In the dark London mornings I take my tea and watch the sunset over Mount Fuji — remotely by webcam. The nine hour time difference suits me well. Will the impenetrable cloud of the past weeks have lifted? It's like expecting an old friend. Now I am waiting for the first snow. The location of the camera is perfect, and it watches Fuji-san impassively. But I bring to it moods and cares. Always changing.
It is said you can drive almost to the top of Fuji-san, and at night a scar of light can be seen near the summit. To climb it now would not be to my taste. There's a time for people and a time for silence.
The sun steps across the sky until, around the solstice, it starts the walk back. I should calculate something from the sunsets, but decide to take more tea and be still. Five-miles up, aircraft vapour trails catch the sun below the horizon. Meals are being served, in-flight movies watched. I too watch and wonder.
What a pleasure it must be to live in the shadow of this sacred mountain. The lake is Yamanaka-ko, the biggest of the five Fuji lakes.
The clouds would be recognised by Hokusai and Santōka.
If there are mountains, I look at the mountains;
On rainy days I listen to the rain.
山あれば山を観る
雨の日は雨を聴く
Santōka
If there are mountains, I look at the mountains;
On rainy days I listen to the rain.
山あれば山を観る
雨の日は雨を聴く
Santōka
Sources.
Images are from the Mt. Fuji Live Camera and have been slightly cropped.
Mountain Tasting, Zen Haiku by Santōka Taneda, translated by John Stevens, Weatherhill, 1980.
Images are from the Mt. Fuji Live Camera and have been slightly cropped.
Mountain Tasting, Zen Haiku by Santōka Taneda, translated by John Stevens, Weatherhill, 1980.
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