Sick on a journey,
my dreams wander
the withered fields.
旅に病んで
夢は枯れ野を
かけめぐる
Matsuo Bashō
Bashō
The most famous of all poets in Edo period Japan, Matsuo Bashō enjoyed a relatively privileged childhood, his father being of the samurai class or perhaps an estate farmer of the same relative standing. When Bashō was 12 years old, his father died and the young boy was passed on to a local feudal lord, whose son, Yoshitada, had taken up the aristocratic practice of composing verses. Bashō studied with Yoshitada, learning the art of haiku. When Bashō was 22, his mentor Yoshitada died, and Bashō moved once again, although exactly where remains unknown.
Bashō's forty-nine years can be divided into phases. In his twenties, he showed the promise of a budding haikuist, while in his thirties he became a prolific writer and teacher, studying Chinese poetry while dabbling in both Daoism and Zen. He is credited with reinventing Japanese haiku, breaking from the status quo and imbuing his art with new life. Even so, by his forties, Bashō grew sick of the literary life and set off on pilgrimage, documenting his voyages in a travel journal, which developed into a literary genre in Japan. His travelogue, interspersed with poetry, known as Narrow Road to the Far North, continues to be widely read.
Half literary celebrity, half homeless pilgrim, Bashō was familiar with multiple intersecting worlds. Near the end of his life, while roaming in solitude, his poetry began to increasingly reflect a sense of loneliness, intense concentration, and lightness at once. Written shortly before his death, Bashō's final haiku distills the essence of each of these themes. We thus contemplate its relevance to contemporary contexts.
Sick on a Journey
Opening the haiku, Bashō writes of being "sick on a journey," which we may read in several ways. On one hand, although quite well-off as a result of both the social class afforded to him by birth and a successful haiku career, Bashō had grown tired of the lime light, which he never fully enjoyed. Perhaps wishing to reinvent himself, much like he had reinvented the art of haiku during his literary career, he sought a simpler existence through solitary pilgrimage. In this phase of his life, Bashō traveled light and consumed minimally, shaving his head and donning rag robes. At the same time, Bashō had fallen fatally ill while on pilgrimage, eventually meeting an early death.
In an era of pandemic, we too encounter an opportunity to reinvent ourselves as the world undergoes huge, largely devastating shifts in momentum. Some of us—perhaps sick of structural inequities stemming from long-accumulating cracks in the foundations of society that are increasingly brought to light by the virus—may see the present situation as a momentous occasion for regenerative undertakings in ecology. Sick in more ways than one, we face a long and daunting journey ahead if we are to collectively recreate a sustainable future, a feat Bashō seems to have undertaken as well on his own terms.
My Dreams Wander
Bashō continues his near-death reflections by observing, "my dreams wander," suggesting the movement of his own mind's creations. While on pilgrimage, anyone's contemplative musings are likely to be stirred. The impressions left by wandering unfamiliar paths inevitably imprint upon the unconscious and express themselves through dreams, where creative energy blooms freely. Perhaps Bashō here alludes to his poetry itself, which he hopes will wander freely after he dies. Knowing his own death to be fast encroaching, he composes this haiku as a departing reflection, possibly intending to live on through his poetry in the dreams of others.
During times of novelty and uncertainty, dreams are the boundary-less container in which creative energy stirs. As many seem to be experiencing, the mind entertains myriads of possibilities in the depths of night, some perhaps soothing, others the cause of demonic fright. Present pandemic, traumas from the recent or distant past, and hypothetical futures invade and populate our dreams. On other occasions, visions of regeneration and flourishing may arise, whether while waking or sleeping. In these times of groundless fog, obscuring clarity and obstructing progress, may our dreams teach us without causing us incapacitating stagnation or regression. May they wander freely, and may where ever they happen to take us impart wisdom.
The Withered Fields
At the poem's conclusion, Bashō mentions "the withered fields" that he witnesses on his sick journey. In fact, Bashō's dreams wander these withered fields. Whether referring to the land itself, the figurative terrain across which his life has wound its course, or even his own decrepit body, beset by illness, or mind, ravaged by regrets, a sense of desolation pervades the scene. Nonetheless, Bashō's dreams appear eager to wander through such desolation.
Rather than turn away from the unpleasant realities that face us, we too may heal from letting our dreams wander the withered fields, intimately exploring the wreckage often concealed from us. Death and destruction plague our present reality. They shattered populations extending even further back than documented history shows. Such devastating events will no doubt continue to plague us into the future. By wandering their withered fields, perhaps we may trace the scars of the past and learn from them as we journey onward. Despite his own sickness and the withered nature of these fields, Bashō's dreams continued to wander, unimpeded. Perhaps ours may too in spite of all the carnage.
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