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"Dragonfly
catcher,
how far have you gone today
in your wandering?"
Chiyo-ni’s haiku speaks of a child catching dragonflies, capturing a tender moment of innocence and play. Yet, there’s an underlying sense of distance and loss, as she had lost her own child. Haiku often distill life’s most profound moments, rooted in nature and impermanence. For poets like Matsuo Bashō, the fleeting beauty of life opens the door to contemplation and what might come after. In his final haiku, Bashō reflects on the end of life with acceptance:
"On a journey, ill,
my dream goes wandering
over withered fields."
Bashō, like a wandering minstrel, found in nature the human condition. His "withered fields" evoke life’s end, yet his dream continues, suggesting a journey beyond. This resonates with my own reflections on the soul’s path.
Yosa Buson, too, captured the sorrow of life’s passing in his haiku:
"The end of it all,
and weeping, in the midst of
the flowers blooming."
Here, the blooming flowers symbolize life’s rhythm, while weeping hints at grief. Even in sorrow, nature’s persistence seems to suggest hope—perhaps life, in some form, endures.
Kobayashi Issa, having lost many loved ones, also wrote of life’s fragility and the yearning for something more:
"This world of dew
is a world of dew—
and yet, and yet..."
Life, like dew, is fleeting, but Issa’s "and yet" leaves room for hope—perhaps there is something beyond the transient world.
Santōka Taneda, who lived a wandering life, also embraced this tension. In one haiku, he wrote:
"My begging bowl—
accepts the falling leaves
of this life."
The falling leaves symbolize the passage of time and acceptance of life’s end. The bowl, a symbol of humility, receives life’s final offering, reflecting the importance of accepting what comes next.
These haikus, rooted in nature and impermanence, invite us to contemplate life’s continuity beyond the physical.
Haiku, in its ability to distil life’s most profound experiences into a few words, leaves room for the mystery of what lies beyond. As I walk along the shore in the early morning, watching the waves rise and fall, I find myself thinking of Bashō’s dream, wandering over withered fields. And like Issa, I carry with me that quiet "and yet," as I continue to reflect on life, death, and the hope that there is something more waiting on the other side. These poets covertly and with considerable discomfort flew against the concept of Mono no aware.
"Do not marvel at this, but the hour is coming in which all those in the graves will hear my voice and come out; those who have done good to a resurrection of life..." John 5: 28.