that she personally knew Lafcadio Hearn’s grandson, and his beautiful wife. She also knew their son, who was now in Matsue, Shimane Prefecture, researching his famous great-grandfather. The woman, Shizuko, was also from Matsue, but her father had bought land here in Tokyo some thirty-five years ago. She seemed delighted to learn I was from Scotland, because twenty years previously she had lived with her husband in London, and among her most precious memories was a journey to Scotland, and a visit to the Edinburgh Festival.

At the station she introduced me to a waiting friend, and the three of us boarded the train together. Just before Shizuko got off, she asked me how long I would be staying in the house. I said I would soon be leaving, and while I had arranged the following month’s accommodation, after that I did not know where I would stay. Right there and then she offered me a house belonging to her father but now used by her niece, who was leaving to live in America for ten months. If I wanted the house, about an eight-minute walk away from my current home, she would check with her father, and we could talk again that evening.

Mulling over our extraordinary encounter, I called her back in the late afternoon,just to make sure it had all been real. She felt exactly the same way, and told me that for some reason she had felt overwhelmingly compelled to talk with me that morning, although I was a complete stranger and a foreigner, as well. Thinking things over, she concluded that the ghost of Lafcadio Hearn had arranged our meeting.

And so I moved into a house in the same neighborhood, a single-story, furnished dwelling with its own garden. On my first day there, a bird, just like one I had been feeding from my window, perched on my laundry pole and squawked loudly at me.

As I had experienced a number of strange happenings in what I named the “Koizumi house,” the entire incident with Shizuko simply fueled my growing awareness of the hidden currents that move beneath the surface of everyday life. In fact, 1993 turned out to be not only a year of the increasingly mysterious, but also a major, personal turning point. By the end of the year my life had changed dramatically, and my involvement with the supernatural and Japan’s world of “superpower,” as supernatural abilities are often called in Japan, became intense and irrevocable.

One evening I returned to the Koizumi house to find a Japanese man, Abe Yukio, waiting for me at the cemetery. Several months before, he had by chance picked up the telephone when I was calling about renting the house, and we had briefly talked, but not yet met in person. Now he had come to talk with me about Oriental medicine, which I was researching for an article. Although we did not have contact again until many months later, when he came to treat my backache, today he and I run a clinic together in Nishi Hachioji. I am a healer who also gives therapy involving the analysis and adjustment of the patient’s flow of ki, the natural energy that fills the entire universe. A former Soto Zen monk, Abe is a specialist in traditional Oriental medicine, licensed in Japanese adjustment, acupuncture, and chiropractic. Another eventful encounter. Another transforming shift.

When I first came to Japan in October 1987, the last thing I expected to research was the supernatural. Like so many foreigners, I had come initially for business reasons. I was an official member of a U.S. State of Arizona economic mission that had come to Asia to open a trade office in Taipei, Taiwan, and had stopped over in Japan almost as an afterthought. From the moment I arrived here, I felt Japan was special for me, a reaction common to many foreigners, who tend to instantly like or dislike this apparently westernized Asian nation. I liked Japan enough to know that I wanted to live here, if only to try to unlock the secret of this strong attraction.

Once I finally started my research into Japan’s supernatural leanings, including a personal exploration of the dimension of ki, I found many new doors opening, and all manner of connections being easily and widely made. Being of mystical bent, I am inclined to think that this was as it should be, and that I had stumbled onto what was, for me, the right path.

My first efforts began, unlikely as it may seem, at the Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI). There, an old friend, Matsufuji Tetsuo, then at the ministry-affiliated Agency of Industrial Science and Technology, helped me set up meetings with ministry officials concerning supernatural research conducted by MITI. If I was surprised to discover MITI’s hardheaded bureaucrats investigating the otherworldly, I soon found that at the personal level, the spiritual quest is quite sincere. Thanks to Tsunoda Yoshisue, then at Japan’s New Sunshine Program to develop alternative energy sources and uses, I was invited to join MITI’s weekly ki ko class. This in turn led to my getting to know the instructor, Nakamura Akira, a lay monk and founder of Toyo Bunka Study Group, who two years later has graced this book with his fine sumi-e illustrations.

It was at the Agency of Industrial Science and Technology that I was invited to a meeting with Uri Geller, who demonstrated his telepathic talents and of course bent a teaspoon, which I still have. I was to meet him again twice that year, and learned that Japanese companies have been using his perceived powers in seeking new business opportunities. In the fall of 1993 I met the decidedly eccentric Masaki Kazumi, who did not look at me when I entered the room, instead averting his gaze as he motioned for me to sit down. He then took his pendulum and a sheet of paper and immediately began analyzing my fuchi pattern, as he calls his divination method. Told many things about myself, I also learned the age at which I would die. Masaki released this potentially upsetting information because he said I had a chance to increase my life span by twenty-five years, provided I make some changes. Before I left his cramped laboratory, where a machine is continuously set up to catch signals from outer space, he presented me with a four-leaf clover, two books, and his “Para Memory” machine. Touted as a brain-wave-enhancer and entryway to past lives, it gave me an instant headache, and has been gathering dust ever since, its promise of insight into past lives unfulfilled.

Accompanying Nishino Kozo to his classes at his school in Shibuya, I watched displays of his ki power, which really do have to be seen to be believed. A man of tangibly vital force, despite the fact that he used to smoke 150 cigarettes a day, Nishino appeared at his interview wearing a peach suit with gold buttons, a pink belt, a white sports shirt, and Japanese wooden sandals. Well-known and respected in the world of ballet, he has established a school of breathing techniques that is extremely organized and obviously successful, although I had the feeling that his students and instructors, while developing their awareness, are definitely followers rather than future pioneers in the world of ki. But perhaps there is only room for one Nishino.

By contrast, Kurita Masahiro comes across as much quieter, although equally dedicated to helping people realize their ki potential. At one of his regular lectures in Ikebukuro, I watched Kurita use his hands to heal aches and pains among the attendees. He believes his creation of the “Super Reading System,” which greatly enhances speed reading skills, is a practical way to introduce people to the more esoteric philosophy of ki improvement. And I frequently see people doing Kurita’s finger rotation exercises on the train or subway. Abandoning the life of a Buddhist monk for the study of mathematics and then medicine, Kurita has been involved in a lifelong mystic search. On the very last day of what had been a multiyear mystical training program, he was hit by a car on a mountain road as he was returning home. During the following months spent in hospital, he clearly formulated his way to teach people about ki.

Nomura Harehiko, meanwhile, has become a valued friend who regularly shows up at my home with his latest research results. In recent years, some scientists in the West have scathingly referred to proponents of the new physics as “Neo-Buddhists,” as one discovery after another in the realm of physics brings the world of natural science ever closer to the universe of Eastern mysticism. Nomura, who happens to be a practicing Buddhist, as well as a physicist specializing in superconductivity, manages to balance fifteen-day mystical training fasts with rigorous scientific experiments. Through his efforts, and those of his open-minded associates, new and intriguing insights concerning the phenomenal and intimated worlds are continuously being observed. Such work creates a bridge between the known and the unknown.

Despite my helpful connections, I found that researching the mysterious and strange in Japan is not always an easy task. Outside of the world of mystics, for whom the mysterious is a part of daily life, most Japanese people are reluctant to discuss the supernatural, either out of superstitious caution, a desire for secrecy, or simple lack of interest. August maybe the month to remember the dead and listen to eerie tales, but ghost stories that touch one personally can seem too close for comfort.

There is a dearth of information in English concerning Japan and the supernatural, so much of my research involved working with material that first had to be translated from the original Japanese. Since I do not yet read Japanese, most of this necessary translation work was generously undertaken by Abe Yukio. It was a was a time-consuming task, and, of course, the possibility for factual errors exists. Anyone who has worked closely with the Japanese language is aware of the frustrations inherent in translation. There is so much vagueness and ambiguity that trying to extract all the facts is very difficult, especially given the subject matter. Details of ghostly hauntings of places seem to be left deliberately vague, leaving much to the reader’s imagination. While this may be the mark of a thrilling ghost story, it is not helpful for someone who wants to tell the tale in another language.

In addition, many regions in Japan have their own versions of the same story, so it was left up to me to select which details to include. Often, in the end, I decided that it was less important to know exactly when something happened than to accept that the story had become part of Japanese cultural lore, and therefore has its own significance. At the same time, it was a pleasure to learn just how much Japanese, like Scots, have always loved ghost stories. As a people, Scots are comfortable with the mystical, and psychic gifts are accepted, particularly among the communities of the northern Highlands and Islands. In Japan I did not have to stretch my imagination very far.

So many of us in the modern world are cut off from even simple, natural experiences like walking in a forest, or sitting by a mountain river. In the glass and steel edifices which protect us from the elements, we have forgotten the power of the wind, the strength of water. One of the reasons why I enjoy my present life in Japan is that I have been able to keep such experiences very near to me. I am now living in yet another old house, which has its own well and carp pond, and the vagaries of the weather, such as spectacular summer lightning storms, remind me that I walk in the shadow of Mount Takao.

This sacred mountain in Western Tokyo, with longstanding supernatural ties, has become a favorite place for ki exercising or mental refreshment. Early one morning, I was climbing the path as usual, when I heard drumming and strange chanting. In a small cave which serves as a shrine I saw three women. One was drumming and chanting, the second was leaning against the railing, and the third was kneeling inside the cave, rocking to and fro, and moaning. I watched as she emerged to dance around to the beat of the drum, like the Sun Goddess coming out of the cave in Japan’s creation myth.

On the way back, I decided to walk down and introduce myself as a Scots shaman. The drummer grinned broadly and announced she was a Korean shaman, and that this was a special ritual to call down the gods for spirit possession. Another morning, with winter frost on the ground, I watched as a young man performed the austere purification ritual under the icy cascade of the Biwataki waterfall. Living in Japan constantly reinforces my perception that the mysterious and the magical shimmer at the edge of our ordinary existence. The extraordinary or the supernatural is within easy reach.

When I began looking into the supernatural, I had not planned to write a book, and the proposal from Tuttle was both timely and welcome. On the other hand, I found that writing a book is a major undertaking that requires the help of many people, all of whom I am unable to name. I give especial thanks to Abe Yukio for his patience and translations; to Hans Laetz for his generous search for materials in America; to Matsufuji Tetsuo for his historical insights and help with photographs and meetings; to Hayashibara Ken and Mohammad Raees for revealing meetings and wonderful talks; to Tsunoda Yoshisue and other MITI people for showing me the worlds of ki ko and aikido; and last, but not least, to Nakamura Akira—also known by his monk’s name, Takuho—for his splendid imagination and sumi-e skills.

And now a word about my personal history. The oldest of five children, I am the product of the coming-together of two very different cultures. I was born in jakarta, on the Indonesian island of Java, to an Indonesian mother and Scots father. When I was four years old we returned to live in Scotland, where tales of Scottish ghosts and Indonesian demons became part of our family lore; thinking about the supernatural was natural. This background, perhaps, has bequeathed to me an abiding curiosity and adaptability. In this next step of my life, I am in Nishi Hachioji running QRQ, a healing center, and creating a worldwide network of healers, alternative thinkers, and futurists. Somehow, for me, the supernatural, superpower, ki, the mystic search, strange coincidences, and unlikely happenings have all become part of the same, and for me essential, journey.

For the reader unfamiliar with Japan’s supernatural, this book should provide a preliminary introduction to the shadowy world that lies behind Tokyo’s hard, commercial dazzle. There may be readers who are disappointed that I did not include more, but to cover all was not my intent. As an exploratory journey into otherworldly things in Japan, this book is meant to offer a starting point. I hope readers will enjoy reading its pages as much as I have enjoyed writing them.