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"Days and months are eternal travellers, as are the years that come and
go…"
This famous beginning of
Oku-no-Hosomichi means more than it says. As well as the continuity and
constancy of time, it is talking about its reverse, namely, the impermanence of
living things and ephemeral nature of our life, which has long been the essence
of Japanese literature, and Japanese Weltanschauung (view of life) in
general. The contradictory interaction between this permanence and impermanence
also forms the basis of Matsuo Basho’s creative force.
Part of the significance of the kind of journey
some of us WHC members and friends undertook in our Oku-no-Hosomichi Basho
Journey programme last September, was to experience, in person, the dynamic
interplay between permanence and impermanence at work. Almost everywhere we set
foot, the permanence was visible, audible and tangible, be it the flow of the
Mogami River, or the moss in Ungan-ji; the ripe golden sea of rice plants ready
for harvest; the inscription of the Tsubo-no-Ishibumi, or the heat of the hot
spring at Yudono-yama. The silence of Ryushaku-ji could almost painfully be
heard. The temple bell at Haguro-san, even when struck by an overseas visitor,
had the same permanent feel of reverberation. The sound of crickets, the smell
of misty rain, the touch of cold rocks; the taste of hot sake, the subdued
colour of a cryptomeria forest, the chanting of Buddhists or the tune of folk
songs; the giggling of northern girls, the way bush clover or pine trees are
placed and their relation to rocks and lakes…
On the other hand, we saw the bustling life of
the Japanese in the 21st century. The most ancient of the ancient temples were
visited by school children armed with all manner of electronic gadgets. The old
inn-keeper at Yama-dera looked up the flight time for me on the Internet. A
young lady with classic features while looking smart by London or Paris
standards, proved one of the best singers at a Karaoke bar, deplored excess
globalisation and showed sympathy with the view of the end of history.
In an even more complicated way, we saw what
has been permanent turn into impermanence, in such as what must have been a
magnificent complex of buildings at Taga-jo, northern-most fortress it once was,
but now just ruins; or the willow tree at Yugyo-yanagi in Ashino, which has been
planted and re-planted; or Kisagata islands and sea, which are now all land, as
the water was drained when the sea bed-rose after the earthquake in 1804. What
is impermanent also can turn into a permanent feature. All these ancient
buildings once were brand new, without exception. The beauty of sabi,
seen in many ancient monuments, would not have been present when still retaining
the original garish colours.
This puzzle that things change and yet, they do
not change, and that changing becomes unchanging, and unchanging becomes
changing, is our basic perception of the universe. If and when this puzzle is
solved, it probably would mean the ultimate triumph of science over religion and
of man over God. Or at least man’s knowledge and wisdom will have reached
those of a god who may well have been proved to be no more than one of man’s
inventions. However, that almost certainly would also mark the end of poetry,
and probably of all other arts as well. The puzzle must remain the puzzle along
the lines of panta rhei (everything is in a state of flux) of Heraclitus,
or yuku kawa no nagare no gotoshi (everything is like the flow of a
running river) of Kamo no Chomei, or l’évolution créatrice of
Henri Bergson.
The last thing Basho wanted was to master god(s)
or tempt God. He also knew the danger of staying still. That is why he went on
journeys many times, both physically and in his imagination. That is why he
compared life to a journey. When his lord, Todo Yoshitada, died young, it was a
grievous shock to the system for Basho, who was even younger. The upset
subsequently drove him on, from one place to another, and from one occupation to
another until he gave up everything to become virtually a mendicant poet, both
literally and figuratively. The important thing is that he also became an
itinerant poet in real terms as well as in his literary life.
According to Western logic, time either exists
or it doesn’t. According to the Eastern non-logic, time exists and it does not
exist. Haiku lies in-between the existing time and non-existent time. The same
can be said with the subjective and the objective, the particular and the
universal, ego and ego-less state, and man and nature. Without understanding
this paradox, perception based on ego or understanding based on linear logic
cannot go far or amount to much. Haiku poems churned out without such
understanding are shallow, self-conceited, one-sided and lacking in grace.
Such journeys as our Oku-no-Hosomichi provide
us with golden opportunities to learn so much. If “following in Basho’s
footsteps” means only following Basho, it would not get one very far. One
would probably end up in being less than a holiday-maker. As Basho said in
another context, we must seek what Basho sought during such a journey. And the
journey must not end when the physical one ends but must be continued mentally
as life itself is a journey. Haiku is a way of life, and must therefore be a
part of that journey.
