Life, less than a hundred years, floats like a boat on a river

On the constant pull to be visible and the good things that happen when we aren't

Life, less than a hundred years, floats like a boat on a river, mused the bow-tie-wearing taxi driver striding ahead of me, repeating one of my favourite lines of Japanese poetry.

It was a strange response to my question as to whether he was sure he could spare the time to accompany me to my destination on foot, but I think he meant that life is short and unpredictable, and serendipitous encounters are to be enjoyed. Mr Tsuji was quoting Zen monk and poet Ryōkan Taigu (1758–1831), whose hermitage we were on our way to visit.

I had only met Mr Tsuji half an hour earlier, when I had hopped into his taxi outside Tsubame-Sanjō station in rural Niigata. As we drove through miles of rice fields he remarked how curious it was that I wanted to go to Gogōan, the hut where Ryōkan settled at the age of forty, shortly after his father’s death.

‘It’s one of my favourite places,’ he said, ‘but no one ever asks to be taken there. And here you are, a foreigner, having come all this way to see it.’ I explained how I loved Ryōkan’s poetry, how it often led me to a place of stillness in my mind in a way I could not quite explain. I was interested to see where such a poet might have lived.

      Only two in the garden :
      plum blossoms at their peak
      And an old man full of years.
      - Untitled poem by Ryōkan in One Robe, One Bowl translated by John Stevens p.60

Me with Mr Tsuji, back when everyone wore COVID masks outdoors in Japan

We had parked near the base of Mount Kugami. Mr Tsuji had turned off the meter and declared that as he had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon, he would be glad to guide me up the mountain.

As we climbed – me in waterproof trousers and muddy walking boots, him in shiny black shoes and a creaseless blue suit – he told me what he knew of Ryōkan, how the Zen monk and poet had spent much of his time living alone in a small hermitage in the grounds of Kokujōji Temple here on Mount Kugami.

Rejecting any societal expectation, Ryōkan lived a simple life. He befriended the moon and the maples, read poetry, listened to the rain and wrote about it. His poetry is uncomplicated yet beautiful, and it gets to the heart of things. In just a few lines he manages to capture both the beauty of the natural world and the transient nature of life.

      How can we ever lose interest in life?
      Spring has come again
      And cherry trees bloom in the mountains.
    - Untitled poem by Ryōkan in One Robe, One Bowl translated by John Stevens p.61

Ryōkan alternately lamented and celebrated being cut off from news of the affairs of men and having nothing of substance to report about his own existence. Yet some of his poems contain sage life advice, encouraging us to stop chasing worldly things if we want to find true meaning. As I climbed I realised that besides a curiosity about how Ryōkan lived and a deep yearning for the stillness I sensed in his poems, it was this desire to stop chasing that had brought me to Mount Kugami. I wondered if having things of substance to report was perhaps not the point, even though the modern world seems designed to value such things above all else.

Mr Tsuji and I paused to rest on a fallen tree trunk and take in lungfuls of forest air. I took out a box of Pocky from my rucksack and shared the chocolate-dipped pretzel sticks, feeling like a small child on a secret adventure with a new friend.

When at last we arrived at the hermitage, we found a simple wooden structure raised off the ground, open on two sides and surrounded by trees. Rebuilt since Ryōkan’s time, the hut had settled into its surroundings and the thatched roof was covered in moss.

Gogōan, Ryōkan’s hermitage in Niigata

   A spring wind brought gentle rain,
   Soaking the grass roof during the night.
   Sleeping below in peace,
   How does the dweller know
   The happenings of the floating world?

   - Extract from an untitled poem by Ryōkan Taigu likely written in this very hut, as    quoted in Ryōkan Interpreted by Shōhaku Okumura p.90, who added this: 
"'The floating world' means this world in which we live that is always changing and where there is nothing to rely on... Even though, on one hand, it is the source of sadness, fear and anxiety, Japanese people have a sense that they enjoy these changes and the floating impermanence of the world."

These days the hermitage has no furniture except for a small butsudan altar, but if you had dropped in for tea at the rebel poet’s hut at the turn of the nineteenth century, you might have noticed a small desk to the side, carrying a lamp, a single ink stone and brush, and a small stack of beloved books, including the writings of Zen Master Eihei Dōgen, who he greatly admired. You might have heard a wild animal crying deep in the mountains, or found comfort in the sound of snowfall, just as Ryōkan did.

Mr Tsuji took himself off to lean against a tree, leaving me alone in the hut. I sat down on the smooth floorboards, imagining taking tea with Ryōkan in this remote place, whiling away hours pondering life, and watching him brush whispers of wisdom onto mulberry paper, waiting for the return of the moon.

I could hear birds calling and leaves rustling. A physical silence entered my body.

Day-to-day worries and to-do lists and other ruminations (Do this. Reply to this. Analyse what so-and-so meant by this.) vie for our attention with the external noise of the modern world (Watch this. ‘Like’ this. Buy this.) Much of it is generated by or captured on the smartphones we willingly keep close by at all times. We spend our attention to validate our experiences, boost our self-esteem and prove our worth.

Sitting on the floor of Ryōkan’s hut, on a mountainside far from home, with no mobile reception or internet access, I understood how this noise is a constant pull to be visible. These days, visibility is so often equated to value – status, presenteeism, possessions on show, achievements shouted out loud, follower numbers, constant reporting of what we have been doing and so on, not to mention the degree to which we respond to those who demand our attention. As a small business owner, I constantly feel this pressure. I understand the importance of this for building trust, and I am aware that if I don’t tell people about the things I have poured my heart into creating, those things cannot help or inspire them; but the constant launching, promoting and pushing forwards is exhausting, and the value placed on visibility makes me uncomfortable. (The irony of writing about this while launching a new book is not lost on me.)

There on the mountain, I sensed that perhaps there are some things that have been unknowingly cast aside in the wake of my own striving, which might have value to me personally – if only I could pause long enough to turn around and gather them up. Things like private moments of beauty, connection, peace and wonder.

There is nothing to do on the mountain other than the work of the kokoro*. To rest in stillness and be there, experiencing your place in the great web of things.

*The term ’kokoro’, which is the title of my new book, is a beautiful, untranslatable word in Japanese which approximates to ‘the intelligent heart’ but is much vaster and deeper than such a rough translation.

Poem by Ryōkan in Japan Season by Season by Sandrine Bailly

Having seen where Ryōkan lived, I now understood that his genius was in truly noticing the moment in front of him, and in being aware of how his heart responded to it. He paid attention and wrote it down. Indeed, Ryokan is oft-quoted as having said “Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow? Who knows? We are drunk on today!”

Inside Ryōkan’s hut, I felt far away from work obligations, deadlines, any kind of manmade urgency or the call to visibility. As strange as it sounds, I actually felt somehow wiser there; as if listening to nature with the entirety of my being on the land that had inspired one of Japan’s most famous poets had unlocked some wisdom I did not realise I had been carrying.

Or perhaps I had just heard the echo of Ryōkan’s ghost, whispering poetry on the wind.

The view from Mount Kugami

For all sorts of reasons modern society constantly pressures us to become more visible, and of course there are times when this visibility is essential for getting our creative ideas out in the world. But we must not forget that sometimes we have to retreat from the noise, and resist the pull towards visibility, in order to have those ideas in the first place.

The truth is, books like Kokoro don’t get written in the middle of the noise. We cannot grapple with a big idea or important question, or write a meaningful essay, poem or book when we have our energy focused on attention-seeking and numerics, or getting distracted by what other people are doing. In my experience, the serendipitous encounters and idea development which lead to our best work often come about precisely when we have stepped off the path.

We don’t have to get on a plane or go to a remote mountain to do this. We can wake in the quiet hours before dawn, take a long walk in the afternoon, sit in a cafe with a coffee and a notebook, or just look up, and see what arrives. I also know for sure that my best creative output is inversely proportional to the time I spend consuming media unrelated to the project I am working on.

When we allow ourselves to become less visible for a while, and instead offer our attention to the quiet beauty, suffering, magic and mystery of the world unfolding all around us, we can trust that we will return to the visible place with so much more to say. After all, isn’t that the point?

As I vault headlong into the fray for my book launch this week, I am reminding myself that it is just for a while, and I can retreat with my ideas again soon.

This essay was adapted from my new book KOKORO: Japanese wisdom for a life well lived, which is out now!

Beth Xx

NOTES

(1) References

If you are interested in exploring the life and poetry of Ryōkan I highly recommend the following books, which I used in my research for this piece:

• Ryōkan Interpreted by Shōhaku Okumura (Dogen Institute)

• One Robe, One Bowl: The Zen Poetry of Ryōkan by John Stevens (Weatherhill)

• Sky Above, Great Wind: The Life and Poetry of Zen Master Ryōkan by Kazuaki Tanahashi - I particularly loved the audiobook version

• Three Zen Masters: Ikkyū, Hakuin, Ryōkan by John Stevens (Kodansha)

(2) Travel note

I travelled to Ryōkan’s hermitage ‘Gogōan’ in the grounds of Kokujōji Temple on Mount Kugami, Niigata, in November 2022 as part of my research for Kokoro. It was a beautiful time to visit, with the mountain steps covered in fallen autumn leaves. The nearest shinkansen (bullet train) station is Tsubamesanjo which can be reached direct from Tokyo in under two hours. From there I took a taxi. I can’t guarantee you’ll get the lovely Mr Tsuji as your driver… You can find out more here.

(3) Images

All main images by Holly Bobbins Photography. Images taken at Mount Kugami are by Beth Kempton. Artwork where shown is by Emilie Van Camp.