Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Do not burn this lush field.
Amidst the old grasses mingled with new grasses—when they grow, they will grow— (*Man'yōshū*, Book 14)

This song has long been treated as settled matter, but upon careful consideration, it does not hold up.
First—on what basis has this been considered to hold interest as a folk song?
That very foundation remains elusive.
"The phrase 'old grasses mingled with new grasses' may seem admirable now—but would it have resonated thus with people of antiquity?"
Ueda Akinari and others borrowed phrases like: “When one comes to see Takama no Nobe—old grasses mingle with new grasses—and warblers sing.”
Yet it is difficult to claim this was originally sung as folk song based solely on such aesthetic appreciation.
One might posit a hidden metaphor here—but the fact remains that even the general significance of this song as a whole has never been adequately explained.

When they grow as they will—

To begin with: “Do not burn this lush field—
Last year’s old grasses intermingled with new ones—if they grow, let them grow as they will.” This was generally considered to be its interpretation.
But upon closer examination, the grammatical construction “when they grow as they will”—if one followed standard Nara-period usage—would simply be expressed as “when they grow” in later eras.
“Sleeves too glisten as they will—”
“People too watch as they will—”
Such ambiguities were resolved through phrases like “*kenu ka ni, motona omohoyuru ka mo*.”

However, in older usage, unless one said *“kenaba kenuka ni kou tou waga imo”* (“My beloved who loves as if to vanish”), it seems the sentiment was not fully conveyed. The phrase *“kenubeku omohoyu”* shared certain similarities with other usage examples; what appeared newer even within the *Man'yōshū* was how *beku* had undergone phonetic shifts to become *kane*. The particle *ka* was a suffix that nominalized phrases, while *ni* functioned as an adverbial qualifier. When employing *kane*, one either omitted subsequent phrases or—more commonly—reverted back through inverted phrasing. Therefore, in such cases too, it was either that explanatory phrases had been omitted or that they reverted to preceding text. Did [the construction] become “*oihaba ofuru ka ni na yakiso*,” or was it the grammatical structure of “*oihaba ofuru ka ni… seyo*”? In any event, the inclusion of *ka ni* rendered the entire sentence imperative—a newer development—whereas older constructions exhibited greater flexibility.

One might translate it as “if they grow, they will grow…” or “the more they grow…,” but from this text’s conceptual framework, the conditional phrasing “*oihaba*” held no meaningful function.
To render it in modern terms required recognizing its inseparability from what remained unstated.
“*kenuka ni*”
The equivalence between *“kenaba kenuka ni”* and *“kenubeku”* (“to vanish inevitably”) followed a specific linguistic logic.

In ancient Japanese grammar, even intransitive verbs took objective cases.
This manifested through paired intransitive verb forms.
Failure to observe this structure seemingly prevented full grammatical coherence.
The phrase “*ieba e ni*”—denoting “if spoken, [it] could never be fully expressed”—served as the precursor to the post-Heian colloquialism “*en ni*.”
Later associations with sensual allure (“en ni”) emerged retroactively from phrases like “ieba iie ni” (“if spoken, cannot be fully expressed”).
This likely originated as an abbreviated form of *ieba e iwa ni*.
It fundamentally expressed what defied verbal articulation.
Observing how this evolved into *eni/en ni* clarified the process: omitting *kenaba*—equivalent to *kenureba*—yielded *kenuka ni* through logical progression.

The "oihaba" in "oihaba ofuru ka ni" serves as the object of the intransitive verb "grow," presenting a grammatical structure incongruous with modern linguistic sensibilities. In other words, there is no problem interpreting it as meaning "*ofuru ka ni*." This constitutes a lengthy adverbial phrase signifying "...amidst old grasses mingled with new grasses, when they grow as they will—". The ellipsis here could also represent phrases like "*ofubeku miyu*" ("appear poised to grow") or "*ofubeku ari*" ("exist in potential growth"). Alternatively, it may simply read "生ふるかに勿焼きそ" ("do not burn them when they grow as they will"). Let us tentatively adopt this latter interpretation and examine the remaining elements.

O cherished field,

“Omoshiroki” appears settled in interpretation yet remains an elusive term. This would correctly be considered the adjectivized form of omoshiru found in phrases like omoshiru kimi (cherished lord) and omoshiru imo (cherished sister). “Omoshiru” does not merely indicate knowing someone’s visage; it seems to convey nuances akin to “deeply familiar” or “nostalgic.” In Taketori no Okina’s long poem from Man'yōshū Book 16, “omoshiromi” (aesthetic allure) pairs with “natsukashimi” (nostalgic charm). The interpretation of “omoshiroshi” through the Ama no Iwato myth—where exclamations like “How splendid!” arose from descriptions of deities’ brightened countenances—constitutes mere narrative convention; its etymological roots and true significance lie elsewhere. There must have been content that could be vividly conjured through profound familiarity.

The *wo ba* here was not merely the ordinary "*wo ba*." Even the particle 'wo'—in ancient times—had not been a marker of the objective case but rather an exclamatory ending like "...oh! That which—". "...oh! It had been an exclamatory ending in the manner of "...oh! That which—". Moreover, as consciousness of the objective case gradually emerged in the phrases above, *wo* came to be regarded as that which determined the objective case. The particle *wo ba* particularly retained its original meaning for an extended period, and the practice of replacing the objective case marker *wo* with *wo ba* did not readily emerge. Since *ba* was a strong exclamatory ending particle, *wo ba* had to be translated as *wo yo* or *wo ya* and separated so it would not directly connect to subsequent phrases.

“O this field—”
Interpreting phrases like “...this field that is” and translating them for modern sensibilities as “O... that which...” would likely suffice.
“O dear field that you are.”
And so—did they mean to burn this field?
“…Do not burn it,” was likely evoking nostalgic sentiments.

Amidst old grass mingled with new grass—

“Amidst old grass mingled with new grass…” could be interpreted in two ways.
The most literal grammatical reading would take this as “Do not burn [the field] in such a way that old and new grasses become intermingled as they grow from careless burning”—yet such an interpretation could not hold.

When observing the emphatic declaration “Do not burn the field!”, the relationship between “the field” and “do not burn” could not be disentangled.

“O field…”
This signified: “Do not burn the field where [they] hoped old and new grasses would mingle and grow as they should…”
The prohibitive sense of *na* did not govern “burning to make [the grass] grow.”
“Do not burn for the sake of growth” was a prohibition that applied solely to the act of burning.

If we were to orally interpret the remaining part: “...manage for new grasses to grow mingled with old grasses, and refrain from burning [the field].”
it would become: “O guardian of this field!”

Forget-grass clings to my cord.
*The ancient village of Kaguyama— / Lest we forget* (Man'yōshū, Book 3)

This poem by Ōtomo no Tabito was of the same style.
While it seemed reasonable to explain this as "hoping not to forget...", the text had strikingly foregrounded forget-grass—a plant meant to induce forgetting.
Therefore, the meaning of "trying to forget in order not to forget..." was conclusively determined.

In this case, there should be no possibility of misinterpretation—yet we must still provisionally formulate counterarguments.
However, a problem still remains.
"Do not burn even the new grass mingling among the old grass's companions."
It could also be interpreted as conveying "new grass is destined to grow."
Though seemingly difficult, this interpretation can indeed be articulated.
"Amidst old grass intermingled with new grass, do not burn this field of profound beauty."
"The correct interpretation becomes evident if one rearranges [the phrase] as '...when they grow as they will.'"
Furthermore, applying the same logic: "O field of profound beauty where old and new grasses mingle—
Do not burn it.
This could alternatively be read as 'new grass appears destined to grow.'"
However, doing so would reduce "profound beauty" to bearing only modern connotations.

I still placed emphasis on this "profound beauty" when considering it.
Old grass—that is, last year’s grass—bore a nostalgic impression.
“The field where this old grass once reached its peak growth—beneath its shade, new grass already appears poised to sprout.”
There was someone attempting to burn the field of grass that should grow abundantly again as it did last year.
[He] interpreted this as expressing: “If only they would cease burning [the field].”
This might have seemed somewhat repetitive, but by proceeding in this manner, the reason this song was chanted emerged.

II

To modern eyes—even as spring deepens and new grass begins to sprout early—one might interpret this song lamenting the burning of such fresh growth as extending affection even to the grasses themselves. Yet it remains proper to recognize that such refinement and sentimentality were absent from the hearts of people in this era.

How could the sight of old grass mingling with new grass have entered the aesthetic appreciation of ancient people?
It was unthinkable.
"When viewed through the phrase 'when they grow as they will,' it did not yet truly appear to have grown."
Therefore, all the more profound—by today’s definition—the reason remained unclear.

O guardian of Saho River’s bank—do not cut the brushwood.
Though we exist here / When spring comes at last— / Do not stand and hide (Man'yōshū, Book 4).

By the pond’s edge, beneath the small Zelkova—do not cut the dwarf bamboo.
Even that alone—as your memento—I shall gaze upon while remembering (Man'yōshū, Book 7).

When examining these songs, to speak of fields with tall grass was to immediately conjure visions of young men and women meeting and conversing—a time when such imagery had crystallized into poetic archetypes.
Thus, when one spoke of old grass in the fields, they conjured images of men and women who must have harbored nostalgic memories within those very thickets; when one saw new grass, the figures of young villagers flickered into view—those who would nurture anticipation for the day when growth reached its peak.
It aligned with the shared aesthetic sensibilities of people in that era.
Even if old grasses and new grasses evoked such associations, I did not find it strange.

Musashino—(Kasugano in [Kokinshū])—do not burn today.
The spouse among young grasses lies secluded.
I too lie secluded (Ise Monogatari)

Even when examining this song that should be a century later in origin, one noticed that the difference lay merely in elaborating the explanation of the same feeling.
"The spouse lies secluded."
"The mere act of saying 'I too lie secluded' bore the mark of a later period."
"The expression 'young grass and old grass mingling together, evoking thoughts of pleasurable times' showed traces of a conception that had been further developed in literary terms."
Even when observing how the couplet repurposed *young grass* as a pillow word, one should recognize that the song of "the field's profound beauty" would, under modernization, have come to be expressed in this manner.

It was an era when even upon seeing young grass, the habit of imagining tactile sensations conducive to slumber persisted. At this time when the young grasses had grown evenly—as they thought of having hidden in the shade of those very grasses—the field guardian had begun burning the spring field. The pleasurable spring field outings were on the verge of being ruined. Generations of such experience existed among the villagers. Numerous typological variations in expression were present.

This sufficed to nourish such shared aesthetic sensibilities among them. The single term “profound beauty” anticipated silent understanding. Imbuing “wo ba” with fondness and channeling “profound beauty…do not burn” through its two phrases, the song idealized such circumstances—shifting faintly into aesthetic sensibility while softening raw emotion—to evoke a broadly resonant tone.

This was not someone’s intense realization at a particular moment, but a voice that spontaneously arose among people who had assimilated into such circumstances through communal singing and enjoyment. The transition between the third and fourth lines advanced with rich undulations—vivid as one might dream of reed-thatched huts and lawn down. The fifth line too shifted its rhythm and concluded. Yet it had grown even more gradual—an effect stemming from mood rather than tangible emotion.

Within the Azuma-uta—which contained many narrative or rather dramatic folk songs—there now mingled another aspect: warm elements that glorified life through mood-based expression. In other words, there were those that provided increasingly stimulating comfort and those that allegorized forms of “longing” and “tranquility” reminiscent of a future world.

It is precisely because this was an era when life—where seeing old grass brought profound appreciation and beholding new grass made hearts leap—had not yet fully transformed into legend that such songs could flow forth with immediacy.
With a faint, subtle glance, they grasp the other’s heart.
It is an unconstrained quality arising from such softened understanding.
It has become something faint—barely discernible for the first time—by supporting both “Do not burn today” and “…do not cut” from either side.

This song again somehow seemed to metaphorically suggest a certain romantic longing—or so I could not help but sense.
Viewing old grass and young grass as elderly and young women or men—where the young ones may be preferable but the old ones prove difficult to discard—
Such interpretations might be attempted endlessly.
Yet I found myself unable to conceive of any circumstance where the metaphor of field-burning would appropriately apply.

Those who burn spring fields after winter seclusion—had they not grown weary of burning?
*My heart burns* (Man'yōshū, Book 7)

Compared to these examples, it did not seem something warranting the label of metaphor. Rather than that, it remained deeply steeped in mood; now I even sensed a somewhat symbolic impression. This was by no means a song allegorizing poet-like affection—one cherishing new grass or lamenting old grass in tandem. It belonged to an era when field-burning remained deeply entwined with real-world economic life. Precisely for this reason did they voice dissatisfaction over the destruction of youthful pleasures. Such was the unrefined nature of their communal practice.

They employed pillow words and preludes, and there were those who criticized the practices, but a refined aesthetic sensibility for finding beauty within them had not yet emerged.
They were people accustomed to expressions denouncing grass-cutting.
They could not have failed to develop opposition toward field-burning.
Long before "Do not burn today" attained its quasi-epic form, countless songs of grievance must have already emerged.
This song, if pressed for an interpretation, tells of winter—shut in by cold—departing as spring's joy suffused the land.
The open fields stretching toward the village-encircling mountains had become freely traversable.
When imagining delightful encounters in these wilds, they found the fields and mountains already set ablaze.
Once more they had to wait for plants to regrow.
It was a profound and irremediable despair.

Musashino, do not burn today.
The tender buds of young grass lie hidden, mingled with winter grass.

When viewed in this form, the order of conceptual development became discernible.
"...and do not burn the field we had anticipated."
"With old grass mingling with new grass, having grown sufficiently"—when viewed in this way, it became much clearer.
The fact that young grass, gromwell, sedge, and other plants had come to be entwined with romantic associations also had a significant cause within this context.

III

The reasons for disliking cutting down plants and burning fields seemed to lie elsewhere as well.

At the Kuse Shrine in Yamashiro, do not pluck the grass.
Even when they stand flourishing in their time, do not pluck the grass (*Man'yōshū*, Book 7).

This was a taboo.
It also reflected the abhorrence of violating these divinely demarcated fields.
Another consideration was that there must have been incantations for burning claimed fields—akin to the Yamaguchi Festival conducted during tree-felling.
The field god’s rituals were likely performed with deeper awe than those for the Mikata god. Nozuchi meant wild thunder—the serpent deity of fields.
Kayanohime would have been the goddess of thatching-grass fields.
There must certainly have been forgotten incantations addressing these myriad other deities.

The duty of the mountain god relative to the village was to suppress these field gods. These fragmented incantations, or their distorted remnants, were further rationalized into the life of the times. It appears these taboos were gradually aligned with romantic circumstances suited to the abhorrence of cutting plants and burning fields. Even without that, since the spirits of fields and shifting cultivation lands—being cut down with grass and burned in fire—were said to become gods, all memories related to this practice transformed and likely became one factor in forming such archetypes.

If we reverse the aforementioned order, one method by which men and women in ancient villages coupled became discernible—the custom of cutting and burning fields and mountains to forge new deities. As a parallel impetus, there existed the practice of taming wilderness inhabited by spirits through cultivation. These twin approaches converged within epic tradition, crystallizing into the tales of Ōkuninushi and Yamato Takeru’s fiery trials upon scorched plains.

A part of those incantations became “In Sagami’s field burns the fire; standing amidst flames, the lord I sought” (*Kojiki*), or “Do not cut the reeds.”
The incantation “Do not burn the fields” and the marriage custom of meeting in fields and mountains during daylight—not just at night—mutually influenced one another, shaping a distinctive style within real-life practices.
After undergoing three transformations, the association between couples secluded in grassy fields and wildfires encircling them took on a novel-like quality, flourished in folk songs, and even came to enter literature.
In the *Man'yōshū*, this was already the case.
Therefore, it cannot be said to pertain solely to real life.
Exaggeration, fantasy, and artistic elaboration had been added.
It cannot necessarily be said that songs were reflections of life.

All matters found in traditional songs and ballads could not be entirely regarded as actual events. In many cases, it was necessary to consider that matters existed solely within traditional songs and ballads or, conversely, were transferred into real life or merged with real-life practices. It went without saying that these traditions were naturally limited to high-ranking shrine attendants and priestesses, whose lives could not be disentangled from those of the common people.

Even the actions of the supreme class appearing in traditions lacked any distinction between gods and humans.
Therefore, if one considered it a matter of the human world, it became myth.
Songs about grass-cutting and field-burning, too, could not all be said to stem from direct experience.
It had to be considered that many merely adhered to conventions within poetic discourse.

The reason this song appeared elusive in meaning might have been that it had already been conceptualized as a divine mantra and employed as an incantation.

Do not cut the reeds of heavenly Hime Sugawara.
Minanowata—on raven-black hair, dust clung thickly (*Man'yōshū*, Book 7).

For example, this song too appears to be one fragmented from an epic poem.
Some even suggest it laments Karunotachi no Otoji.
Yet this sedōka seems more plausibly viewed as having been employed in incantations.
If so, even "omoshiroki" might have lost its original meaning—perhaps serving purposes like ensuring faultless execution of field-burning fires.

Beloved Naroga tends the river gate’s sasara reeds—
they say not one word like “ashi” [reed/ill-omen] passes between them (*Man'yōshū*, Book 14).

In the Azuma-uta too, such examples seem to belong to the same category.

Now, looking back, let us summarize the reasons why this song was performed and recorded.
Was it to be viewed as something recognized for its literary refinement? To evoke richly felt expectations of sexuality? Or had it devolved from its original significance to be used as an incantation?
When viewed in this way, the initial problem became much clearer.

It was clear that not all Azuma-uta had been necessarily understood by their collectors or the *Man'yōshū* compilers.
Therefore, there was no need to question the method of appreciation in this aspect.
Could the Azuma people and others have shared such interest?
It was these matters that I wished to pursue thoroughly.

At present, I remained aligned with the second theory.
"Do not burn the vibrant field where we ought to stand concealed.
The field where old grass mingles with new-grown blades appears fit for lying down," I explained thus, wishing to let my interpretation ripen further for the time being.

IV

You who are perpetually obstructed by rain—have you grown wary from yesterday’s enduring downpour? (*Man'yōshū*, Book 4)

Though declaring “no hat” to others, you who paused at sudden rain—your form lingers thus (*Man'yōshū*, Book 11).

“…Asuka-sō of Tobutoru, wearing black boots sewn for rain-prohibition rites, stands in the courtyard…” (*Man'yōshū*, Book 16; Song of Taketori no Okina).

Rice field ritual

These creative songs and folk songs touched upon the “rice field ritual” ceremonies.
The entirety of the rice field ritual—which had been part of the spring festival—came to be repeated on various occasions.
In later periods, performing during May rice-planting became established as the fundamental practice.
However, spring field-striking (Haruta-uchi) was the practice of performing dramatic gestures and song-and-dance in early spring to bless the year’s field rituals and agricultural work.
But since the performers did this in the capacity of gods, it was not a secondary or lesser ritual.
—I will write on another occasion about the etymology of “festival” and shifts in terminology—even if it formed part of the primary ritual where gods proclaimed incantations, it did not constitute the whole.
Therefore, even if it was a rice field ritual (song and dance), it could not be called a rice festival.
This rice field ritual, having passed into the hands of ritualist performers in ascetic attire and been transformed into entertainment, became what was known as dengaku.
In farming villages across the land, two practices emerged: places where villagers themselves performed [the rituals], and places where they invited dengaku performers.
The reason the spring rice field ritual flourished as it was transferred to the May rice-planting season lay precisely in its resonance with lived experience.

The performance of rice field rituals during rice planting was carried out by the gods who presided over Haruta-uchi; this practice of them coming as part of the same framework as early spring constituted the ancient form. Therefore, those who performed the rice field ritual donned strange forms, wore straw raincoats as emblems of otherworldly spirits, and concealed their faces with hats and other items. In contrast, May maidens (pronounced *sootome*) possessed the qualifications of shrine maidens. Like shrine attendants, they wrapped their hair deeply with cloth and sashes, then daubed red clay and white powder—later mostly the latter—on top, thus transforming their appearance.

Red clay is called "sani."
That "sa" likely corresponds to the "sa" frequently connected with May rituals—the "sa" found in terms such as Sa-Month (May), Satsuki-yo (May nights), sabae (May fly), sanae (seedlings), and saotome (May maidens).

The Minakuchi Festival existed as one of the rice-planting rituals because it was a ceremony that began with requesting water from distant water deities, placed mountain flowers as symbols of rice blossoms, and offered sacred food to the gods during daylight hours so that the rice would bloom and bear fruit like these flowers.

The term mizuguchi had not originally been what was later conceived as a "water-pouring inlet." It signified the opening made when water irrigation commenced. The Yamaguchi Festival’s kuchi was also considered to enshrine the deity of a mountain’s entrance point, but it constituted a ritual performed during the initial tree-felling in mountains—a deity worshipped when making the ceremonial first axe-strike in each respective mountain.

After rice planting, performing sanaburi at night was customary. Regardless of the theory’s validity that this constituted an early seedling feast, it remained factually a surviving tradition of banquets honoring the gods overseeing rice planting as guests of honor. From planting’s start until completion, the multitude of gods dwelled within the village and moved nocturnally; thus during this period, seclusion was observed. Nighttime excursions were strictly forbidden. This divine sojourn period did not qualify as a festival. For the gods acted autonomously, and people directed no actions toward them except during the Minakuchi Festival.

Was the *sanaburi* feast indeed something that had existed since ancient times?
Since all rituals the gods should perform were exhausted in rice field rituals, this *sanaburi* did not seem to have been a prerequisite for rice planting.
On this night alone, all men from each household went outside, while maidens or women qualified as shrine maidens waited in the communal purification hall—or in individual homes—and it appears the act of entertaining these guests was performed.
This was syncretized with Onmyōdō’s May Boys’ Festival (Tango no Sekku).
Though society called it the Boys’ Festival, households were conventionally referred to as “women’s homes” on this night alone—as seen in *Onnagoroshi Abura no Jigoku*—because it was a day when men observed ritual abstinence and did not remain at home.
Particularly, the conduct of young men had to be strictly cautioned against.

The Boys’ Festival (Tango no Sekku) became a day for men to observe ritual abstinence, establishing it as their ceremonial observance through placing dolls to transfer impurities and preparing defenses against malevolent spirits—those arising from the concept of crossing-period festivals (*yukiai matsuri*) and transformed from fears of nocturnal deities. However, these May banners were not merely transformations of green mountains (marker hills) that welcomed visiting gods during rice planting; they also likely served as indicators for homes divinely appointed to youths destined to become shrine attendants. In essence, they evolved from markers designating purification lodgings.

In our country, it appears that from a certain era onward, the period spanning April and May came to be established as the time when villages would confer coming-of-age rites for men and women upon their youths and maidens. After receiving their coming-of-age rites, young men did not gather outdoors in seclusion during taboo days; rather, they gained the qualification to visit women’s households as shrine attendants, impersonating one of the deities who traveled in groups.

The mark of manhood

In ancient times, coming-of-age rites appear to have been conferred more frequently on these May nights than in early spring. The legend that male shrine parishioners' distinctive marks are bent across central and western provinces is recounted with unexpected pervasiveness and frequency. This seems to have originated as customary lore from impressions formed during rite receptions.

On another front, it may have been conceived that qualification for becoming shrine attendants was something one was born possessing—a distinctive form inherent in the male essence. The fundamental rationale for this mark's characteristics lies in the fact that those who died without receiving coming-of-age rites—and thus lacking shrine attendant qualifications—could not reach Tokoyo, the ideal land beyond the shore where dead spirits gather. Those who had received coming-of-age rites had indeed been granted a sacred divine status enabling them to become gods.

During the initiation period, they secluded themselves in the mountains and made flower garlands. Women did this as well.

“Adorned with garlands—the maiden now youthful—ah, how the sound of Ishikawa flows with crystal clarity!” (*Man'yōshū* Volume 7)

The flowers and plants of this garland served as marks of having become shrine attendants and had long doubled as signs of purification during ritual services performed by adult males.
Therefore, in funerals for those who had not received coming-of-age rites, the reason behind the custom—found across various locales—of plucking flowers to place in coffins and alms bags became evident.
These flower garlands, merging with Chinese traditions of the Tango Festival, likely gave rise to the custom of boys wearing iris headbands.

continuous rains・long-rain abstinence

The phrase “continuous rains” found in the *Man'yōshū*
“The term ‘long-rain abstinence’ referred to seclusion during the May rainy season—not because people had been confined due to rain.”

In a certain village of the Yaeyama Islands, imparting a distinctive feature near the coccyx (referred to as the “turtle’s tail”) was regarded as the mark of having conferred coming-of-age rites.
Two individuals from the senior youth group would grasp the initiate’s limbs beneath their buttocks, lift them up, and strike their coccyx against a sacred stone.
When one considered that such practices existed, circumcision seemed to fulfill mystical conditions beyond its mere performance.

I think there may have been faith traditions where they ritually bent and bound their marks—both to fully obtain qualifications as deities and to enforce a life of abstinence during periods of ritual seclusion at home. It seems this became proverbialized and passed down as folklore, giving rise to customary sayings about shrine parishioners’ distinctive features. Ancient people wore hakama but did not commonly use loincloths, it seems. From its original use of tethering livestock, they likely also gave it the name "cloth for binding male seed."

The loincloth, which had gradually fallen out of use among us, was in truth likely something that served a role akin to a chastity belt during periods of ritual abstinence. It is impossible to imagine exactly how they did it, but it appears they tightly bound the symbolic object. The act of undoing it was likely the prerogative of the elders and occurred only on the single night following sanaburi. It would be reasonable to consider that they were permitted to wear loincloths until the next period of ritual abstinence for divine services.

For this reason, there were those among the newly initiated youths who tightened their loincloths and went to greet at the youth lodge for the first time, and others who paid respects at the clan shrine. It was the custom marking the commencement of ritual abstinence as shrine attendants. This gradually became a source of pride for initiates, who would regularly tighten them themselves and even loosen them freely, thereby progressively relaxing the strict constraints of the loincloths and making them more manageable.

Such loincloths had come to be common items among young men. New initiates, having emerged from particularly strict bindings, would enter women’s households where a first-night spouse resided. This memory—the enduring impression; the mystical constraints added to the marks of shrine parishioner men destined to become shrine attendants; the customs bent at their core; these various elements—evoke the villages’ long faith life that had them contemplate such characteristics of these parishioners.

*Tabusaki* was an archaic term distinct from loincloths (*fumodashi*). Rather than being tightened around the waist, it was apparently worn crossing between the abdomen and back, with excess fabric hanging down like a small cloth strip.

The verb *tabusaku* appears in the *Nihon Shoki*. This term likely originated as a nominalization of verbs describing methods of clamping fabric or gathering up folds. Hakama were garments worn in daily life, while tabusaki were ritual articles that apparently indicated subservience akin to slavery.

In situations demanding extreme obedience, individuals likely wore this garment when swearing oaths before superiors—a practice that gradually came to be adopted by ordinary people.

The fact that the loincloth (*fumodashi*) was one of the ritual abstinence garments and an item exclusively for men has mounting evidence. Over their tightened bare bodies, they would don straw coats and venture forth as members of the divine in rice field rituals, night plantings, and other sacred rites.

The ceremony for conferring coming-of-age rites appears to have originally been conducted in early spring, but in later times, villages seem to have established various dates for it. Among these, the form conducted on *Setsubun* nights was particularly prominent. However, around April and May—before rice planting—they would confer the rites, and after undergoing long-rain abstinence, it appears they were sent out to participate in rice field rituals and May night processions.

Women’s initiation rites were also conducted in villages from early to mid-April—a practice observable since the Heian period—. In mountain seclusion, they received their coming-of-age rites for women and simultaneously gained qualification to emerge as early maidens.

As for men’s rites, they were likely conducted around this time as well, and I believe those who had completed initiation were likewise made to prolong their mountain seclusion. This practice of altered appearances became the Mitake ascetic observances conducted on Mount Ōmine. This was already attested by the mid-Heian period. Especially the youths on their first ascent—commonly termed novices—were tormented by their guides.

The tale of piling stones to bury people—*ishikotsumi*—and the procedures for valley processions preserved in Noh plays were narrativizations of the hardships endured in coming-of-age rites. The belief that tengu split open the groin also appeared related to this practice. When they descended from the mountains—an act called the breaking of ascetic discipline—elders who had undertaken multiple Ōmine entries would lead novices to rustic towns on the plains of Yamato and Kii provinces, showing them how to meet women. Such customs were also conducted through Ise pilgrimages in some regions. Across the provinces, first pilgrimages bearing this significance occurred at sacred mountains and holy sites—a tradition persisting in many areas even recently.

Though the Tango Festival was a ritual observance transmitted by Han Chinese, they conducted it as though it inherently carried the spiritual convictions of May’s rice-planting season.

Nagameimi was said to be the ritual abstinence for becoming deities of Satsuki.
Moreover, I had discussed matters deeply related to coming-of-age rites.

In the *Man'yōshū*, while meanings had been rationalized, I shall present one piece of evidence that they originally contained implications of prolonged abstinent lives without contact with women.

the ritual abstinence endured through worldly existence

The phrase “deigned to undergo long abstinence” found in the *Kojiki* exemplifies this.
It constituted a method of cold treatment imposed upon tribute women who displeased the Sovereign.

Whether interpreting *nagame* as denoting protracted cessation of carnal relations or as melancholy arising from carnal life’s hollowness—which made people acutely aware of such desolation—*nagame*...

The color of the flowers has faded away!
In vain have I spent my life in this world—through these long days of ritual abstinence. (*Kokinshū*, Book 2)

Neither rising nor sleeping, passing through the nights—
If one were to call these instances *nagame* [ritual abstinence], this would likely be regarded as the correct interpretation at present.
Heian-period *nagame* employed terms like loneliness and helplessness—born from abstinence or the frustration of being unable to meet others—as lexical examples.
However, "enduring" remained unchanged, becoming merely the passage of time.

The term *nagame* emerged from *nagameimi* and became fixed—given the existence of the expression "rainy season abstinence" for May—as *nagameimi* derived from adult men's annual experiences of deeply internalizing the gnawing realities of abstinence and confinement during the rainy season (*霖雨期*), having been so widely and enduringly used that it could be abbreviated to *nagame* without losing meaning.

While the *Kojiki* employed the abbreviated form *nagame*, the *Man'yōshū*’s use of *nagameimi* might reflect differing temporal considerations. However, since the long poem by Taketori no Okina in the *Man'yōshū*—from which this term originated—may well have been composed by Confucian scholars of the early Nara period or Fujiwara court, it is possible that the original text of this passage in the *Kojiki* postdated the era when its oral recitation first commenced. It could not be rashly claimed that the terms from the *Man'yōshū* represented newly distorted or aberrant forms.

During the Fujiwara-Nara period, people likely used both *nagameimi* and *nagame* to denote this practice. Upon entering the Heian period, however, they came to employ only *nagame*, confusing it with the homophonous term written with the “gazing” character (眺め), which eventually gave rise to verbal forms like *nagamu* and *nagameru*.

*nagameimi* appears to have developed as follows: beginning in the Asuka and Fujiwara courts, the taboos surrounding May’s rainy season grew critically significant in agrarian communities. The visceral imprint of prolonged abstinence—embedded in this term, its abbreviations, and related idioms—came to articulate the anguish of severed intimacy alongside restless anxiety and existential void.

I examined the shrine attendants’ lifestyle of village men during rice-planting season and the circumstances of coming-of-age rites conducted around May—explicating the customary teachings regarding parishioners’ defining status characteristics—and attempted to depict vestiges of an era when rural villages’ ritual abstinence, commencing prior to May, became the most prolonged. Since even the peasantry generally observed this abstinence, it grew particularly pronounced.

The ritual abstinences of other seasons and festivals, often limited to village leaders or shrine priests, remained less conspicuous. Yet the sovereign’s winter seclusion—lasting until the spring festival approached—had entailed a life of stillness and ascetic discipline so prolonged and unbearable that it reached back to ancient times.

Heavenly offenses

The explanatory legends of heavenly taboos traced their origins to Susano-o’s actions in heaven, as depicted in the narratives of the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki era.
However, given that all of this related to rice-planting rituals, became a matter of May nights, and considering the mention of straw raincoats and hats, it seemed traditional theories had overly fixated on ancient logic.

Thus, the linguistic tenor of *ametsutsumi* (rainy-season taboos) transformed, becoming *amatsu tsumi* (heavenly offenses).
Later generations considered that the reason for calling it rainy-season taboos was because it coincided with both Susano-o’s transgressions in heaven and the performance of heavenly offenses here on earth.

There was undoubtedly an era when people interpreted that after Susano-o committed his heavenly offenses (*amatsu tsumi*), shrine attendants would perform—as atonement—the restoration of fields to their original state.

I believe that the age-old enigma of "heavenly offenses" (*amatsu tsumi*) originated from traditions of "rainy-season abstinence" (*ametsutsumi*) and underwent semantic transformation down to its very lexical essence.