BASHO: THE JOURNEY ITSELF IS HOME

The moon and sun are eternal travelers.  Even the years wander on.  A lifetime adrift in a boat or in old age leading a tired horse into the years, every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

                                                                  Basho

In these wonderful lines from Narrow Road to the Interior, Matsuo Basho, the celebrated 17th century Japanese poet and haiku master, has reminded us that home is not the destination of our journey; it is the journey itself.  With a philosophy rooted in Taoism and Zen, Basho understood that life can only be lived when one is fully awake, fully aware, and fully invested in the mystery and glory of the present moment.  Home is the uncertain path beneath our feet, the mysterious dance of form and color around every bend, the unexpected wind upon our face.  Home is a fading church bell, the intense fragrance of flowers in the early evening, the haunting sound of whippoorwills calling to one another at twilight.  Home is the restless dragonfly, the solitary heron that feeds in the shallows, the bluebird that sits outside your window pondering the meaning of an early snowfall.  Home is both movement and stillness, the stillness in our movement and the movement in our stillness.

Many of the treasured moments of Basho's life were expressed in his celebrated haiku verses.  I have chosen several of these verses and paired them with some of my photos that seem appropriate.  Enjoy!

Temple bells die out.

The fragrant blossoms remain.

A perfect evening!

Silent the old town 

the scent of flowers floating

and evening bell

The dragonfly

can't quite land

on that blade of grass

Even that old horse
is something to see this
snow-covered morning

Now in sad autumn

as I take my 

darkening path

a solitary bird

A lightning flash --
and, piercing the darkness,
the night heron's cry

Twilight whippoorwills

whistle on,

sweet deepened

of dark loneliness

Summer grasses:
all that remains of great soldiers'
imperial dreams

First white snow of fall

just enough to bend 

the leaves

of faded daffodils

In summer mountains
bow to holy high-water clogs
bless this long journey

One more -- one that not only captures the essence of Basho's life, but also provides a good template for the rest of us:

A wanderer,

so let that be my name --

the first winter rain