Participated in the Kashihara Seminar (May 22–24, 2016)
11.
When I think of a shrine maiden, I also think of Himiko.
I sought after Himiko. I revered her.
I was lonely. I just wanted someone to acknowledge me. That's why I worshiped Himiko.
I did everything I was told. I believed that everything Himiko said was the word of God.
But deep down, I also saw how lonely Himiko was.
I knew she stood alone in her loneliness. She was a solitary figure.
Still, more than Himiko's loneliness, I just wanted to fill the emptiness inside me.
I wanted to bury it with physical comfort and joy.
Even if it meant losing myself, that was the only way I knew how to survive.
So I did whatever I was told.
I danced, I prayed, I offered myself if it would bring me status and power.
I told myself that a god lived within me, and I used my body that way.
But in that madness, many shrine maidens died.
One after another, they died in pain, as fighting and destruction repeated.
Their cries and their suffering still echo in my heart.
How far we had fallen into such a painful world.
Every shrine maiden lived in loneliness and madness.
That was our reality.
Ever since I was a child, I deeply believed, "My mother doesn't love me."
When I began this study and started reflecting on my mother, the feelings came rushing out:
"I wasn't loved. I don't need warmth. I don't need a mother."
Whenever I thought of my mother, only these thoughts would come up.
I couldn't understand why I denied my mother's warmth so completely,
why I couldn't believe in warmth or love.
I vaguely thought it was because I had abandoned my mother.
But I didn't really know why, deep in my heart.
As I remembered the feelings I had as a shrine maiden—
how I was taken from my mother as a child and made to live that life—
I finally realized that those cries of pain came from there.
For the first time, it felt like one of the mysteries inside me had been solved.
For the first time in this life, I was told clearly:
That warmth is in your heart.
That you are here now because you've been deeply loved.
It was hard for me to believe that.
But when I heard,
"If you can't feel your mother's warmth, you'll never know true happiness,"
that moment became a turning point for me.
Until then, I had only known a way of living that could never lead to happiness.
Not being able to believe in my mother's warmth—
That had been the root of all my suffering.
12.
Some time ago, when I heard the phrase "Meditate on Amaterasu," I honestly thought, "That has nothing to do with me."
But one day, when I turned my heart toward Amaterasu, I suddenly saw the face of a young girl.
She was smiling at me.
She wore something like an ancient robe—older than a kimono.
The image was so vivid, it startled me.
For me, once a feeling like that appears, it begins to unfold into an entire story within me.
Amaterasu and Himiko began to merge in my mind.
I found myself thinking about the people who created the myths of Japan's founding.
A new nation, Yamato, was being born in my heart,
and with it, the myths that would explain its creation.
As shrine maidens, we carried these stories with us as we journeyed from Yamato to every corner of the land.
We sang the myths, told the stories, and wove the deities of each region into the fabric of the new national gods.
The memory of sending off those traveling shrine maidens began to rise within me.
Hidden within the story of Amaterasu was the memory of Himiko.
We had crossed the continent, passed through the peninsula, and finally journeyed over the sea—
from Tsushima to Iki to Itokoku—
all the while protecting the young Himiko.
I can still hear her joyful laughter as dolphins swam beside our ship.
It's a sound I'll never forget.
Under the banner of creating a land without conflict,
we elevated that innocent little Himiko into the ruler of Yamatai—
a powerful figure who was no longer the child we once protected.
That guilt, that regret, became the driving force behind the creation of the Amaterasu mythology—
a hope that, this time, we could get it right.
But a world without conflict proved to be an illusion.
Even those who dreamed of peace were drawn into power struggles and destroyed.
A tragic example of this is the story of Prince Ōtsu.
He and the other sons of Emperor Tenmu formed a group that elevated Amaterasu Ōmikami to the status of national deity, drawing various tribal gods under her authority—in effect, creating a kind of "centralized authority of the gods."
But the success of this endeavor only resulted in power concentrating around Prince Ōtsu, which led to him being branded a traitor and ultimately meeting a tragic end.
After Emperor Tenmu's death, Empress Jitō—formerly Princess Uno no Sarara—wanted her own son, Prince Kusakabe, to succeed the throne.
To secure that succession, she falsely accused Prince Ōtsu of plotting a rebellion and had him executed.
Later, fearing the wrath of his spirit, shrine maidens were ordered to appease him.
But their rituals failed.
Prince Kusakabe soon died—rumored to be cursed.
And the shrine maidens, blamed for failing to pacify the prince's spirit, were strangled to death before his tomb.
History doesn't record these details,
but this is what I feel truly happened.
And I sense that I was deeply involved in it all.
All I can say now is: "I'm sorry."
Yet at the same time, deep inside, anger and resentment still rise up in me.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to be."
That thought keeps echoing through my heart.
Now, I want to lay everything bare and return to a blank slate.
I want to reclaim my strength—
and this time, move forward.
With the United States, and beyond—
toward the great shift in consciousness.
That's what I feel now.
13.
I used to think, "Himiko, shrine maidens… none of that has anything to do with me in this life."
But then I read the booklet Himiko: From Sorrow to Awakening, and I realized something.
The thoughts and feelings expressed there… they were the same ones I've been using all along.
When I attended the seminar in Kashihara, I came face-to-face with the part of myself that had always been living with those feelings—dark, heavy, and painful.
Rather than "receiving the consciousness of a shrine maiden," it felt more like confirming that I'd been living every day carrying that energy within me.
I had always thought the darkness came from the outside, but through the seminar, I realized it had always been inside me.
I began to see it clearly: my own childishness.
Even though I noticed it, I would always stop there—never going any deeper.
I would sense something, but then just stop.
Then that feeling of "stopping" turned into a belief that it represented who I truly was.
But that was a mistake.
This seminar was here to help me realize just that—to confirm I was wrong.
Deep down, I've always carried this need to feel important.
At the same time, there's a child in me who just wants to cling to my mother, to be spoiled by her.
That part of me has been pouring out those feelings all along.
When Ms. Shiokawa said, "Shrine maidens were separated from their mothers from a young age,"
it struck a chord in me.
I remembered how I was separated from my mother when I was little—how anxious, terrified, and lost I felt.
Still, I had to survive as a shrine maiden.
I had no choice but to live that way.
And now, that same feeling overlaps with how I live today.
The more I turn my heart inward,
the more I meet that part of me that's been so lonely, so broken, that my heart felt like it would burst.
I want to tell her now:
"You really were so lonely, weren't you?"
"There was nothing good at all."
"You lived a life that ended only in loneliness."
There's a heavy lump like lead buried deep in my heart.
It's that pain, that sorrow, that's driven me all this time—trying to escape it, trying to fight it.
Thank you. Thank you.
I may not be "receiving the consciousness" in some special way,
but I am confirming my heart, recognizing those feelings, and embracing them in warmth.
I'm learning to return them with love—again and again.
Even so, I've resisted.
I've denied it all.
I've told myself, "I can't do this. I'm not good enough."
So I'd always ask others, rely on others, and keep blaming myself, saying, "This is all I can do."
"Aaahhh... Thank you. Thank you."
Then the physical me jumps in and says,
"See? That's right! Be happy with what you managed to do!"
I've always lived that way—led by my physical self, mixing everything together in confusion and pain.
But this time, when I returned home after the Kashihara seminar,
I was given the opportunity to truly "receive the consciousness of a shrine maiden."
While sorting through what I had felt at the seminar,
I realized I'd never really taken time to reflect.
I noticed my habit of spinning things in my head,
my tendency to grab hold of others, to cling to words and never let go.
And then, from deep within, a message came:
"You must not keep going in circles like this forever."
"It's okay not to rush.
But please realize soon that the truth is already within you."
That's what I felt returning to me. Thank you.
Yes, I'm still spinning around.
But I want to return to warmth.
This Kashihara seminar helped me clearly recognize:
I've been wrong.
And I want to keep reminding myself of that.
14.
When I was a child, I often got lost whenever we went out as a family.
It happened many times, and each time, I felt a deep, hopeless fear, thinking,
"I may never see my mother or father again."
None of my siblings ever got separated—only me.
I would cry in confusion, and sometimes my father would come and find me.
Other times, a police officer would help.
They were very painful experiences.
These events happened long ago,
and I don't usually think about them anymore.
But the loneliness and fear I felt back then have stayed with me,
etched in my heart, never forgotten.
Even now, I can remember those feelings clearly.
For the longest time, I didn't understand why.
It never occurred to me that those feelings might be connected to a past life as a shrine maiden.
But through UTA Book's recent content about shrine maidens,
I've come to see that part of me is still alive within me.
No one had to tell me—I just knew it was true.
I don't remember many details,
but the fear and sadness I felt as a child still live deep within my heart.
That part of me—"the shrine maiden within"—has been waiting all this time
for me to finally notice her.
I've ignored her all these years without even realizing it.
In my heart, I've still clung to Amaterasu as a divine being.
Even after meeting the physical form of Tomekichi Taike and hearing the truth,
unless I truly understand my own suffering, love cannot begin to flow into it.
If I fail to realize that it was wrong to believe that Amaterasu was a god
who could save and heal me,
then my own suffering will continue forever.
Now that I've been given this rare opportunity to reconnect with the shrine maiden inside me,
I know that simply cutting ties with the gods of dependency isn't enough.
I need to face the pain of having once sought salvation and comfort in them.
And I need to do that gently, with kindness in my heart.
It's not about outward appearances or forms.
If I ignore the part of me that clung to false gods for salvation,
and instead just cling to "the one true teaching" in a self-righteous way,
then my heart is still cold.
That self-centeredness,
that belief that "as long as I am okay, that's all that matters,"
cannot fill the emptiness inside me.
In fact, it only pushes me farther away from myself.
That realization struck me hard.
Right now, I've been given the chance to learn about the heart of the shrine maiden.
I want to love that part of me.
I want to feel the warmth that heals.
It was that shrine maiden self, buried deep inside me,
that carried me through many long, painful reincarnations.
And now, I have met Tomekichi Taike in the flesh,
and he has gently explained the truth to me in ways I can understand.
This lifetime—this rebirth—is truly a blessing.
I'm not very sensitive.
I still carry the pain of hellish suffering in my heart,
but I struggle to fully feel it through the body.
Even so, I now say "I'm sorry" to my heart,
and I want to walk together with my shrine maiden self into the next life.
So many lifetimes… thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
With the time I have left in this body,
I want to keep turning my heart toward joy and continue learning.
Thank you.
15.
For as long as I can remember, the thought that I was "useless" has always existed deep inside me.
No one has ever said those words to me in this life,
but I've always held onto that fear in my heart,
determined never to become someone worthless.
At the Kashihara seminar, my room had a clear view of Mt. Nijo.
As I looked at it, a memory surfaced—
"I once ran down that mountain, trying to get back to my mother."
That feeling came up strongly.
Now I think back:
I wish I had said no.
I wish I had said, "I don't want to go."
But I couldn't say it.
I wanted my mother to praise me, to accept me.
So I swallowed my true feelings.
Even now, I still act that way sometimes.
I pretend to be a "good person,"
but afterward I'm left feeling lonely and miserable.
I've repeated that pattern again and again.
The training to become a shrine maiden was harsh—very harsh.
I didn't want to lose.
I wanted to be the best among the shrine maidens.
I pushed myself so hard because I knew what would happen
if I was seen as useless.
But I let my guard down.
I didn't understand the situation I was in.
Someone pushed me from behind,
and I fell from a high place and died.
Even after my body died, my thoughts remained.
Those feelings still come through to me now.
In this life, I've lived carefully, cautiously, always trying to protect myself.
I've blamed my mother for everything.
I've hated her, looked down on her.
And yet at the same time, I've longed for her praise and recognition.
That contradiction has shaped my heart.
But in truth, I just want to call out to my mother from the bottom of my heart.
During the seminar, when I turned my heart toward that part of me,
I heard it cry out:
"I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home."
I want to let that part of me return.
I want us to return together.
I'm going to treasure the time I have left.
I want to learn deeply, and respond to this longing in my heart.
16
During the final meditation of the seminar, my thoughts turned to my past—when I was separated from my mother as a child in this lifetime. When I became aware, she was no longer by my side. I remembered how I wandered, searching for her with all my heart.
No matter how much I searched, she wasn't there in my heart. What filled me instead was a flood of loneliness, isolation, despair, and coldness. Eventually, I stopped calling out to her.
I had already begun to suppress myself and rely on external powers, sinking into the world of Amaterasu. One painful memory after another began to surface.
So many mikos who had killed their true selves were packed tightly within me.
When Shiokawa-san called on us, I suddenly broke down. From the very bottom of my heart, I cried out again and again, "Mother, Mother, Mother!"
The mikos inside me were calling out to their mother with all their hearts—and finally, we met her.
That distant, sorrowful cry belonged not only to the mikos, but also to Amaterasu.
We were all one in love.
Thank you, Mount Nijo, Mount Unebi, and the land of Kashihara.
17
I've never really connected with the meditation on Amaterasu—it always felt vague and distant.
But during the recent seminar in Kashihara, when I heard the word "miko," my body trembled.
I remembered those pitiful and sorrowful feelings that I had tried to suppress, desperately striving for approval.
The truth is, I was lonely and sad, and I held a bitter heart toward my mother.
I realized I had always believed she abandoned me.
Up until now, I had pushed those feelings away, saying, "It couldn't be helped," over and over. But now, the cold, uncaring thoughts I had toward myself began to surface.
I will keep telling myself—let's return to love, let's return to warmth—with this sorrow, this loneliness, and my proud, self-important heart.
It was truly a joyful seminar. Thank you.
18
Until now, I never really felt a strong connection to mikos.
They seemed like people who could read minds and manipulate others—that was the vague image I had.
But during the seminar, when Shiokawa-san mentioned "miko," powerful emotions surged up from deep inside me: resentment, pain, conflict.
I refused to lose to others or to myself. I had to be the one most qualified. That energy was overwhelming.
I realized I had inherited all those miko feelings and that I was still living with them just as they were.
The emotions I've directed at my husband, my mother-in-law, and my coworkers—those were clearly the feelings of a miko.
The frustration of not being the best. The desire to get revenge, thinking, "I'll show you one day."
Now, after all this time, I finally see that those tangled feelings came from my past as a miko.
It brings me a sense of relief and peace.
I've finally—finally—recognized it.
And I'm happy. Truly happy.
From my time as a miko to who I am now, through many lives, it's all been one continuous flow. I feel the joy of all consciousnesses becoming one.
"We are all one." What a gentle and joyful truth that is.
19
Since I was a child, I've had this strange habit of predicting future events, as if doing so gave me a sense of superiority.
When I met someone new, I'd think things like, "He might become successful one day, but he probably won't value his family." I was always driven by a desire to predict what was to come.
When my predictions came true, I felt proud. But when they didn't, I'd feel intense frustration and even blame the other person. This happened many times.
Even though I knew it wasn't right to judge people's futures like that, I couldn't stop myself from doing it.
During meditation in Kashihara, I saw images of mikos pulling each other down, and I too had tried to push others aside to get ahead. At the same time, I recalled how I had been betrayed by someone I trusted and how that broke me.
Maybe the reason I still have trouble trusting others is because of that past.
I had worked so hard, believing I could use my powers to lead people to happiness. But in the end, I was the one seeking salvation, while more capable mikos trampled over me.
I turned to the gods. I prayed, begging them to lift this unbearable suffering.
But nothing changed. The pain remained. I became enraged, shouting at the gods, "Even you have betrayed me?"
What should I believe in now?
What is true happiness? What is joy? What is peace in this world?
Mother, why did you give birth to me? If I had to carry this much pain, I wish I'd never been born.
Mother… I'm lonely. So lonely.
20
When I focused on the word "miko," I felt an overwhelming loneliness that nearly drove me insane. No—inside, I was already losing it.
"Lonely, lonely, lonely," I cried, as if my body was being torn apart.
It was a loneliness so intense, I felt like I couldn't breathe.
This must be what people mean by "a pain that tightens the chest."
The loneliness was unbearable. I thought that going mad would be easier.
And so, I did—I went mad. My heart shattered.
As a miko, I wanted to forget that loneliness. I poured my heart into the gods, into Amaterasu, again and again.
My mother abandoned me.
She left me just because I was the eldest.
"You're a smart girl. You're capable. You're a good child."
No matter how much you praise me, you abandoned me for your own survival.
You chose your younger children over me. And you call yourself a mother?
I will never call you "Mother" again.
I will never call out to someone who isn't really there.
I'll never believe in a mother's warmth again.
You gave birth to me for your own happiness, and then you threw me away for your own happiness. There's no warmth in a mother like that.
I'm lonely, lonely, lonely.
No—I'm not lonely! Don't you dare pity me!
I'll work harder, harder, and harder until I become the best! You'll regret abandoning me. I'll prove you wrong!
Damn it! Don't brag about me as your child!
You didn't do anything! Everything I've achieved is because of my own effort!
You had nothing to do with it!
I'm so angry. So full of frustration.
When I attended my first seminar in Kashihara, I was given a message:
"Face the overwhelming loneliness that makes you feel like you're losing your mind."
Past, future, and present—all become one.
The feelings of the miko are the foundation of all my emotions in this lifetime.
Understanding the miko's heart is the key to reflecting on my relationship with my mother, my reliance on external powers, and self-healing.
It was truly a turning point in my learning.