When the Water Clears

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Hayao Miyazaki's landscapes often explore the psychology and symbolism of water.

Certain landscapes have the power to lead my mind into endless wandering. For as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with and utterly terrified of water. Deep water for me is fear itself, embodied. You may well know the feeling going out in a boat on the open sea and looking down into the murky water. The water stares back and says, "Your sense of security is a cheap trick of the mind; the void is closer than you think." Staring into the ocean with my head over the water, I sometimes worry about losing my sense of direction and uncaring gravity pulling me into the depths. Gazing into deep water is standing on the edge of the abyss; it's where we confront our own mortality.

I have a memory of fishing for anchovies with my grandfather and brother on the Hokkaido coast. It was like a strange dream sequence, the scene composed of the concrete pier where we stood, the sloshing Pacific ten feet below us, and the bone-white breakwaters cutting a jagged line through the dark sea. The sky was overcast with a wet wind blowing. Two large orange starfish lay upside-down on the bare concrete several feet away, and as I approached, I could see their thousands of tiny feet moving in a vain attempt to scurry back to the safety of the water's depths. My heart pounded as I inched toward the edge of the pier for a look. My grandfather handed me a fishing pole. I cast out the line and suddenly there was a tether connecting my body to the open ocean. After some time, a bite came. Though it was a light pull and certainly no prize tuna on the other end, I was struck by a sudden terror at the thought of being dragged into the murky water. I reeled in the anchovy, and as the rain started to fall, we packed up and drove home. Ever since, I have associated the Japanese coast with this curious mixture of nostalgia and existential fear.

The ocean possesses a mysterious and irresistible power. It has the ability to wipe clean my mind's slate and lay bare the recesses of my psyche—I am forced to confront the fear of losing my ground, falling into the void, becoming unmoored from any familiar reference point. This relationship between body, mind, and sea is one that interests me quite a bit. The ocean is a popular subject in poetry because its image is so potent. The 13th century Sufi poet Rumi wrote,

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The body is a device to calculate

the astronomy of the spirit.

Look through that astrolabe

and become oceanic.

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Hayao Miyazaki also features oceanic themes in his work, particularly Spirited Away and Ponyo. In both, a world descending into madness is at daybreak reborn into a placid watery dreamscape. Miyazaki uses water as a tool of curation, erasing the detritus populating the landscape and reducing the visual field to one of pure symbolism. No doubt the Japanese are a people who have learned time and again the dual faces of the open sea; the sparkling turquoise of the Onkinawan beach seen against the great tsunami's approach. Water's capacity to annihilate context creates the perfect conditions for an honest look at ourselves—one only has to look beyond the initial fear. To me, the ocean is a mirror held up to my own mind, so I can see myself without all the fluff of ego clouding my perception. Rather than continue grasping for lame metaphors, consider these lines by a 19th century Zen nun, who is getting at the same kernel of truth as Miyazaki approaches in his storytelling. She writes,

"

Let's go on back home.

When the water clears, the moon appears.

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No doubt I will be back again to talk water in another blog post.