A plan for life and a mobile home

Kamo no Chōmei was neither an emperor nor a great poet of the courtly halls. He was an official and a writer who, in the 13th century, abandoned his career in Heian-kyō to live in a tiny hut – just four and a half tatami mats – on the slope of a hill. There, in silence, he observed the world – its fires, earthquakes, famine, and plague – and in his life’s work, Hōjōki (方丈記), recorded a simple yet merciless truth: everything passes, nothing lasts. But he did not stop at the diagnosis – he reduced life to a scale one could actually bear. In his words lies a practical plan for living in a world that is always unsteady – a plan that fits surprisingly well into the 21st century.

In the European tradition, we also find echoes of similar thought. Memento mori reminds us of death, Heraclitus tells us one cannot step into the same river twice, and the Stoics train themselves in indifference toward what lies beyond their control. Yet Chōmei differs in a fundamental way: the European “remember death” is often a warning, a moral finger pointed toward the heavens. In Chōmei’s case, it is acceptance – not cold resignation, but a quiet reconciliation with the fact that the wave will take the house, the leaves will fall, and we will have to leave. Impermanence is not here merely an observation or conclusion – it is the center of gravity and the very heart of his ontology. In this logic, catastrophe does not contradict the order of the world; it merely exposes the illusion that such order was ever mankind’s possession.

It is no accident that Hōjōki is returned to multiple times in the Japanese school curriculum. Excerpts – especially the famous opening about the “flowing river” – appear already in elementary school in simplified versions, often with illustrations, as an introduction to the idea of impermanence (mujo, 無常). In middle and high school, the text is studied in fuller form, with analysis of both its moral and aesthetic dimensions. Discussions often reach into contemporary analogies: how, in a world of natural disasters, climate change, and social instability, can one find the inner peace Chōmei wrote about eight hundred years ago. Once again: “how to find inner peace in the chaos of the modern world.” Not a bad topic to teach children from the earliest years, preparing them for adult life, is it? The Japanese view of the world is different from ours. Hōjōki is one of the cornerstones of that perspective – from the Middle Ages to today. For us, it is an opportunity to glimpse how sensibility is shaped in a culture so different from our own – and perhaps, through that, to understand a little better why Japan thinks, feels, and acts differently from the West.

The River

ゆく河の流れは絶えずして、しかももとの水にあらず。淀みに浮かぶうたかたは、かつ消えかつ結びて、久しくとどまりたるためしなし。

“The river flows on without ceasing, yet the water within it is never the same. The bubbles of foam floating on its surface, vanishing and forming anew, resemble human beings and their fates – appearing and disappearing, never lasting long.”

With these words, Kamo no Chōmei opens his brief treatise, which, despite its modest length, stands as one of the most essential pillars of Japanese philosophy and literature. It is a beginning without preface or warning – the author immediately knocks us out of our everyday rhythm, throwing us into the current of an image so simple it becomes unsettling. The water in the river flows ceaselessly, yet each drop is different. It is the same with our world – its form and name may remain, but the substance that fills them is in constant motion.

This image is deeply rooted in Japanese culture, where awareness of mujo (無常, impermanence) has shaped reflections on life for centuries. Chōmei does not describe abstract ideas; instead, he offers a sensory experience: the sight of the flowing river, its murmur, the play of light on its surface. This is an impression available to anyone – one need only stop at the bank and look. And yet, not all of us draw conclusions from this sight. Chōmei does: he reminds us that just as the current carries the water, so time carries us and everything we know.

The comparison of human life to bubbles upon the water is deliberate – it emphasizes its fragility and transience. The bubbles in the foam last only a moment, and their fate is inevitable – they vanish, even if for an instant they reflect the sun and seem beautiful, perhaps even eternal. Chōmei shows that all our achievements, relationships, worries, and joys share this same nature. This does not mean, however, that he seeks to sink us into pessimism. On the contrary – his thought is sober and free of illusions, and thus liberating. The awareness of impermanence can be a source of freedom: if we know that nothing can be held onto, we stop clinging desperately to what will inevitably pass.

In this, too, there is an echo of Buddhist mindfulness practice: a gaze fully present upon what is here and now, without the false belief in the eternity of forms. Hōjōki begins like a sudden enlightenment – as if someone had opened a window in a stuffy room and let in a breath of fresh air. Instead of a long introduction, we are given a strike at the very heart: the world changes, we change, and the only thing we can truly do is to see it clearly.

Of course, to us, these are not entirely new notions – after all, in European tradition since antiquity, Heraclitus’s thought that “one cannot step into the same river twice” has been repeated, and medieval poetry and preaching are full of reminders of the fragility of human life, memento mori, and images of fading flowers or extinguished candles. In the Renaissance and Baroque, this motif returns in vanitas painting, and in Romantic literature it appears in the form of melancholy and longing for what is lost. Yet surely there is some difference – for this is a completely different culture, with a different history, philosophy, religion, on the other side of the globe. Even if things appear similar – they do not have to be the same at all.

The difference lies in the fact that in Hōjōki, impermanence (無常) is not merely a cause for sorrow or a moral admonition – it is the core of cosmology and ethics, organically intertwined with the Buddhist vision of the world. Chōmei does not say, “remember that you will die,” but rather: “that which is impermanent is natural; harmony lies in accord with this rhythm.” In this way, his view, though universal in intuition, differs in tone and purpose from many Western approaches, which more often treat transience as a problem, a threat, or a loss, rather than as the fundamental order of things.

What is Hōjōki?

Hōjōki (方丈記), written in 1212, is one of the most celebrated works of medieval Japanese literature, belonging to the genre of zuihitsu (随筆) – “notes following the brush,” free, essay-like reflections weaving together personal memories, observations of the world, and philosophical commentary (the forerunner of this style could be considered the brilliant and sharp-tongued Sei Shōnagon, who wrote several centuries earlier – we will meet her in detail in one of the chapters devoted to her in the book Silne kobiety Japonii). The text of Hōjōki is only a dozen or so pages long, yet within its modest scope it contains a panorama of an era and a fully condensed vision of the author’s world. Thematically, it is a meditation on the impermanence of things, the fragility of human life, and the search for inner peace in the face of constant change. Chōmei opens his reflections with images of disaster – fires, earthquakes, floods, famine – before gradually turning to the account of his own life and his choice of a solitary existence in a small “four-mat” (3 × 3 meters) hut on the outskirts of Kyoto.

The author, Kamo no Chōmei (鴨長明, c. 1155–1216), was a poet of waka, a talented musician, and a connoisseur of court music (gagaku). He came from a family of priests serving the Kamo Shrine in Kyoto, but his court career collapsed due to disputes and intrigues. Turned away from the world by political disappointment and his own spiritual quest, Chōmei eventually abandoned city life and became a hermit (tonsei, 遁世) – a figure on the boundary between monk, poet, and philosopher. His hermitage, built to the measure of four square tatami mats, became both a physical refuge and a metaphor for spiritual minimalism.

Hōjōki holds a special place in the history of Japanese literature, alongside works such as Makura no sōshi by Sei Shōnagon and Tsurezuregusa by Yoshida Kenkō. It belongs to the canon of classical texts that define Japan’s medieval aesthetics – a fusion of the elegance of a simple style, deep Buddhist reflection, and subtle observation of nature. Its influence reaches far beyond literature – it has inspired painting, theatre, and modern philosophical essays. Above all – it is one of the fundamental building blocks from which the Japanese worldview has been shaped – not only in the medieval period, but in all the centuries that followed, including the twenty-first.

In contemporary Japan, Hōjōki is required reading in schools. Excerpts – especially the famous opening about the “flowing river” – appear already in elementary school in simplified versions, often with illustrations, as an introduction to the idea of impermanence (mujo, 無常). In junior high and high school, the text is studied in fuller form, with analysis of both its moral and aesthetic dimensions. Teachers draw attention to the historical context – the disasters of the late Heian and early Kamakura periods – as well as to the Buddhist philosophical background, particularly the jōdo (Pure Land) tradition. Discussions often touch on contemporary analogies: how, in a world of natural disasters, climate change, and social instability, one might find the inner peace Chōmei wrote about eight hundred years ago. Once again: “how to find inner peace in the chaos of the modern world.” Not a bad topic to teach children from their earliest years, preparing them for adult life, is it?

The Life of Kamo no Chōmei

Youth

Let us picture Kyoto at the end of the 12th century (then known as Heian-kyō, 平安京) – the capital of emperors, but also a city of unrest. Narrow, gravel-paved lanes carry the scent of incense drifting from shrines, the sound of the biwa resonates in palaces, and in the shadow of gates, monks and dignitaries whisper of changes that could shake the world. In this setting, in 1155 or 1156, on a side street near Shimogamo Shrine, Kamo no Chōmei was born – a child destined for life in the shadow of priestly rituals. His father, Kamo no Nagatsugu, was a Shintō priest serving at the prestigious Kamo Shrine complex, where for generations his family had maintained the rites that ensured the city the protection of the kami. His mother, though now absent from historical records, likely belonged to a family with strong ties to religion or literature – suggested by Chōmei’s later sensitivity to the beauty of language and music. Childhood in such a household meant daily contact with courtly etiquette, religious ceremony, and the refined culture of the Heian period, which was slowly approaching its final days.

As a boy, Chōmei grew up among gardens filled with plums, cherries, and maples, where each season had its own story and colour. In Kyoto of that era, the education of a priest’s son was a blend of sacred and secular: the recitation of norito – Shintō prayers – alternated with copying poetry from the Kokinshū and Man’yōshū. The boy’s talent quickly revealed itself in two fields: poetic sensitivity and music. He especially loved the koto and the biwa, and in his playing one could hear not only courtly virtuosity but also a quiet, meditative tone – as if from childhood he had heard in music the echo of impermanence. In the capital, he had the opportunity to encounter the works of classical masters and learn from the best court poets, and his youthful verses, full of subtle imagery and melancholy, began to draw the attention of influential patrons.

His career advanced quickly, for Chōmei came of age in a time when poetry and music were not only art but also currency in the world of the aristocracy. As a young man, he became involved in the literary circles of the capital, participated in utaawase – poetry competitions – hosted by the powerful, and his compositions found their way into imperial anthologies. He gained renown as both musician and poet, and as a man able to combine the elegance of court style with something deeper and more personal. This opened the way to service at the imperial court, where he could observe elite life up close – full of ceremony, but also tensions, rivalries, and a fragile play of appearances. In those years, Chōmei experienced both the taste of success and the atmosphere of intrigue that could, in an instant, destroy even the most promising career. It was a world seemingly stable, but soon to be shaken by the pressure of wars and political upheavals – and with it, the life of Kamo no Chōmei.

Career and Disillusionment

The young Chōmei, endowed with a natural ear and a talent for subtle command of words, quickly became known as a man not only educated but also full of flair. In Heian-kyō – the capital, heart of imperial power, art, and ceremony – the echo of the Heian period’s former splendour still lingered, though old customs were slowly giving way to new political realities and growing tensions between the court and the warrior clans.

Chōmei moved within the literary and musical circles of the court. He played the biwa – a lute with a soft, melancholy tone, ideal for reciting tales and poetry. His skills were appreciated by the most important families and powerful patrons, and his name began to appear in waka poetry anthologies. In an age when the ability to compose five lines of the right rhythm and mood could decide a career, Chōmei distinguished himself by his sensitivity and lightness of style.

But court life in Heian-kyō had its dark side. The city, laid out according to ancient principles of feng shui and symbolic street arrangement, was as fragile as the paper houses its inhabitants lived in. In 1177, a great fire consumed much of the capital, the flames devouring temples, palaces, and noble residences. Before the city could rebuild, more blows came: in 1180, a major battle and fire during the conflict between the Taira and Minamoto clans; a few years later, floods and plague filled the air with the stench of death.

Then the earth shook in a major earthquake – in a world with no concept of “safe architecture,” each tremor meant ruin and death. Droughts brought famine, and crop failures could swiftly turn bustling streets into places full of emaciated figures begging for a handful of rice. Chōmei witnessed it all – sometimes up close, sometimes from a safer distance – but the images of ruins and burning rooftops cut deep into memory. In his later writings, they would return again and again, as if haunting his dreams.

Though in youth Chōmei had won recognition, not all doors at court stood open to him. His father, as a priest of the Kamo Shrine, had secured him a good start, but after his father’s death the family’s influence waned. Chōmei had hoped for the post of chief priest at one of the prestigious Shintō shrines, but the lucrative position went to someone else – likely through the deft political manoeuvring of rivals. It was a bitter humiliation.

Over time, he also lost some of his earlier patrons, and political shifts in the capital diminished his role at court. Disputes over land allotments, quarrels over ceremonial precedence, and the rising power of the Minamoto warriors created an atmosphere in which poets became more an ornament of the court than a true force. For a man of Chōmei’s sensitivity, this meant a growing sense of alienation and disappointment.

Personal losses – the deaths of loved ones, the breaking of old friendships, and perhaps unfulfilled affections (history, unfortunately, preserves no such intimate detail) – deepened his distance from the bustle of the capital. Though he still took part in poetry contests and continued to write, he was increasingly accompanied by the thought that beauty and fame were fleeting, and court life – empty (as is visible in the change of tone in his work). This was the stage of his life that prepared the ground for a radical step: leaving the city and renouncing his former life.

The Hermit’s Life

Chōmei matured toward his decision over many years. At the imperial court, he saw not only the beauty of calligraphed letters, refined poetic ceremonies, and the play of fans in the hands of court ladies, but also gestures laced with rivalry – gestures that had more in common with a blade hidden in a sleeve or poison in a meal than with a lyre. Though he gained fame as a poet and sat among the authors of imperial anthologies, he never attained the coveted position of chief guardian of the Kamo Shrine. His own words in Hōjōki betray this mixture of resignation and clear-eyed perception:

“A man is born and dies, comes and goes;
those I saw yesterday, today are no more.”

In the background of this personal story was the drama of all Kyoto. The city – capital of the court, centre of literature and ceremony – was, in Chōmei’s time, a place of fragile balance. During his lifetime it burned many times; earthquakes tore apart the foundations of palaces and huts alike; plagues swept through entire districts; and droughts drove masses to migration. In Hōjōki, he recalls the great disaster of 1177, when fire consumed hundreds of homes: “They flared in the blaze like grass in the wind; where they stood but moments before, there remained only blackness and ash.” Such images were etched into his memory as a painful reminder that even the stone of a shrine’s gate is less enduring than we would like to believe.

Finally, when the loss of position and successive disappointed ambitions completed the measure, Chōmei turned away from the world. It was not, however, a retreat in anger; rather, the choice of one who had understood that “to chase a shadow is to chase what will never be in one’s hand.” He chose instead the mountain solitude of Hino, where he built his hōjō-an – a hut with a floor area of just four square tatami mats (about 9.7 m²). Its walls were made of thin planks and woven panels, its roof thatched with bark, and its entrance closed only by a sliding reed screen.

Daily life in the hermitage followed a rhythm as quiet and clear as a morning stream. At dawn, Chōmei would walk a path to the spring for water, its coolness soothing his hands. In summer he listened to cicadas; in winter he watched snow cover the tracks of deer. He gathered wild plants, sometimes fish from the nearby brook, and cooked rice brought to him by friendly village women. He wrote at a simple desk positioned to face the forest – “for among the trees, thoughts arrange themselves more gently.” In the evenings, he played the biwa, letting the sounds “drift into emptiness, like leaves carried by the wind toward the valley.”

In this solitude, his philosophy ripened. In the spirit of the Buddhist teaching of mujo (impermanence) and the aesthetics of wabi-sabi, he observed how “the world is a river in which we never step twice, though the water always seems the same.” Yet his reflections were not detached from the world. He understood that impermanence was not a curse – it was the very core of beauty. In a yellowing leaf, in the weathering of the hut’s wall, in the shadow of a cloud moving across a slope, he saw not a flaw but a fullness that reveals itself precisely in the fact that it will vanish in the next moment.

"Hōjōki"

方丈記

– Kamo no Chōmei (鴨長明), 1212, Hino Mountains

What is Hōjōki actually about? It is barely a few pages long, written in 1212 by Kamo no Chōmei, a former official and poet who abandoned court life to live in a tiny hut measuring four tatami mats (about 9 m²). Yet this small text is one of the most important works in Japanese literature, read for centuries by samurai, monks, and scholars, and today by successive generations of students. In Japan, Hōjōki appears twice in the school curriculum: first in elementary school, where it is meant to foster sensitivity to impermanence and the simplicity of life, and again in the upper grades, where it serves as a foundation for deeper reflection on the nature of the world, human ambition, and spiritual freedom.

Hōjōki blends the author’s personal memories with the literary form of the essay and the philosophical treatise. It is a work of zuihitsu – written with a “brush following the thought” – but permeated with the Buddhist concept of mujo (無常) – impermanence. Chōmei, however, does not create an abstract meditation. Every passage grows out of his lived experience, and many of his images are brutally realistic.

The Prologue and the River Metaphor – the Impermanence of the World

Hōjōki opens with one of the most famous prologues in Japanese literature, which in just a few sentences condenses the entire message of the work:

“The river flows on without ceasing, yet the water in it is never the same. The bubbles of foam on its surface, vanishing and appearing again, resemble human beings and their fates – they appear and disappear, never lasting long.”

This is a metaphor of impermanence – of a world that seems to endure, yet whose elements are constantly changing. People’s houses may stand in the same place, but the residents leave, die, and new ones are born. The message is clear: nothing has a permanent form, and we humans are like those bubbles – transient and powerless.

This introduction sets the tone for the entire work. Chōmei shows that to understand the meaning of life, one must accept that everything is impermanent. Yet this is not a philosophy born in the quiet of a library – for Chōmei it grows out of real, painful experience.

Descriptions of Catastrophes – Fire, Earthquake, Storm, Famine

In the following paragraphs, the author recalls five great calamities he witnessed in Heian-kyō at the turn of the 12th and 13th centuries. Each he describes with meticulous, almost journalistic detail, yet with poetic sensitivity.

Fire (1177)

In Hōjōki, Chōmei recalls the great fire of the capital in the third year of the Angen era (1177), which destroyed a large part of the city – about one-third of Heian-kyō’s area. He wrote of how the houses of aristocrats and government buildings turned to ash, and of the desperate condition of the residents, forced to rebuild amid both spiritual and material emptiness.

Storm (1180)

Chōmei also describes the destructive hurricane that swept through the capital in the fourth year of the Jishō era (around 1180). Houses were destroyed across a wide area, including the districts of Nakanomikado, Kyōgoku, and Rokujō.

Famine (around 1181)

In the following years (the Yōwa era, around 1181) came drought, floods, and crop failure, which brought famine and epidemic. Chōmei recalls the slow death of the townspeople, the deserted fields, and the crumbling houses.

Earthquake (around 1185)

Hōjōki also contains an account of a powerful earthquake that occurred in 1185, destroying buildings, collapsing mountain slopes, and altering the landscape of the capital.

These descriptions are not merely a chronicle of events – for the author, they are tangible proof of impermanence. What in the prologue was the metaphor of the river is here demonstrated through fact. This is the design and structure of the work.

Reflection on Human Ambition

After the accounts of disasters, Chōmei turns to a critique of social life in the capital. He had seen the imperial court, full of ceremony, rivalry, and intrigue. He had also seen officials sacrificing their health and families for the sake of career.

“Those who climb to the heights of power cannot sleep in peace – they fear the loss of their position. Those who do not have it burn themselves in the fever of desire.”

His diagnosis is unequivocal: ambition grants peace neither to those who long for it nor to those who have attained it. In the light of mujo, all this is futile effort, for positions, wealth, and fame are as impermanent as leaves carried on an autumn wind.

Withdrawal

Chōmei did not decide to withdraw immediately. First, he lost his position – he was passed over for the appointment of chief priest at the Kamo Shrine. In his account there is no bitterness, but there is a clear sense that the system in which he had lived was fragile and unjust.

“When there was no place for me in the city, I sought it among the mountains and rivers.”

Yet his motives went deeper than wounded pride. Chōmei saw in nature the reflection of a Buddhist truth – impermanence and peace. His decision to withdraw was not an escape, but a return to harmony.

Description of Life in the Hermitage

In the final part of Hōjōki, the author describes in detail his hut of four and a half tatami mats. Built on a wooden platform, it could be moved to another location. Inside were a sleeping mat, a small Buddhist altar, a stand for his biwa, and a few essential items.

“In spring, I look at the flowers; in summer, at the moon. In autumn, I delight in the sound of wind in the pines; in winter – at the sight of snow. I need nothing more.”

Daily life was simple: gathering firewood, writing poetry, meditating, observing the changing seasons. In this simplicity, Chōmei found freedom from rivalry, from the expectations of others, and from fear of tomorrow.

Reflections on the Meaning and Transience of Life

The final paragraphs of Hōjōki are at once a confession of faith and a testament to reconciliation with the world. Chōmei repeats that everything is impermanent — but impermanence is no curse. It is a law of nature that allows one to accept life as it is.
"A man is born and dies like dew upon the grass. To understand this is to cease being afraid."
Buddhist wisdom here mingles with personal experience. Chōmei does not call for asceticism for all. His message is rather an invitation: if you wish to understand yourself, try looking at the world from a distance, even for a moment — like a monk in a hut on a mountainside.

How Do We Understand Hōjōki in the 21st Century?

It is easy to call Hōjōki a treatise on transience. But that would be too flat. Chōmei not only speaks of impermanence — he constructs it in language, in architecture, and in lifestyle. His “ten by ten feet” is not a decoration but a philosophy put into practice.

Aesthetics

Two orders lie in the background of Hōjōki: Buddhist and Shintō. From Buddhism comes mujō and the conclusion that we suffer mainly because we cling to forms which, by definition, dissolve. From Shintō comes an elemental reverence for the landscape — the mountain, the river, the wind are not a “backdrop” to human affairs; they are co-protagonists. The collision of these orders yields in Chōmei a particular sensitivity: what perishes is at once beautiful and instructive. Aesthetically, it comes closest to the later named categories of wabi-sabi and mono no aware: the beauty of simplicity traced with a crack, the gentle sadness of things that pass. Importantly, this is not sentimentality. In Chōmei, simplicity is not “stylising oneself as humble,” but a reduction to needs with ethical consequences: fewer dependencies, less fear, more freedom.

Catastrophes

Fires, winds, famine, earthquakes — Chōmei does not describe them in order to build a lofty chronicle of disasters. Each event is an experience of the limits of control. In his logic, catastrophe does not contradict the order of the world; it strips bare the illusion that order belonged to man. That is why the solution is neither an escape into cynicism (“nothing has meaning”), nor an obsession with safeguards (“control everything”). The solution is a shift in the point of reliance: from things to practice, from possession to a way of being. Hence the decision for a hut that can be dismantled and moved; hence the hinges in the joints of the beams, the scale “for two carts” — minimalism not as a trend but as a technique of non-attachment.

Freedom

Chōmei does not promote “fleeing from people.” He chooses voluntary seclusion, which broadens the capacity to see. In Hōjōki there is the neighbour boy, there are walks to temples, there is the exchange of gifts with the valley. This is not misanthropy but selectiveness — a conscious limiting of the number of stimuli and roles. The key difference: seclusion has a vector from within (I choose the frames, the rhythm, the scale), isolation falls from without (I have been deprived of relationships). This difference translates into mental condition: in seclusion, agency grows; in isolation — helplessness. Chōmei shows that solitude can be a cognitive practice, not a wall, if it sustains a bond with nature and a few people.

Asceticism

Hōjōki reverses the intuition: the more elaborate the infrastructure, the greater the fear of maintaining it. Chōmei’s safety comes from low maintenance thresholds: simple food, a few tools, an instrument, a few books, a small altar. Asceticism here is not an end; it is a tool to reduce the amplitude of fluctuations. The fewer things “must” happen for the day to be good, the steadier the inner weather. This economy of simplicity also has an ethical dimension: a smaller footprint, greater sensitivity to the world.

Straight from Contemporary Japan

Interesting school ideas for implementing Chōmei’s philosophy in everyday urban life

We live in an era of “soft catastrophes”: information overload, job instability, climate change. Chōmei’s lesson is not: “turn everything off and live in the forest,” but: shift the centre of gravity. Instead of investing all energy in controlling things beyond our power, build practices that remain with you regardless of conditions.

Your Own “Four and a Half Tatami”

It is not necessarily a room; it is a scale. Ask yourself questions in the spirit of hōjō: What is the minimal space in which I can work and rest without distractions? What set of tools truly sustains my day? What can I make portable (routines, notes, exercises) so that “home” is more a way of being than an address? Sometimes it will be a desk disconnected from the net for two hours; sometimes a 30-minute walk along the same path without a phone; sometimes a weekend “hut in the city”: a flat functioning for two days in low-power mode.

Ritual of Opening and Closing the Day

Ten to fifteen minutes of looking at something constant (a tree, the sky, water), without a camera or notebook. This is your “hut window.”

Principle of Portability

Create a “minimal set” in each area (work, movement, reading, relationships) so that it could fit “on two carts”: in a backpack, in a single drawer, in a single file.

Week of Subtraction

Once a month, remove one stimulus (notifications, excess meetings, impulsive purchases) and note the effect — not in terms of “productivity,” but mood and clarity of thought.

Practice of “Three Silences”

Five minutes in the morning, at noon, and in the evening — without eyes on a screen, with the breath counted to ten. This is the equivalent of a short nembutsu without metaphysics: a return to a single point.

Economy of Loss

Once a week, write down what was lost (time, plan, moods) and name it plainly. In Chōmei, recognising loss is an act of ordering the world — otherwise it accumulates in the background as nameless fear.

Map of Returns

Choose two or three places in your surroundings that give a sense of constancy — they may be a bench in the park, a small bookshop, a café where only the hum of the espresso machine is heard. Return there at regular intervals, not for novelty but for repetition. These are your contemporary “landmarks” in a fluid world.

Meal of One Taste

Once a week, for one day, eat meals pared down to the limit — rice with salt, pasta with olive oil, a slice of bread and water. The point is contrast: when the world offers an excess of options, choose monotony deliberately. It is a reminder that satiety comes more from presence at the table than from the list of ingredients.

A Small Shadow on a Day of Full Sun

Choose a day on which you document nothing — no photos, posts, notes. Allow events to remain only in memory, even if tomorrow part of them fades. At the same time, pay attention to as many details as possible and try to remember everything. This trains acceptance of impermanence — something Chōmei knew all too well.

Pause at the Threshold

Before you enter a home, office, or shop, stop for a few breaths. Realise you are crossing the boundary of a space — just as crossing the threshold of Chōmei’s hut was entering a different mode of being. In an age when boundaries blur, the act of restoring them works like a reset.

Hōjōki does not propose escapism, but calibration: reduce the scale at which you must win for the day to be good; increase the scale at which you can find meaning even in change. Then the river — which we cannot stop anyway — ceases to be a threatening element and becomes something that carries you. And this is perhaps the most modern dimension of this thirteenth-century text: it does not promise that the world will calm down. It teaches how to calm the place from which you look upon the world.

Today

Kamo no Chōmei did not live in the age of smartphones, airplanes, and virtual meetings, yet he knew exactly what we feel when the ground suddenly slips from under our feet. He saw cities burn, waves carry away homes, hunger and plague unravel the intricately woven net of human life. The same tremor in the chest we know from sudden news, closed doors, sorrowful calendars.

His “four and a half tatami” is not the relic of some ancient ascetic, but a way to survive any era — even one in which we seemingly can do anything, yet still so easily lose ourselves. Chōmei’s small house, whether made of wood and reed, or of a few chosen routines and thoughts, becomes the point around which one can draw a protective circle.

The world he described has vanished — Kyoto rebuilt itself, dynasties changed, more houses burned, cities appeared whose names did not exist in his time. And yet, in what matters most, we have not moved a step: we still must accept that everything is temporary, that even what we love most is already on the path to departure.

Perhaps here lies the universality of his lesson: not in advice on how to avoid catastrophe, but how to stand within it — with a heart that knows it is only a guest, and with a hand that, nonetheless, hangs a lantern in the window.

>> SEE ALSO SIMILAR ARTICLES:

How to Stop Fighting Yourself at Every Turn? Wabi Sabi Is Not Interior Design but a Way of Life

The Most Important Lesson from Musashi: "In all things have no preferences" (Dokkōdō)

Mastering One’s Desires: The Solitary Path of Musashi and Aurelius

Your Time is Your Space, Not a Frantic Race – 5 Japanese Lessons on Managing Your Own Time

Poetry with Sake – Master Senryū and His Joyfully Malicious Insight

"Strong Japanese Women"

see book by the author

of the page

    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

Write us...

Ciechanów, Polska

dr.imyon@gmail.com

___________________

inari.smart

Would you like to share your thoughts or feedback about our website or app? Leave us a message, and we’ll get back to you quickly. We value your perspective!