Jakusui: I'd like to ask you, Priest Danjo about your upbringing. First, what kind of boyhood did you have?

Priest Danjo: I was born on February 8, 1956, in Tooribata, Fujie-cho, Fukuyama City, Hiroshima Prefecture. “Tooribata” means “street farm” in English, which sounds nice, but in reality, it is located deep in the mountains where no one from the local area ever goes. Back then, if you said, “I'm from Tooribata,” everyone would be surprised, like, “Oh! You came from a place like that?” It was that rural.

  I'm the second son among three siblings, with an older brother and younger sister. My father apparently enrolled in an agricultural school during the war, preparing to join a settlement group in Manchuria, China. But the war ended before he could go, so he returned home. At that time, my father's older brother—my uncle—had been killed in action in New Guinea. Consequently, my father married his uncle's fiancée, who was twenty at the time. They were cousins. I was born as their second son.

  My father worked as a civil servant in Fukuyama City, while my mother, from a family of part-time farmers going back seven generations, cultivated fields, supporting our family almost entirely single-handidly. Thanks to this, from childhood I knew the taste of delicious, mostly organic grains and vegetables. Unlike today where rice cookers are common, cooking was done using two hearths: the irori and the kamado.

  When my mother would say, “Ken-chan, stoke the fire in the kamado,” I'd gather pine needles from the mountains and feed them into the flames. While waiting for the rice to cook, I'd pick up nearby pampas grass, light the tip of a stalk, and spin it around like a handheld firework, playing in front of the dimly lit kamado. I'd occasionally get burned, and I imagine I caused my mother a lot of worry. I was a bit of a handful back then.

 

Jakusui: What was the environment like around the house Priest, you were born?

Priest Danjo: My childhood home in Fukuyama City is right next to the Seto Inland Sea, so you could reach the ocean in about fifteen minutes by car. My elementary school was about ten kilometers from home. Of course, I walked to school. On the way home, after climbing a long uphill slope, there was a hill. From the top, you could see the large bay of Matsunaga in the Seto Inland Sea. Around sunset, when the sun sank toward Onomichi from that spot, the entire sea surface turned a beautiful golden color. Watching that gave me peace.

  Near the peninsula cape, fishermen sold fresh fish they'd caught early that morning. My mother bought fish like flathead, goby and mackerel almost every day.

  Pine trees grew in dense clusters everywhere around our house, creating an environment where I could always slip inside and play alone. Pine trees have a scent. Especially in early spring when new buds emerge, they give off a wonderfully sweet fragrance. Within that pine forest stood a huge pine tree, over 400 years old, with roots forming knots that made perfect pillows. In spring, when it warmed up and I felt sleepy, I'd go into the pine forest, use that knot as a pillow, and take naps or read books there. It was my favorite spot.

 

Jakusui: I see. So, Master, you grew up playing in the great outdoors as a child, eating the natural foods your mother prepared, and became a very bright, top-performing student, right?

Priest Danjo: Not really a top student. (laughs)

  For example, when the teacher would say, “Danjo, turn right” on the playground, I'd somehow turn the opposite way—I was that kind of strange child. I suppose I was really bad at following to others. Even when seven or eight friends gathered, I'd just invent my own games to play. In my mind, I didn't care much about who won, who was first, or who was second. I just chose what I found fun and played that way.

  Since there were no stores in the village, sweets were hard to come by or eat. That's precisely why I craved natural sweetness. In the spring, wild strawberries would grow on a secret stone wall I kept to myself, and eating them on the way home was a real treat. Occasionally, I'd accidentally eat a green stink bug hiding among the strawberries too. Come autumn, I'd head to the mountains where wild akebi vines grew in clusters and feast on their sweet, delicious fruit. Anyway, it was a rich lifestyle in a way, coexisting with nature, where I could always find something to eat on my way home from school. Also, whenever I passed a Jizo statue on my way home, I'd always clasp my hands in prayer, offer persimmons from the mountains, say “Itadakimasu,” eat them, and then go home.

  The roadside was filled with flowers blooming throughout the seasons. I became interested in the wild plants and medicinal herbs around me, researching plants used in Japanese and Chinese medicine at the library.

 

Jakusui: What was the thing young Danjo, who struggled to fit in with others, was most passionate about?

Priest Danjo: Hmm. I loved music.The beauty found in nature, drawn from the scenery I always saw, and the sense of myself merging with that nature—that feeling lived within my heart. I would turn it into poetry or song. That was my joy.

  By first grade, I was already composing my own melodies and singing original songs. I also loved creating stories around a single keyword. My creativity would expand endlessly—I excelled at turning them into plays, finding material to write my own scripts, and inviting friends to perform Manzai (comic dialogue) comedy routines.

  Back then, Japan's economic landscape was shifting, and opportunities to hear world music previously unavailable were increasing. Japan entered its period of rapid economic growth, and the Tokyo Olympics were held. It was around the time televisions and tape recorders started becoming commonplace. It felt like we were standing at the dawn of a peaceful era.

  Back then, the term “new product” was used a lot. New appliances kept appearing one after another. By the time I entered elementary school, televisions with a depth of at least fifty centimeters had appeared. Not everyone was wealthy enough to own one of these still-expensive televisions, but there was one black-and-white TV in the village, owned by a wealthy household. After work, villagers would gather at that house to watch professional wrestling. Of course, my mother and grandmother went there too, and I remember them watching the broadcasts with tremendous excitement.

  Later, as photographic technology advanced, books began featuring all sorts of realistic photographs. In fifth grade, I asked my father, “I want an encyclopedia.” Encyclopedias were incredibly expensive back then, but he actually bought it for me. It even had color pages, which were very rare at the time. I remember being deeply moved by seeing color photographs for the first time. The book was thick, about ten centimeters. I was so happy with it, but it wouldn't fit in my bag, so I'd carry it under my arm all the way to school, ten kilometers away. That encyclopedia, which satisfied my intellectual curiosity, made walking to school while reading it a joy.

  I think I was in the second or the third grade when I started my newspaper delivery job. I'd wake up around five every morning to deliver papers around the neighborhood. After working for a month, I'd get paid about 500 yen. I saved all of the money, and finally, in my second year of junior high, I bought a tape recorder. I was so, so happy. I treasured it, recording my own voice and enjoying it.

  My father must have noticed my love for music, because he bought me an acoustic guitar as a Christmas present.

Nowadays you can learn guitar online, but back then there was nothing like that. I couldn't afford lessons at a studio either. So I started teaching myself, figuring out the notes—do, re, mi, fa, so—by ear. Gradually, I got better at playing. I'd write my own melodies, add lyrics, and sing original songs. Before I knew it, the guitar felt like a part of me.

  As I mentioned earlier, I've always been bad at doing what everyone else does. So rather than singing popular Beatles songs or folk singer tunes, I loved writing my own poetry and singing it best. I'd jot down notes every day, pouring the joy of experiences—that sense of oneness with nature—into my poems.

  When I was in junior high, Japan hosted its first World Expo in Osaka. For me, it was a shocking event that shifted my consciousness toward the future. Our grade went to Osaka on our junior high school trip and got to visit pavilions from many different countries. Seeing so many people from overseas sparked a desire in me to talk to people from all over the world.

  Before going to the Expo, I asked my teacher, “Please teach me how to talk in English.” I visited the teacher's home and received private lessons on greetings and manners.At the Expo grounds, whenever I saw a foreigner, I'd casually say, “Hello, where are you from?” As I asked people from various countries questions and got their answers, I truly felt that ‘being able to speak English expands our world.’ That's when I started to like English.

 

Jakusui: So you grew to like music and English. Were you good at sports too?

Priest Danjo: Yes, I was. My father worked in the secretarial department at city hall while also serving as a kendo instructor at the local police academy. He apparently placed in national tournaments when he was young. Influenced by him, I started learning kendo from my father when I was very young. By sixth grade, I had reached a decent level, so when I entered middle school, I joined the kendo club without hesitation. However, I quit it after about a year and a half.

Jakusui: Why was that?

Priest Danjo: The way the seniors taught me differed from how my father had taught me, and that led to frequent clashes with them. Even though I was in the lower grades, I always won the tournament. So I think the seniors were envious of me. Looking back now, I feel that learning kendo, a Japanese martial art, cultivated my ability to instantly read people's minds, including their character.

  My father is no longer with us, but I'm deeply grateful he taught me even a little of the essence of kendo.

 

Jakusui: When and what sparked young Kenji's interest in the world of Buddhism?

Priest Danjo: The initial spark was meeting an art teacher in middle school who I got along with very well. He was also a renowned calligrapher in our area. I absolutely loved his art classes; I think my art grade was the only good one.This teacher also emphasized Buddhist art education, often including questions about Buddhist statues on exams.

  For example, “Which bodhisattva is this?” or “What tathagata is this?” or “Draw a Buddhist painting.” My interest in Buddhist art grew steadily within me. I am grateful that teacher provided the gateway to understanding the Buddhist world.

  That said, it's true I grew up in a deeply religious household where we revered both gods and Buddhas daily. At my childhood home, seasonal offerings were always placed not only at the family altar where our ancestors resided, but also at the well where we drew precious water and at the hearth where we used fire every day. My mother taught me, “The water deity resides in the well, and the hearth deity resides in the stove.” I remember how every morning, my mother, siblings, and I would never fail to offer a prayer of gratitude with our palms together, saying, “Please protect our family throughout this day. We humbly ask for your kindness.”

  Also, behind our house was a mountain long said to be home to Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy. The village called it Kannon Mountain. At the summit, a small shrine enshrined Kannon, and as a child, I often played inside that shrine. I grew up believing, with a childlike simplicity, that Kannon was always near, protecting everyone in our household.