A hazy shade of winter

 

The summer has finally left, and the rains returned.

The winter is not far off.

I love the autumn, the somber, reflective mood fits me very well...although I sometimes miss the crisp dry chill of the Octobers of my Midwestern childhood. The Northwest lacks the fiery colors, as well; our deciduous trees are dominated by the bigleaf maple, Acer macrophyllum, which does turn a handsome golden-yellow but briefly; the leaves wither and brown up as quickly as they turn.

The days grow short, the shadows long, and another year draws to a close.

Shizukesa ya

 

"Oh, tranquility"...

...is the first line of one of Bassho's best known poems:

閑けさや　岩にしみいる　蝉の声 (Shizukesa ya/ Iwa ni shimiiru/ Semi no koe)

Oh, tranquility
Penetrating the very rock.
A cicada's voice.

 

The voice that penetrated the very rocks along the path up to the Japanese Garden last Thursday wasn't the cicada's, but the modern avatar, the gas-powered leaf blower. Why the groundskeeping staff couldn't have done that work on Monday when the garden is closed, I don't know.

The cold sunshine illuminated the maple golds and reds, though, as bright and bitter as the east wind that carried from the polar high that loured over the continent straight down the gorge and up against the West Hills.

物いへば　唇寒し　秋の風 (Mono ie ba/ Kuchibiru samushi/ Aki no kaze)

When you say something
The lips feel cold.
The autumn wind.

The value of membership is in being able to enjoy the quiet - well, the normal quiet - of this place before the crowds arrive. I've been coming here for ten years or more, and the carefully curated wilderness never fails to find a peaceful place within me.

Less leaf blowers help with that, mind.

The fall color is perhaps the most popular time for the garden, when photographers descend in troops to make art from the maples. Apparently the single most popular spot is "The Tree", the big red maple alongside the upper pond. So much so that the staff has barred off the Tree and posted a set of rules to keep the fighting down to a manageable level.

夏草や　兵どもが　夢の跡 (Natsu kusa ya/ Tsuwamono domo ga/ Yume no ato)

The summer grass
All that remains
Of the dreams of the warriors.

Or photographers, for that matter.

I with my little phone was no threat to their massive lenses. 

I took my snapshots, paused, and passed on.

As did she.

粽結ふ　片手にはさむ　額髪 (Chimaki yu/ Katate ni hasamu/ Hitai gami)

While holding the Chimaki dumpling
Her other hand held
Her bangs.

Winter garden (冬 庭園)

いざ行かむ　雪見にころぶ　所まで

"Let’s go out
To see the snow view
Where we slip and fall"

Since we didn't get the February Snowpocalypse we anticipated, I took advantage of the sunny midday and went to the Japanese Garden.

初雪や　聖小僧が　笈の色

"The first snow
That the young Hijiri-monk has
The color of the wooden box"

The color of the wooden box perched on the bamboo post isn't a Hijiri-monk, but a common Northwest forest thrush. But perhaps since it's a Hermit Thrush it is monastic enough.

市人よ　此笠うらふ　雪の傘

"Hey, townspeople,
I’ll sell you my woven hat,
The snow umbrella"

初雪や いつ大仏の 柱立

"The first snow,
When is the pillar set up
For the Great Buddha?"

箱根こす 人も有らし 今朝の雪

"Some people
Would cross the Hakone Pass
Even though the moaning snow"

All of the poems are by Bashō Matsuo (松尾 芭蕉), as they were the last time we visited the Garden.

Beginning Autumn

On the porch in September a brown spider
in its web. There are deaths that come so quietly.

Over the mountains, the half moon rising.
Behind the fence a neighbor's dog howls in the dark.

No matter what the poet says a yellow leaf
asks nothing. The green wail of spring is what I want.

When you follow the shoreline out of sight,
I listen to ocean in an empty shell.

I never intended my life to turn out this way.
How solitary the drifting boat on the water.

~ Jeanne Lohmann

The summer is winding to a close here in the Northwest. The tomatoes are still proffering their August bounty but the red harvest is dew-frosted in the mornings now, and the fat heirlooms are cracking in the cool nights. The grass is still sere but the green is creeping back in after the first of the autumn rains.

The pictures of the back of the house are testimony to my irritating parsimony. Despite the repeated warnings that "replacing gutters is often difficult and a professional roofer may be a long-term savings" I went ahead with replacing Missy's back roof gutter, and a nasty, unpleasant job it was. I can see a visible belly in the damn thing, and the brackets I used did not do a particularly adequate job of holding the inside of the gutter against the roofline, so I had to go back and hang some flashing to route the runoff into the gutter. It's the worst sort of jury-rigging, but it works, and as my old drill sergeant was wont to say; if it's stupid and it works, it's not stupid...

I hope you are starting to see the signs of autumn, despite the poet's wail for spring, it is my favorite season of the year.

One piece of beautiful land

I made my home amidst this human bustle,
Yet I hear no clamour from the carts and horses.
My friend, you ask me how this can be so?
A distant heart will tend towards like places.
From the eastern hedge, I pluck chrysanthemum flowers,
And idly look towards the southern hills.
The mountain air is beautiful day and night,
The birds fly back to roost with one another.
I know that this must have some deeper meaning,
I try to explain, but cannot find the words.
(Tao Qian)
The wind returns; my little courtyard is green and overgrown,
The willows seem to have grown again this spring.
I lean for a long time on the railings; alone, without a word,
The sound of bamboo and the new moon are just like in days gone by.
The playing and singing have not yet ceased; the wine cups remain,
The ice on top of the pool begins to melt.
Bright candles and a faint fragrance are deep in the painted hall,
It's hard to think I must allow my temples all to turn white.
(Li Yu)
The east wind blows over the water, the sun sits by the hill,
Though spring has come, the idleness persists.
Fallen blossom is scattered amid wine and tinkling pendants by the rail,
She listens to playing and singing in a drunken daze.
The pendants are now silent, her evening wear undone,
For what man's sake is she to dress her hair?
Her fair appearance too will pass as time slips by,
At dusk, she leans alone upon the railing.
(Li Yu)
Who can explain why we love it- West Lake is good.
The beautiful scene is without time,
Flying canopies chase each other,
Greedy to be among the flowers, drunk, with a jade cup.

Who can know I'm idle here, leaning on the rail.
Fragrant grass in slanting rays,
Fine mist on distant water,
One white egret flying from the Immortal Isle.
(Ouyang Xiu)
Across the world this June, the petals all have fallen,
But the mountain temple's peach blossom has just begun to bloom.
I regretted so much that spring had gone without a trace,
I didn't know that it had only moved up here.
(Bai Juyi)(An appreciation of the late winter beauty of the Lan Su Chinese Garden and a lovely day spent there with my little daughter.

Freshly Fresh and Newly New

I thought I'd throw out some snapshots of what's new here at the Fire Direction Center. Here's little Miss, in one of her new ballerina dresses. Her smile is always new as a sunrise, that girl.Meanwhile, in the yard lots of new growth outside. February or no, the Northwest is seldom anything if not green.One of the newest family members came home with me from IKEA; that's the Peep's new pal "Sharkey". He's kind of a Mega Shark. Only not THAT Mega Shark.That's me, and I'm not new, of course. The other new member of the household is on the desk in the left foreground. That's the second IKEA stuffed "friend", Missy's little rat "Nibbles". Though he's a rat, in his defense, he IS very soft.This is NOT a good thing, although it and its bretheren are relatively new. Enlarge the photo and note the elongate ovoid in the center. We appear to have some sort of small moth infestation, and every night these grubs crawl down from the attic and infest the kitchen ceiling. Nasty.I fear that I'm going to have to call in an alpha strike with one of those noxious bug bombs in the attic. Ugh.

Here's something nicer - the new growth that suddenly awoke from the front yard garden bed this week. Not sure what they are - I know two kinds of plants, one's a fern and the other isn't - but they are bloody leaping from the ground like Cadmus men.The morning is new, and I need to get some sleep before it gets any older - g'night!

Senzai Hishõ

One of Portland's genuine treasures, and one of its secret gems that I most enjoy is its Japanese Garden. Saturday was cold and rainy, but the wonder of the Garden is that is is meant to be enjoyed in all seasons, and the rain lent the garden a rare beauty that is hidden from the viewer of only sunny days. So we set out up the rainy and winding path to seek what enjoyment we could find at the end.No one travels
Along this way but I,
This autumn evening.Won't you come and see
loneliness? Just one leaf
from the kiri tree.First winter rain--
even the monkey
seems to want a raincoat.Clouds appear
and bring to men a chance to rest
from looking at the moon.Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps' nest.The years first day
thoughts and loneliness;
the autumn dusk is here.In all the rains of May
there is one thing not hidden -
the bridge at Seta Bay.Furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

old pond;
a frog jumps into
the sound of waterWinter garden,
the moon thinned to a thread,
insects singing.The oak tree:
not interested
in cherry blossoms.My little daughter;
Is that burden not heavy
For your small fingers?(The Sakuteiki is a garden book with notes on garden making that dates back to the late seventeenth century. Its oldest title is Senzai Hishõ, "Secret Extracts on Gardens", and was written nearly 1000 years ago, making it the oldest work on Japanese gardening. It is assumed that this was written in the 11th century by a noble man named Tachibana no Tichitsuna.)

Matsuo Bashō (松尾 芭蕉; ?, 1644 – November 28, 1694) was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. During his lifetime, Bashō was recognized for his works in the collaborative haikai no renga form; today, after centuries of commentary, he is recognized as a master of brief and clear haiku.

(Thanks to the Portland Japanese Garden for the beauty of the outing, and Matsuo Basho for the beauty of the poetry...except for the last, which is my own and my daughter's.)