Bashō's Frog

Matsuo Bashō (芭蕉) was a wandering Zen hermit of the Edo period, as well as an accomplished poet. Popularly considered the father of modern haiku, many of his verses are accepted as teaching in Zen circles today. The readily-memorised haiku format may drive some of this posterity, but there's no denying that Bashō's work often encodes palpable koanic insight.

Interestingly, his status as a self-trained free-range monk is rarely mentioned in our discussions of him, though we're happy to claim Bashō as the "Zen one" of Japan's Four Great Haikunists.

Thus do conservatives lay claim to the dissenters of yore.

Yet the eremitical nature of Bashō's practice is clearly evident in much of his work. Particularly his most famous poem, which is not merely lauded as Bashō's best, but in fact as the most awesomest haiku ever written, by anyone.

Feel up to it?

OK, clear your mind.

Ready?

the old pond
a frog jumps in
plop

That's it.

That's the poem.


Stuff to Notice

To begin with, this translation (Alan Watts, this time) is only one of dozens if not hundreds available; about which, more later. But I especially value Alan's take, emphasising as it does the humour that's central to Bashō's perspective.

Note also that while haiku – at least the classic kind – is supposed to contain references to nature, this one has nature coming out of its ears. I mean, there's no moonlight or cherry blossoms or summer rain or drifting snow. Nothing pretty, you dig. But nature? Yeah. It's got that in spades.

In his sardonic hermit way, Bashō seems to be saying, "I got yer nature, RIGHT HEAH!"

And then there's the Zen.

You may be thinking, "Big deal. Frog jumps in water. There's a noise. Nothing to see here."

And you may be right. I mean, you can get that kind of stuff anywhere, for cheap or free. Nothing unique is going on here. Nothing special.

Scared frog jumps in water, goes splash; not a headline you're likely to see in the Times.

Meanwhile, concentric circles are expanding in the water, lapping at the edges, returning through other circles approaching from behind. Frog resurfaces, climbs out. More circles. Wet frog drips, log gets wet, water runs off into pond.

The concentric circles expand and retract forever. The whole pond is implicated. And also its environs. And their environs. And all the environs beyond that.

And that's just one possible response. Maybe there's some suchness in there. Maybe some satori. Some admirers see all seven Zen principles of composition in these three banal lines.

Which is why they're sometimes called the most perfect haiku ever penned.

But not by its author, of course. We should also bear that in mind.


Language Matters

While we also remember language.

To start with, Bashō never wrote the poem reproduced above. And if by chance he had happened on it, none of that chicken scratch would have meant a thing to him. Because his text (per this source) was actually this:

古池や
蛙飛こむ
水の音

Which works out to:

furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

You don't need any Japanese to feel the visceral difference between this and literally anything it might have inspired in English. In fact, if you want to see just how thoroughly we anglophones can mess something up, check out the 32 translations catalogued here.

Robert Aitken's commentary on that page is also well worth the read, as is his stab at the source material:

The old pond has no walls;
a frog just jumps in;
do you say there is an echo?

And if you really want a plunge into the abyss, try Geoffrey Wilkinson, who starts with an acerbic comment on this whole frog thing, and then… well…

Go see for yourself. By the time Wilkinson's done he's taken you on a fascinating street tour of the haiku form and this one in particular, including several parodies by Japanese monks and poets over the past 500 years.

For example:

Old pond—
Bashō jumps in
the sound of water

– Zen master Sengai Gibon, 1750–1837.


Master Bashō,
at every plop
stops walking

– Anon, 18th century.


...while fellow hermit Ryōkan (1758–1831) had this to add:

The new pond—
not so much as the sound of
a frog jumping in


To say nothing of the fellow who wrote a limerick. (Yes, really.)

So if you're a fan of haiku, or hermits, or haiku-writing hermits, take a good surf into the lore of Bashō's frog. By the end of the evening you will have visited many corners of Zen, Japan, poetry, and history, and learned a great deal about the practice value of small bodies of water.


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Autumn bullfrog

(Here's another bullfrog [Rana (Lithobates) catesbeiana], rather better lit and differentiated from her background. She's a whole handful, likely weighing about a pound; I found her sitting zazen in the middle of a local bike path on a cool autumn day.

Literally just sitting, untroubled by bikes, dogs, or walkers, as one seldom finds her kind.

Frogs play an outsized role in Zen, but I'll temper my monastic impulses and guess that my sister's equanimous demeanour was down more likely to being zombied out on incipient hibernation, and heading to a winter bed in the muddy lake some yards away.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Turtle boom

(Turtles have always been rare on the North Coast. Unlike the other three reptiles that manage to survive here [this one and this one and this one], they're egg layers, and the rotting wet and lack of spring sunshine makes that problematic. So it was that I, an inveterate turtle lover, had only ever found a single one in the lake I grew up on. On summer days I used row quite a distance to see him, hauled out on his log of choice.

In the intervening years the lake got severely over-developed and the swampy shore where our lone turtle lived turned into lawn. The very log he used to bask on was ripped out of the lake. Since that time, about when I was in college, I've only seen one other turtle here, in a nearby lake just a few years ago.

Then, while walking the dog near some containment ponds last week, I encountered six (!) of them, lined up on a log beneath the first real sun we've had this year. Sadly, they were too far away for a recognisable photograph, but as I rounded the corner, I found a small one, about the size of an adult's hand, close enough for my phone to steal a shot. Still too far for positive species identification, but the Western painted turtle [Chrysemys picta bellii] being functionally our only native, this is probably that.

This must be how it feels to bag a photo of Sasquatch.

Next day, a friend posted photos of a similar line of turtles in my childhood lake, about 6 miles away. Both events have blown my mind.

It's hard not to draw the conclusion that this is yet another symptom of climate disruption. Less rainfall and elevated temperatures have almost certainly raised the turtle fertility here. I'm delighted to see them, but it's one more indication that our unique North Coast environment is rapidly disappearing.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Winter waterdog

(Taricha granulosa. One of the many good things in life.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Poem: The Frog Sutra

Could they be sutras?
In the temple well
frogs chant

Kansetsu


(POV photo of well courtesy of Gary Meulemans and Unsplash.com.)

WW: Bullfrog

(Rana [Lithobates] catesbeiana. Invasive and destructive here on the North Coast, but extremely common.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Dunn's salamander

(Plethodon dunni; a melanistic specimen, lacking the wide, yellow-green back stripe and mottling typical of the breed. Another lungless North Coast salamander with no aquatic stage. Instead it lays its eggs under rotten wood, and they hatch into tiny, fully terrestrial young identical to the adults.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Hermit Habit

The wildlife of the North Pacific rainforest is famously reserved; where the East has its flashy cardinals, red efts, and indigo buntings, our own rubber boas, rough-skinned newts, and varied thrushes are modestly beautiful. The odd Steller's jay or goldfinch may be a pleasant change of pace, but we're satisfied to return to the brown and russet uniform of our understated nation when they've passed.

While sitting my 100 Days on the Mountain, I sometimes daydreamed about founding a North Coast-native order of forest monks. And should that fancy ever gel, we will sit in the forest of my forebears, wearing the habit of our Douglas squirrel hosts: a hooded robe of honest Cascade umber, over an ochre jersey.



(Text edited from the notes for my book, 100 Days on the Mountain. Photo of Tamiasciurus douglasii courtesy of Ivie Metzen, the US National Park Service, and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Giant tortoise

(An African spurred tortoise [Centrochelys sulcata], just short of a yard long, receiving the adulation of passersby at the Northwest Washington Fair.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Ask a Dinosaur

Insight from a sangha-mate on Mastodon (appropriately enough):

One of the most important ideas to sit with – amid the convulsion of climate change – is that Earth was not made for us.

That idea flies against many religions, but also appears in secular settings, with even activists thinking of Earth as a sort of organic machine, a spaceship, a system that’s carefully balanced in absolute ways.

Those metaphors have power, but they’re ultimately unhelpful. Our place here is precarious because we don’t 'belong' in any cosmic sense.

We’re just here.

(Photo of a well-worn dinosaur path in Colorado courtesy of James St. John and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Large snake in the driveway

(Garter snake [Thamnophis, suspect sirtalis pickeringii], something short of 3 feet, recently awakened, and probably pregnant.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Local Boa Constrictor

So I'm breezing along a bike trail through rural country, feeling the exhilaration you get on a bike in Indian summer, when suddenly I find myself swerving hard to avoid a snake.

A large snake. Two feet plus, chocolate brown, mingled with the shadows.

Garter snakes routinely bask on that path, and what with the perfect climate and habitat, some grow quite large.

But not that large. Or that colour. And never in shade; Thamnophis is a sun-worshiper, intently keeping pace with her chosen beam as it crosses the pavement.

I hit the brakes and doubled back. And that's how I met my first wild rubber boa constrictor (Charina bottae).

Scion of an otherwise tropical family, the rubber boa lives farther from the Equator than any other. (As for the "rubber" bit, a glance at the photo here will cover that.) Thus Charina follows the pattern of North Coast reptiles: we have fewer species than other regions, but those exceptions are notably charismatic. A tradition this wayward constrictor further upholds by bearing its young live, like most other local reptiles, and then by being so uncommon, and so hyper-local, that though I grew up just 5 miles from that spot, I'd never encountered one before. The only specimen I'd ever seen, more than 40 years ago, was a captive juvenile taken in this self-same south-county microhabitat.

The heads of both were so small and sleek that telling one end from the other was initially difficult. This is part of an unorthodox defence strategy, as rubber boas hide their business end when frightened, and if the threat persists, lunge at the tormentor with their blunt head-like tail, to confuse it.

"

Those striking gold eyes, tiny for a boa, are the result not just of nocturnal habits but also the fact that rubber boas spend most of their lives – more than 50 years – beneath rotten logs and forest litter, where large corneas would be a medical liability.

But it's their disposition that's truly legendary. Charina is the Greek root of the English "charming", and likely the French câlin (cuddly, snuggly), both of which epitomise this disarmingly affable creature. When I knelt to pick it up – prudently, behind the jaws – he not only declined any attempt to bite, but even to escape. Instead he just rolled into a ball in the palm of my hand and buried his head beneath the coils.

The gentle shyness, along with the velvet softness of his liquid body, had me talking baby talk immediately.

"Funny snake," I chided, stroking his silky back. "You can't s'eep here; you'll get runned over."

As I struggled to bag a one-handed photo of his face, he eased into lazy loops and tentatively explored my gloved hand. I snapped away best I could (whatever advantages this newfangled phone photography offers, ergonomics ain't one), and shortly he relaxed, wrapping himself around my hand and wrist with real warmth.

Comparison to a long, linear cat would not be unwarranted.

I was sorely tempted to keep him, but didn't, of course. That their diet is made up almost entirely of new-born mice, and they won't even eat that half the year, was just another reason.

So I walked wistfully a ways into the trees and carefully deposited the sweet little guy on the forest floor. He edged away reluctantly, as if he'd've happily come along if asked.

How the pet industry missed this one is beyond me, but I'm glad these magical beings endure in my native forest.

WW: Cascades frog

(Rana cascadae)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Hibernating snake

(Found this garter snake [Thamnophis sirtalis] asleep under a tarp that had been pulled over a stack of gardening supplies sometime last year. He didn't even flinch when I lifted the tarp, put it back, or lifted it again later to get the photo. So the dude's out for the duration.

I'll look for him out and about after things warm up.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Pacific treefrog

(This is Pseudacris regilla again. He's appeared here in the past, but this one is about the size of my thumbnail, part of a crowd of like-sized peers teeming in the high grass around the pond. Apparently the product of this year's hatch.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Chance Encounter

The late hour kept me running a brisk 50 mph (the maximum controllable speed on gravel), so that an apparent chunk of slate in the road nearly slipped beneath my radiator before it caught my attention. Grinding to a halt, I stared at the plate-sized rock in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, it sprouted two yellow-striped forearms and a matching head, with acid eyes that glared at me through the pall of dust I'd raised. I snatched my camera and jumped out, thinking to bag a quick photo, then chase my chelonian friend off the road before a less attentive traveller squashed him flat.

But on my advance he sprinted into the undergrowth, with scornful disregard for my species' reluctance to apply that verb to his. I was left to herd him with stomping boots, back into the fading sunlight, to get my portrait. He appreciated none of this - not the running over, not the dirt bath, not the brisk jog, and most particularly not the herding. When the slides came back from the lab, I found a study of one seriously bent Western painted turtle.

Still, I had to admire the guy's pluck. We were a hundred yards from water. Wherever he'd come from, wherever he was going, he'd earned his rest in that place.


(Adapted from Rough Around the Edges: A Journey Around Washington's Borderlands, copyright RK Henderson. Photo of Chrysemys picta bellii courtesy of Gary M. Stolz, the US Fish and Wildlife Service, and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Alien visitor

(This gold dust day gecko [Phelsuma laticauda] was spotted on a deck on Orcas Island, just over the Canada-US border. He's far from home [Madagascar], but I doubt he got here under his own steam.

Gold dust day geckos are popular pets, and also famous climbers, able to scale even plate glass. Though they've become a problem in the South Pacific, Orcas is likely in little danger, given its climate. Still, this little guy would be better off if someone could wrangle him and provide more appropriate living conditions.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Long-toed salamander

(Ambystoma macrodactylum. Politely displaying the reason for both the common name and binomial.)

WW: Seafaring lizard

(My nephew and I went fishing all day a few weekends ago. We loaded the boat in his truck, drove across the county, launched in a large lake, motored about two miles to an anchorage, and fished for several hours. Then we repeated the process in reverse. When my nephew pulled the boat out of his truck that evening, he found this stowaway – a Northern alligator lizard – that must have been there the whole time.

Note typical belligerent pout.)

WW: Tadpoles again

(It's happened again: tadpoles growing on the beach. This time it's a brackish puddle by the headlands. I don't know if frogs breeding in this dangerous, inhospitable zone is new, or I just never noticed it before.)