In our turbulent times, I often wonder if Buddhist practice is of any practical significance to the world’s widespread malaise. Violent conflict and economic hardship have wreaked havoc against a backdrop of environmental disasters. Online platforms have degraded into toxic forums that brim with misinformation and animosity. Cults of personality have overtaken the democratic process. A quiet hour of sitting seems irrelevant while bombs rain in Gaza, or perhaps like a private paradise for introverts.
Despite the challenges of our times, history reveals luminaries who lived with serenity and poise amid such harsh circumstances. Their practice reminds us of the value of cultivating inner stillness while also bearing witness in times of crisis and upheaval.
“Like the Buddha’s teaching on suffering, Chōmei lays bare the folly of resisting impermanence. These comments are neither morose nor pessimistic; they are borne of an unflinching gaze into human anguish.”
One such luminary can be found in Kamo no Chōmei (1155-1216), a poet and hermit who lived in medieval Japan. Chōmei was born in Kyoto, then a bustling capital. As the son of the chief priest of Shimogamo Shrine, Chōmei was in line to inherit his father’s prestigious position. He devoted himself to poetry at a young age and, through various competitions, gained renown for his verses. Chōmei worked for the imperial court and, by some accounts, married and fathered a child. As a poet and writer, Chōmei wrote vivid accounts of natural disasters, famine, and political upheaval. Weathered by the vicissitudes of human life, he finally retired to a small hut in the mountains near Kyoto at the age of 50. Chōmei’s most well-known work, Hojoki (A Record of My Hut), documents turmoil and agony from a series of disasters, followed by insights from quiet contemplation. In his commentary, we find a potent juxtaposition between vanity and serenity, suffering and repose.
The Hojoki opens with a reflection on impermanence: “Just as people die in the evening and others are born the next morning: so are we like the bubbles on water. . . all these anonymous, temporary abodes! For whom do we bother?” This pensive recognition recalls the first noble truth. Like the Buddha’s teaching on suffering, Chōmei lays bare the folly of resisting impermanence. These comments are neither morose nor pessimistic; they are borne of an unflinching gaze into human anguish. This recognition would ripen near the end of his life, with his retreat to the woods.
In the first of several vivid accounts of calamities, Chōmei recalls a great fire that reduced much of the capital to ashes in 1177. He writes:
Flames leapt across city blocks as if taking flight. . .
Overcome by smoke,
Some fell to the ground.
Others were swallowed by flames,
Perishing immediately. . .
All the treasures of this world, turned to ash.
In the course of a single night, much of the city was reduced to cinder. Chōmei witnessed the collapse of many structures, including the houses of noble lords. The flames were indifferent to wealth and consumed everything without discrimination, revealing the artifice of social rank. For Chōmei, the fire imparted the first lesson in impermanence, a lesson that would resurface in subsequent calamities.
In 1180, the ruling emperor moved the capital from Kyoto to Fukuhara (present-day Kobe), some fifty kilometers away. The homes of nobles and lords fell into disrepair. Others who vied for influence uprooted from Kyoto, eager to stay close to the halls of power. Their homes were disassembled, the timber sent adrift in the Yodo River. The dislocation of government caused social and cultural turbulence, sending confusion throughout the masses. Chōmei’s account illustrates how the lives of many are upended by the shifting seats of power, how ruling elites can leave the masses in disarray.
In 1181, extreme weather ravaged crops. Supplies dwindled, famine ensued. Chōmei describes scenes of desperation, as peasants dismantled their houses and sold the timber, the proceeds of which could not buy a day’s portion of food. Beggars lined the streets. Chōmei describes the masses as “fish trapped in a shrinking pool.” As famine raged into the second year, “starved bodies lay strewn about the streets, slumped and rigid against the walls of houses.” The stench of corpses filled the air. Among the tragic sights, Chōmei writes of “babies at the breast, unaware that their mothers had perished.” Throughout the Hojoki, we sense in Chōmei a weariness that is never far from the sorrows and trauma he witnessed.
At 49 years old, Chōmei was denied the leadership position of Shimogamo Shrine, a position that his father had held and that Chōmei hoped to assume. An act of subterfuge sunk his appointment. By some accounts, the episode left Chōmei bitter with disappointment. He soon vacated his station and retreated to the woods. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding his retreat, Chōmei’s disillusionment with society began long before, with his observation of impermanence and suffering. He crystallized the dilemma of human existence and pondered the path to true peace:
If one conforms to the world,
He’s bound to suffer.
If he doesn’t,
He’s considered mad.
So I ask myself:
Where in this world should one live and how?
Where can one find rest,
And peace in their heart?
Perhaps this is the question that propels every seeker on the path of practice. The sorrow of life is fuel for awakening.
Having tired of vanity, Chōmei found shelter in the coolness of the mountain. For many of us who live in the bustle of cities and towns, Chōmei’s retreat can seem like a resignation. However, I believe Chōmei’s turn toward solitude marks a maturation in his character. There are periods in life when we strive for excellence and earn the rewards of our station. Sooner or later, life reveals that our grand projects do not shelter us from pain and loss, that our devices for happiness fail to deliver lasting security. Recognition of this fact is the beginning of awakening, when we relinquish childish dreams and enter more fully into adulthood. Disillusionment helps us cast off the chaff and grasp the essential. Chōmei’s retreat was not a bitter defeat, but rather the hard-won prize of realization.
Chōmei’s account of his life in solitude stands in juxtaposition to the agony depicted in preceding pages. His thatched hut measured only three square meters. Under the shelter of this humble dwelling, Chōmei enjoyed the simplest of pleasures: listening to the cicadas, watching the snow that covered the land. Like many solitaries throughout history, Chōmei found solace and companionship with animals: “When the mountain deer approach me without fear, I realize just how far removed from the world I’ve become.” He discovered the paradox of indulgence: extravagant pleasures cloy the senses and diminish enjoyment, while simple meals foster appreciation. Resting in contentment, Chōmei writes:
So it is with me:
I know myself,
And I know the world.
I wish for nothing,
And seek not to conform.
Quietude is all I desire:
To be free from worry is happiness enough.
These words reveal a man who has pierced through the strife of his society. We may envy the serenity that Chōmei enjoyed at last. However, his ease was earned and his peace chastened by suffering. He came upon a measure of transcendence, not because he had given up on the world, but because he opened himself completely to life’s fullness by relinquishing the trappings that kept him in coil.
The events that defined Chōmei’s lifetime resemble our own. Today, extreme weather events, war, and political turmoil continue to wither our spirits and unsteady our nerves. In the face of adversity, Chōmei is a forebearer who reaches across centuries to serve as our guide. He bore witness to the anguish of his age, and in so doing, left us a context against which our own troubles find proportion.
Further, he demonstrates that suffering reveals something truer within: it shatters the artifice of false security and reveals a deeper resource that does not waver even in calamity, fire, or famine. People rocked by turmoil need others who possess the steadiness afforded by a contemplative practice. Although few of us can retreat to a hut in the woods, our very practice is our retreat; it is the sanctuary within that keeps us grounded, poised, and sane amid the surrounding madness. Contemplation is the commitment to dwell in stillness even while the ground beneath falls away.
Like Kamo no Chōmei, we are called to bear witness to the difficulties of our time, and meet them with the stillness of one who sees and embraces everything, and holds the world in loving regard, nothing excluded.