Marie Mutsuki Mockett

First, thanks to all my friends and family members who have inquired about my family in Japan. And thanks to everyone who read my piece in the New York Times. As you know, cousins from my grandfather's side of the family live in Iwaki City, which is south of Sendai, about 20 miles from the Daini Nuclear Power Plant and 27 miles from the Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. While my family is alive and well at this moment, we are all obviously tremendously concerned, and have asked them to vacate the area. But as you also know, my family runs a Buddhist temple, which means they are now extremely busy comforting community members, and conducting funerals.

In the event that you are stopping by here because you want to know a little bit about my family, I've included some pictures and information. Tohoku, the region of Japan hit by the earthquake and tsunami, is a very, very dear place to me and has been since childhood. That's partly why I set my novel, Picking Bones from Ash, in the north of Japan. Lots of people focus on the glamorous south (where the geishas live); I love the wild, unpretentious and traditional north.



This is a photo showing four generations-my grandfather, who was 96 in this picture and who passed away just this January, my mother, my son Ewan, and me. This photo was taken last May. The temple belonged to my grandfather's father.



This is Sempou, my mother's cousin. I have known him since I was a small child; he was adopted into our family in his twenties to take over the temple. But later, I learned that he was actually a blood relative (complicated, Dickensian story for another day. I reference it here). Here, Ewan is five months old. I was planning on going back to the temple with Ewan this April for my grandfather and grandmother's memorial services. Obviously, I will not make it up to the temple at all this spring. It remains to be seen if I will postpone the trip altogether. All the same, Sempou was delighted to meet my son, though he refused to smile for a photo for me, as is the Japanese way for a certain generation.



A shot of Sempou putting the final touches on a funeral ceremony. The sutras for funerals are standard, but Sempou is a thoughtful man, who always looks for a way to personalize what he does; all deaths are unique.



Sempou is inside the temple, conducting "Daihanya," a yearly Buddhist ceremony that occurs in February. Sempou has a beautiful voice and a charismatic presence. Watching him, I felt incredibly proud. You can see how many people rely on him for comfort. Our temple is on the stark side. This is partly because it is in the Sotoshu sect (Zen), but also because it is old (though not old enough to be some kind of historical site!)




The two faces of Sempou's son, Maakun (as I call him). On the one hand, he's a stylish, Harajuku going fashionista, making the drive down to Tokyo for his clothes. He is also a very serious and compassionate young priest in the making. I wrote quite a lot about my cousin here.



A casual shot of my young cousin greeting a visitor. This walkway connects the temple (left) to the house (right) where everyone lives. Privacy is a little hard to come by at the temple, as visitors drop by without warning and the priests (not to mention their wives) must be ready to receive and entertain them. Of course, other people make appointments, but it's completely unsurprising when someone shows up out of the blue. Also, note the parasol. I now carry one in New York!



But don't get the idea that my cousins--Maakun and his brothers--are in any way overly serious. They are boys. Here, priest gear is mixed in with Sony Playstation gear.




I also wanted to include a shot of what the coast looks like in peaceful times. My mother and I routinely stay at Sekinoyu Spa, near Nakoso. It’s a traditional place, with a sign out front declaring that no one with a
tattoo will be allowed to bathe inside. When I arrive, it’s usually
evening and I immediately head to the baths, before retiring to the
dining hall for a bowl of raw, fresh sea urchin and rice. Then it’s
off to bed in a futon—a real futon that lies on the woven tatami floor
of my room, and not a wooden Ikea frame. Older, single men often opt
to spend the night in armchairs so as to avoid paying for a hotel
room; they rise and bathe and eat in the morning. I wake up to the
cinnamon sun warming the horizon and fishermen out to get their catch.
The waves of the North Pacific crash right outside the window, and a
seawall comprised of concrete pieces that look like oversized jacks,
combs the water.

Below, a view of the sunrise over the ocean, and the boats at sea.



If you want to read more, here are some notes and photos from Ewan's first trip to Japan last year, some photos from Maakun's wedding, notes on what happens at a funeral, and a piece I wrote titled Letter from a Japanese Crematorium.