Pathway to Japanese Literature

Miscellaneous Notes from the Hermitage

Until Coming to the Island

Due to the Buddha’s grace, I was permitted to take up residence as caretaker of this hermitage.
The hermitage was called Nangō-an.
To elaborate further, it was Ōji-san Renge-in Saikō-ji Okunoin Nangō-an.
Saikō-ji Temple stood as the fifty-eighth site among Shōdoshima Island’s eighty-eight pilgrimage destinations, and since this hermitage served as its Inner Sanctuary, it remained unnumbered.
Being already designated as the Inner Sanctuary and declared beyond numbering, it could truly be called a hermitage in every sense.

The hermitage enshrined the Great Teacher Kūkai in a six-tatami room, with the adjacent eight-tatami space serving as living room, reception area, dining room, and bedroom. Next came a two-tatami mat area and a roughly one-tatami wooden-floored space that formed the kitchen, adjoining a small earthen floor containing the hearth. Though modest in scale, I felt it verged on extravagance for a solitary life. The hermitage faced southwest. In its front garden stood a massive pine tree—so thick it might require two arm spans to encircle—that seemed to perpetually shelter the dwelling, its rustling needles and tidal whispers never ceasing day or night. North of this pine rose a stone monument carved with the inscription "Dedicated to the Pagoda of the Great Teacher Hall," flanked by the words "Initiator: Enshin Zenmon." From my seat in the eight-tatami room, this pine and monument remained ever within sight through dawns and dusks. Each glimpse of Enshin Zenmon's name stirred bottomless emotion within me. Though weathered by time, how many souls before mine—dozens perhaps—had found dry refuge beneath this roof to sleep undisturbed? Could this enduring shelter be anything but the fruit of Enshin Zenmon's sacred vow? Such grace defied measure. My thoughts would spiral into wondering what manner of man this Enshin Zenmon had been, losing myself in endless speculation.

To the southeast, all was blocked off, and there was only one small window—half a ken square—opening into the eight-tatami room. When looking out from this window, the land sloped gradually downward, and amidst this area stood three or four village houses, though for the most part it consisted of salt flats and vegetable fields. In between lay a single road; following that path for about one chō brought you to a low embankment, beyond which lay the sea. This was the Seto Inland Sea, and as it particularly formed a deep inlet here, the sea appeared narrowly stretched sideways like a canal—but for me, that was more than sufficient. From this small window, the sea wind blew in steadily all day long. To that extent, winter was quite cold indeed.

Now then, though I had titled this work *Miscellaneous Notes from the Hermitage*, I wished you might hear—taking my entry into this retreat as occasion—some recollections of what had brought me here.
Since my transient wandering life had begun, how quickly time had passed—it had already been three years.
During that interval, truly indescribable things had occurred.
Lying alone during those lengthening autumn nights and pondering deeply, I could not help but feel as though I dwelled in an entirely different world.
Yet what of my present state?
The solitary life I had long desired, this relatively silent existence—I was being permitted to dwell within it with an utterly tranquil heart.
For me, it became paradise.
Yet since all of this flowed from my Master Inoue’s benevolence, I found myself entirely bereft of adequate words of gratitude.
Whenever my thoughts turned to Master Inoue’s kindness, I would inevitably discover myself reciting the twenty-fifth chapter of the Lotus Sutra—“The Universal Gate of Kannon Bodhisattva.”
For though I could not rationally explain why, each time I contemplated Master Inoue’s grace, my mind invariably returned to that Universal Gate Chapter until compulsion drove me to read its sacred text.
This defied reason.
Yet I sincerely believed—nay, knew—the Kannon Sutra to be a sublime poetic masterpiece worthy of eternal recitation.
I remained convinced Master Inoue would resonate with this conviction.

Furthermore, there was something I felt compelled to mention regarding Master Sugimoto Yūgen, chief priest of Saikō-ji Temple.
As I had previously stated that this hermitage served as Saikō-ji’s Inner Sanctuary, when I first came to this island and visited Mr. Inoue Ichiji, various circumstances had generally led to arrangements for my departure from the island.
At that juncture, it was Master Sugimoto who opened this hermitage and permitted me to enter.
Master Sugimoto was one who had accompanied Master Inoue several years prior when he made his rounds of the island’s pilgrimage sites together with Mr. Inoue—a man who embodied kindness and gentleness itself.
When I conversed with the Master, there naturally arose a spring breeze-like warmth.
That I should be allowed to reside in this hermitage under the protection of such a venerable master—what manner of fortune was this?—
Moreover, the compassion shown by Mr. Inoue went without saying and proved all-encompassing—and when I considered how all these blessings had sprung from my connection with Master Inoue, I felt compelled once more to recite the Kannon Sutra in resonant tones.

I recall it being around Meiji 35.
At that time, both Master Inoue and I were at Tokyo’s First Higher School.
Master Inoue was one year senior to me, and at that time, haiku—it was the era called New School Haiku—flourished greatly; as a result, the "First Higher School Haiku Association" was formed, and poetry gatherings were held.
The haiku gatherings were usually held along a small pond in the precincts of Nezu Gongen Shrine where there was a modest rental hall.
The shiitake rice there was famous—they would bring each person a portion straight from the pot, and it was quite delicious. We would eat such rice and sweets, and I recall the participation fee being around fifty sen.
We would always gather nearly twenty people, with three established masters—Mr. Kyoshi, Mr. Meisetsu, and Mr. Hekigotō—attending as our teachers.
I recall how Mr. Kyoshi would come speeding over on his bicycle in Western clothes like an actor, Mr. Hekigotō’s square face reminiscent of a Shinto priest, and Mr. Meisetsu’s famous "belly-warming" sake episodes.
The precincts of Nezu Gongen Shrine at that time were quiet.
We would cut oak trees into four or five-foot lengths, assemble them into stands on the ground, and gaze at the shiitake mushrooms growing there while wrestling with our verses.
On Sundays, events like the Mejiro Call-and-Response Gathering were held within these precincts, making it a tranquil place indeed.

After three years, I left First Higher School and consequently severed my ties with this group.
And so Master Inoue entered the humanities while I pursued law, resulting in our connection being temporarily severed—like white clouds parting to drift serenely away.
Yet this bond was never truly broken.
It seemed to burn like a volcanic vein, fiercely seeking its moment and place of eruption.
The workings of this world cannot be grasped through human intellect alone.
Afterward, I entered society and lived what people call a salaryman’s life.
Perhaps finding some契机 here, I began composing haiku again starting with the inaugural issue of Sōun.
From then on, this tenuous connection persisted—neither fully severed nor actively maintained—threading its way through time until three years ago, when my wandering life abruptly began and transformed it into a bond surpassing even our interactions during the Meiji 35-36 era.
Therefore, allow me to recount how I came to live briefly at Master Inoue’s new residence in Kyoto just before arriving on this island.
Master Inoue’s new home in Imakumano was tidy yet exceedingly cramped.
Into this space where even Master Inoue alone might feel constrained, this carefree Hōsai came tumbling.
And since it was peak mosquito season—well, you can imagine.
Each night we slept together inside a single-person mosquito net, my body claiming half of Master Inoue’s futon.
How narrow it was! How impossibly narrow! Yet through this cohabitation, I came to profoundly admire Master Inoue.
Though his sharpness had existed since our Meiji 35-36 days, he was no longer the untutored youth—transformed by Kamakura ascetic training and the bitter loss of mother, wife, and child.
Add to this his spiritual cultivation over years, and you find someone truly remarkable.
His capacity for embrace had deepened.
Master Inoue never once said “Miyūtsusen” to me.
Never did I hear him speak an opinionated word.
And being near him, I naturally found myself compelled to follow suit.

If this is not great compassion, then what is?

Though my time living in Master Inoue’s new residence was brief, the impression it left on me was profound.
When Master Inoue and I walked along a country path, I immediately resonated with his mere utterance of “Autumn has come” as we happened to look up at a fragment of white cloud drifting across the clear sky.
One evening, when we encountered a small funeral procession—likely a child’s—by the roadside, I resonated at once with Master Inoue as he quietly removed his summer hat and bowed his head in natural reverence.
As we walked together—when I came to think that Master Inoue too was a man without wife or children—looking closely revealed how terribly inept his way of wearing kimono was.
Moreover, with the front hanging down improperly or some such issue, there was now no one to adjust and fix it for him.
I—who was always scolded for my hopelessly inept way of wearing kimono—could not help resonating again. For recalling how I would stomp along while forcing too much pressure on my geta’s front thongs—often breaking their tips while still new or snapping those thongs—and seeing Master Inoue do exactly the same compelled me to resonate anew.
Moreover, the white hakama placed atop the alcove—likely from his student days, though I wished it had been mine—the First Higher School dormitory song anthology: every single thing there resonated deeply.
Though brief, this period of cohabitation was truly an extraordinary experience for me.

Master Inoue is now back in Tokyo and has settled into a routine there.
Somehow lonely—if I imagine being in Kyoto, it doesn’t feel that way, but when I think of Tokyo, a sense of its farawayness comes over me.
I must read the Kannon Sutra here once again.
On the desk, this sutra text is always placed—.
Now, at this juncture, I would like to have myself return to Nangō-an and wish to humbly hear a tale of the hermitage’s features and other matters pertaining to these long nights.

All the evil karma I have ever created since of old.
All arise from beginningless greed, anger, and delusion.

Born from body, speech, and mind.
I now fully repent them all.

Sea

When I returned to the hermitage, there was the rustling of pine winds and overgrown wild grasses—a place of utter desolation.
In a verse Bashō had sent to his disciple Kūsō, there was: "Autumn’s hues—not even a rice bran miso jar remains."
This was said to originate from a passage in Tsurezuregusa stating that world-renouncers should cast aside worldly delusions and not keep even a single storage jar—and indeed, this hermitage too lacked any rice bran miso jar.
It wasn’t that I affected airs of having severed human ties to wander beyond worldly concerns—nor was I suited for such pretenses—and so there were times when, through some trivial trigger, I found myself deeply assailed by the sensation of wondering: am I truly alone?
In the southern part of the eight-tatami room, leaning my back against a single slender pillar with a small low square desk borrowed from the temple placed before it, I sat alone in silence from morning till night—whether on days of clear weather, steady pattering rain, or rustling winds.

To my left as I sat—though this too was borrowed… or rather, it was the sole furnishing that had remained when I entered this hermitage—there sat a small round hibachi. This hibachi—a Seto-style black one that appeared almost unglazed—had its entire perimeter so thoroughly chipped and cracked that one might have thought it impossible to damage it any further. This must surely have been the result of the previous resident—a tobacco enthusiast—methodically tapping away at it with a metal pipe or some such tool, I couldn’t help but think. It had been a truly meticulous endeavor. Apart from this, there were no furnishings to speak of whatsoever, making it truly desolately empty. This single pillar to the south occupied such a commanding position that it allowed one to take in at a glance the distant mountain range blocking the northern sky, while the previously mentioned large pine and the Memorial Stele for the Master Hall of Offerings never left one’s immediate view. If I craned my neck forward while remaining seated, there unfolded a vast sloping lowland—an expanse of potato fields—and in the distance, part of Tonoshō Town and the open western sky became visible. To the east was this hermitage’s sole small low window, through which a canal-like sea could be seen, and beyond the sea stretched low mountains within the island. To the west, since mountains rose immediately beyond, there was only the convenience of appreciating the moon through the window—no particularly remarkable scenery to speak of. On clear mornings, from the mountain range lining this eastern sky, the sun came rising steadily and vigorously. The sun rose so quickly. When I thought it had just appeared over the mountains, it was already bubbling up vigorously. How quickly it rose! There was truly nothing like sitting alone in silence, quietly watching it. By nature, I have always been exceptionally fond of the sea, and whether I gaze at it or listen to the sound of its waves, the commotion in my mind almost always fades away completely. "There is a saying: 'The wise love mountains; the discerning love water.'" I find this phrase to be quite a flavorful one. However, this might just be my own feeling—. From a very young age, I have always enjoyed playing in both mountains and the sea, but as I’ve grown older, mountains have come to feel rather frightening—though it sounds odd to say so—… I find myself unable to feel close to them. When I enter places like deep mountains and secluded valleys, somehow a fearful tension begins to grip my entire body. It’s exactly the feeling of being made to sit before a strict father.

However, the sea was not at all like that.
No matter what wrongs I committed, the sea always remained silent and seemed to embrace me with a gentle smile.
They were completely opposite.
Therefore, among the considerable travels I had undertaken thus far, I often encountered stormy voyages, and no matter how rough the sea became, I always remained unperturbed.
That even I myself found somewhat amusing.
Even if the ship were to shatter into fragments this very moment, I believed it must be because there always lay deep in my heart the satisfaction that I could be embraced by that gentle sea.
It was precisely the feeling of being together with a deeply loving mother.

I am of course neither sage nor wise man, but I simply love the sea without reason.
In other words, I must be one starving and thirsting for what we call human compassion...
But in this individualistic, combative world of ours—where can such human compassion be sought?
That proves exceedingly difficult to achieve.
Thus I come naturally to seek it elsewhere.
Even now—whether grounded in reason or not, whether deemed proper or improper—setting such matters aside, I never recall my father's dignity but always summon thoughts of my mother's compassion.
My mother's compassion—the compassion she showed me—manifested in every circumstance with full force, blindly devoted, powerfully strong beyond any rival.
Whether saint or sinner—the Buddha's compassion that vows enlightenment for all sentient beings... this too is a mother's love.
And it seems to me the sea also possesses this quality.

Still, here I had to add a note regarding the sea—there was something I earnestly wished to have you hear.
The reason I had consistently chosen during three years of wandering and drifting to walk to temples where even a glimpse of the sea could be seen or that were situated near it was firstly as previously stated—but there was another reason: the sky near the sea……particularly in its mornings and evenings……caused all clouds flowing there to transform into manifold shapes and recolor themselves in varied hues for me to behold.
Of course, I could not overlook the light flowing beneath those transformations and color changes.
This was something everyone knew, but unless one was near the sea, this could not be seen at all.
I—drawn to both the sea’s compassion and these clouds as vague, indistinct things—spent three years wandering aimlessly.
Now through Buddha’s grace having been allowed to settle in this hermitage since then each morning and evening brought the sea brought clouds brought moreover a single pillar—as it were—all the more so now in Mid-Autumn whether gazing at sea or clouds there was moon there were insects making this indeed human existence’s most splendid season of the year.

Buddhist Chanting

The six-tatami room was constructed about seven or eight sun higher than the eight-tatami room, and here the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi was enshrined.
This six-tatami room had become extremely dirty, so one of the believers had apparently just recently replaced its tatami mats.
The six-tatami Buddha hall was now clean.
The people of this island—though to clarify, mainly elderly women from the neighborhood—had developed a custom where five or six of them brought gongs on days honoring the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi or Jizō Bodhisattva, or even on days with no particular significance, then sat together in this six-tatami Buddha hall to offer Buddhist chants or devotional hymns.

This was what the islanders called offering Buddhist chants or devotional hymns.
They would simply say things like “We’ve come to offer” or “Shall we offer?” in ordinary speech.
Nearly all were elderly women—seventy-, eighty-, and rarely even ninety-year-olds—but there were also some younger participants among them.
The curious thing was that these Buddhist chants or hymns came in both old-style and new-style versions.
"The term 'old-style chants' referred to the manner used by quite elderly women when making their offerings."
“The ‘new-style chants’ were performed by what might be called middle-aged women, with sixteen- or seventeen-year-old beauties joining in.”
When listening to these chant styles, the old-style flowed plain and unremarkable like water, while the new-style resembled school songs with cadences and pauses—quite fascinating indeed.
Regarding instruments too, old-style practitioners only struck a flat gong, while new-style performers naturally used gongs along with three-foot-long bells.
The bell rods had metal ring decorations—either German silver or nickel—embedded at intervals, glittering brightly with red tassels dangling from their tops.
Holding these in their right hands while jingling them and striking gongs with their left hands created an intriguing sight—especially when five or even ten people synchronized their rhythms into splendid harmony.
However, these two factions proved quite incompatible.
They constantly viewed each other with mutual jealousy.
After all, one group consisted entirely of elders while the other comprised younger members—an unavoidable clash when considering various aspects.

In the Kantō region, people do not make much fuss about the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi, but in Kansai, his influence is truly astonishing. When I resided at Sumadera Temple, the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi there commanded such reverence that on his Obon festival day, entertainment stalls would appear and vendor shops line up across the temple grounds, creating an immense commotion. On the night of the twentieth, fifty or a hundred thousand people would stream in without pause from the Kobe-Osaka area to pay their respects throughout the night—it was an absolute festival…exactly like the Oeshiki festival at Ikegami in Tokyo…the very same sort of event. At that time, a certain group of believers prepared a small stage and performed what they called devotional hymn dances. The musical accompaniment included that beautiful bell I mentioned earlier along with small wooden clappers. These clappers resonated exceptionally well. Onstage, beautiful girls aged thirteen to fifteen or sixteen danced in time with the hymns, holding hand towels and folding fans. It seems neither these clappers nor the dances have yet reached this island, but they will likely arrive before long. Yet the profound piety of the islanders remains truly astonishing—something one could scarcely witness on the mainland. I cannot help but admire their deep reverence for ancestors and steadfast faith in Buddha. It was indeed around Obon when I heard islanders passing by the hermitage path exchanging words like “I’ve been tending these flowers since spring to offer at the graves for Obon…”, and found myself profoundly moved.

Gong-striking

As I came to this island still in mid-August, I bid farewell with "ice water" from Master Inoue’s well-known poem and traveled all the way from Kyoto on the 10:30 night train.
Therefore, it was so intensely hot that I couldn’t even keep a single yukata on my body.
The island was everywhere filled with the screeching of cicadas.
However, seasons are something that cannot be resisted—from then on insects gradually began to sing, the moon’s color grew clearer, morning and evening winds turned pale—and thus the hermitage too came step by step to truly resemble Nangō-an in autumn.

In the garden surrounding the hermitage, what might be called flowers were these: wildly growing self-sown cockscombs; two beautiful celosias; over a dozen chrysanthemums not yet in bloom; and two single-petaled white hibiscuses—one each in front and back.
Both stood about three to four shaku tall and each bore over a dozen flowers.
Opening in morning breezes and budding in evening mists, they had long consoled me.
Well—this was about all there was.
The rest was all weeds—particularly on the western mountainside where nameless grasses grew thickly across the slope.
Yet upon close inspection, countless small sky-blue flowers bloomed scattered among these weeds.
The islanders called them *kama-gusa* or *tori-gusa*.
Apparently because their shape resembled small birds' heads.
Countless blossoms with deep azure petals—each bearing just two—stood silent in proliferation.
We too are flowers and grasses—as if whispering Look closely at us.

Given this state of affairs, as it gradually grew cooler, the so-called insect voices came to chirp ceaselessly.
Because the surroundings were extremely quiet, they chirped even during the daytime.
Even on days when rain fell pitter-patter, they chirped.
Thus when night fell and the surroundings grew even more profoundly silent, it became a lively affair indeed.
I had always liked waking up early in the morning.
I would wake at five every day, and sometimes rise around four while it was still dark, leaning against that single pillar as I delighted in watching dawn gradually break.
Given this rhythm, I naturally went to bed early at night.
As soon as darkness came I would hang the mosquito net and retreat into bed.
I had almost never lit a lamp until then—this being partly due to my fear of mosquitoes, those archenemies—but fundamentally because once night fell, entering the mosquito net was the rule.
There on the futon I would lie vacantly or empty my stomach.
Therefore I naturally found myself often immersed in the insects' nightly chorus, listening without conscious effort.
When I listened intently, it was various insects that chirped—
From far and near, above and below—sometimes like wind's murmur, other times like waves' cries—
Because I lay alone amidst them, it felt exactly as though I were sleeping in a field of wild grasses.
In this manner I would sink into tranquil sleep, unaware of when it began.
It was at that moment—when I suddenly began hearing the bell-ringing insect's cry.

I have long known of the insect called the bell-ringer, yet in truth I have never seen its form. Though I remain utterly ignorant of its size, coloration, or shape—knowing only its plaintive cry—my heart remains drawn to it. Regarding this bell-ringing insect, I believe Mr. Lafcadio Hearn once wrote about it somewhere, though I cannot recall a single detail now. Yet it remains beyond doubt that he had greatly praised this insect's song. They exist even in Tokyo's suburbs—around Shibuya—so many must know them, yet that chime—chime—chime never fails to evoke an indescribable loneliness within me. Unlike other insects' voices, it lacks color, luster, or strength of any kind. And still when it cries—chime... chime... chime...—its voice never mingles with others', sounding so utterly lonely and feeble while resonating profoundly within the listener's breast. These chimes typically repeat fifteen or sixteen times—sometimes twenty-two or twenty-three. Once I counted over eighty while lying abed—though such cases prove exceptional. These insects never gather in numbers—three or four at most during peak times—and I have often known instances where a solitary one cried amidst multitudes.

When I closed my eyes and listened intently, this chime... chime... chime... could not possibly belong to anything earthly. However I pondered it, the sound seemed to resonate from four or five feet beneath the ground. And then—chime... chime...—it truly appeared as though someone were striking a ritual bell while quietly chanting sutras. This was no insect—not an insect’s voice at all—...a monk, but a tiny bean-sized monk clad in jet-black robes, striking a bell alone in the earth’s depths—that was the sound. What curse? What karma? A little monk—doomed never to emerge from underground in his lifetime—rang his bell in solitude... Granted only this autumn season each year as his Buddha-permitted ecstasy, he tolled neither for others to hear nor for himself to heed—only chime... chime... chime... Was he dead? Alive? Even this remained unclear... Yet a little monk with eyes as clear and blue as autumn skies... No matter how I reconsidered it, I could perceive it no other way.

That bell-ringing insect—my favorite among all insects—dwelt here in this hermitage, amid these wild grasses.
When I first discerned its cry, I started—Ah! You remained? You remained... And now with autumn deepening daily, as morning and evening winds grew chill enough to discomfort my cold-sensitive frame, even this voice occasionally reaching my midnight pillow—this too must surely have been a dream.

Stones

About one ri west of Tonoshō Town along the seaside lay a village called Sengen.
The islanders referred to this as "Senge."
This place called Sengen was said to be a source of remarkably fine stone—those rough-hewn boulders in Osaka Castle’s walls that made everyone gasp when first seen had all apparently been transported from this island’s shores at Sengen.
Even now, looking at picture postcards showed many large stones left jumbled along the coast—ones not taken away in those days remained cast out in heaps.
Stones—this island formed almost entirely of stone, this island rich in fine-quality stone—...this fact filled me with such strange, irresistible joy.
Indeed, at the summit of the high mountain blocking the northern sky beyond the hermitage—those rocks of indescribable beauty that never left my sight morning or evening—one could see numerous such stones piled upon one another, towering skyward.
Because of the densely growing towering trees that made the mountain appear thickly blackened, one perceived within oneself an altogether different sentiment.
Rather, I was one who loved the mountain’s bare, exposed rocks in their spread-out nakedness.
You surely know—how this island cradles and tenderly cherishes Kankakei Gorge in its bosom, its rocks said to surpass even those of Yabakei—

I once lived in Korea for some years, where most mountains stood barren and denuded.
And they were rocks.
Considering this from afforestation or flood control perspectives becomes another matter entirely, but mountains of utterly exposed rock—hiding not a thread of concealment—proved refreshing to behold.
They say, "High mountains make the moon small," or "A fierce tiger's roar elevates the mountain moon," yet unleashing such a roaring tiger seems possible only among mountains of jutting rocks.

It seemed my story had again veered slightly off course, but I did not take delight solely in stones' uncanny aspects, their wonders or marvels.
No—rather, in my daily life I felt an unbearable nostalgia toward the small, insignificant pebbles lying on roadsides.
The pebble kicked away by my geta's front teeth, vanishing to who knows where; the pebble I miskicked that clattered off to roll silently nearby—how endearing they were!
Why did I feel such deep affection for these insignificant pebbles?
When I considered it—that even when kicked, stepped on, or subjected to anything, they always remained silent and uncomplaining... might the reason lie there?
But no—stones cannot speak; they have no choice but silence.
Then are speechless stones dead? I could not bring myself to think so.
On the contrary—I believed all stones lived.
Stones live.
However small a pebble might be, it lives splendidly with pulsing vitality.
Because stones live, their silence grows ever more profound in meaning.
People often speak of grasses and trees maintaining silent tranquility—this I could never accept.
For do not grasses and trees chatter? When wind blows or rain falls, do they not instantly become veritable chatterboxes?
But what of stones?
Whether rain falls or wind blows—silence layered upon silence—even so, stones live as living beings.

I often heard earnest people tell stories of stones in the mountains giving birth—producing small pebbles.
I also heard stories that when one happened upon a stone not seen for a long time, it had grown quite plump and large.
To think that all these stories—which seemed trivial at first glance—could be entirely resolved and explained from the perspectives of mineralogy or geophysics would be a grave mistake.
Try asking the stonemasons.
They would surely answer in unison: "Stones are living..."
Every stone had something akin to what we call wood grain in trees.
In that field, they referred to this as 'kurotama'.
Thus, one might say they appeared to grow thicker and larger each year, just like trees… or that while stones were content when leisurely resting in mountains or grassy fields, once they fell into human hands and were worked upon, they died then and there. Take stone monuments, for instance: if you tried to repurpose one already carved with characters by shaving off three or four sun, inside it was already crumbling to pieces—utterly beyond salvage. In other words, it was already dead—reduced to nothing more than a pickling stone, though even then, it might have become a bit lighter… Such talk could commonly be heard.
Stones, stones! Even the tiniest pebble was alive and full of vigor.
This island, abounding in such stones, must naturally be capable of arousing my interest.

The hermitage stood at the very edge of town on a slightly elevated spot, fully exposed to winds blowing in from the sea and relying solely on a single large pine tree.
The narrow path before the hermitage headed southwest along gently ascending slopes that seemed to rise on tiptoe, guiding me toward the mountain.
There it guided me to a serene cemetery.
This area was already quite elevated where countless pale stone monuments stood clustered like trees across the islanders’ burial ground.
Each monument appeared so magnificently crafted as to feel almost wasteful.
Needless to say, all quality stones from this island were used to create these memorials.
Through rain and wind and moonlight they stood perpetually aligned in silence.
Though autumn insects once found this cemetery an unsurpassed playground now that chill winds blew—perhaps they had nearly perished—their beautiful songs could no longer be heard.
The burial plain remained utterly silent through all hours.
These countless stone monuments standing here—like humans lying dead beneath—were themselves dead where they stood.
Death below earth’s surface... death upon its face....
Ah—I must hasten back to my hermitage and quickly gather my cherished pebbles—those living stones—to behold them once more.

Wind.

As the town lay not so distant, the effort of hanging coins on a staff’s end to purchase goods became unnecessary; yet as the town remained not too near, the ear grew quiet with a pillow propped beneath the window seeking dreams.
By dwelling in a nest one comes to know the wind; by dwelling in a hole one comes to know the rain…

When I begin writing like this, it seems exactly like phrases from *Uzura-goromo*, making me appear completely detached from worldly matters—but in truth, I alone am resolved to remain, secretly until death, the most worldly of worldlings.
However, the hermitage's location proves truly impeccable—as I mentioned earlier, standing neither too distant from town nor excessively close. Of course, being both nest and hole dwelling, it occupies a most convenient position for worldly folk.
Mention a nest, and even without birds one thinks of wind; mention a hole, and even without insects one recalls rain.
Since my entry into this hermitage remains recent days-wise, interactions with islanders naturally stay sparse; thus I often sit utterly alone within from morning onward.
Solitude, silence, never passing the gate... Precisely because exchanges with others dwindle, day by day the intimacy between hermitage and myself deepens.
Even a nail driven into one pillar or dust fallen on a single tatami cannot escape my notice.

If I continued a little longer now, I believed the time would surely come when the hermitage and I would become perfectly one.
At that very moment, it was truly the hermitage in late autumn... a most splendid season indeed.
Every morning around five o'clock, while it was still dim, I would rise alone... The hermitage had but a single electric light that remained lit until around six each morning... I briskly opened the small window on the eastern side and the five-paneled shoji on both sides before sweeping out the Buddha room, eight-tatami space,and kitchen.
Then I turned off the light and swept beneath the large pine tree in that small western garden.
By this time,the electric light had gone out,and through the small eastern window,the island's mountain range began preparing for sunrise.
The beauty of those cloud hues-the town remained truly quiet with everything seemingly fast asleep,save for occasional fishermen's voices from the coast-
This was my fixed daily routine on fair weather days.
Truly during those days,the hermitage mornings of late autumn dawns held feelings beyond all comparison.
Yet when these were days of blowing winds and falling rain,a distinct charm emerged.
The island overall was a place of fierce winds,and particularly as the hermitage stood near the sea on slightly elevated ground,the wind's assault proved truly severe.
In this area,westerlies rarely blew-mostly southeasterlies sweeping in from sea.
I could generally anticipate days people would deem"windy today."
This recognition came from dawn clouds bearing colors differing from ordinary days.
At first glance appearing clear,yet their crimson hue held more than pure red.
This,I believed,could be understood by any coastal dweller.
While indescribably beautiful indeed,the pure red color-imbued with glimmers of destructive or apprehensive sentiment-quietly,yet exquisitely,tinted the dawn sky.
When such clouds drifted morningside,the wind inevitably came-soon beginning its gradual blow.
The hermitage roof being overhung by that familiar large pine meant it first resonated with wind.
Like screams,lacerating rebukes,furious roars-the din surpassed ordinary sound.
With only one small eastern window open,I ultimately closed both its shoji and storm shutters completely when winds intensified.

And that was all.
There was nothing else to close.
Therefore, the room grew dim, leaving me no choice but to sit relying on the light from the west.
On days like this, even pilgrims rarely came.
Of course, there were also no people passing through the path to the graves.
The wind was a formidable thing—no matter where it found entry, it came whistling through the ceiling and gaps in the walls.
As the hermitage was not a particularly new building, creaks and groans began sounding from every corner.
The large pine tree alone battled the wind with vigor.
When I lay in bed late at night, the wind blowing through the gaps would strike the ceiling and push upward, making me feel as though my sleeping body were floating smoothly upward together with the futon—a sensation I experienced often.
The power of the wind was truly formidable.
Among my friends from student days was a man named K—now working as a lawyer in Tokyo—who had been innately and exceedingly afraid of the wind.
Even when we stayed together at a boarding house in Hongo, if wind began blowing at night with creaking sounds around us, he simply couldn't remain alone in his room.
He would invariably come to my room with tobacco.
There he would talk trivialities, drink tea, smoke cigarettes—glossing over his fear through these motions.
I hadn't noticed it initially, but eventually his secret came to light.
A man so terrified of wind's sound—I had never known another.
It appeared comical to the point of absurdity when observed.
Yet now it became my turn to tip my hat to this man.
That... truly this too is an absurd tale... but I have always feared heights.
Not mountain climbing or peak scaling—but standing atop sheer cliffs or on some corner of a skyscraper's summit without railings, peering straight down—in such situations I simply cannot endure.

If I were to stand in such a place for long, my entire body would begin to feel as though it might be sucked completely upside down into the depths below.
No—in fact, I would undoubtedly be sucked down and fall.
The reason I say this is that I have often dreamed of being sucked down and falling from such high places.
Yet this K—that same K who fears even the slightest sound of wind—remains utterly unperturbed in precisely such situations.
When we would ascend places like the Asakusa Twelve-Story Tower—though it stands no longer—this very coward would invariably make an expression that tormented me.
It resembles how those who fear snakes and those who dread caterpillars prove to be entirely different sorts of people.
Speaking of Asakusa—around Meiji 30—in Mukōjima there was an entrepreneur who once loaded passengers into a small balloon, smoothly lifting it from below to let them survey the surroundings from high in the sky.
But consider this—this K became its inaugural passenger and reveled in the experience... Ah—as ever, this digression proves most untimely.

Now, following the hermitage in the wind naturally comes the hermitage in the rain—though overall, this island appears to be a place with little rainfall.
Therefore, when it occasionally rained, I found myself in a serenely calm mood and could sit still.
However, as the hermitage’s rain was usually accompanied by wind, days where one could truly savor the rain had been exceedingly rare up until now.
On such days there were no guests, no pilgrims came, and I spent the daytime writing letters, copying sutras, chanting sutras, and so on.
When the rain continued into the night, my mood grew even more serene.

Light.

When speaking of the illumination within the hermitage at night, there was only the Buddha’s sacred light and a single electric lamp…… Until recently, this too had been a lamp, but from the day of Jizō Bodhisattva onward, we were able to have an electric lamp installed.
This was chiefly due to Saikō-ji Temple’s kindness.
Though only a few months had passed since entering this hermitage, I could not fathom the extent of kindness from Saikō-ji Temple and motherlike compassion I had received.
To be specific would involve backstage details, so I shall refrain…… That was all the light there was.
Now, as for lights outside the hermitage—they numbered few enough to count on one’s fingers.
To the north, five or six chō away on a small hill, stood a Kana Buddha…… Again, it was the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi…… atop which burned a single small electric lamp.
To the west, some ten chō distant, glowed one low light from town houses.
On the eastern side across the sea, a solitary light could be seen midway up an island mountain.
It was likely a temple or hall—these three lights I mentioned could only be glimpsed in far-flung separation.
Naturally, one might say the hermitage’s surroundings were perpetually pitch-dark.
Ah—no—I had forgotten the graves.
In the cemetery on the mountain above the hermitage, one might sometimes dimly glimpse one or two lights.
These were flames occasionally kindled for new graves or death anniversaries.
“Flickering lights”—the phrase seemed apt for those faint glows on the mountain that one might think appeared in this cemetery come evening.
Yet despite dwelling alone in such desolation, I remained terribly susceptible to loneliness.
Thus when night’s solitude deepened—if rain stayed absent—I would open the shoji screens and step out to gaze at these mere three lights scattered distantly apart, finding solitary delight in them.
When cemetery lights appeared, it felt livelier still—though such occasions could hardly be called extravagant.
Since the hermitage’s toilet stood in the eastern garden, I had to venture outside whenever nature called.
As it was—whether beholding daytime seas, nighttime moons, or these very lights—my frequent exits proved remarkably convenient.
Who could say what brings fortune?

That the toilet being outside would lead to such outcomes.

Speaking of light, I cannot forget the profound feeling I held toward lamplight during my time at the Ittō-en Community in Kyoto.

At this opportunity, allow me to digress once more. Let me first briefly describe the nature of what we call the Ittō-en Community.

The Community was located in Shishigatani, Rakuhoku, Kyoto.
It stood all alone on a mountainside, perhaps seven or eight chō away from Eikandō Temple, renowned for its autumn foliage.
It was a truly shabby house, though Master Inoue had already known this well.
After all, there had been that time when you and Mr. Kitirō visited The Community……yet even so, upon entering its grounds, one would find things like a dojo and a second-floor tatami room—or so it went.
In the garden stood a single large persimmon tree.
The water supply came from mountain streams through bamboo pipes, which frequently broke down and proved quite troublesome.

The number of residents—averaging thirty to forty men and women combined at any given time—was of course constantly changing, with people departing and arriving daily.

I chose the 23rd of November, the day of the Niiname-sai Festival, and leapt into the Community in the autumn of the year before last. When I was in Manchuria, I had contracted left-sided wet pleurisy twice. After all, temperatures there could plunge to forty degrees below zero—utterly unbearable for someone as cold-averse as myself. Director A of the South Manchuria Railway Hospital, who had treated me at the time... if I kept overexerting myself at work... he gravely warned me, and this recently became one of the primary motivations for embracing this lifestyle. On my return journey from Manchuria, I stopped in Nagasaki. That place abounds with enormous temples—all built imposingly large with the intent of eradic Christianity. Indeed, one might say without exaggeration that Nagasaki town lies entirely encircled by temples crowning its surrounding mountains. Though I searched exhaustively, there were no suitable temples that would accept my earnest entreaties for admission. Thus arose my opportunity with the Ittō-en Community. The courage I mustered when leaping into the Community from Nagasaki—completely penniless and with nothing but the clothes on my back—strikes me even now in retrospect as downright reckless. For I had resolved: "If this ailing body of mine is to be pummeled by labor henceforth—if it's bound to collapse regardless—let it collapse sooner! If only I could live penitently and die having performed even a modicum of social service, that would be blessing enough." It was with this determination that I leapt in—hence its sheer recklessness. That I deliberately chose to enter during Kyoto's bitter cold season likewise stemmed entirely from this reasoning.

Kyoto’s winter had a bone-chilling quality to its cold.
It was nothing like Tokyo’s harsh, biting winds.
Between Shishigatani and central Kyoto there was always a temperature difference of about five degrees—truly brutal.
Generally speaking, from spring through summer there were many entrants to the Community, but come autumn when the bitter cold set in, their numbers dwindled significantly.
Life holds all manner of things.
Well then—after that I worked tremendously hard.
With my resolve being “If I die then I die,” there was nothing left to fear.
The Community’s motto meant living “under trees and upon rocks,” so from morning onward we ate not a single meal.
When we woke at five and finished cleaning, we did sutra chanting for about an hour in the dojo.
The practice seemed rooted in Zen—mainly we chanted Zen sect sutras together.
But since no established sect existed there, members would simply say “the light” this and “the light” that—it mattered not whether Christianity or anything else was involved.
In earlier times when many Christian residents stayed there, they say everyone performed hymns and prayers together morning and evening.
They’d bring in an organ to boom out hymns while Buddhist adherents rhythmically tapped wooden fish and chanted sutras—it must have made for quite an odd spectacle.
Nowadays everyone had unified around sutra chanting.
When chanting ended around six or six-thirty,
we’d scatter to our day’s alms-rounding destinations.
From the Community to the train station was about half a ri.
Beyond that lay Kyoto proper’s outskirts—but members made a practice of walking even two or three ri distances since we were penniless.
Upon reaching our destinations we’d receive breakfast,
work all day,
receive dinner,
then return to chant another hour before bed.

After all, being utterly exhausted from working all day, once sutra chanting ended, there was no business like letter-writing or anything else—we just curled up in our rice cracker-like futons and fell asleep right there. In the Community, there was never a single brazier, no matter how severe the cold. Even when bedding down for the night, we simply closed the shoji screens—since there were no storm shutters—which made for an utterly bare existence.

Now, when I speak of unforgettable memories regarding lamplight, they are these: the times I would rise before dawn while still dark and stand observing the lights of Kyoto’s towns far below the mountain—lights still slumbering, lights of tens of millions pallidly gleaming, prepared to vanish all at once after last night’s struggles had left them exhausted; and the times when, after nightfall had plunged everything into darkness, I would drag my legs utterly wearied from the day’s labor, trudging alone along mountain paths back to the Community through the gloom—times when, beyond the lonely-seeming lamps of scattered farmhouses here and there, I would stand gazing at the dazzling brilliance of tens of thousands of lights behind me, far below: the illumination of Kyoto’s pleasure districts blazing like diamond or platinum, alongside other lights alive with haughty radiance.
This was my state of mind at such times.
My state at such times was neither lonely nor sad, neither pleasant nor happy, neither wanting to cry nor wanting to laugh—how might one adequately put this feeling into words? Even now, I still cannot fully grasp it.
I was simply existing in a vacant state.
Shall I call it a state of no-mind? A feeling transcending joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—it was something of that nature.
And yet it—no matter how much time passes—cannot be forgotten in the slightest.
Shall I call it the allure of lamplight? It was a state of being drawn to the light.
I came to thoroughly feel that lamplight strikes at the depths of our hearts in various ways.
I wanted to try expressing this feeling well, but it remains profoundly regrettable that I can say nothing more beyond this.
I ask that you infer my meaning from this much.

Next, this daily work—what we in the Community call alms-rounding—proved truly diverse in nature. Even just what I could recall now included: house-sitting, sanitation cleaning, hotels, night watch, confectionery shops, udon shops, rice dealers, nursing the sick, temples, leaflet distribution, cardboard box factories, cafeterias, university professors, widows, cheap eateries, farmers, inns, naval ports, tenant disputes, hospital research materials (which served as substitutes for marmots), and so on. There were simply too many tasks unlisted in business directories to count.
Had I written down my impressions of each alms-rounding destination, there would have been no shortage of interesting material.
Now, while performing these alms-roundings day after day, I came to learn one thing that proved greatly beneficial.
It was this:
Whether entering millionaires' homes or those of the utterly destitute, each household invariably contained some problem troubling its occupants—to put it plainly, those without financial struggles might have ailing members or lack heirs.
Thus households where everything proceeded as desired—utterly free of dissatisfaction—proved impossible to find anywhere.
The Buddha's power was vast.
In all places were fair judgments rendered.
Another realization I gained concerned my lack of muscular strength.
This stemmed from my honest experience in the Community—whether fortunate or not, though this body that had resolved itself to death had endured without incident until now, upon reaching forty years old I found that however resolute my spirit might be, muscles and stamina refused compliance.
I couldn't force matters; my strength had waned.
The Community's alms-rounding involved more physically demanding tasks than any other work—thus though I began with youthful defiance against being outdone by younger members, sustaining such efforts proved impossible.
Therefore those entering Ittō-en Community would do best to be youths between twenty and thirty-two or thirty-three.
Indeed few around forty actually remained there.
Even when present, they didn't last.
When first entering the Community, I marveled at members' youth—some barely seventeen or eighteen.
How could such tender ages harbor doubts about life or religion? Yet for those within my earlier mentioned age range, it made an excellent training ground.
For elders it proved unsuitable.
Mr. Tenkō was undoubtedly a great man.
That single fact—the Community's twenty-year history—made this abundantly clear.

And he was a man of the most superior intellect.

Let me now set down one anecdote here.
One day while talking with Mr. Tenkō—though I cannot recall how the topic arose—he said, “I hear you compose haiku,” to which I replied, “Yes.”
“How about composing a hundred haiku per day?”
Even Mr. Tenkō proved ultimately an outsider regarding haiku.
There did seem to be people composing haiku in the Community, but most appeared affiliated with the Hototogisu school.

Well， this had been quite a significant digression and had gotten rather tangled， so I thought I would bring these hermitage notes to a close there for now.
As I laid down my brush， I found myself once again thinking of Master Inoue’s boundless compassion—and discovered there were no words adequate to express it.
Next， toward Saikō-ji Temple’s chief priest， Master Sugimoto， I once again found myself without words of gratitude.
Master Sugimoto was referred to as Gen’genshi among fellow members， but as I had mentioned earlier， when sitting face-to-face and conversing with him， one felt entirely as though their cheek were being caressed by a spring breeze.
The fact that I was permitted to reside at Nangō-an under his protection—this possessor of a great personality—was something for which I could not help but feel profound gratitude.

As for words of gratitude toward my associate Mr. Inoue Ichiji—being too intimate between close friends—I refrained from expressing them here.
Now，I once again expressed my profound gratitude to the three individuals and brought this manuscript to a close.

Namu Amida Butsu.

(14th Year, November 5th)