[1] Though the river's current never fails, the water

passing, moment by moment, is never the same. Where the

current pools, bubbles form on the surface, bursting and

disappearing as others rise to replace them, none lasting

long. In this world, people and their dwelling places are

like that, always changing.

[2] When you see the ridgepoles of the impressive

houses in Heian-kyo competing to rise above one another-

dwellings of people of high status or of low--they look like

they might stand for generations, but when you inquire you

discover there are very few still standing from ages past.

Some may have burned down just last year, and been rebuilt

since. Or a mansion may have disappeared, to be replaced
by smaller houses. Things change in the lives of the people
living in those houses, too. There may be just as many

people, but in places where I might have known twenty or

thirty people in my youth, I may only recognize one or two

THE HOJOKI (MY TEN-FOOT HUT)

now. Some die in the morning; others are born in the

evening. That's the way it is with the people of this world-they are like those bubbles floating on the water.

[3] Nor is it clear to me, as people are born and die,

where they are coming from and where they are going. Nor
why, being so ephemeral in this world, they take such pains

to make their houses pleasing to the eye. The master and

the dwelling are competing in their transience. Both will

perish from this world like the morning glory that blooms
in the morning dew. In some cases, the dew may evaporate
first, while the flower remains--but only to be withered by
the morning sun. In others the flower may wither even
before the dew is gone, but no one expects the dew to last
until evening.

[4] I have seen many terrible things in the forty years I

have lived since I first noticed such things.

[5] I believe it was April 28th of the third year of

Angen (1177). There was a strong wind blowing at the
hour of the dog (8 o'clock in the evening) to spread a fire
which broke out in the southeast part of the capital to the
northwest. In that one night the Red Sparrow Gate, the
Palace Council Hall, school dormitories, the Public
Housing Ministry, and many other buildings were burned to
the ground, reduced to ashes.

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1177

[6] I heard that the fire broke out in Higuchitominokoji,

in a shack where a dancer lived. Then, spread by the wind,

it touched place after place, until finally it reached

everywhere, like the unfolding of a fan. Houses far off

became engulfed in smoke as those near the center were

caught up in swirling flames. The brightness of the fire was

reflected against the solid cloud of ashes blown up in the

night sky, a deep red at the center, which, as the wind had
flames leaping 100 to 200 yards, kept shifting. People

caught in the middle gave up all hope. Some died as they

were completely overcome by the smoke, others as they

became dizzy in the eye of the flame. Still others, who

barely escaped with their lives, lost everything they owned.

Some of the great treasures in the Palace were also reduced

to ashes. How great was the damage? Sixteen buildings in

the Imperial Court were burned, but it is impossible to

calculate the total loss. Perhaps a third of the capital city

was destroyed by this fire. Scores of men and women were
killed, and who knows how many horses and cattle?

1180

[7] I think it is absurd to sacrifice so much wealth and

energy to build a house anywhere, but particularly in such a
dangerous place as the center of the capital city.

[8] Again it was in April of the fourth year of Jisho

(1180) when a great whirlwind struck near Naka-no

Mikado, east of the Imperial Palace, and swept southwest to

Sixth Street.

[9] Racing across the city, 300 to 400 yards wide, the
whirlwind destroyed every house, large or small, in its

path. In some cases they were completely flattened; in

others only beams or pillars remained. The roofs of gates

were blown 400 or 500 yards away, as if offering no

resistance at all, and hedge fences were completely blown

away, so the boundaries between neighbors disappeared.
Household goods and cypress shingles flew up into the air,

like leaves from winter trees, to be distributed far and

wide. There was so much dust and trash in the air that it

was better not to open your eyes, and you couldn't hear a
thing anyone said to you in the terrible echoing. I thought it

must be like this in Hell. Not only were buildings

destroyed, but many people were crippled trying to salvage

those that had just been damaged. This wind moved in a

south, southwest direction, across the central part of the

capital city, so it caused grief for a great many people.

[10] Since there are often whirlwinds, this would not be

such an unusual thing except for the severity. Many saw it
as a special Buddhist or Shinto warning.

[11] Then, in June of that same fourth year of Jisho, the

capital was suddenly and unexpectedly moved. I have
heard that Heian-kyo had been the capital for almost 400
years, since the reign of the Emperor Saga. So it would
certainly seem unwise to move such a stable capital without
some special reason, and it naturally caused a great deal of
anxiety among the people.

[12] But no matter what people said, they all moved,

beginning with the emperor, his ministers, and other
nobles. I wondered if anyone associated with the
government would remain in the old capital. Certainly
anyone who wanted an important position in the
government, or promotion in rank at court, very quickly
moved to the new capital, leaving behind only those with
little chance of successful careers, or those for whom the
future had little to offer. Soon the most impressive
mansions fell into disrepair. Some were disassembled, the
pieces floated down the Yodo River on rafts, so the land
they had occupied became open fields. People's ideas
changed completely. Now a horse and saddle was valued
over an ox and ox-cart. Land in the direction of the sea,
south and west, was thought desirable, while no one wanted
to settle in the direction of Tohoku, or to the north.

[13] I happened to visit the new capital, at the seaport

in Settsu, at this time. It was obvious that the place was too
narrow even to lay out the streets properly. On the north
side the mountains were crowding in and the south side was
sloping into the sea. The sound of the waves was noisy all
year long, and the salt water wind was especially strong.
The Imperial Palace was right in the mountains, and the
trees used to build it became the fashion, with comments
about the peculiar points of elegance it had. Houses were
re-constructed from the components of so many being
floated down the river as almost to dam it; still, though
unoccupied land was plentiful, few new houses had been
built. So the old capital was already ruined, while the new
capital was not yet established. People came to feel like
floating clouds. The natives of the place complained
because they had lost their land, and those who had moved
there about the difficulties of building in this new place.
The people I saw on the streets who ought to have been
riding in ox-carts were on horseback, and instead of
kimono, ancient headdress, and formal wear most had
assumed the clothing of soldiers. The manners of the
capital had changed, became no different from those of
country samurai. People wondered if, in these troubled
times, courtly manners would be lost completely, and
whether this might not presage greater catastrophes to


come. Finally, after all the complaints, in the winter of that
year the emperor returned to Heian-Kyo. However, by then
most of the mansions had already been pulled down, and I
don't believe that as many new ones were ever built.
[14] I have heard that, long ago, a wise and virtuous
emperor ruled over the country, who looked upon his
subjects with pity. Even when thatching the roof of the
palace they did not trouble to make the eaves uniform, and
when there was not as much smoke coming from his
subjects' kitchen chimneys as he expected, he exempted
them from taxes. He had his subject's blessing, because the
public welfare was his concern. This is the way it was. If
we compare the state of affairs in today's society to that of
this legendary wise emperor's reign what do we find them
to have in common?
[15] Also about that time, in the reign of Emperor
Yowa (1181), I believe, though it becomes so long ago I
have trouble remembering, there was a terrible famine,
lasting for two years. From spring through summer there
was a drought, and in autumn and winter typhoon and
flood--bad conditions one after another, so that grain crops
failed completely. Everything people did became wasted
effort. Though they prepared the ground in the spring, and
transplanted the rice in the summer, the fall's rice harvest
and winter's prosperity were not achieved.
[16] In all the provinces, peasants were abandoning the
land and leaving the region. Some went to live in the
mountains. In the Imperial Court special Buddhist prayers
were scrupulously conducted, but to no effect. The
prosperity of Heian-kyo depended on these crops, and
under these conditions a normal economy could not be
sustained. Given these pressures, people living on bamboo
shoots tried to sell their valuables at sacrificial prices, but
nobody wanted to buy anything. They engaged in barter as
monetary values were depressed, and the value of grains
skyrocketed. It became common for beggars to be heard in
the main street of the capital, complaining about their
conditions.
[17] After a year of such suffering, people hoped the
new year would be better, but the misery increased as, in
addition to the famine, people were afflicted by contagious
disease. Everyone suffered from malnutrition, until
gradually to say that "All the fish will choke in shallow
water" would fit very well. Now even those wearing
bamboo hats, with legs wrapped in leggings, walked
frantically from house to house begging. I saw vagabonds
of this kind, as they were walking, suddenly collapse and
die. Close to the roofed mud wall at the side of the road,
the number of bodies dead from starvation continually
increased. Because no one even tried to clear away those
corpses, the odor of the putrefaction became offensive
throughout Heian-kyo, and people could not even stand to
look them. The city was permeated by the smell, and the
mountain of corpses accumulated along the Kamo river bed
until there were places where horses and carriages could not
pass. Poor woodcutters, becoming exhausted, were unable
to carry firewood into the city, and, as fuel became scarce,
people were breaking up their own houses and selling the
wood in the city. However, all the wood a man could carry
would not sell for enough to sustain him for a single day.
And it was not unusual to find red paint and gold and silver
foil here and there among the firewood, because desperate
people would sneak into temples and steal the image of the
Buddha, or pull down temple ornaments and furniture to
turn into firewood. I was born into a world in which this
kind of thing could happen.
[18] And there were other terrible, pitiful things. No

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5 =1181

one was prepared to abandon a beloved wife or husband

before they were separated by death. When they thought
their partner was failing, sometimes they would put their
own food into the hand of that cherished wife or husband,
and it was frequently the case that the parent sacrificed for
the child. Sometimes the mother was dead, and the nursing
child did not even know it. There were many situations
like that.
[19] The high priest Ryugyo, of Ninanji Temple,
deploring the fact that so many people were dying
unrecorded, whenever he encountered a dying person wrote
the Buddhist letter A on that person's forehead, binding the
person, on the point of death, to Buddha's providence.
When they estimated the number of people who died, in the
two months of April and May, in the city of Heian-kyo,
from 1st Street in the south to 9th Street in the north, from
the Eastern Capitol in the west to the Red Sparrow Gate in
the east--that is to say on all the roads of the entire city--the
number of dead came to more than 42,300. Since many
died before and after that two month period, and many died
outside the city, in the Dry River Bed, in White River, in the
West Capitol, and in the suburbs, the total number far
exceeded such counting. And if we think beyond Heiankyo and the suburbs--adding all the provinces--it is an
appalling thing to consider.
[20] I've heard that when Sutoku was emperor (1134),
there was such a pestilence, but know nothing of that time.
The misery in this case I saw with my own eyes, and it was
very extraordinary.
[21] Not long after this (1185) there was a violent
earthquake, causing unbelievable damage. Mountains
crumbled, rivers were completely filled up, and waves from
the sea inundated the land. The earth split and water
gushed out. Boulders broke off in the mountains and
tumbled into the valley. Ships were tossed around on the
sea, and horses were unable to keep their footing on the
roads. In the vicinity of Heian-kyo, temples, shrines, and
towers were so damaged that not a single one was left in
good condition. Some collapsed; others were turned upside
down. Dust and ashes billowed up like smoke. The sound
of the movement of the earth, and of the destruction of
houses, was like thunder. People who were inside the
houses might be crushed at once, but those who ran outside
were faced by the cracks in the earth. Since they did not
have wings, they could not fly up into the sky, or become
dragons riding in the clouds. We can only imagine their
misery. Among the most dreaded of catastrophes, we must
conclude that the earthquake is the worst of all.
[21*] In that earthquake the only child of a samurai, a
child of about six or seven, was innocently playing under
the roof of a mud wall, making a toy house, when suddenly
that wall collapsed, burying the child, crushing it so badly
that it couldn't be recognized, both eyeballs having been
popped out about three centimeters. It is impossible to
express in words the pity I felt seeing the mother and father,
crying and wailing in loud voices, holding that child in their
arms. To see that not even a brave warrior could disguise
the anguish in his eyes suffering the agony of his child's
death, could not control this kind of natural lament,
provoked my sympathy.
[22] The terrible shaking stopped after a short time, but
then there were after-shocks. After that great earthquake,
there might be twenty or thirty tremors in a single day.
After ten days, then twenty days, they gradually came to be
more widely spaced, probably four or five times in a day,
then two or three times, then every other day, skipping two
or three days--but there were still some aftershocks up to

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perhaps three months.

[23] Among the four great elements recognized by
Buddhism, three--fire, water, and wind--are frequently
associated with disasters, but earth is most often identified
with stability. Still, in the Saiko era (540), I believe, there
was an earthquake so severe that it damaged the neck of the
Todaiji's Great Buddha so that the head fell off, and did
unusual damage to many other things. But it was no match
for the violence of the earthquake this time. Those who
experienced this earthquake all talked about it that way at
the time, that of all the miserable things in this world, it was
the worst, seemed to be a thing of evil passions. But the
days and months passed into years, and they came to
deplore other things, so that you might go for a month now
without meeting anyone talking about the earthquake.
[24] People respond to these disasters in terms of their
own experience. Unless the disaster has struck them
personally, their circumstances, their environment, it is
dismissed as a superficial thing.
[25] Someone of low status who becomes a neighbor of
a man of power, even when he has cause to be very happy,
cannot celebrate loudly, or if his sorrow is severe, his
lamentation and weeping must be muted. His conduct is
controlled by anxiety, for in any situation he is as fearful as
a sparrow caught in a hawk's nest. Poor people, living as
neighbors to the rich, morning and evening are embarrassed
by their poorly dressed appearance, even as they go into
and leave the house, seeing their neighbor's flattering
condescension. The wife and children envy the neighbor's
servants, who look down on them with haughty expression,
provoking bad feelings. They can never have peace of
mind. If it is crowded in the neighborhood, and the nextdoor house catches fire, there is no escaping the spreading
fire. If you live outside the city, where it is sparsely
populated, it is difficult to go and come, and you have to
worry about being attacked by thieves. People want power
and authority, for if their family has none, others look down
on them. But people who have property have many
worries, too, just as the poor people who envy them do.
Whenever you must rely upon others, so are not selfsufficient, then those others come to possess you. Even
helping a stranger, if you are drawn to that person, infringes
on your independence of spirit. On the one hand, it is
difficult to maintain independence in following the standard
social conventions, but, if you do not, you will seem absurd,
will look like a lunatic. And wherever you live, whatever
you do, in the short period of time of this life, you should
seek peace of mind--but this seems impossible for human
beings.
[26] This has been true in my life. At first, taking over
the estate of my father's grandmother, I lived there for many
years. But, after that, cut off by fate, I fell into adversity.
Finally, I could no longer stay there. I was thirty years old
when I built a smaller house for myself. Compared with the
previous house, it was only a tenth of the size. It was no
more than my own sleeping quarters, constructed as such a
modest building might be. A mud wall was finally added,
but there were never funds for a gate. Bamboo supports
were constructed, through which a vehicle could enter. If
the snow was falling, or the wind was blowing, there were
difficulties. Because it was near the Kamo River channel,
there was great danger of flooding, and there were many
cases of robbery in the area.
[27] It was difficult to find a satisfactory place to live,
as I struggled with the problems of this world for over thirty
years. During that time, as I stumbled from one situation to
another, I came to realize that it was all a matter of fate.

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Therefore, in the spring of the year in which I became fifty,

I abandoned that house, too, and sought seclusion from the
world. Since I had no wife and children, and no allowance
for rank or office, in what did my commitment lie? I had
no obligations beyond myself, so was free to go into
monastic seclusion. Though attached to nothing, living in
Ohara, I had managed to live through the cycle of months
meaninglessly for five years.
[28] Now I am sixty years old, and again changing my
way of life so late in life, have constructed a house to which
to entrust my last years. It was like a silkworm diligently
making a cocoon, or as if designed to provide a single bed
for a traveler for a single night. This house, compared to
the one I built in the middle of my life near the river bank,
must not be a hundredth part of that house. Many find fault
with what I am doing, as I move to a smaller and smaller
dwelling house as my age increases from year to year.
Comparing to the earlier, larger dwellings, this does not
even resemble an ordinary building. The house is only ten
feet square, and the height is less than seven feet. I did not
model it on houses I have lived in all through my life, but
selected the lot and built the house on other principles. I
built the foundation and constructed the simple roof by
linking timbers together and pulling them up so that they
are suspended from metal fittings. By planning it this way,
if I become displeased with the place it is located, it is easy
to move it to another location. The house is so constructed
that to move it is relatively easy to pile the pieces in two
carts, and, except for the charge for the rental of the carts,
no other expenses are required.
[29] So I have withdrawn to live in the Hino mountains
in this ten-foot square hermit's cell. On the east side, where
the eaves extend less than a meter, there is a place to burn
the firewood I have gathered. On the south the bamboo
drainboard is spread. Inside, on the west, is a shelf made
for the water offerings to the Buddha. On the north, in a
single-leaf screen partition, the portrait of Amida Buddha is
placed, and, next to that, Fugen Bodhisatva's portrait, before
which the Kekyo sutra is placed. On the east side of the
hermit's cell, I spread the straw from bracken grain as a cot.
In the southwest corner, I have built a hanging shelf on
which three black leather-covered boxes are placed, for
poems, music books, and collections of sutra prayers. Next
to that a koto and biwa stand, one on either side. These are
the circumstances in this temporary hermit's cell.
[30] Outside my hut, to the south, I have a water pipe.
The water accumulates in a basin formed by rocks I have
piled there. And because I am surrounded by forest, it is
easy to gather small branches for firewood. The name of
this place is Toyama. Creeping vines almost conceal the
paths to it, but, though the trees grow thick in the valley, in
the west it is clear, making this Western Paradise Pure Land
view convenient for silent prayer. In spring the wisteria
flowers tremble in the wind, so many blooming in the west
that it seemed like the coming of Amida Buddha riding on
purple clouds. In summer I can hear the cry of the cuckoo,
promising to be my guide on the mountain road to death. In
autumn the sound of the cicada fills the ear, and, as I hear it,
I grieve to think of the transience of life in this world. In
winter I see the snow with some emotion as it piles up and
then begins to melt away, as the sins that people have
committed may disappear if they are able to repent. If
reciting the nembutsu becomes troublesome, or I do not feel
I have time to read the sutras, no one is here to accuse me
of being lazy. There is no one to interfere in any way. If I
do not impose the severity of silence as a religious
discipline, as may be my responsibility, living alone it is

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difficult to violate the rule in any case. If I were not strictly

observing the commandments, I would wonder why, given
this environment, I were not able to. But I don't break the
rules.
In the morning, I watch the boats come and go in the
kanoya vicinity. When, after a boat passes, the white waves
immediately fade away, I see my own transient experience
in that, and am provoked to try to imitate the priest Mansei's
elegant poetry, or, in the evening, if the wind blows in the
maple trees, making the leaves sound, I recall the river at
Jinyo, and I mimic the Minister Minamoto Tsunenobu in
playing the biwa. When that has still not exhausted my
mood, I try to skillfully combine the sound of the koto with
that of the autumn wind through the pines, or the sound of a
valley stream, as I accompany my prayer by playing on the
biwa. I am clumsy in playing on the instrument, but, since
no one else can hear it, it doesn't matter. Alone by myself
in musical performance, or singing, it is only for personal
enjoyment.
[31] There is also a thatched cottage at the foot of this
mountain. That is where this mountain's keeper lives, and
there is a small boy there. Sometimes he comes to visit
me. When I am bored with what I am doing, he may
become my companion on the walks I take. He is ten years
old and I am sixty. The age difference is great, but the
pleasure we take in walking is the same. Sometimes we
pull up the sprouts of chugaya flowers, gather peach moss,
pull up rice bran, or pick Japanese parsley. Sometimes
walking in the fields at the foot of the mountain we may
also glean heads of grain. If the weather is nice, we may
climb to the summit of the mountain and look out over
Kobatayama, Fushimi Village, Toba, or Hatsukashi. This is
a good neighborhood for this kind of scenery, and, best of
all, since it is not owned by anyone, I can look at it all I
want to with no one able to keep me from it.
When I feel like walking further, we may traverse a
series of peaks, passing Sumiyama and Kasatori, perhaps,
to visit Iwama Temple, or Ishiyama Temple, to worship. Or
we may cross Awazu Plain to look for the ruined hut where
the old man Semimaru used to stay, or crossing the
Tanakami River to visit Sara Maru Taiyu's grave. On the
way back, depending on the season, we may look at the
cherry blossoms, or observe the maple leaves, breaking off
the bracken tree's berries to place before the Buddha's altar
at home, or just to eat.
When my heart is becoming lonely in the evening, I look
at the moon from the hut's window, and think about old
friends, and hear the voice of the monkey, my tears flowing
sentimentally. In the grass of the high meadow there seem
to be fireflies, but they also seem to be points of fire on
Maki no Shima. At dawn I also like to hear the rain
blowing in the leaves of the trees like a storm. When I hear
the weeping chirp of the mountain birds, I think of children
calling their father and mother. And when I see the
approach of the mountain deer near the summit without
fear, I understand how far I have been separated from
society. Or when I again rake the banked fire when I am
unable to sleep, I do it as an old friend. These mountain
recesses are not fearful, and the lonely owl's voice, rather
than sounding frightening, has a sad charm. The mountain
scene, in going through the artistic effects of the four
seasons, offers abundant change, never exhausts your
interest. Since I feel this way, I think any deep thinking
person, or person more knowledgeable than I am, would
find the experience I have described of unlimited value.
[32] Though when I came here I only expected to be
living in this place for a short time, it has already been five

years. I have gotten used to this temporary residence, as the

dead leaves have collected in the eaves, and the moss has
grown on the foundation. Naturally, on occasion, I have
heard of happenings in Heian-kyo since I have retreated to
the mountain, of how many of the people in high social
position have died. I couldn't count the number of people
of lower position who have, or how many houses have been
consumed by fire. But I have no concern about the security
of this temporary residence. Even if it is small, it offers a
place to sleep at night and a place to sit during the day.
There is no shortage of room for my single body. It
provides a small shell, like the hermit crab likes,
somewhere to return to when danger threatens. The osprey
always lives on the windswept seashore, because it fears the
proximity of human beings. I am like the hermit crab and
the osprey.
If you are insecure living in the capital, you should not
busy yourself with worldly desire. Only the quiet life is
important, and taking pleasure in assuming its hardships.
Ordinary people cannot give up their house, feeling that it is
needed to preserve their safety. Some consider it necessary
as a place for their wife and children, for the family
structure, others for their intimates and friends. Some may
build for landowners, or teachers, or own property to keep
cows and horses, but others have no need to construct a
building. Asked why I live like this, given the present
circumstances of the world, and my own position, I say that
I have no wife and children, and no need to rely upon
servants. If I were to build a larger house, who would be
staying with me? Who would I live with?
[33] It may be important to people who have friends to
have property, and a superficially friendly person makes a
lot of friends. It is not necessary for a person who has
friendships, or a gentle character. If it was, you are better
off with no friends. It is better to have only music and the
changing landscapes of the seasons as your friends.
People's servants must be rewarded. It is important that
they receive a great many benefits. If they are treated
kindly, without these benefits, there is little likelihood of
tranquility of life. Because of that, I myself do without
servants. I have become my own servant, which is the
better way. If I have something to do, I use my own body.
If I am tired, it is still better than using other people, where
there is so much more to worry about. If it is necessary to
walk, I use my own legs. If I am tired, it is still better than
the trouble of taking care of a horse, or riding in an ox-cart.
With one body, the work can be divided between two hands
and two feet. With my hands as my servants and feet as my
vehicles, I do everything entirely by myself. Because I
understand the emotional distress and torment of my own
body very well, I know when I need to rest to improve my
spirit. Even if I use my own body, I don't often have to for
too long a time. Since feeling tired is up to me to
determine, there is no reason to overdo it. And, if a person
always walks, he is always moving his body, which tends to
keep him thin and promote good health. There is no
encouragement to be lazy. To make other people suffer is a
sinful thing. So why borrow other people's strength and
energy?
Clothing and food are also concerns. Plain, coarse
clothing can be woven from arrowroot, and hemp can be
used for bedding. Whatever I can make by hand is good to
wear. I grow starwort in the field, and gather nuts from the
trees by the mountain peak, and in this way sustain life. I
might be concerned to expose myself to other people
dressed so, but since I have no others to see me, have no
cause for remorse. And I might feel that I am eating poor

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things, but, though they are poor, they are the product of my
own industry and I thank heaven for them, This leads to
happiness, a rich life, which I say without sarcasm--by
myself alone, using my own body--compared to the life I
led before.
[33*] Since entering the priesthood, fear and
resentment of other people has disappeared. Because life is
under heaven's control, it doesn't matter if I live long or
not. I am not concerned about early death, am like a
floating cloud, and do not complain. The happiness of my
life can be expressed in one peaceful nap, and in the hope
of seeing the beautiful scenery of the four seasons.
[34] In general, the past, present, and future history of
human beings is a product of the mind. If there is no peace
of mind in possessing the elephant or horse, or the seven
wonders or treasures of the world, it is meaningless to have
palaces and buildings of many stories. Now I dwell in my
tranquil residence. It is only a ten-foot hut, but I love it.
When I want to go to the capital for something, I may feel
ashamed to go in the appearance of a beggar, but I return
feeling sorry for the people I see there, who are so caught
up in and preoccupied with wealth and honor, so busy doing
things. If you are doubtful about what I am saying, look at
the situation of the fish and the birds. Fish are always in the
water, yet they don't become bored with the water. If you
are not a fish you probably can't understand that feeling.
Birds hope to live in the forest. If you are not a bird, you
probably can't understand that motive. My feeling about
my tranquil residence is of the same kind. Who can
understand this if they haven't tried it?
[35] My life, like the waning moon, is about to finish.
The remaining days are few. Soon the Three Ways of the
Hereafter will begin. The acts of my whole life may be
criticized. An important Buddhist teaching is not to form
attachment to anything of this world. I now feel that it is a
crime to begin to love this hermitage so much. I have also
persisted in the silent life here, that may become an obstacle
to salvation too, perhaps. Why am I wasting time speaking
about this worthless happiness with so little time
remaining? This is not the thing to do.
[36] Thinking about this at dawn after a quiet night, I
try to give vent to my own heart facing these questions.
"Chomei, by trying to escape from the world by going to
the mountains and forests this way, to put the disorder of
your heart into order is a Buddhist practice. And yet, while
trying to become a pure monk, your heart remains tainted
by impurity. By living in a ten-foot hut in imitation of the
Jomyo Buddhist layman Yuima, even if you are given the
benefit of the doubt, you have not realized the practice of
Shuri Handoku. When you perhaps do by chance, doesn't
your karma's punishment worry you? Or again, by reckless
judgment, not becoming more intelligent you grow worse
by this, grow crazy. What do you think?" When I ask
myself like this, my heart cannot answer. I have no
answer. There is one way remaining. I continue to move
my tongue, but I am unable to welcome the celebration of
Amida Nurai. I only chant two or three times. That is all.
[37] It is now Senryo Two (1212), the end of March. I
have become a priest. I remain in Hino's Toyama hut, and
am writing this letter.

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