季節の移ろいに焦る心The Impatient Heart Before the Changing Seasons

Even the shifting seasons flowing past the window now incite a vague sense of impatience. Have you not felt this lately?

Unable to bear the silence of the deep night, we seek solace in the torrent of information spilling from the screens in our hands. That clamor has become standardized as a background noise we no longer even notice. It seems we have been carried too far, too fast. Unless we now realign our axis and gaze once again at the "origin" upon which we stand, I fear we may lose the opportunity to truly live ever again in this world that is set to accelerate and intensify further. Strangely, since the arrival of winter, I have been seized by this premonition.

Day after day, a flood of information covers your field of vision; the voices of others never cease. There is a terror that the contours of the "I," which surely once existed, are being diluted, diffused, and eventually dispersed into mist by the colossal centrifugal force of the world. This is no longer even recognized as fear or anxiety; it has become a daily sensation, the human spirit having grown accustomed to the pain. Yet, this sense of deficiency—like a thirst in the throat—held by so many, is not a tribulation reserved for you alone. Though the era and circumstances differ, this is the "creaking of the soul" repeated countless times throughout history.

Why are we so unfulfilled? I am not speaking of material lack. Rather, we are surrounded by objects, our choices are infinite, and we are promised a convenience unprecedented in history. Yet, drowning in this sea of abundance, we feel a strange "dissonance." The true nature of this dissonance is "absence." It is the sensation that you are not the one sitting in the pilot’s seat of your own life.

Modern people wake up with a column of tasks already lining their minds. When they look at the face in the mirror, it is not their own, but a mask constructed to perform a social role; the naked face that should exist beneath that mask has forgotten its expression and vanished before anyone noticed. We run desperately to become "someone," but ironically, a reverse phenomenon occurs: the faster we run, the further we drift from ourselves. To endure this, we deceive ourselves with sophistry and distraction—that is the state of the present. But this only worsens the condition. We must look again at where "the real" actually resides.

This sensation appears to be a pathology unique to the modern age, but it is, in fact, a thirst of the soul repeated across time. Let me speak here of two intriguing figures. Referencing their way of life seems to offer a crucial key for this era. They are also the figures I revere most in Japanese history.

The time goes back to the mid-Edo period, the 18th century. In the heart of Kyoto, on Nishiki Koji street, there was a man. His name was Ito Jakuchu (1716–1800). Though later carved into history as a "painter of the extraordinary," during his lifetime, while he had high esteem from a select few, his general recognition was nearly non-existent. An era of obscurity followed for nearly two hundred years after his death. Yet, Jakuchu’s genius was exceptional even then. However, Kyoto at the time was guarded by a peculiar art-monopolization system known as the Kyoto art circles, protected by established families. It was a formidable barrier against newcomers; the possibility of a painter outside the lineage of a legitimate, illustrious family being evaluated was virtually nil. But Jakuchu carved his own path, leaving behind the words, "My paintings will be understood in one hundred years." In truth, they were not understood even after a hundred years; it took over two centuries for the true value of his work to be seen. But there is great meaning for us in observing Jakuchu’s life. Today, Ito Jakuchu is known as a famous painter, but it is only in the last thirty years that his work began to be properly evaluated.

And in his youth, he carried the same pain as we do today. He was born the eldest son of "Masuya," a wholesale greengrocer in the center of Kyoto. In modern terms, he was the heir to a massive trading company situated in the prime district of the metropolis. In fact, Jakuchu’s family business was thriving, employing many, with countless business partners—it is said that at one point, nearly two thousand people were involved. As the eldest son, customs of the time dictated he was destined to inherit the headship and wield his skill in business. Had he simply remained in that chair, wealth, fame, and the envy of others were all promised to him.

However, his soul was screaming.

The numbers in the ledgers, the market prices of vegetables, the bargaining of negotiations, the association with people who had lost themselves to desire, the responsibility to protect the livelihoods of employees. The crushing weight of these "things to be done" was on the verge of crushing his delicate sensibilities to death. Above all, he had absolutely no interest in commerce. Yet, simply because he lacked interest did not mean he could cast it aside; the burden on his back was too great. In those days, it was inconceivable for an eldest son born into such a house to transfer the headship and walk away simply due to a lack of interest. For Jakuchu, this must have been a profoundly serious anguish that occupied the greater part of his life. "If I flee, many will be lost on the streets. Yet, I wish to live as a painter." This curse-like sense of responsibility is something everyone in the modern age recognizes, regardless of scale.

If one flees from business—that is, the act of earning—one cannot feed one’s family, cannot protect loved ones, cannot even feed oneself. To survive in this harsh world where everything is self-responsibility, this conflict is a problem that all humanity must now embrace.

Yet, while the pressure of "things to be done" threatened to crush him, the position in the organization, social status and responsibility, duties to family, and public appearances wrapped around him in layers, nailing him to the spot. The system whispers: "It is not yet the time." "Once the situation settles a little more." "Once sufficient savings are made." "Preparations are not yet complete."

At a glance, this seems rational; it appears to be a cautious and precise attitude. But in truth, it is merely continuing to administer anesthesia to oneself, inducing paralysis. It means one can never make a resolution or a decision. If life were such that things improved or changed at a timing of one's own preference, everyone would succeed. But there is a fatal fact in life: no matter how much individual agency is emphasized, we possess no power to resist the great cycles. I state this decisively. In the great flow, timing is predetermined. It is important for an individual to prepare until that moment, but can one decide when the time comes? Whether one has cultivated that resolve on a daily basis determines the course of a person's life. To panic only after the tide has shifted greatly is too late; if one cannot decide then, that life is finished. It may sound too harsh, but that is the way of human existence.

For Jakuchu then, the clamor of the market was what notification sounds, endless meetings, projects, and rows of meaningless numbers are to you now. If this state continues for long, what becomes of a person? They do not "live" they merely enter a state of "not dying." They breathe, they eat, they converse. But the light vanishes from the depths of their eyes, and the soul detaches from the body. Life becomes dry.

At that time, it was routine for the heirs of central Kyoto to devote themselves to extravagance—drowning in the arts of geisha, in sake, and in women was normal; the number of mistresses symbolized their status. But it is said that Jakuchu could not drown himself in these arts, nor sake, nor women. That is to say, Jakuchu did not even possess a place of escape to vent his pent-up irritation through the entertainment of desire; he simply, earnestly, and sincerely continued to kill himself. I believe this sensation resonates with us today. The depth of that agony must have been unimaginable even then.

Knowing there is a magma-like thirst for expression within, yet sealing it daily with cold numbers. Conversely, the days in which one believes one must seal it away continue forever. Not just Jakuchu, but you as well—do you not spend your days cutting away the aesthetic consciousness, the words, or the silence that you truly wished to cherish, discarding them as "unproductive" or "useless" to answer the demands of society? What waits at the end of that road is total oblivion, where you cannot even recall who you were.

Just last night, I was speaking with a woman living in Tokyo, a close friend for over ten years who is younger than I. She is what people would call a social elite, obtaining high income and a career in exchange for being busy with intense work daily. But around the end of last year, she suddenly began to speak her true mind to me: "I want to paint," "I want to make music." However, in her environment—where she has formed a career more smoothly than others and is promised entry into the top class of talent—it is difficult to face her thirst for expression honestly and incorporate it into daily life.

She said, "Even when I try to do art, I have a habit of calculating everything in reverse, judging that it won't make money, and I stop." She is feeling the gradual collapse of the belief that a life spent cutting away things as "unproductive" and "useless" to answer society's demands is truly life. And the magma-like thirst for expression lurking within her, far from subsiding, rises day by day. As her social career heightens and her income rises, her soul, in reaction, begins to scream for expression. Finally, she decided to try incorporating music-making and painting into her life; at the end of the year, she went to buy art supplies with her father, who is also a painter, and it was decided that I would guide her in music production. I feel there are a considerable number of people who hold the same hesitation as she does.

It is often misunderstood, but we are not suffering because we are busy. It is a sign that the shape of one’s soul and the shape of one’s daily activities are decisively at odds, causing a deviation and an anomaly. And the one postponing the "decision" to correct that deviation is none other than oneself; it is the greatest problem, not society, nor the responsibility of others. Quiet despair is strangling us like raw cotton; that is the present. Even if one blames it on something other than oneself, the problem is merely postponed, nothing changes, and the great flow will inevitably bring retribution later. This sense of entrapment, this corridor without an exit. To escape from here, mere rest or distraction is insufficient. That is to say, trendy Zen or mindfulness will not be a fundamental solution for fleeing this place. What is needed is something more radical—a shock that reactivates the soul itself.

And Jakuchu was able to grasp that magnificently.

Looking back now, it seems like nothing other than fate, but Jakuchu was able to ride this fate because he made a Great Decision. When one spends days digging deep into the strata of Japanese history, one notices that veins of astonishing wisdom lie dormant. One of them is a word that is misunderstood and has lost its luster in modern times: "Inkyo" (隠居, Retirement/Seclusion).

In the modern day, Inkyo might evoke a withered old person sipping tea after retirement. However, Inkyo in Japan’s past was not a passive withdrawal of those who had finished social life, but an act one could perform through active will. However, it required the resolve to abandon everything as a price. Therefore, I believe most people, having attachments that prevented them from discarding obligations and desires, could not perform an active Inkyo.

Current retirement, or rather life in old age, is provided by society without one having to make the decision to discard everything oneself. Pensions, severance pay—it is standard in developed nations for the system to guarantee life in old age through social security. Regardless of the pros and cons or the degree, I have recently felt, looking at the reality of Japan’s super-aging society, that this might be the very cause of the withering of people’s lives in old age. A revolution to cast off social roles and reclaim a sovereign soul, extremely active and even aggressive. That was, in fact, the essence of Inkyo. Since everyone will face old age, I strongly feel now that we should think seriously about this.

Jakuchu initiated this revolution at the age of 40. In an era where "life lasts fifty years," 40 was certainly late in life. Yet, for a man of such status to hand over the headship and enter Inkyo at 40 was unthinkable at the time. However, the moment he turned 40, he handed over the entire headship—business rights, property, status, and even his entourage—to his younger brother, making the decision to step alone into the wilderness of painting. He chose Inkyo, built a humble hut, and began to live there.

Seeing Jakuchu’s decision, I am reminded of the words spoken by Confucius long ago. Confucius said: "At forty, I had no doubts (不惑: 四十にして惑わず).” This "no doubts" is often misunderstood; it does not mean that doubt naturally disappears when one turns 40. It is a rigorous guideline for action: at the turning point of 40, one must sever past hesitations, or perhaps abandon the entire past, and solidify the resolve to "live as this"—a resolve that has been bubbling like magma but remained unexpressed. I believe this is a universal principle.

And behind this dramatic decision of Jakuchu, there was the presence of a predecessor. The name of the man who walked far, far ahead of his time was Baisao (1675–1763). He walked the elite course as a Zen monk, moving from place to place, but despairing at the utter corruption and hollowness of the Buddhist world at the time, he made the decision to leave the temple at age 60 (60 in modern counting, 61 by the pre-war count). For a Buddhist monk of 60 to return to secular life—discarding his name, discarding his status, and deciding to live as a mere old man—is extraordinary. And he solidified his resolve to head, of all places, to the pleasure quarters of Higashiyama, Kyoto.

At this time, into the void where he had cast everything away, there was only one thing he carried into Kyoto on his back. It was a set of portable tea utensils called "Senka." In other words, Baisao, having discarded everything, possessed only tea utensils. Moreover, these were not the utensils for Matcha used for business by aristocrats, heads of schools, or merchants like Jakuchu in central Kyoto, but for Sencha (steeped tea), which at the time was only drunk daily by farmers in certain regions.

Thus, upon arriving in Kyoto, Baisao spread a straw mat on the street, brewed Sencha with this set of utensils, and cheerfully served it to passersby. The system was that customers put only what they wished into a bamboo tube as payment. He had the mindset that it didn't matter if they put nothing in. Baisao possessed a magnificent spirit, laughing and saying on his signboard, "For the price of the tea, anything from a pile of gold to half a copper coin is enough. Just drink it and find it delicious, that is all." The intellectuals and commoners of Kyoto at the time received a tremendous shock from this mysterious old man of unknown origin, and the unheard-of life philosophy he spoke while serving tea.

For the people of Kyoto—then as now—were the people in Japan most dependent on external axes of evaluation: class, family lineage, how many generations their business had lasted, whether one was the first or second son, whom they knew. Just like the modern day, they relied on organizations, titles, money, and status. In contrast, what Baisao embodied was a complete freedom, living with no dependence on those "external axes of evaluation," supported only by the aesthetic consciousness and philosophy within himself. Moreover, he realized this at the age of 60. Confucius describes the state of "At sixty, my ear was attuned (耳順: 六十にして耳順う）.” This means that at 60, one can realize a way of life that follows not the noise of the world—the external sounds—but only the voice of Heaven, or the voice of inner truth. Baisao decided and executed this.

Jakuchu, who was agonizing in his mid-30s, met Baisao, who embodied this true freedom and true living, by a stroke of fate, and had his soul pierced by that way of life. In fact, it is said that the art name "Jakuchu" of Ito Jakuchu was given by Baisao. This is derived from Laozi’s "Great fullness seems empty" (大盈若冲), which is extremely suggestive. "Great fullness seems empty (大いなる満ち足りたものは、空虚なように見える).” This shows that Baisao had brilliantly seen through Jakuchu’s essence. Indeed, Baisao was an important mentor who guided the lost Jakuchu. Without Baisao, we would never have seen the masterpieces of Ito Jakuchu.

Reflecting on the suffering and ways of life of these two, a most important philosophy for us in the modern day emerges. It is the core philosophy preached by Wang Yangming, which I introduced briefly yesterday: "Unity of Knowledge and Action" (知行合一, Chiko-Goitsu). This philosophy holds that knowing and doing are not separate and divided; knowledge without action cannot yet be called knowing. To truly know is something that inevitably manifests as action.

Jakuchu knew within himself all along that he wanted to paint. And he knew that business did not suit him. Yet, until he was 40, he could not take the action of handing over the headship; he remained trapped in the bonds of the outside world, not trying to live by truly knowing himself and following his inner voice. That is why the chance did not come around. Baisao, too, was not a true Zen practitioner while he was inside the temple preaching Zen. Only by discarding everything, standing on the street, and brewing tea—through that action—did he become living Zen itself. What is important here is that he was not a practitioner of Zen Buddhism, but a life that embodied Zen itself. I believe this is fundamentally different from D.T.Suzuki. If asked "What is Zen?", I answer, "Look at Baisao."

Considering what we learn from these predecessors, we see that the pain felt in common by both you and me is born from this divergence between knowing and doing in the "Unity of Knowledge and Action." Everyone knows in their hearts that things cannot go on like this, yet they do not take action. They make excuses, such as lacking preparation. This contradiction is the primary cause eating away at our spirits and souls. It is not a problem of society, nor of anyone else. True self-responsibility lies in the single point of following the inner voice and making the resolve and action to live.

I view the Japanese Inkyo as having been a ritual to bridge this gap. In modern terms, it does not mean only quitting a company or casting away social status. It begins with creating a sanctuary in one's heart that no one can invade. It means creating time to consciously and deliberately set down those heavy loads—social evaluation, the expectations of others, economic rationality. Just as Jakuchu completely changed his life at 40, and Baisao at 60. Life always has a time when dramatic transformation must be accepted, and that chance circulates equally to everyone. And that is not something determined by age. In any era, the key to dramatically changing life lies in the moment where the resolve of "to do, or not to do" is condensed.

Without the Zen-tinged free spirit of Baisao, Jakuchu’s masterpiece, fusing that transcendent technique and spirituality, would likely not have been born. Jakuchu did not paint with technique alone. Through his encounter with Baisao, and through the decision of Inkyo, he allowed the clear freedom of spirit he attained to blossom and fixed it upon the painting silk.

Here, I wish to ask you again. What is Ito Jakuchu’s painting tool, or Baisao’s tea set, for you?

An anchor of the soul—that even if you discard everything else, as long as you have this, you can be you. To find it, I recommend starting by creating a small Inkyo within your daily life. The answer is absolutely not on the internet. Put down the smartphone, shut out the information, and simply brew a cup of tea and introspect quietly. And in that silence, ask yourself: Is what I truly fear losing something, or is it ending without having lived?

The predecessors teach us: Real life begins any number of times, from any moment, the instant you discard what is unnecessary. When Jakuchu gripped his brush, when Baisao whisked his tea, they were not confronting the world. They were simply playing with their own souls. It is in this realm of play that true independence resides.