In Collaboration with Photographer, Helen Hasenfeld

© Photos by Helen Hasenfeld

Sweet shop, Oike Sembei, has been in Shimomura Osamu-san’s family since 1832. What began as a local neighborhood shop has become one of Kyoto’s most illustrious makers of sweets for the Way of Tea.

During the war, in order to widen Oike Boulevard for defense purposes, hundreds of houses and shops were removed. “My family had to pack up and find refuge with other family members,” says Shimomura.  The business dried up during the war.  After the war, lacking capital and supplies, the Shimomura’s joined together with several other sweet makers and opened a shop in the Gion district near Yasaka Shrine.  “After a while, my grandfather was able to save some enough money to open our shop here, on the corner of Oike and Teramachi.”  Thus the current location of Oike Sembei was born.  Now, in addition to the main store, they have concession counters in Takashimaya, Daimaru and Isetan department stores, all here in Kyoto.

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In Collaboration with Photographer, Helen Hasenfeld

© Photos by Helen Hasenfeld

I used to think that all doctors’ offices were located in medical buildings with names like New West Professional Plaza and a pharmacy on the first floor, a huge parking lot and long carpet-tiled corridors lined with doors reading Chiropractor, Proctologist or Geriatric Dentistry. Well, Japan has similar medical buildings, and similar perky receptionists in starched white uniforms. But though modern medicine in Japan is on par with developed western countries, my chosen main doctor is located in a tiny room, deep with Kyoto’s Gion Geisha district, on a narrow street, just north of Kenninji Monastery. I can smell the moxa herbs burning about half a block from his door.

Dr. Honjo inherited his unusual technique from his grandfather, which makes him the 3rd generation practitioner to work in that room with the moxa-smoke-blackened ceiling. His use of acupuncture needles is limited to diagnosing. When the flesh is supple, the needle slips right in and further treatment is not necessary in that spot. The tougher the area, the more difficult it is for the needle to be inserted. That is where his special treatment is especially effective. The treatment involves rice polishings that have been stewed into a granulated, slightly viscous substance. With this he creates neat little mounds and places them on the tightest parts of the body, beginning with the back. Then he plops down a lump of moxa on the top of each mound and lights it. Though moxa has been used in Asia for over 2000 years, generally burned directly on the skin for one or two seconds per point, by burning it on top of the viscous mounds, Honjo-sensei does it very slowly, so the heat penetrates the body for about ten minutes.  And, unlike standard moxibustion, it isn’t painful.   Ten minutes on the back followed by ten minutes on the left side, the right side and sunny side up. The result is that the intensely tight muscles loosen up. Besides what feels like the endorphine rush of a good deep tissue massage, blood, lymph and energy now flow freely into the area, which seems to allow the body’s natural healing to take place.

Up until a few years ago, I used to visit him once or twice a week when I was leading back-to-back tours. Though practically comatose when I entered his office, I would leave miraculously relaxed, refreshed and restored. I have also sent many travel worn and weary American clients to him over the years and have heard enough testimonials to fill a decent infomercial, which this is not.

View More Moxibustion Images and See Directions to Honjo Harikyu Clinic

In Collaboration with Photographer, Helen Hasenfeld

© Photos by Helen Hasenfeld

One early spring day ten years ago, while strolling through the cedar shaded grounds of a 700-year old Zen monastery in Kyoto’s eastern foothills, I passed through the arch of an old, red brick, Roman-style aquaduct to explore the area behind the head abbot’s quarters. After a few minutes I came upon a black tiled wooden gate that led into the semi-formal entry garden of a sub-temple. Then, inside, while looking at the vermillion, lacquered altar from outside the large sliding doors, an elderly priest appeared from behind me. “What are you doing here?” he asked in the somewhat gruff sounding, no-nonsense voice, so typical of long time monks. Any gruffness that I may have heard was immediately overshadowed by one thing. The man twinkled. His voice was both sweet and mischievousness. And he really twinkled. “Tourists rarely visit here. We have no famous garden to see.” We chatted for a while, and I was about ready to leave when he said, “Sometimes I invite people here to see the Noh masks that I carve.” I almost gasped. A Noh mask carver! This was almost too exciting. He then told me of some English letters he had received but could not understand. “I will translate your letters for you, and help you to write replies,” I said, almost knocking him over with my enthusiasm to come even a little closer to the rarified world of Noh mask carving. We made an appointment for the next day. I have been visiting him ever since.

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