Guardian of the Dream
Guardian of the Dream
The story for Guardian of the Dream came to me in a dream. (Well, not the whole thing, but the first bit of it.) It’s more accurate to say that the story is the product of the pieces of many dreams I’ve had over the years. Have you ever had a dream that leaves you with a strong impression of it after you wake up—one that’s impossible to forget, even years later?
The first dream that I remember having such a strong impression on me was of a mountain lake. The lake was as clear and clean as a pane of glass. I saw a palace reflected in it, upside-down. The lake and the palace left a strong impression on me, but the lakeshore, the pebbles and sand around it, and the mountains overhead were overwhelming. I saw smoke drifting over the lake, though I couldn’t see where it had come from. A middle-aged man stood on the shore of the lake with his back to me; I couldn’t see his face, but I felt like I knew him, somehow, and that I had known him for many years. I had memories of conversations we’d shared, but I couldn’t remember any of them in detail.
Like I said before, I
remembered this dream vividly, and I kept thinking about it
over the years. I didn’t do anything with it until the idea
of the dream connected with the character of Torogai in my
mind.
Yes, Torogai: a magic
weaver, an old irascible woman, strong enough to look death
in the face without dying herself. I didn’t base her on a
specific person, but on many of the tough older women that
I’ve encountered in life.
***
I have a particular
fondness for Okinawa, where both of my grandmothers lived
after World War II. They both survived the war and raised
many children to adulthood after. They were remarkable
women, both of them, but what I remember more than anything
else is that they were both Okinawan shamanesses (they’re
called kankakarya).
In my own research, I’ve
encountered many people who are perhaps best typified as
fanatics—people who think they’ve been possessed by a god,
or priestesses at temples. A common image people have is of
this kind of person showcases them with black eye whites and
irises, crazy and unreachable. I understand why that image
is part of the popular imagination, but that’s not how I
think of priestesses or shamanesses. I always think of my
grandmothers before anything else.
My grandmothers both smoked
and drank tea together, consulting with one another in a
tatami room while their tea steamed up into their faces.
They always spoke quickly, without hesitation. Their faces
were fretworks of wrinkles. I’ve seen women like this
everywhere, not just in Japan but in Australia and other
places. They hold their tribes and families together. I’m
always fascinated by them when I meet them.
***
My grandmothers weren’t as
sharp-tongued as Torogai. I was teased as a child, and much
of Torogai’s harsher language comes from those experiences.
My grandmothers spoke in their regional dialect, which was
quite difficult for me to understand, especially when I was
very young. And whenever I tried to say something, they’d
usually laugh. They couldn’t understand me very well,
either.
My grandmothers may have
laughed when we tried to talk, but they always took good
care of me while I was a student. I could always visit them
for a good meal and a place to rest. They even gave me bus
fare a few times when I foolishly forgot my own money. I
relied on them a lot as a child and teenager. Often times,
their advice would be to pray, and they would always
reassure me that everything would be all right. They’d lived
through World War II, after all, and all the suffering they
encountered after that was filtered through that lens. I
found their reassurances heartening. They knew what they
were talking about.
***
Shamanesses and priestesses
are thought to be a link between people and the gods. The
past is full of tales of human suffering. There are examples
of women choosing to become shamanesses and priestesses in
times of particular hardship, because it’s challenging to
bear all that suffering alone and be unable to do anything
about it. In my research, I’ve uncovered long traditions of
shamanesses passing down what they’ve learned to the next
generation, increasing both their knowledge and
compassionate understanding.
Quick-witted, heroic,
kind—those words describe the shamanesses I’ve been
fortunate enough to meet. They are guides for others,
helping them overcome their most painful experiences. I was
thinking of all the shamanesses I’ve known when I first
developed Torogai’s character.
***
One more thing: I was
thinking about my grandmothers’ past while I was creating
Torogai’s. One of my grandmothers had ten children, but lost
nearly all of them to childhood diseases. That was
devastating, of course; she told me that for months or years
after, she would find tiny clothes in closets and try to put
her hand through the too-small sleeves, remembering everyone
she’d lost. I never forgot those stories.
All the imagery in my dreams and the experiences of my early life combined as I wrote Guardian of the Dream. I discovered who Tomca was before she was Torogai. I saw the Li peeking out of the dense undergrowth on a forest floor in a dream. They were near the lake, listening to the echoes.
For me, writing stories is
reliant on imagery—on connecting one image to another,
sometimes in unexpected ways. I don’t understand writing
myself, sometimes—it’s a riddle. All I know for sure is that
this story was made from my most vivid dreams and some of my
most intense experiences.
Uehashi Nahoko
May 2000
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