Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (12)

I write down events separated by two, three, or four to five years, without explaining any of the background context. It suddenly makes me look like a dedicated pilgrim on a non-stop journey. But that is hardly the case at all; it is simply that huge gaps of years lie between them.

In the spring of 1047, I stay at Kurama-dera Temple. It is a mild spring day, with mist trailing across the mountainside. Locals dig up and bring some tokoro (wild yam) roots from the mountains for food, and I find them delicious. When I leave the temple, the blossoms are already gone, and it loses its beauty.

However, when I visit again in October, the mountain scenery along the way is beautiful beyond comparison. The mountainside looks as if a brilliant brocade is spread out and displayed. The stream, rushing headlong and overflowing, looks like a torrent of shattered crystals.

When I arrive at the temple and reach the monastery, the maple leaves, damp from a sudden shower, are brilliant beyond comparison. I compose a poem on the scene:

Every passing shower in the autumn sky

Dyes the deep mountain leaves a richer hue;

See how the rain has woven this bright brocade,

Far more brilliant than any earthly loom.

After two years or so, I stay again at Ishiyama-dera Temple. It rains hard all through the night. Having always heard that rain on a journey is a melancholy thing, I open the wooden shutters, only to find the waning moon casting its light even into the depths of the ravine. What I took for the sound of rain is actually the mountain stream, rippling beneath the roots of the trees. Inspired by the scene, I compose a poem:

The mountain brook, cascading through the night,

Resounds so clearly, mimicking the rain;

Yet high above, the waning moon shines bright,

More radiant than I have ever seen.

I pay another visit to Hase-dera Temple in Hatsuse. This time, my family provides much more generous support for my journey than before. Along the route, people invite me to formal banquets here and there, so we make only slow progress. At the Hosono Forest in Yamashiro Province, the autumn leaves are breathtakingly beautiful. As I cross the Hatsuse River, I feel encouraged and think to myself:

Once more I come back to the Hatsuse stream;

Last time, a cedar twig was but a dream,

A faint and fleeting sign of grace divine—

This time, I pray to make its blessing mine.

We depart after staying at the temple for three days. On our return, we are too numerous to lodge in that small hut at the foot of Narasaka Hill, so we camp out in the open field. Our attendants pitch a makeshift shelter with grass and branches for us to stay in. They passed the night lying on mukabaki fur spread over the grass, covering themselves with straw mats. With the heavy dew falling upon us, we could scarcely catch any sleep all night long. Yet, the moon was clear and incomparably beautiful:

Across the endless sky where I must stray,

The waning moon refuses to depart;

The selfsame light that graced the Capital’s way,

Still follows me, to soothe my weary heart.

Though he may not resemble the passionate heroes of the romances I once dreamed of, my husband, Tachibana Toshimichi, brings a comforting warmth and stability to my life. With him, I feel secure and well cared for. Even when I set off on distant pilgrimages, I can look back with a smile, writing lightheartedly of my little pleasures, struggles, and fatigue along the way. In this way, I not only soothe any lingering regrets about a lack of romance but also find deep comfort in depending on him.

Right now, my days are filled with a quiet, gentle peace. I devote myself to cherishing and raising my young children, looking forward with a gentle heart to the passing years. I simply pray that my husband, my steady anchor, will find the success and happiness he deserves in his career. This quiet hope keeps my spirits bright.

A dear friend of mine, who used to talk with me a lot and exchange tanka poems with me day and night, still continued to write to me, though not so often as of old. However, she has now gone down to Echizen Province as the wife of the Governor. All communication between us ceases. Finding a means of sending a message to her with great difficulty, I write her a tanka poem:

Our constant bond of old,

Which I believed would never die,

Now fades beneath the freezing cold,

Where Echizen’s deep snows lie.

She writes back:

Though Haku-san’s deep snows may hide

The pebble far from passing sight,

The devotion that glows inside

Will never lose its shining light.

On the first of March, I travel deep into Nishiyama in the western hills. No other souls are near; only a soft spring haze gently and warmly enfolds us. In peaceful solitude, the cherry blossoms bloom in quiet splendor all around us, as if wrapping our little world in a soft, dreamy mist:

Deep in the mountains, far from town,

The lonely cherry blossoms gleam,

Shaking their silent petals down,

Unseen by all except a dream.