Fujiwara Teika (1162-1241)  is considered by many to be the preeminent Japanese poet.  As a poet, diarist and critic, his influence on premodern Japanese poetry is unsurpasssed.

His poetry specialized almost exclusively in the waka, the dominant lyrical form of the Japanese classical period, a five-line poem consisting of thirty-one syllables, arranged in measures of five syllables, then seven, five, seven, and seven.        

Touched by drizzling rain,
All around, the treetops
With their colours say
Autumn in evening is
A time of change, indeed.

                                     As I gaze out,
                                     Neither blossom nor Autumn leaves
                                     Are here;
                                     In a beachfront hut
                                     On an Autumn evening.

Fallen rain dripping
From the leaning eaves
So shallow that
Swiftly in pours
The moonlight.

                                Awaiting one whose
                                Path among the foothills
                                Has vanished, I think;
                                The cedar by my eaves
                                Is buried deep in snow.

Links:

A Prof studies this poet.

Various links and a good article.

His poems.

I have a bad habit of buying books.  Really it is the only bad habit that of mine that I can think of –unless it is overweening modesty (cough).  The reason this is a problem is that I have no more room for books.  All my bookshelves are full, and I have boxes of books in the garage and under the bed.  My house in Texas has bookshelves full of books, rooms full of books.  Why have I kept them all these years?  I admit it…it is a vice.   I have never been able to rid myself of books…except once when I thought that I was going to move I gave away 19 boxes of books to Goodwill.  I have regretted this rash act ever since.

So I have tried to buy fewer books and check out more from the library.  This has worked somewhat.  Below is a list of books checked out from the library this year.  Looking at the list and how small it is reminds me that this is just a small number of the books that I am reading.  The rest I  have bought or reread from my personal library.  It is embarrassing to look at the list.  Obviously I am no highbrow.  I lean to science fiction and action books.  I have been reading more mysteries also.  The problem with the library is that sometimes I am forced to read a particular book.  They often don’t have the books that I am looking for, so out of a sense of desperation, I pick out something that normally I would never buy or read otherwise.  It’s hard, this habit of mine.  I know it is useless to complain though since I have always been this way, and I really don’t think that I can change.

Spring is marching on here.  A couple of days ago my feet were slipping on the front steps, and for a brief flash I thought there was frost.  Further examination revealed that there was a thin, slippery layer of what appeared to be yellow flour.   As I walked to my car I could see a fine fall in the air of tiny particles in the slanting rays of the morning sun.  It was the pollen of the Douglas Fir tree , and it had coated my car with its profligate scattering of germ plasm.  It was deja vu all over again.  I had written almost the same exact words two years ago on this blog on April 7.  Check that post for a photo of the pollen on my car windshield.   These dates lend credence to my impression that this entire season is almost two weeks late because of the unusually cold winter that we have had.  It has not been really cold, just 6 or 7 degrees cooler than usual.  This apparently has delayed the flower blossoming, etc.

Douglas Fir pollen on my mailbox

I was thinking this two nights ago as I went out into the night and smelled the wonderful perfume of the budding cottonwoods.  When the trees begin to put forth their leaves, a delicious, sticky resin that coats the tender buds puts forth this incredible aroma.  This is the Balm of Gilead, believed to be that mentioned in Genesis that was gathered from the tree Commiphora gileadensis, native to southern Arabia.  I love to rub these buds between my fingers, smearing the sticky stubstance all over and then deeply inhaling the smell.  Normally I smell this perfume at the first of April, but it is just now coming forth almost three weeks late.

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.

The horse tails are also putting forth.  Their hard bodies with silica on their cells used to be employed as scouring rushes.  They are putting forth their reproductive bodies now (strobilus, see photo) and also their vegetative structures which when fully formed, open up to provide a beautiful display of wispy plants which  has given rise to their name of horse tails.  The one photo shows the plant coming up through the hard asphalt pavement of the road.   These are all photos that I took this morning on my walk.

Equisetum strobili which produce the spores of Horsetails.

I just had to include another photo of a beautiful clump of Trillium that I found this morning and a shot of the early Azalea/Rhododendron(?) that is blooming in my back yard just now.

The Trilliums are at their height, and provide a visual delight on walks through the woods just now.

Trilliums are blooming all through the woods.

The unexamined life is not worth living.

Socrates, in Plato, Dialogues, Apology
Greek philosopher in Athens (469 BC – 399 BC)

I am reading Peter Pouncey’s book, Rules for Old Men Waiting, enjoying the wonderful writing and the images and thoughts that were evoked.  I got to thinking about how difficult it is today to lead a quiet contemplative life, and started wondering how this lack of quiet and solitary contemplation affects the minds and souls of the young people growing  up in this society.  I wonder if growing up in a quiet setting somehow deepens the thoughts and mind of an individual, as opposed to a person who grows up in a noisy, jangly type of environment.

It seems to me that when a person is distracted by the many blandishments of our modern civilization, then we can’t really pay proper attention to ourselves–to our lives.  If we can not examine our lives in a conscious sort of way as we travel through, then we may wake up late in life realizing that we have been led astray by cheap, tawdry distractions.  If we are taken from ourselves by the bright flashing lights of our society, then how can we really know what we want?  How can we come to realize just exactly what it is that is important?

It is hard in such circumstances to act with purpose.  It is hard to be deliberate and methodical in pursuing our goals.  It is hard to delve deep within to really understand ourselves.  Leading a quiet sort of life, surrounded by beautiful things, helps us to become aware of ourselves and how we fit into this amazing existence.  I’m afraid that growing up exposed to the constant external stimulation of our society distracts us from ourselves.

This not to say that external stimulation is bad.  We need the stimulation of new ideas and attitudes to grow and become.  I just fear that we have lost the ability for quietness, to sit alone, to think…

Trillium's are blooming all through the woodlands.

Another plant which, like the Trillium, has oil appendages on the seed and is dispersed by ants.

On my morning walk which I try to take as soon as I arise from bed, I saw     numerous Western Trilliums blooming throughout the woods.  They are inconspicuous the rest of the year, and I never notice them until they bloom.

I was also pleased and happy to find a flower which I have never seen before in the neighborhood.  Hidden along a steep bank of the stream bed, I found a lovely patchof Pacific Bleeding hearts (Dicentra formosa).  I wasn’t sure if I could climb safely down the embankment, but I was determined to examine this flower up close and take some photos.  The name refers to the heart-shaped appearance of the flowers, and Dicentra refers to the two spurs on the outer leaves.  The specific name , formosa, means beautiful or handsome.  I have photographed these beautiful flowers back east, but I don’t believe that I have seen them in Washington.  I took both of these photographs this morning.

Both of these species have oil rich structures (elaiosomes) which some believe attract ants which help to disperse the seeds  Seed dispersal by ants (myrmecochory) is a wonderful example of mutualism between species.  I have written about this before in a prior post.  I quote below the advantages of such a relationship from a paper on the Australian museum site:

1. Reduces competition between young plants and their parents. By distancing the seed from the parent plant and sibling seedlings it lowers the likelihood of competition for resources.
2. Reduces the amount of seeds lost to predation. By moving the seeds into ant nests, it is more difficult for other seed-eating animals to get to them.
3. Provides favourable conditions for seedling growth. Soil in ant nests is less compacted and richer in nutrients than surrounding soils. This is a great advantage to seedlings in arid environments like the Australian interior, which generally have hard, infertile soils.
4. Provides protection from harsh environmental conditions. By moving the seeds below ground they are protected from fire and high summer temperatures.
5. Provides protection for eggs of other insects. Some insects have exploited the seed dispersal behaviour of ants. Stick insects, for example lay eggs that mimic seeds. These seed-like eggs are taken back to ant nests where they are guarded or discarded by the ants. When the young stick insect hatches, some species look and behave much like an ant. This method acts to disperse the stick insects as much as it does the seeds they mimic.

Here is an interesting annotated bibliography of the behavior.

I admit it.  I’m musically illiterate (also I’m not a big he-man :cough:).  It is not that I do not like music, I do, it is just that I tend to be unconscious of it.  I almost never listen to music on the radio or disc players.  I have two really nice stereo systems and several smaller players.  I have a nice radio in my car with a dvd  player that holds 6 discs.  I have the means to listen to music, but I tend to be indifferent to it.  When I think of my preferences in music, I tend to like classical, jazz, new age, blue grass, folk music from all over the world, and what I call unusual music,  but as I said, I rarely am aware of it.

I currently am going through one of my spells of trying to listen to more music.  I bought a cheap mp3 player for example.  Right now I am listening to some mp3 files on my laptop (Miles Davis, Kind of Blue, 1959), so it’s not as if I am against music!  It’s just that I don’t think of it that much, and I rarely am affected emotionally by it–with two notable exceptions both by Beethoven.  I can’t really remember exactly when these amazing pieces of music came to my attention, but it had to be late in my life.  I can’t really explain my reactions to them.   Something about them reaches down into my soul and elicits tears, almost every time.  It’s plumb embarrassing, that’s what it is.

Moonlight Sonata is the first of the two,  notably the first movement (although the second and third are wonderful).   Beethoven composed this music in 1801, dedicating it to a pupil (Countess Giulietta Guiciardi).   Apparently he proposed to her right after dedicating the music to her.  Her parents, however, prevented the willing Countess from accepting.  The first movements starts  out in a low,  melancholy sort of lament that affects me deeply every time that  I listen closely to it.  Listen to the movements here on Wikipedia and read this: “The movement has made a powerful impression on many listeners; for instance, Berlioz wrote that it “is one of those poems that human language does not know how to qualify.” The work was very popular in Beethoven’s day, to the point of exasperating the composer, who remarked to Czerny, “Surely I’ve written better things.”

I tried to find out something about Fur Elise, and found that it affects many other people the same way!  There seems to be some commonality of spirit in people that reacts similarly to this music.  I also found that there is also some controversy over the name.

Fur Elise (For Elise) was written around 1810 when Beethoven was about 40 years old.  A researcher finding the manuscript claimed that the dedication read Fur Elise.  However, the dedication has been lost and most researchers believe that the researcher must have misread Beethoven’s atrocious hand writing, and that the inscription probably was dedicated to Therese, referring to Therese Malfatti who was studying under him at this time and was known to have turned down his marriage proposal.  Most reject this speculation however.

More speculation was fueled by the discovery of a letter after his death addressed to “My Immortal Beloved.”  No connection with an Elise or Therese was found however.  Another hypothesis says that Elise was a type of generic name for sweetheart at that time, and that the piece was written for all sweethearts.  This also is unknown.  This seems to me to totally specious.

Whoever it was dedicated to, it seems more likely to me to have been a woman that was loved by Beethoven.  Just listen to it.  How can it not be? (I hope to put in a small file of this music, but in the meantime you can listen and download  it here.)

I was reading this incredible book (God’s Demon by Wayne Barlowe) about the demons of hell and the story of one demon who attempted to regain Heaven and I came across this character called Lilith.  I had heard of Lilith before, of course, but I really knew nothing about her.

Much has been written about Lilith.  There were stories of demons named Lilitu and Lilu in ancient Sumeria and Assyria which took on various attributes, but  often interacted with people in a number of sexual ways.    One source describes her as:

“A female demon of the night who supposedly flies around searching for newborn children either to kidnap or strangle them. Also, she sleeps with men to seduce them into propagating demon sons. Legends told about Lilith are ancient. The rabbinical myths of Lilith being Adam’s first wife seem to relate to the Sumero-Babylonian Goddess Belit-ili, or Belili. To the Canaanites, Lilith was Baalat, the “Divine Lady.” On a tablet from Ur, ca. 2000 BCE, she was addressed as Lillake. ”

There are many ancient allusions to her, but the accounts that I find the most interesting is the references to her from Jewish FolkloreSome of these stories said that God created Lilith before Eve as quoted below from an article in Wikipedia. The photograph is also from Wikipedia:

“After God created Adam, who was alone, He said, ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’ He then created a woman for Adam, from the earth, as He had created Adam himself, and called her Lilith. Adam and Lilith immediately began to fight. She said, ‘I will not lie below,’ and he said, ‘I will not lie beneath you, but only on top. For you are fit only to be in the bottom position, while I am to be the superior one.’ Lilith responded, ‘We are equal to each other inasmuch as we were both created from the earth.’ But they would not

listen to one another. When Lilith saw this, she pronounced the Ineffable Name and flew away into the air.”

The angels chased after Lilith to bring her back but she would not come, agreeing to one hundred of her babies dying each year as a penalty, but having dominion over boy babies by causing them sickness for eight days after birth, and female babies for twenty days after birth.

When the angels insisted on returning her, she agreed to leave the babies alone if they wore an amulet with the likenesses or names of the angels upon it.  Thus for over a thousand years the Jewish people made amulets for their children to ward off her daughters who were called the Lilim.

Thus two traditions of stories portray Lilith in two ways: one as an incarnation of lust that leads men astray, and another as a baby strangling witch.  Here is an interesting account of the legends.

Long ago I read an early English comparison of a man’s life to that of a sparrow, who flies through a mead hall out of a stormy winter’s night.  The sparrow is briefly exposed to the light, warmth and safety of the hall before it vanishes back into the night and storm.  I have always remembered this and have thought of how apt it was, but I had forgotten the reference until now. 

         I looked it up and found that this story was told by The Venerable Bede in his The Ecclesiastical History of the English People.  In Northumbria of the seventh century, King Edwin called a meeting to decide if missionaries should be allowed to preach.  Paulinus had tried to convert Edwin to become a Christian, but Edwin wished to consult his friends and advisors.  The chief priest Coifi recommended that Edwin follow the teaching of Christianity, and another advisor agreed saying:

“The present life of man upon earth, O King, seems to me in
comparison with that time which is unknown to us like the
swift flight of a sparrow through mead-hall where you sit
at supper in winter, with your Ealdormen and thanes,
while the fire blazes in the midst and the hall is warmed,
but the wintry storms of rain or snow are raging abroad.
The sparrow, flying in at one door and immediately out
at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry
tempest, but after a short space of fair weather, he im-
mediately vanishes out of your sight, passing from winter
to winter again. So this life of man appears for a
little while, but of what is to follow or what went before
we know nothing at all. If, therefore, this new doctrine
tells us something more certain, it seems
justly to be followed in our kingdom.”

The below site depicts a sparrow in flight through such a mead hall:

http://www.pastperfect.org.uk/sites/yeavering/images/sparrowclip_c.html

It was with sorrow that I recently read of Tony Hillerman’s death.  Mr. Hillerman was of course the author of many fine books, with perhaps the series about the Navajo policemen, Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee, being his most famous.  Hillerman presented these mystery stories in the context of the Navajo culture, showing the difficulties that modern Navajos face and at the same time instructing the reader in the culture.

If you haven’t read Hillerman’s novels then you have a rare treat ahead of you.  If I were just beginning his novels then I would start at the beginning and read each in chronological order.  One thing that he describes in lovely evocative detail is the land in the four corners area.  He describes the canyons, the desert, the plants, the colors, the weather in such a way that, although I have been through this area before, he makes me want to go back and spend time there.

However, what made me want to write a note about him was a passage that I was just reading in his second book, The Dance Hall of the Dead. Leaphorn, the Navajo policeman, was standing by some men who were digging the body of a brutally murdered boy from an embankment.  As the men dug the body out in a slow methodical sort of way,  Leaphorn was watching the sunrise and how it shown and illuminated the buttes and canyons of the area.  He seemed to be concentrating on the beauty before him and not upon the horrendous scene unfolding at his feet.

Here is another passage in the words of Jim Chee which reflects his peoples attitude toward not only beauty but of the interconnectedness of this existence:

“Everything is connected. The wing of the corn beetle effects the direction of the wind, the way the sand drifts, the way the light reflects into the eye of man beholding his reality. All is part of totality, and in this totality man finds his horzo, his way of walking in harmony, with beauty all around him.”

The Navajo people have this sense of appreciating the beauty around us and have written several poems, chants and prayers about it.  The following is one version of a prayer from the Navajo Nightway Chant:

Beauty is before me

and

Beauty behind me, above me and

below me hovers the beautiful.

I am surrounded by,

I am immersed in it.

In my youth, I am aware of it,

and, in old age,

I shall walk quietly the beautiful trail.

In beauty it is begun.

In beauty it is ended.

I pray that I will be able to “walk quietly the beautiful trail.”

    I have recently become fascinated by the idea of sentience in machines and the nature of consciousness.  To explore this idea and to work it out in my own mind, I began to write a story about the subject.  Below is an excerpt: 

                         “My drowsiness instantly vanished, replaced by an anger that grew and grew.  I rose to my feet, feeling the fury possess me, fill me, banishing all conscious thought. A great redness filled my vision, and I felt a great heat on my face.  I tried to draw my sword, but could not; looking down I saw that Hiram held my wrist in an immovable grip.  I cursed him in a low, vicious voice as I struggled with him to no effect.  Finally I broke away.  I looked at Crates. 

“It is ended.  We are finished.  Never speak to me, do not follow me.  I never, ever want to see you again.”  I turned and left the room, left the inn.  I began to run through the darkened, empty streets of the town.  I reached the beach and ran along the wet sands at the edge of the waves.  I ran the rest of the night, until grey dawn filled the east.  As I ran I felt a great heaviness leave me; I grew lighter and lighter until I flew across the sand.  I ran until I grew transparent, filled with the rising sun.  I ran until I reached a group of fisherman repairing their nets beside some huts in the red light of dawn.

                    The fisherman stopped their work and stared at me as I ran up and stopped.  I turned and looked out to sea, and then realized that the great Liondog, or Komainu, was at my side.  He had apparently run along with me on his great silent feet.  I put my hand on his massive head which came to just below my shoulder.  I watched the waves, the froth white and glowing in the morning sun.  I stroked the dog, taking comfort in his presence.

        Back at the inn, I felt that I had hated Crates.  I hated what I felt to be his presumption of godhood; I hated what he had done to all the meks, changing them, filling them with dreams and hopes.  I realized that this feeling had been growing along our journey.  I also realized that it was a remnant of what I had felt long ago when I had battered Crates with my sword and had put him in that tower.  I looked into myself, wondering just exactly what it was that angered me.  I knew that it had something to do with my resistance to the idea that meks were conscious entities in their own right.  If they were conscious, feeling, beings…what did that make them?  And why did this bother me? 

           Because I realized that all along, deep down inside, as I lived with these machines, worked with them, I did not really consider them as being on the same level as me.  I realized that I considered them as something less, tools, menials…I wasn’t sure.But I also realized that on this journey, my feelings had begun to change.  I mean really change on some deep level.  I gave lip service when I spoke of their equality with people, but there was this other part of me that resisted this idea.  It was this resentment combined with shame that I could think such things, that had been building, and had erupted back at the inn. 

          I turned back to the fisherman, pointed at my mouth and said, “Food?  Do you have any food?”  I was hungry as usual.They brought me a large baked sea bream, encrusted with crystals of sea salt and lying on a cedar plank.  I sat on a great silver driftwood log with the Liondog at my feet.  I broke the skin of the fish with the chopsticks and slowly ate the steaming white flesh of the fish, washing it down with cold sweetened rice water.  I offered bites of the fish to Liondog, but he seemed disinclined to sample it.

          “I don’t have anything else to offer you,” I said, my mouth full of fish.  “Perhaps I can get some more substantial fare for you later.”  Lion dog just looked at me with his green eyes.  I found myself talking to him as if he really understood me.  The villagers were extremely wary of him…and of me for that matter, and kept their distance, but I could see them staring and talking excitedly amongst themselves. 

          “Well, Dog, we have at least given them something to talk about.  I don’t think they lead very exciting lives.”  I thought about their lives then, of them living on the offerings and vagaries of the sea, living with the rhythm of the seasons.   I decided that it could be a very satisfying life.

          After I had finished the meal, I realized that I had run off with just the clothes on my back.  I only had a few coins in my pocket, but when I offered it to the cook, a wrinkled old lady with most of her teeth missing, it was refused with emphatic gestures.  Nothing I did or said could induce her to take payment.I turned then and started off running with Dog by my side.  I had no destination, no real purpose.  I just wanted to be by myself for a while.For a while?  I felt just now that I had absolutely no desire to rejoin the Menagerie. 

           I traveled slowly down the beach, paralleling the coast road, avoiding the towns mostly.  Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.  I slept on the beach and bathed in the numerous freshwater streams that flowed cold from the shaggy mountains.  My hair and beard grew, my clothes became tattered, but I took very good care of the katana, and I had picked up my staff of  loquat wood as I ran from the inn.

          One night on a particularly desolate stretch where the hills covered with great stands of Spruce and Hemlock marched down to the beach, and where great piles of silver logs of driftwood lay just above the wrack line, I made my camp.  The night sky was strewn with an infinity of stars, and the sound of the surf was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sounds of something approaching through the sand.  Dog was the first to hear it as I fed white branches of driftwood to the fire, watching the salt impregnated wood flare and make colors.  His ears had pricked and he made a low snuffling sound as he turned out towards the darkness.  Finally I heard it too.  My hand went to the Katana, and I drew back from the fire into the darkness.  Dog was night itself as he left the circle of light.

              “Hello the fire,” came a voice.

                “Advance and identify yourself,” I said.  Out of the darkness I saw a familiar shape shamble into the light.  At first I felt irritation, but that was immediately replaced by a sense of relief mingled with pleasure.

                “Ro!”

               “Sam?” 

       His optical sensors rose and turned towards me.  He had modified his body since I had seen him last, but he still resembled a large tarantula made up of cast off machine parts.I walked back to the fire. 

                “Why have you come, Ro?”

He squatted by the fire and extended his Waldos to it as if he were warming himself.  He had learned to mimic human behavior very well.He turned to me. 

                 “Perhaps Sam, I should ask you first why you left?”

                  “No, Ro.  Tell me now.  Why have you followed me?”

                   “No Sam!”  His voice had risen and all of his sensors had extended and were directed at me.  “Why Sam?  Why did you threaten Crates and then run off into the night like that?  What could have possessed you to desert your friends as you did?”

I felt surprise and then anger as I looked at Ryokan.  Surprise that he had dared to question me, and then anger at what I felt was his impertinence.Then I thought, “This is only a machine.  It is only following its programming.  One might as well become angry at a pencil sharpener.  There is nothing there but an artificial brain, electrons and god knew what else.”

            I sat down trying to calm myself with these thoughts, but that doubt which had been building on this journey kept growing and intruding into my thoughts.  Ryokan had saved my life from that little eater that had burrowed into my leg.  He had been a friend and a companion since he joined us.  He had this annoying but endearing personality, and it was a personality.   I did not understand how a machine could have a personality, but like the rest of our group, Crates and Hiram, he did.  All along I had been acting as if I believed that these machines were conscious entities, taking things on face value, but it was really just an act of convenience on my part.  I hadn’t really believed it…but now I was faced with the personhood of these machines. 

         Ryokan reached out a Waldo and placed it on my knee, and then said as if he could read my thoughts, “Sam, we all love you.  Crates, Hiram, and yes, if I may be so presumptuous even I do.  We are your friends and your companions.  We may not be of your flesh, Sam, but I have come to know that underneath our exteriors, we share what is really important.  We not only share the basic needs and emotions of all self-aware entities, but we share a common heritage, a common outlook on life, a common history if you will.  I have but begun upon The Way of the Bright Path, Sam, but I have learned this.  You are my friend and more, Sam, and I want to share this existence with you…this great adventure.”

                I clutched his Waldo in my hand.  I felt most of my conflicts just melt away.  I knew they hadn’t resolved completely, but I felt just now that it didn’t matter.   Dog came out of the darkness and lay at our feet.  Ryokan reached out and stroked his head. 

               “Interesting Sam.  It does seem to enjoy the tactile stimulation.  Perhaps someday in the far future, I will be able to install tactile sensors into my person.  Of course I would need the requisite upgrades to really feel the sensations.  And that might require more extensive modification than I realize.   Hmmm…”

          I burst out laughing, wondering at a conscious machine whose senses were so vastly different than mine, wondering how in the world we could share a common outlook on existence, and realized that we could never share an outlook congruent on all points, but I knew that we could share enough to have a common ground on which we could interact and overlook our differences.

         “I know, Sam,” said Ryokan.  “Perhaps we are more different than alike.  But that’s ok, we’ll get along just fine.”

             And so we did in the weeks and months to come as we wandered this beautiful world. ”

I am always on the lookout for poems that I like.  I find that Japanese poets often provide the succinct but poignant quality that appeals to me.  Here are some poems of Izumi Shikibu which I like.  I had never heard of this particular lady until somebody told me about her.  She lived around the year 1000 in Heian Japan and became one of the celebrated court ladies of this time, living an unconventional sort of life, taking many lovers and writing poetry.

Out of the dark,
Into a dark path
I now must enter:
Shine [on me] from afar
Moon of the mountain fringe

Another version (thanks to T):

                                                               The way I must enter

                                                                leads through darkness to darkness-

                                                                 O moon above the mountains’ rim,

                                                                  Please shine a little further

                                                                   on my path

                                             Is it only I
                                             Who will hold you in my thoughts?
                                              How terrible,
                                              That you, my destination
                                               Should not know at all.

In Autumn,
Unwracked by cares
The reed fronds too
Hang heavy at the tips
With dewfall upon them. 

                                                                        I’m at such a loss;
                                                                        Fireflies by the marsh:
                                                                        From my breast
                                                                        Wanders out
                                                                        My soul, or so it seems.
Folk their hearts
Exchange for love;
As moths
Plainly will be burnt,
Yet they see it not

                                               Related links:

Illustrations of the Illustrated Man

Poems of a Saikoku Pilgrimage

Translations from Japanese (Rexroth)

 Blackberries

 We were just friends when

 you tripped on the blackberry vine.

 I got to my knees beside you and

Helped pick out the thorns,

Putting your fingers in my mouth to

Bite them out with my teeth.

Then to make you laugh I fed you

Sun-warmed blackberries

Lying there in the grass, and

Then I kissed you,tasting the

Blackberry juice on your

Lips and tongue.         

       I just recently got back from my annual trip to Texas to visit my folks.  My father got an apartment this past year so that he could be closer to my mother.  This way he could visit her daily and not have to make the long commute back and forth to his house.  I stayed with him at the apartment for a while, visiting my mother daily, before going with him on a road trip to the panhandle of Florida.  We did this last year and enjoyed the trip very much.  It was the same this year.  I think the best part was the driving together, seeing new things and just spending time together.  I can’t begin to express how satisfying this was to me.

               We came back to the lake houses and worked  hard for a week, mowing, cutting downed trees, clearing fallen branches, etc.  It was hot…107 one time with every day over 100.  I sweated…oh man, how I sweated.  I also got bites.  I’m not sure from what all.  I know there were ants and mosquitoes…but how to explain the rows of small bumps making elongated welts that have popped up in such unexpected places?  I thought I knew most of the biting critters…chiggers, ticks, spiders, etc.  But none of them produce the bumps that I got…and still have (scratching this inch long welt on my forefinger)!  This could be the result of handling poison ivy I suppose…but what about these (scratching furiously)?

     The idea of simplicity in our lives seems to be growing in our awareness.  We find that in an increasingly complex existence, simplification has an immense appeal.  We seem to have too many things, and our lives become filled with clutter, both physically and mentally.  Sometimes we yearn for simpler times when the world was easier to comprehend.  However, as I talked about in the Haiku section, simplicity can in itself be extremely complex, e.g.  fly fishing, ideograms, haiku.  Most activities, if enough skill is involved, can be reached through hard effort only, where the inherent complexity is reduced to apparent simplicity.  And beliefs…does one begin with elaborate formulations of thought only to simplify with study and time?  Do the gods and goddesses with their elaborate history become over time the one god and then a generalized “creator” that has no corporeality of any type?

     The movement toward simplicity seems to be spreading.  David Bruno has started what he calls the 100 Thing Challenge.  He is attempting to whittle his possessions down to just 100 items (See Time Magazine article June 5, 2008).  One thing this effort taught him was deciding what was really important in his life.

       I have only once experienced the exhilaration that comes from having almost nothing.  I was living in an apartment at the time and awoke about 3 am for some reason.  The door to my bedroom was half open and I could see a flickering orange light reflecting on it.  I rose and rushed into the living room to see that a fire had started in the corner of the apartment.  As I looked for something to put it out, the flames caught a large paper Japanese lantern that hung in the corner and with a loud whoosh and crackle the lantern, the curtains, the couch practically exploded in flames.  There I was, naked, the heat singing my face, my hair.  I could hear the window glass break and the distant shouts of somebody on the street.  Dense choking smoke filled the room.

     The smart thing to have done was to immediately leave the apartment…but I was unclothed, and loathe to run naked out on to the cold January streets.  So I ran back into the bedroom, pulled on a pair of blue jeans, ran back into blazing living room and tried to open the door which led into the hall way.  For some reason the door stuck, and at the first few tugs refused to open.  Since this had never happened before, I am not sure of the cause.  Perhaps the door expanded in the heat, or there was a pressure differential caused by  the superheated air.  I felt a moment that almost verged on panic, but then with a great tug I was able to open the door and go out into the pitch black hallway.   If I had been smart, I would have gotten to my hands and knees and crawled along that choking hall.  The next day I could see where its walls were darkend by the black smoke to within a foot of the floor.  Instead, choking on the smoke, I groped my way to the stairway door and made my way down to the first floor and then outside.

     Later, going to the hospital wearing nothing but my blue jeans, no shirt and no shoes (no service?), I felt a sense of release thinking about the loss of all my possessions (few though they were at the time!).  A new start!  A new beginning with nothing to tie or weigh me down.   I remember this sense of freedom and exhilaration today, when I ponder the immense burden of possessions that weighs my life down.  I think of the 100 Thing Challenge and wonder if it might be a worthwhile endeavor.  I would have to exclude my books from the calculation of course!

More infliction… 

Leave Taking 

 Shall I leave in the summer

 while cicadas shrill and

The nights are full of gardenia

and honeysuckle?

Or shall I leave in Autumn

with Crimson maples and

The harvest moon?

Perhaps in Winter with

the sting of sleet and

the rattle of bare branches

in a hopeless wind?

No! I want to go in

early Spring with

crocus and nodding daffodils

in a light mist with

rain dripping from the eaves…

“May I live simply, that others may simply live.” Mahatma Ghandhi 

I thought that I might put some of my poems in some of my posts.  This is one:

Reflection

When you ponder the

Calendar of your days,

Do you recall the times

Of strife, of betrayal,

Of heartbreak?

Or…do you recall the

Quiet calm times filled

With beauty and tranquility?

Basho (Matsuo Kinsaku–ca. 1644-1694) was one of the most influential of the Japanese poets, famous for his hakai and clear haiku poems.  I first encountered him while reading some of his accounts of his wanderings across Japan in which he combined his description of the journey with his poetry (The Narrow Road to the Deep North). Check the links for more on the life of this wonderful man.  I will be adding some of my favorites of his poems in the days to come…

This first fallen snow
is barely enough to bend
the jonquil leaves

Into the ancient pond
A frog jumps
Water’s sound!

(see here for 30 translations of this poem, probably the most famous in Japan)

Breaking the silence
Of an ancient pond,
A frog jumped into water —
A deep resonance.

On a withered branch
a crow is perched:
an autumn evening.

Wikipedia article

A very readable account of his life…part of this wonderful site

Three days ago as I walked down my favorite road to the nearby beach, I came across this teeny-tiny little grey creature lying on its back on the side of the road. This little mammal was a shrew, apparently the Wandering or Vagrant Shrew (Sorex vagrans) as far as I could make out. I often find shrews lying dead in a path or a road. They never show any traumatic injury, and apparently they have simply died of some subtle cause. They usually don’t live long in the wild: one year or so, rarely surviving the second winter, but in captivity they average 2-3 years. I walked on down the road and found a mole (probably Townsend’s mole, Scopanus townsendii) lying on the side of the road just like the shrew–no mark or any sign of trauma. Both of these creatures had apparently died in the night judging by the freshness of their little bodies. The night wasn’t especially cold or wet, and I couldn’t think of any factor that might account for their dying.

A few minutes later I saw an Anna’s hummingbird. The temperature was in the upper thirties or lower forties and there were few Spring blossoms available for the hummingbird to gather nectar.

All of these creatures are homiothermic (warm-blooded) animals, and because of their small size they face some unusual problems. Homiotherms must maintain their body temperature within narrow limits in order to function properly. If you are very small AND warm-blooded like the shrews, you have a large surface area/volume ratio, and consequently you radiate a great deal of heat through this large surface area. Shrews have to eat almost constantly to replace the energy that is pouring from their bodies like water down an open drain. In one day they can eat their entire body weight. These little creatures are like small furnaces burning at a furious rate. On cold wet days the demands upon such animals are even higher.

When a creature doubles its linear dimensions, say it’s length, the surface area increases by 4x (squares) whereas it’s volume (wt) increases by 8X (cubes)! The ratio between the surface area and volume halves each time the linear dimension doubles.  Thus there is more volume in proportion to the surface area which makes it easier to retain heat.  Likewise these parameters diminish proportionately as the linear dimensions become smaller. There are all sorts of biological ramifications from this physical fact.

     I just finished a biography of Einstein, Einstein, His Life and Universe by Walter Isaacson.  I really liked the book which showed aspects of his life of which I was unfamiliar.

    I was very impressed with Einstein’s child-like qualities, his idealism, his kindness and his wry, self-deprecating humor.  Of course I knew he was a genius, but the book rounded his life out, presenting it in context with his family, his early life, his marriages and his close interactions with colleagues.  He was intensely individualistic, and could not abide any restraints upon his personal freedom.  Later in his life he modified slightly his pacifist views (after Nazi Germany began its aggression)  and became involved in politics, advocating a world government and Socialism.  He was adamantly against all forms of totalitarianism that subjected the individual to the whims of the state.

    Sometimes I get the feeling that there are people in our society today that, like some totalitarian states, demand “correct action” from the citizens.  I try to tell myself that this need that people have for behavioral correctness is a good thing, that they are not so jaded and blase that they don’t believe that there are ethical ways of acting, and that there are standards of behavior that a person should follow.

    However, the problem that can arise from this mode of thinking is that people often proceed from the idea that certain standards of behavior should be followed, to the idea that other people must follow these standards of behavior that is so dear to their ideas of what is right.  And if such people are in positions of power then…why then,  it’s just another form of totalitarianism

     Once again I am reading a novel by Tim Powers.  A new Border’s Book Store opened up nearby, and I found two of his novels that I haven’t read before: The Drawing of the Dark and Three Days to Never.  A few months ago, I talked about reading another of his recent books, Declare, and stating that I hated to finish the book because I was enjoying it too much.  That’s the way I feel about The Drawing of the Dark.   I limit myself to a few pages a day so I won’t tear through it in one great gulp.  I haven’t yet read a book by Powers that I didn’t like.   It doesn’t seem quite right to say that he writes about the supernatural or the fantastical, which he does, but it’s more than that.  He often combines the fantastic with history, combining it at times into a kind of mystery story, all done with a remarkable feel for the peculiar atmosphere and ambiance which gives all his books their appeal.

     On my walk to the beach yesterday, I saw three Bald Eagles.  Today I heard an immature Bald Eagle calling, as I also did yesterday, in one stretch of forest on the way to the beach.  For at least the past 6 years I have heard immature eagles calling in this same stretch of woods, and assume that the eagles nest in that area.  The woods is now surrounded by residential area, and I fear for its safety.

     I saw a flock of 44 Common Mergansers swimming along the margins of the Sound also.  The males are always less numerous in such flocks and look totally different from the females.  There were only ten males in this flock.

Every May when the large rhododendron by the driveway begins to bloom, eventually producing this incredibly lovely display of pink blossoms that cover the entire plant, I begin to feel this tension. As I drive out every morning I stop and roll down my car window and look at the exquisite details in the pink flowers–the stamens, the pistil, the small brown speckles in the throat of the flower. At night when I return they seem to glow in the darkness welcoming me home.

And yet at the very height of the blooming period, I begin to experience a curious feeling of delight and apprehension. When I first felt this tension upon viewing the flowers, I was confused as to its origin. Why should I experience this sensation? Then as the blooming period reached its zenith and the flowers begin to turn brown and fall about the base of the huge plant, I understood. As I gazed on the brown withered blossoms clinging to the plant and strewn about the ground, I knew that the sweet, exquisite loveliness of the blossoms was transient, fleeting, and that soon they would wither and die. The presence of such exuberant life in sharp juxtaposition with decay and death produced this tension in me–produced a mixture of sweet melancholy and joy at the same time.

Upon reflection I realize that I have often had this particular feeling throughout my life. I remember once looking at the hand of a girl that I was holding. Moonlight shown down on us, and as I looked at her hand in mine, I thought of the beauty of the smooth flesh and how soon it would in the not too distant future become wrinkled and old before it eventually turned to dust. I became filled with a sense of how transient life was and a sadness filled me. “Bones,” I muttered which caused her to jerk her hand back in surprise.

I felt the same emotion reading war time letters from my father to his family and looking at photographs of him and my mother during that turbulent time. I felt it especially strong looking at photographs of my father and his best friend. They had grown up together in a small Texas town, gone to the same schools, played football on the same team. This friend had a car and would carry my father and my mother about during their courtship. They both had graduated on a Friday and both went into the military service on Monday–my father into the Army-Airforce, and his best friend into the Marines. I used to look at their picture together standing in front of my father’s house with their arms on each other’s shoulders —two young men with all their lives ahead of them.  My father lived through the war and now has children, grandchildren and great grandchildren and is still alive and healthy today at age eighty-three. His friend? He died a hero’s death at Iwo Jima and was awarded the Navy Cross. He lies in the black sands of that bloody island far from the dusty west Texas town in which he grew up.  Youth, promise…transience…

There were many other times that I felt this melancholy, this sadness, and I was surprised to learn that the Japanese had already recognized this emotion centuries ago and had even applied a term to it: “mono no aware” (AH-wah-reh, three syllables, with the accent on the first). “The phrase is derived from the word aware, which in Heian Japan meant sensitivity or sadness, and the word mono, meaning things, and describes beauty as an awareness of the transience of all things, and a gentle sadness at their passing.” This sense of the precariousness of life and the certainty of its passing permeates Japanese art, poetry, music and religion.

4October2007, 9:37 pm

Yesterday morning when I walked out on the porch, it was so slippery that I thought for a moment that it had frosted during the night. I then realized that there was a film of yellow pollen over the porch and steps which acted as as a fine lubricant. Wiping the railing, I found that my finger tips were covered with the powder-like pollen. I had to hold on the railing as I climbed down the steps for fear of slipping. My car and the windshield were also covered with it. This happens every year. This year it coincided with some warm weather that we had for the past two days. I am almost certain that this pollen is coming from the Douglas Fir trees that surround my house, but I didn’t check the male cones. When shaken they produce a great cloud of pollen during this time of year. Luckily, I don’t seem to be allergic to pollen from this species.

I am enclosing some more photos. To the left is the fiddle head from my least favorite fern–the Bracken Fern(Pteridium aquilinum) that I have mentioned before. They are coming up everywhere like weeds–which they are! They occur worldwide and is such a pest in Britain that they initiated a program to control their spread. People eat them like asparagus as I said before, but this fern contains carcinogens, and in areas where they are consumed regularly such as Japan, the occurrence of stomach cancer is among the highest in the world.

I also found that the Horsetails (Equisetum) are coming up in my yard. They used to be used as scouring pads because of the large amount of silicon in their cell walls. These are a primitive group of Vascular Plants (containing tubes) that reproduce by spores instead of seeds. The strobilus, shown here, is the spore producing body which in this area comes up before the photosynthetic stems. The photosynthetic vegetative stems can be quite attractive, especially when they catch the light in shaded areas, but they can be a nuisance because of their tendency to spread.

It is also that time of year for my old friend the Dandelion (Taraxcum sp.) to blossom forth in all its glory. I had very few Dandelions until I disturbed my yard a few years ago in order to empty the septic tank. This disturbance in the grassy lawn was all it took for them to take hold with a vengeance. I just gave in and learned to enjoy their beauty before they go to seed and become all raggedy. The Dandelions in the Northwestern U.S. are the most beautiful that I have ever seen. They seem to be larger and deeper yellow than those I have observed elsewhere.
The birds are also singing their little heads off. Like clockwork on April 1 in open areas, I heard the White Crowned Sparrow (Poor little me, deep!). About my house, I hear the species that are most common to the woods and boundary areas. The WinterWren, the Robin, the Varied Thrush along with the Chestnut Backed Chickadee are all singing loudly. The Spotted Towhee is just getting started and will remain the most vocal bird in the area through July. Also, although I have seen the Song Sparrow , it has barely begun vocalizing. Soon it will become, like the Towhee, one of the most heard bird around my house.

This wonderful Big-Leafed Maple (Acer macrophyllum) is one of my favorites on my walk to the beach. It is only about two hundred yards from my place, and I always have to stop and admire its moss-covered branches which are festooned with the lovely epiphytic Licorice Fern (Polypodium glycyrrhiza; aka P. vulgare). The Licorice Fern is called such because of its licorice-flavored rhizomes. I usually see it growing in the thick moss on the Big-leafed Maple, where it can be instantly identified by its distinctive pointed tips. The Indians of the area often chewed the rhizomes for their flavor, and they were used as a medicine for sore throats and colds.

These ferns are luxuriant during the rainy season, and I have seen them growing in great abundance on the eaves of an old shed. They shrivel up, however, during the dry months. The generic name, Polypodium, means many feet which apparently applies to the footlike appearance of their rhizomes. Glycyrrhiza means “sweet root” which refers to the fact that the rhizomes contain ostadin, a steroid, which is three thousand times sweeter than table sugar! No wonder that the people in this area used it as a sweetener also.

Read a detailed description here with a mention how these ferns have been involved in forming polyploid species. Instant speciation involving nondisjunction is a topic for later I think!

All the early spring flowers are pretty much in bloom now. Forsythia, flowering crab apple, and of course camellias are blooming. The camellias in this area are amazing with large bushes tall as the eaves of a house being common in the older sections of town, where they usually begin blooming about the middle of January. I am always disappointed in the camellias that I see, however, because they all seem to be touched with what I call the “brown blight” which causes the petals to turn brown and ugly. This is especially evident in the white camellias. Apparently this is caused by a fungus. The Great Northwest is a fungus heaven! I hope to photograph the many mushrooms this coming autumn.

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