Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (17)

 

Even my deep sorrows fail to kill me, but I am apprehensive that I may not pass away to the other world as I wish. Still, there is only one dream I can rely on for the afterworld.

On the night of October 13th, 1055, I dreamed this dream:

In the garden, just beyond the edge of the eaves of my house, there stood Amitabha Buddha. He was not seen distinctly, but appeared gently and softly, as if through a light haze. I tried hard to catch a glimpse through the gaps and breaks of the mist. The lotus flower pedestal was three or four feet above the ground; the Buddha was about six feet tall.

Golden light shone forth. One hand was extended, and the fingers of the other were bent in the form of benediction. None but I could see him, yet I felt such reverence that I dared not approach the bamboo blinds to see him better. None but I might hear him saying, "Then, this time, I will go back, and afterwards come again to accept you." I was comforted and awoke into the fourteenth day. This dream alone sustains my hope for the next life.

I used to live together with my niece and grandnephews in a house within our estate, seeing them day and night. However, after my husband’s death, they moved to another house within the estate, and we no longer see each other every day. On one pitch-black night, however, I am visited by my niece and one of my grandnephews, the sixth born. Deeply moved by this rare visit, I compose:

I live in pitch-black night,

Abandoned by the moon,

Yet you have brought your light to me,

Left in this dark so soon.

After my husband’s death, a close friend ceases all communication. I send this poem:

Perhaps you think that I am gone,

Far from this world away,

Yet here I live to weep alone,

Through every sorrowful day.

In the tenth month, the moon shines bright and clear. Gazing up through my tear-filled eyes, I compose:

Tears flow without a pause,

Clouding my heart with night,

Yet through my weeping eyes,

The moon shines clear and bright.

Months have passed and years have slipped away. Whenever I recall that dreamlike moment of my husband’s death, my mind falls into turmoil and everything turns black before my eyes. I can no longer remember the details of his final moments.

My families have moved away to live separately in other places. I remain alone in my solitary home on our estate. I am deeply lonely, uneasy, helpless, and sad. Tired of staying awake all through the night in solitude, I send a tanka poem to a woman who has not visited me for a long time:

Drenched in dew where mugwort grows so high,

I weep aloud with sorrow deep and true;

Unvisited as empty days go by,

My tears keep falling as I cry for you.

She now spends her retired days as a Buddhist nun, living in a temple with other nuns. She sends back this response:

Think of the mugwort in your ordinary home,

And pity this quiet compound where I reside—

Where wild grass thickens as the seasons roam,

Far from all cherished memories, set aside.