Trees In the Town

The Sarashina Diary: the Literary Diary of the Daughter of Sugawara Takasue from 1020 to 1059 (3)

 

     Sei Shonagon (966-1017) once wrote, "Most depressing is the household of some hopeful candidate who fails to receive a post during the period of official appointments."

     Next year, In January, when the appointments of new governors of provinces are announced, my father was looking forward to his appointment at night, but was disappointed in the morning.  A person who might have shared our expectation wrote to me, "I anxiously waited for his happy news till dawn."

I dreamed of hearing good news.

The morning temple bell woke me up from my dream.

Last night was 100 times longer than a long Autumn night.

     I wrote back:

Why did you and I wait for dawn?

The temple morning bell isn’t to tell

Our dream comes true.

     Towards the end of April, I temporarily moved to Higashiyama for a certain reason.  On the way, the nursery beds for rice plants filled with water, and the fields newly planted with rice seedlings looked all rather green and charming.  In the evening, the mountains looked dark and closer.  Rails chattered noisily in such lonely evenings.

Rails cackle as if they were knocking.

Do they think they are successfully deceiving

When humans don’t dare to come deep into the mountains in the evening?

     As our temporary dwelling was near Reizan-ji Temple, I went there to pray.  Fatigued, I drank water from a stone-lined well in the mountain temple, scooping the water with my hand.

Another visitor said, "I could never have enough of this water."

     As once Ki Tsurayuki (866-945) composed:

A drop from the scooped water made the mountain well cloudy

Before I had enough of the water.

Was it a drop of any trouble that separated me from her?

     I declined his advance:

Do you think you can drink enough water

From the mountain well

Without making a drop of any trouble?

     He further approached:

Even if the mountain well becomes cloudy

With a drop of water,

I’d rather keep drinking from the well here.

     We came home from the temple in the full brightness of evening sunshine, and enjoyed a clear view of Kyoto.

     The man who talked about a drop and the cloudy water went back to Kyoto, sorry for parting from me.  In the next morning, he sent a tanka poem:

When the evening sun descends and east mountains became dark,

I helplessly gazed at the mountains

With longing towards where you should be.

     I heard the holy voices of the monks reciting sutras in their morning service and I opened the door.  It was dim early dawn and mist veiled the treetops of the dark forest.  The forest looked thicker than in the time of flowers or red leaves.  It was slightly cloudy this lovely morning.  Cuckoos were singing on the nearby trees.

Together with myself, I need someone

To see the beautiful dawn in the mountain village

And to listen to the repeated sound of cuckoos.

     At the end of that month, cuckoos sang clamorously on trees towards the glen.

In Kyoto, people are awaiting cuckoos to sing.

Here, they carelessly sing

From morning till night.

     One who stayed with me said: "Do you have someone in Kyoto who you want to listen to cuckoos with now?  Do you have someone who you want to see the mountains with now?"  She composed:

Many in Kyoto like to gaze at Luna,

But is there anyone that thinks of the deep mountains

Or is reminded of us hidden here?

     I replied:

I don’t know

What it feels like to see Luna in the dead of night,

But he must think of the mountain village first of all.

     Once, towards dawn, I heard footsteps which sounded to be those of many people coming down the mountain.  I was frightened and looked out.  It was a herd of deer which came close to our veranda.  They cried out.  It was not pleasant to hear them cry nearby.

If I heard the love-call of a deer to its mate,

In Autumn nights upon the distant hills,

It could be fur sweeter.

     I heard that he had come near my temporary dwelling and gone back without calling on me.  So I made a sarcastic tanka poem:

Even the winds among the pine trees in the mountain

That have no acquaintance with me

Depart with murmuring sounds!

     August had come, and more than 20 days had passed.  The moon shone towards dawn and looked very charming.  The mountain-side was gloomy and the waterfall sounded very refined.  I saw them quietly and calmly.

I wish that lovers of nature would see

The after-dawn-waning moon in a mountain village

At the close of an autumn night.

     I left our temporary dwelling to go back to Kyoto.   In the rice-fields which had been covered with water when I came here, rice plants were all harvested.

So long I remained away from home

As the nursed rice in seedbeds were planted,

Grew, and have been all harvested.

     When the end of October was approaching, I visited our old temporary dwelling again.  The leaves of thickly grown trees which had cast a dark shade in the garden had all fallen.  The sight was sorrowful over all.  The babbling brook which used to run sweetly was buried under fallen leaves and I could see only the course of it.

Even water could not live on

In such lonesome stormy mountains.

My heart's also been scattered like the fallen leaves.

     I went back to Kyoto, saying that I should come again the next Spring, could I live so long, to the neighbor nun and begged her to send word when the flowering-time had come.

     The new year came, and it was past March 19th, but there were no tidings from her, so I wrote:

No word about the blooming cherry-blossoms.

Hasn't Spring come for you yet?

Or doesn’t the perfume of flowers reach you?

     I made a journey hopelessly.  My room was beside bamboo wood.   Wind rustled its leaves and the full moon disturbed my sleep:

Night after night, the bamboo leaves sigh.

My dreams are broken.

A vague, indefinite sadness fills my heart.

     In Autumn, 1026, I left there, went to stay elsewhere, and sent a tanka poem to the previous hostess:

I am like a dew on the grass.

It doesn’t matter where the dew falls on.

Everywhere looks like a wasteland.

Trees In the Town

Virtual Settsu 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #27 Soji-ji Temple

 

     Soji-ji Temple was founded by Fujiwara Yamakage (824-888) in 879, when Ex-Emperor Seiwa (850-881) entered the Buddhist priesthood.

     Fujiwara Akirakeiko (829-900) worried whether her child could become an emperor, going over the heads of 2 elder brothers, Princes Koretaka and Koreeda, who were born of Ki Shizuko (?-866).  Shizuko gave birth to 2 boys and 3 girls, while Akirakeiko a boy and a girl.  

     Neither the seniority nor the numerical value didn’t matter.  The Ki Clan used to be powerful in Ancient Japan, but was getting overpowered by the Fujiwara Clan at the time.  Emperor Seiwa (850-881) reigned from 858 to 876, but Fujiwara Yoshifusa (804-872) had the executive power of the Imperial Court until his death.  After his death, Yamakage's promotion started.  That is, Yamakge had a good reason to build a temple or 2 for Seiwa.

     For your information, there is a tradition recorded in the Konjaku Monogatarishu or the Anthology of Tales from the Past and in the Genpei Seisuiki, which is an extended version of the Heike Monogatari or the Tale of the Heike:

     Fujiwara Yamakage's father, Takafusa (795-852), was on his way to Dazaifu in Chikuzen Province.  As he sailed down the Yodo River he saw a large turtle caught.  He bought the turtle and set it free in the river, saying, "Today, the 18th, is Avalokiteshvara's festival day."

     That night, Yamakage was thrown into the river by his stepmother's trickery.  Takafusa was saddened by this and prayed to Avalokitesvara.  Then, the turtle he had saved appeared before him with Yamakage on its shell.  Takafusa was grateful to Avalokiteshvara for this and made a wish to create a statue of Avalokiteshvara, but he died before he could do it.

     After Takafusa's death, Yamakage followed his father's wishes and had a Thousand-Armed Sahasrabhuja statue built.  He founded Soji-ji Temple and enshrined the statue in it.

     Soji-ji Temple is also the #22 member temple of the Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage, which is the oldest 33 Kannon Pilgrimage.

Address: 1 Chome-6-1 Sojiji, Ibaraki, Osaka 567-0801

Phone: 072-622-3209

Trees In the Town

Virtual Settsu 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #26 Kochi-ji Temple

 

     Any member temple of any 33 Kannon Pilgrimage has one of the 6 types of Avalokitesvara as its membership deity: 

1) Arya Avalokitesvara, who is the human-figure prototype of the other 6 metamorphoses

2) Eleven-Faced Ekadasamukha

3) Thousand-Armed Sahasrabhuja

4) Cintamanicakra, who usually has 6 arms and holds chintamani (a wish-fulfilling jewel) in one of the six,

5) Horse-Headed Hayagriva

6) Cundi, who has 16 arms and appears to be female

7) Amoghapasha, who usually has 3 eyes and 8 arms

     Didn't I say 6 types?  The Shingon Sect Buddhists assert that the last one should be Cundi, while the Tiantai Sect Buddhists maintain that it should be Amoghapasha.  They all believe that Arya Avalokitesvara can metamorphose into 5, and that they can carve 6 types of Avalokitesvara statues in total.

     The first Amoghapasha statue made in Japan is supposed to be the one in Todai-ji Temple.  The statue is supposed to have been enshrined in 733, and, that is, could have been made a little bit earlier.  If the one in Kochi-ji Temple had been made by Prince Shotoku (574-622) as the temple tradition suggests, we would have to rewrite Japanese Buddhism history.  Anyway, Kanzeon-ji Temple was founded on an unknown date, and was renamed Kochi-ji in 1673.

Address: 2 Chome-1-3 Tenjinmachi, Takatsuki, Osaka 569-1117

Phone: 072-683-0459

Trees In the Town

Virtual Settsu 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #25 Anko-ji Temple

 

     Kamowake was subject to Prince Wakatake, who was the 8th child of Nekohiko, who was a prehistoric emperor.  When Wakatake invaded Kibi Province, Kamowake followed him, and started the Kasa Family there.  Both Wakatake and Kamowake were enshrined in Kasamori Shrine by the Kasa Family in Makami Village, Shimakami County, Settsu Province.  Presumably, the village was Kamowake's hometown.

     Ansho-ji Temple was founded as the shrine temple of Kasamori Shrine with the Thousand-Armed Sahasrabhuja wooden sitting statue as its main deity, but was abolished in 1870, 2 years after the Meiji Restoration Government issued the Gods and Buddhas Separation Order in 1868.

     The statue was moved to Anko-ji Temple, which had been founded by Prince Kaijo (724-781) in 775.

Address: 41-1 Uradohonmachi, Takatsuki, Osaka 569-1028

Phone: 072-687-0727

Kasamori Shrine

Address: 1 Chome-7-5 Nishimakami, Takatsuki, Osaka 569-1127

Phone: 072-685-0022

Trees In the Town

Virtual Settsu 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #24 Daimon-ji Temple

 

     Seiryu-ji Temple was founded in 771 by Prince Kaijo (724-781), who also founded would-be Katsuo-ji Temple.  Seiryu-ji Temple also changed its name to Daimon-ji Temple later, presumably in the 9th century.  In the middle of the century, Daimon-ji Temple was at the height of its prosperity, and had many buildings within its precincts, including the Main Hall, Sukhavati-vyuha Hall, Kaijo Hall, Three-storied Pagoda, the Guardian Twelve Deities Hall, Hakusan Shrine, Homa Hall, Middle Gate, Sarasvati Hall, Sutra Storehouse, Thousand-Armed Sahasrabhuja Hall, Tow-storied Gate, Inner Sanctuary, and Bhaisajyaguru Hall.

     On May 18th, 1196, a big earthquake hit Settsu Province.  At the end of the Kamakura Period (1183-1333), the temple was burned in battle.  The temple fell into ruin.  Priest Kaiga revived the temple at the beginning of the Edo Period (1603-1867).

Address: 97 Daimonji, Ibaraki, Osaka 568-0093

Phone: 072-649-2027

The Sarashina Diary: the Literary Diary of the Daughter of Sugawara Takasue from 1020 to 1059 (2)

 

     Our garden was very wide and wild with great, fearful trees not inferior to those in the mountains I had traveled over.  The garden didn’t seem to be the one in the city.  I could not feel at home, or keep a settled mind.  Even then, I teased mother into giving me books of stories, after which I had been yearning for so many years.  Mother sent a messenger with a letter to Emon-no-Myobu, one of our relatives who served Princess Nagako (997-1049).  She took interest in my strange passion and willingly sent me some excellent manuscripts in the lid of a writing-box, saying that these copies had been given to her by the Princess.  My joy knew no bounds and I read them day and night.  I soon began to wish for more, but as I was an utter stranger to Kyoto, who would get them for me?

     My stepmother had once been a lady-in-waiting at the Imperial Court, but she chose to go to Kazusa Province with my father.  She seemed to have had something disappointing in life with my father.  She regretted her marriage, and now she was to leave our home.  She took her own child, who was five years old, and her own servants.  She said to me, "The time will never come when I shall forget your sympathetic heart."  Pointing to a huge plum-tree which grew close to an eave, she said, "When it is in flower, I shall come back," and she left.  I felt love and pity for her in my mind.  As I secretly wept, the year, too, went by.

     "When the plum-tree blooms I shall come back," promised she.  I pondered over these words and wondered whether she would come.  I waited and waited, keeping an eye on the tree.  It was all in flower, and yet no tidings from her.  I became very anxious and, at last, snapped a branch and sent it to her with my tanka poem:

Spring remembered to visit plum-trees.

Am I remembered by you,

Who gave me your words to come?

     She wrote back affectionate words with a tanka poem:

When you picked the plum branch,

Didn't it give you its words

That someone would visit you unexpectedly?

     During the spring of 1022, the world was troubled with the spread of an epidemic.  My wet nurse, who had filled my heart with pity on that moonlight night at Matsusato Ferry Port, died on March 1st.  I lamented hopelessly, and even forgot my passion for romances.

     I passed day after day weeping bitterly.  When I looked out of the windows, I saw the evening sun shining brilliantly and cherry blossoms all fell off and scattered.

Cherry blossoms have fallen,

Yet I will see them again next spring.

I miss my nurse who has gone forever.

     I heard one of the daughters of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028), who had married Fujiwara Nagaie (1005-1064), also passed away.  I could sympathize deeply with the sorrow of her husband, for I felt my own sorrow.

     I took out her beautiful handwriting which had been given to me, when I had first arrived at Kyoto, as good examples to copy.  In it were written copies of several poems:

Had I not woke up in the middle of the night,

I would've known secondhand

That cuckoos sang.

     That tanka poem had been composed by Mibu Tadami.  As I read other tanka poems, I found this anonymous tanka poem indescribably ominous:

When you see the smoke floating up

The crematorium in Toribeyama,

Then you will see me fleetingly gone.

     The more I looked at her beautiful handwriting, the more I shed tears.

     I brooded so much that my real mother troubled herself to console me.  She searched for romances and gave them to me, and I became consoled unconsciously.  I read a few volumes about Murasaki no Ue of the Tale of Genji and longed for the rest, but as I couldn’t be sociable and my family was still a stranger in Kyoto, I had no way of finding them.  I was all impatient and yearning, and in my mind was always praying, “Let me read all the volumes of the Tale of Genji from the very first one.”

     When my parents and I shut ourselves up in Koryu-ji Temple in Uzumasa, all I prayed for was nothing but the Tale of Genji.  I thought I could read them all as soon as I left the temple, but I couldn’t.  I was bitterly frustrated and inconsolable.  One day, I visited my aunt, who had recently come up from the country.  She said lovingly and amazedly, “You have grown up beautifully.”  On my return, she said: "What shall I give you?  Something practical wouldn’t do.  I will give you what you like best."  And she gave me the Tale of Genji, more than 50 volumes of it, in a case, as well as the Tale of Ise, Tohogimi, Serikawa, Shirara, and Asauzu.  How happy I was when I came home carrying these books in a bag!  Until then I had only read the Tale of Genji partially, and was dissatisfied because I could not understand the whole story.

     Now, I could be absorbed in these stories, taking them out one by one, shutting myself in my room.  To be an Empress would be nothing compared to this!

     All day and all night, as late as I could keep my eyes open, I did nothing but read the books, setting a lamp close beside me.

     Soon I learnt by heart all the names in the books, and I thought that was a great thing.

     Once, I dreamt of a holy priest in a yellow Buddhist sash who came to me and said, "Learn the 5th volume of the Lotus Sutra at once."  The volume contains Chapter 12: “Devadatta,” in which Buddha teaches that women can become enlightened.

     I did not tell anyone about the dream, nor had I any mind to learn it.  I continued to bathe in the romances.  I thought to myself, although I was still ugly and undeveloped, the time would come when I should be very beautiful, with long, long hair.  I should be, like the Lady Yugao in the Tale of Genji, loved by the Shining Prince Genji, or, like the Lady Ukifune, be a tragic heroine.  My mind that indulged in such fancy was empty and regrettable.

     Around May 1st,  I saw the white petals of the Tachibana orange tree near the edge of an eave covering the ground:

If the scent of Tachibana flowers doesn’t arise,

I should’ve thought snow’s newly fallen

unseasonably.

     In our garden, trees grew as thick as in the dark forest of Ashigara, and, in October, its red leaves were more beautiful than those of the surrounding mountains.  A visitor said, "On my way here, I passed a place where red leaves were beautiful."  I improvised:

Nowhere can be more autumnal than my house

Which is dwelled by the autumnal person

Who is weary of the world.

     I still dwelt in the romances from morning to night, and as long as I was awake.

     I had another dream: a man said that he was to make a brook in the garden of the Rokkaku-do Hall to entertain Princess Teishi (1013-1094).  I asked the reason, and the man said, "Pray to the Goddess Amaterasu."  I did not tell anyone about the dream or even think of it again.  How shallow I was!

     Every Spring, I enjoyed the Princess's garden:

Waiting for cherry-blossoms to broom,

Lamenting over cherry-blossoms to fall,

I see the flowers in her garden as if they were mine.

     Around March 30th, 1023, I moved to a certain person's house to avoid the evil influence of the earth god.  There, I saw delightful cherry-blossoms still on the tree and the day after my return I sent this poem:

Without tiring, I gazed at the cherry-blossoms of my house.

When the Spring was closing, and they were about to fall,

I happened to see cherry blossoms in your garden.

     Whenever the flowers came and went, I could think of nothing but those days when my wet nurse died.  Her death alone was sad enough, but my sadness grew deeper when I studied the handwriting of the daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028).  It was in May, as far as I remember, that I was up late reading a romance, and I heard a cat out of nowhere meowing with a long-drawn-out cry.  I turned, wondering, and saw a very lovely cat.  "Where does it come from?" I asked.  "Sh," said my sister, "do not tell anybody.  It is a darling cat and we will keep it."

     The cat took to us, came to us, and lay beside us.  Someone might be looking for her, and we kept her secretly.  She kept herself aloof from the vulgar servants, always sitting quietly before us.  She turned her face away from unclean food, never eating it.  She clung to us and was cherished by us. 

     Once my sister was ill, and our family was rather upset.  The cat was kept around servants' rooms, and never was called.  She cried loudly and scoldingly, yet I thought it better to keep her away.  My sister, suddenly awakening, said to me, "Where is the cat kept?  Bring her here."  I asked why, and my sister answered: "In my dream, the cat came to my side and said, 'I am the altered form of the late daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028).  We have a slight fate.  Your sister has been thinking of me affectionately, so I am here for a while, but now I am among the servants.  O, how dreary I am!'  So saying, she wept bitterly.  She appeared to be a noble and beautiful person and then I awoke to hear the cat crying!  How pitiful!"

     The story moved me deeply and, after this, I never sent the cat away to the servants’ rooms, but waited on her lovingly.  Once, when I was sitting alone, she came and sat before me, and, stroking her head, I addressed her: "You are the daughter of Sir Yukinari?  I wish to let your father know of it."  The cat watched my face and mewed, lengthening her voice.  Maybe it’s just me, but she didn’t look like a common cat.  She seemed to understand my words, and that made her more adorable.

     I had heard that there is a text called Chang Hen Ge or the Song of Everlasting Regret, and that there is a translation or something of the story.   I longed to borrow it, but was reluctant to say so.

     On July 7th, I found a connection and sent my words:

On the Double Seventh Festival Day,

On such a promising day,

I row out to the River of Heaven to see the famous book.

     The answer was:

Allured by your poem,

I stand along the Heavenly River,

Forgetting common sense and practical wisdom.

     On the 13th night of the month, the moon shone very brightly.  Darkness was chased away even from every corner of the world.  It was about midnight and all were asleep.  My sister and I were sitting on the veranda.  My sister, who was gazing at the sky thoughtfully, said, "If I flew away now, without a destination; what would you think of it?"  She saw that her words shocked me.  She talked her way out of it and gave me a smile.

     Then I heard a carriage with a runner before it stop near the house.  The high-ranking man in the carriage called out, "Ogi-no-ha! Ogi-no-ha!" twice, but no woman with the name of a silver grass made a reply.  The man cried in vain until he was tired of it.  He played his flute clearly and beautifully, and at last drove away.  I composed:

Flute music sounds like Autumn wind.

Why does the silver grass make no reply

When the grass is in her prime?

My sister answered to me:

The flute tone was as icy

As the autumn winds.

It didn’t wait for the reply of the silver grass.

     We sat together looking up into the firmament, and went to bed after daybreak.

     At midnight in April, 1024, a fire broke out, and the cat which had been waited on as the daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028) was burned to death.  She had come mewing whenever I called, “Princess,” as if she had understood me.  My father said that he would tell the matter to Yukinari, for it is a strange and heartfelt story.  I was very, very sorry for her.

     Our old garden was spacious and was as wild as deep in the mountains.  In time of flowers and red leaves, the sight of it was never inferior to the surrounding mountains.  Our new temporary shelter was far narrower than our old one.  As I was familiar with the old one, I was sad, for we had a very small garden and no trees.  In the opposite house, white and red plum-blossoms covered the garden.  Their perfume came on the winds and filled me with thoughts of our old home.

The perfume-laden air from the neighbour

Touches my heart and reminds me of

My beloved plum-trees blooming under the eaves.

     On May 1st in the year, my sister died after giving birth to a child.  From my childhood, even strangers' deaths had touched my heart deeply.  This time, I lamented, filled with speechless pity and sorrow.

     While our mother and others were with the dead, I lay with the memory-awakening children one on either side of me.  The moonlight found its way through the cracks of the roof of our temporary dwelling and illuminated the face of the baby.  The sight gave my heart so deep a pang that I covered the baby’s face with my sleeve, and drew the other child closer to my side.  Thinking of their mother, I sorrowed terribly.

     After the memorial service on the 49th day, one of my relatives sent me a romance entitled "The Prince Yearning after the Corpse," with the following note: "Your late sister had asked me to find her this romance.  I looked for the story but couldn’t find it at that time.  Now, to add to my sorrow, someone has just sent it to me."

     I answered:

Why did my sister yearn for the story

In which the hero seeks the dead body of the heroine?

My sister herself is deep under the mosses now.

     My sister's wet nurse said that, since she had lost her, she had no reason to stay.  She went back to her own home, weeping.

     I wrote to her:

Thus, you have returned to your home.

What separates you and me is

The death of my sister which parted her from me.

     "For remembrance of her, I’d like you to stay here.  Ink seems to have frozen up, I cannot write any more," and added another tanka poem:

What will remind me of my sister

When the inkstone water has been frozen

So that I can’t write about my sister?

     So I wrote, and the wet nurse answered:

Like an alone plover flying away,

With no mark left on the beach,

I’ve retired with no milk kinship left.

     As the dead were cremated in the open air, the wet nurse visited my sister’s site and returned sobbing.  I wondered:

My sister became smoke rising up into heaven.

Without the smoke, could her wet nurse

Find her cremation site?

     My stepmother heard of this and composed:

She must have visited here and there.

In the end, however,

Her tears must have told her where the site was.

     The person who had sent me "The Prince Yearning after the Corpse" composed:

She must have wandered seeking the unfindable

In the unfamiliar fields of bamboo grasses,

Weeping and weeping.

     Reading these tanka poems, my brother, who had sent the dead that night, composed a tanka poem:

As I see it, my sister burned and the smoke died.

How did her wet nurse look for the site

In the funeral  bamboo fields?

     It snowed for many days, and I thought of the wet nurse who lived on Mount Yoshino as a nun.  I wrote to her:

Snow has fallen and you can rarely see visitors

Who go along the precipitous path

In the Yoshino Mountains.