Two nights ago was the second full moon of spring by the traditional reckoning. Looking at it put me in a reflective mood. Some years ago, Sumiko Ikeda may have been in a similar mood after watching one. She wrote:
初恋のあとの長生き春満月 hatsukoi no ato no nagaiki haru mangetsu[1]
after first love
a long life
the full moon of spring
—Sumiko Ikeda[2]
Spring Moon at Ninomiya Beach by Kawase Hasui
When we think of the full moon, we think of autumn. The autumn moon, noted for its clarity and brilliance, often overshadows the softer allure of the spring full moon. However, the spring moon, veiled in a gentle haze due to the increased moisture of the season, carries its own ephemeral beauty. This softer, more diffuse glow invites a contemplation akin to the transition from the fervent passions of youth to the deeper, more reflective appreciation of life’s complexity and beauty in maturity.
Sumiko Ikeda’s haiku beautifully captures this journey, using the spring moon as a poignant symbol for the serene and reflective qualities acquired through the experiences of a long life, following the initial intensity of first love.
Ikeda is not so well-known in the West. Her haiku have a somewhat surreal quality that gives them a freshness lacking in more traditional haiku. She is known for using colloquial and often direct language, adding to her freshness and helping her stand out from other Japanese haiku poets.
Japan is well-known in the world for having the longest dynasty in history. The imperial house has been ruled by the same family since its inception—which was over 2000 years ago if we include the legendary emperors, but was likely closer to around 1485 years ago when we only look at historic emperors, the first of which was Emperor Kinmei in 539. In either case, that’s a long time for a single bloodline to control the throne!
There are many reasons why Japan didn’t have a series of different dynasties like most other countries. The chief reason may be that the emperor has actually rarely had any power through much of that long span; power was usually held by another powerful family that found it more convenient to rule in the emperor’s name rather than stepping out of the shadows and putting a target on themselves.
But that’s not to say there haven’t been challengers to the throne. Let’s look at four of them today. The first openly declared his ambitions, the second showed his plans and laid a template that the shogunate would later follow, although only one of them went as far as he did, the other two are more speculative in that they didn’t declare anything or show their hand as much as the second on this list but they also showed their abilities and desire to push their station, so I will leave you to decide for yourself what their true motives were.
Let’s begin!
Taira no Masakado: The Rebel Emperor Who Challenged the Throne
Generated by Playground AI
In the tapestry of Japan’s imperial history, no rebellion stands higher than that of Taira no Masakado (平将門). In 939 AD, amidst the political tumult of the Heian period, Masakado did the unthinkable: he declared himself the new emperor (新王), challenging the very foundation of Japan’s imperial dynasty which had ruled for centuries by that point.
His rebellion was short-lived, culminating in his death in 940 AD, but Masakado’s audacity left an indelible mark on history, embodying the ultimate challenge to the imperial authority. His actions have been immortalized not just in historical texts but in the collective memory of Japan. To this day, Masakado is venerated and feared as a potent spirit, a reminder of the consequences of challenging the divine order.
Some say that 1000 years later he still carries out his rebellion. To pacify his angry spirit, the government takes meticulous care of his grave in Tokyo, even though the space dedicated to Masakado is in an very highly-priced area of Tokyo, nestled between office buildings.
Taira no Kiyomori: The Warrior Who Attempted to Takeover of the Imperial Family
As he lay dying, his fever burned with the heat of hell. “The Fever of Kiyomori” by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi
Taira no Kiyomori (平清盛) stands as a colossal figure in the annals of Japanese history, not just for his military exploits but for his unprecedented influence over the imperial court. Rising to prominence in the late 12th century, Kiyomori achieved what many warriors before him could only dream of: he wielded the power of a de facto ruler over Japan, intertwining the fate of the Taira clan with that of the imperial family itself. This goes beyond the normal shadow ruler than has been the norm in Japanese history; Kiyomori started a hostile takeover of the imperial family itself.
Although he did not try to take the Chrysanthemum Throne itself, which might rule him out from this article, he did put position his family to inherit it: his ascent to power culminated in the strategic placement of his grandson on the imperial throne, a move that symbolized the zenith of his ambition. This was a tremendous challenge, amounting to creating an entirely new dynasty by hijacking the old.
However, Kiyomori’s ambition also set the stage for his downfall and the eventual decline of the Taira clan. His aggressive consolidation of power and the alienation of rival clans ignited the Genpei War, a conflict that would ultimately lead to the Taira’s defeat and the rise of the Minamoto clan. Despite this, Kiyomori’s legacy is a testament to the transformative impact one individual can have on the course of history, blurring the lines between royalty and the warrior class, and reshaping the political landscape of Japan.
Ashikaga Yoshimitsu: The Shogun Who Dreamed of Empire
Yoshimitsu looking on Kinkakuji by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi
Jumping to the 14th century. Ashikaga Yoshimitsu’s (足利 義満) tenure as the third Ashikaga Shogun marked a pivotal era in Japanese history. After he succeeded in reuniting the Northern and Southern courts, ending three decades of division and infighting in the imperial family, he became the most powerful man in Japanese history up to that point. When the Ming Chinese emperor wrote him and bestowed him the title of King of Japan, he did not refuse or dispute the title, in fact he readily accepted it.
This title, bestowed with the Ming emperor’s recognition, was a double-edged sword: it granted Yoshimitsu international legitimacy while simultaneously challenging the domestic symbolic supremacy of the Japanese emperor, a challenge that would see later generations branding him a traitor as they defaced statues of him.
His efforts to beautify Kyoto and his construction of the Golden Pavilion are testament to his desire to establish a courtly culture that could rival the imperial court in splendor and influence. Many scholar believe that he was planning on assuming the title of emperor himself, however he never got the change: he died shortly after under mysterious circumstances, leading some historians to speculate that he was assassinated.
Oda Nobunaga: The Unifier with Imperial Aspirations
Generated by Playground AI
Finally, we come to Oda Nobunaga (織田 信長), the warlord who nearly unified Japan in the late 16th century, similarly straddled the realms of ambition and overreach. Of all these four men, Nobunaga is likely to be the one you have heard of before. His bloodthirsty ruthlessness is legendary; as is his ambition.
Like Yoshimitsu, a foreigner power recognized and considered him the king of Japan—the Jesuits in Nobunaga’s case—and he did nothing to correct this, allowing the world to view him as the de facto ruler of the country. He was constantly deflecting court titles. No matter what title the emperor tried to bestow on him, he refused. His refusal to accept titles from the imperial court was not just an act of defiance; it was a declaration of his unparalleled authority. His vision for a unified Japan under his rule hinted at an unspoken desire to establish a new order, with himself at its zenith, perhaps even as a new emperor.
Nobunaga’s ambition was not limited to unifying Japan under his rule or even ascending to the Chrysanthemum Throne; he sought to transform the very fabric of Japanese society. His policies promoted trade, encouraged innovation, and sought to break the stranglehold of the warrior nobility over the peasantry. This vision for Japan, however radical, was cut short by his assassination by one of his generals who sought to take power for himself.
Interestingly enough, Nobunaga traced his family back to the Taira clan. That makes three of the four on this list of that family.
There you have it: four men who had imperial ambitions. Much more can be said on all four men, so maybe I’ll write more in the future.
And here is your daily almanac for Thursday, the twenty-second of February 2024.
Today in Japan is affectionately known as Cat Day (猫の日), celebrated due to the date (2/22) mirroring the sound cats make (“nya nya nya” in Japanese). There are a lot of pun days like this in Japan. This one is a day where cat lovers across the nation show extra appreciation for their feline friends, reflecting the country’s deep affection for cats.
On this day in history, FDR ordered General Douglas MacArthur to depart from the Philippines during World War II. This order led to MacArthur’s famous vow, “I shall return,” a promise he fulfilled over two years later, liberating the Philippines from Japanese occupation. MacArthur is generally beloved in Japan these days for his role in rebuilding the country and almost everyone knows this line.
Today is the birth of Takahama Kyoshi, born in 1874. Kyoshi was a pivotal figure in the world of Japanese literature, renowned for his contributions to haiku poetry. As one of the leading disciples of Masaoka Shiki, Kyoshi played a significant role in the development and popularization of the haiku form, emphasizing the importance of nature and seasonal imagery in his works. He was also the editor of Hototogisu, a magazine that became a significant platform for haiku poets.
He is not without controversy. He ruled the haiku world with an iron fist and suppressed anyone writing haiku he didn’t approve of, including followers of a more free form haiku style. In one unfortunate incident, this caused many of that group to be sent to prison during the war.
Despite this ruthless side, his haiku themselves often expressed a much more peaceful worldview. They reflect a deep connection to the natural world, a testament to his belief in the beauty and significance of the changing seasons. His work continues to inspire and influence haiku poets today, embodying the essence of traditional Japanese aesthetics.
Today’s rokuyō, Senbu (先勝), suggests a day where the afternoon is auspicious and where it is better to act calmly and avoid urgent things, making it a fitting time to celebrate the beauty of poetry and nature, as well as to remember historical acts of courage. (Read more about the rokuyō here)
On the old calendar, today would have been the thirteenth day of the first month. We are in the midst of Usui (雨水), the arrival of rainwater, signifying the awakening of the earth, and the microseason Tsuchi no shō uruoi okoru (土脉潤起), when the earth’s veins start to moisten. This time symbolizes the beginning of the transition from winter to spring, a period that many haiku poets often celebrate in their poems.
Spring Rain at Sakurada Gate by Kawase Hasui
In the spirit of Usui (雨水) and the awakening earth, a haiku from Ransetsu captures the essence of this period beautifully:
梅一輪いちりんほどの暖かさ ume ichirin ichirin hodo no atatakasa
one plum blossom
means one step closer
to warmth
—Ransetsu
Photo Mine
Around this time of year, the plum (or ume) blossoms are full in most places in the country. They are lovely flowers, and are thought to be heralds of warmer weather. This haiku serves as a delicate reminder of the incremental warmth and revival that each plum blossom heralds. Ransetsu’s words resonate with the anticipation of spring’s approach, mirroring our own yearning for the gentler days ahead.
Cogito, ergo sum
I think, therefore I am.
—Descartes, Discourse on the Method
A rush of wind comes furiously now, down from the mountaintop. “The ancient Greeks,” I say, “who were the inventors of classical reason, knew better than to use it exclusively to foretell the future. They listened to the wind and predicted the future from that. That sounds insane now. But why should the inventors of reason sound insane?”
—Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
As I sit here, I hear a strong breeze outside blowing past and against the balcony window. It’s intermittent. It blows for about 20–30 second, then it lessens and the calm returns for a few minutes before it blows again. A coming spring storm? It seems like it should be too early in the year for that, but then again, with climate change who can tell what is normal these days.
Who is the I who is listening to this?
Descartes famously declared I think therefore I am. That would seem to settle it. I is me. But then the great doubter Hume smiled and replied “yes, but who is the I who is making that statement?” He proposed what if instead of one voice in our head that makes up I, what if it is instead several voices that combine and together make up who we think of as I. Jung later came along and organized these voices into archetypes that make up I, of which twelve are the most well-known, though he himself didn’t limit the number.
But I’m jumping ahead too far. Back from Jung to Hume. Kant later attempted to answer Hume’s questioning of the self, resulting in his famous book The Critique of Pure Reason, considered one of cornerstones of modern philosophy, in which he attempted to bridge this divide between Hume and Descartes.
Why do I bring all this up? …there we go again. Who is that I there?
Hume might have fit right in with Zen. He doubted the existence of a self behind all the thoughts, feelings, and perceptions of the mind. This is as good a summary of muga (無我) or anātman as any, and pretty interesting to find in an 18th century Scotsman. One might wonder where Western philosophy could have gone if Hume’s ideas had maintained prominence and not been overshadowed by Kant.
But this kind of musing is actually what Zen argues against. Trying to figure out reality and the self by thinking is like trying to taste by reading a recipe: while it might give you a hint or an idea, it’s going to leave you with more questions than answers and ultimately going to get in the way. The only way to understand, according to Zen, is to experience directly. Zen or the Tao or Reality or whatever we call this (and here if I were there I might clap my hands together and let the resulting noise reverberate around the room and fade) can only be experienced, not understood by any intellectual thought.
If you want to learn to swim, you can read all you want about how to move the body in a specific swimming form or the laws of flotation and buoyancy and whatever else you want, but none of these are going to help you actually understand swimming until you jump in the water and swim (ideally with an instructor so you don’t, you know, die).
The problem, then, lies in thinking, which distracts us and impedes our direct experience of the world. The solution, according to Zen, is to meditate. Zen meditation, however, is not quite what you might be familiar with from yoga classes, where you lie down listening to a track of flowing water or other pleasant noises, often falling asleep in the process. Such a “meditation” is viewed by Zen as contrary to our purpose. Instead, Zen advises sitting silently and listening to the world without contemplation or judgment, a style of meditation known as shikantaza.
When you sit long enough and watch as thoughts and feelings pop up unbidden, you start to wonder where these things come from. Zen would advise to resist the urge that Jung felt to classify and categorize all these things into different personas or archetypes, and rather just sit and watch. Don’t try to figure anything out: just observe, just watch, just experience.
There is a old Zen story:
A monk came to a new master. The master asked, “Who did you study with before?” and the monk answered, “Ch’ing-feng”.
“I see,” said the Master. “What did he teach you.”
“When I asked what is the meaning of Buddhism, he answered me ‘Ping-ting comes for fire’.”
“An excellent answer!” said the Master. “But I’m sure you didn’t understand it.”
“Sure I did.” explained the monk, “You see, Ping-ting is the god of fire. For him to be seeking for fire is like myself, seeking the Buddha. I’m the Buddha already, and no asking is needed.”
“Just as I thought!” laughed the Master. “You didn’t get it.”
The monk said, “Well, how would you answer?”
“Go ahead, ask me.”
“What is the meaning of Buddhism?” inquired the monk.
“Ping-ting comes for fire!”
The monk instantly achieved enlightenment.
Anātman is often translated simply as “no self”, but that doesn’t tell the whole story. At least not with the Zen interpretation of the idea, muga. Zen does deny there is an atman, a soul, that is traveling from life to life, changing bodies as easily as a sea crab changes shells. However, Zen does not deny that there is something moving from life to life. What is that thing? Is that the I that we’ve been looking for this entire post?
(Here is when I clap again)
Go sit and find out for yourself.
Misc: Title photo made by me from this photo by Kiều Trường from Pixabay
Special thanks to my friend Koto-art who put this topic in my head with her great art.
凧抱たなりですやすや寝たりけり 一茶 tako daita nari de suya-suya netari keri[1]
holding his kite
soundly and peacefully
sleeping
—Issa[2]
Hiroshige – Kakegawa Kites Flying at Fukuroi
Kite is a spring kigo (season word), so this is considered a spring haiku, but flying kites is traditional a New Years activity in Japan and so that is the time that might be first thought of when we hear the word.
お正月には凧あげて Oshōgatsu ni wa, tako agete
On New Year’s Day, we will fly kites
On the traditional calendar, Japan celebrated the lunar New Year and that was usually near the first day of spring, so you can see the connection.[3]
As sweet a scene as this haiku paints, it is actually bittersweet. Issa’s children all died young, too young to have enjoyed flying a kite. He wrote this in 1816, after they were all gone. He may have been sitting there one day close to New Years and thinking of them, wishing he had had a chance to watch them enjoy this traditional activity.
I can really relate to this haiku. When my boys were smaller they were always falling asleep clutching their toys close. Well, they still do that. When they were smaller it was usually toy cars or action figures; these days it is usually their Switch.
Technically the system that tracked the seasons was a solar system whereas the calendar was a lunar system. As you might imagine, these two systems didn’t sync up exactly. For example, this year (2024) the first day of spring occurred about a week before the lunar new year. ↩
