Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (6)

 

I have acquaintances, but I have not communicated with them since I moved to Nishiyama, which is far from the town. One of them has a chance to send a message to me and asks how I am. I am surprised by the message, feeling the heavy weight of my isolation:

Besides you, who remembers me

And calls upon my name?

In this mountain village, where silver grasses

Are visited only by the autumn wind.

[Editor's Note: At this time (1039), the author is 32 years old, entering a crucial turning point in her life. Meanwhile, in the Imperial Court, the Empress, Fujiwara Genshi (1016-1039), died September 19th, 1039, and her husband, Emperor Go-Suzaku (1009-1045), married Fujiwara Seishi (1014-1068), on December 9th in the same year.]

In October, our family moves to the town. My mother becomes a nun. Although she lives in the same house, she shuts herself up in a separate room. My father treats me rather as a householder. I feel a suffocating helplessness to see him shunning all society and living as if he hid himself in the dark shadows.

Princess Yushi (1038–1105), the first daughter of Fujiwara Genshi (1016–1039) and the third daughter of Emperor Go-Suzaku (1009–1045), lives in the residence of her grandfather, Fujiwara Yorimichi (992–1074). Her ladies-in-waiting hear about me through my distant relative, and they summon me to the residence, saying it is better to serve the princess than to pass idle, helpless days at home.

My old-fashioned parents think that court life must be highly unpleasant, and they have kept me at home. However, others say, "People nowadays serve as ladies-in-waiting at court, and fortunate opportunities naturally come to them. Why not let her try it?" Thus, my parents reluctantly send me to the residence.

I go to the residence for a single night as a trial. I am dressed in an eight-layered robe of deep aster-colored silk, displaying a gradual contrast of shades, and over it, I wear an outer gown of deep red.

My mind has been absorbed in romances, and I have few relatives to socialize with. Always remaining in the shadow of my antiquated parents, I have been accustomed to staying indoors, looking only at the moon and flowers. Therefore, when I leave home, I feel as if I am no longer myself, nor am I in the real world. I leave the residence at daybreak.

I have often fancied in my peripheral mind that I would hear more interesting things for my heart's consolation than living a settled life on the periphery. In reality, however, I feel awkward in the residence in everything I do, and I feel utterly out of place and disheartened by the reality—yet there is no use in complaining.

In December, I go to the residence again. I am given my own room and am to stay there for several days. Sometimes, I visit the princess’s quarters for night duty. On those nights, surrounded by strangers, I can hardly sleep; I feel deeply uncomfortable and spend the night hyper-aware of others, sobbing silently. I leave the quarters well before dawn.

All day long, my mind returns to my father, who is old and frail. He relies on me entirely, having spent his days face to face with me, and I miss him with constant anxiety. I remember, with profound grief, my motherless nieces whom I alone have raised; they would sleep right beside me at night, one on either side.

I pass my days in a state of restless distraction. I feel as though others were constantly spying on me, and I am utterly ill at ease.

After ten days or so, I get leave to return home. My father and mother have been waiting for me, keeping a cozy fire in the brazier. Seeing me step down from my carriage, they say, "When you were here with us, we always had guests, and the house was filled with servants. These days, however, not a single voice is heard, and no one is seen outside the gate. We are so terribly lonely. What will become of us if you leave us to pass our days like this?" It is pitiful to see them weep as they speak.

The next morning, they sit before me and say, "Now that you are here, the house is lively again with so many people coming and going." Their words sound sorrowful to my ears.

“What kind of radiance could I possibly possess?” I murmur, my eyes welling with tears. I continue, “What kind of radiance could my parents possibly possess?” “What kind of radiance could a career life possibly possess?” The tears continue.

It is said to be notoriously difficult even for an elite ascetic to dream of their previous life. Yet, there I was, in such an uncertain state of mind, undecided about which course of life I should take, actually having just such a dream. In the dream, I am in front of the altar at Kiyomizu-dera Temple, and a man who appears to be the head priest comes out and says to me, "You were once a monk of this temple. You are born into a higher-ranking family by virtue of carving many Buddhist statues as a Buddhist artist. The seventeen-foot-tall Buddha statue enshrined on the eastern side of the temple is your work. While you were covering it with gold leaf, you died."

"Oh, how regrettable!" I say. "Then, I will apply the gold leaf to the statue for him."

The priest replies, "Because you died, another man applied the gold leaf, and others performed the consecration ceremony."

After having this dream, I think, "If I worship at Kiyomizu-dera Temple with all my heart, something good will naturally happen by virtue of my prayers at the temple in my previous life." Dismissing it as nonsense, I never visit Kiyomizu-dera Temple and let the matter drop.

The Imperial Court holds the annual ceremony of reciting the names of the Three Thousand Buddhas in its Inner Palace from December 19th to 21st. After this ceremony, noble families hold their personal annual ceremonies in their residences. On December 25th, 1039, when Princess Yushi (1038–1105) holds her personal ceremony, I am invited. I go to her residence, thinking, "Just for one night."

About forty ladies-in-waiting are gathered there, beautifully attired in layers of white inner robes beneath identical, flowing outer robes of deep-red silk. As for me, I merely sit behind my introducer, completely lost and hidden in the shadows of those prominent ladies. Then, I slip away and leave before daybreak.

Heaps of snow lie scattered. The moon shines brightly and chillingly at dawn. The moonlight dimly illuminates the sleeves of my deep-red silk robe, which look as if they are wet with tears. On my way home:

The passing year draws to a close,

The fading night melts into dawn,

The moonlight on my sleeve is fleeting,

As brief as my own passing life.