Mizuta Masahide’s famous “storehouse” haiku first came to me when a friend sent a beautiful broadside of it some twenty years ago. Her brother had just taken his own life, and her grief was bottomless. In time, she found that working with a traditional printer who still pursued publishing on an old letterpress offered some purpose while she mourned. One result of her work was the broadside, black letters and a gilded crescent moon on deep blue, handmade paper.
Over the decades I shied away from ever quoting the haiku, feeling the great loss my friend had suffered. It gave her more right to the metaphor. She’d lost something fundamental—a change she would grapple with always.
Masahide’s haiku has seen many translations. Some are shared on blogs and webpages as “Chinese proverbs.” Readers of the Japanese haiku master Bashō, on the other hand, may know the verse as one by his student Masahide. Bashō applauded the poem, written when Masahide did lose his barn or storehouse to fire. From that devastation, it’s said,Bashō’s student learned a great lesson in the transitory nature of things.
Today I’m remembering the haiku: the ownership, the burning, the loss, the clarity that follows—all return to me as I study anger. Like a barn, anger is a thing with an owner. It’s a fundamental part of life, like fire and loss. It’s something I want to see more clearly.
In Anger: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames, Thich Nhat Hanh writes that we own our anger. Because it’s ours, we have the right and responsibility to care for it as such. It’s like a little baby—our own baby—something to be held close. It’s an entity to be understood. It’s not to be denied or put away from ourselves or used to punish others. It’s something to pay attention to and learn from and guide us through the years.
Anger’s an important motivator for any writer to work with, too, making it all the more worthy of attention. Owning my anger, like owning a barn or raising a child, means being willing to nurture and steward and be there for it. It means knowing what triggers strong reaction and, from that, learning to respond. Owning it means coping with all there is to do for it and with it, even when we’re exhausted or grieving or pushed to the limit.
For a writer, understanding anger—either in charting the path of a fictitious character or in capturing her long, simmering heat over some past or current wrong—is both engaging and instructive. Knowing what triggers her, what she avoids, what she tackles—all these are important keys to a story.
So we learn from our own anger and that of our characters.
It’s been said that writing practice helps us cope with life. We unravel the truth of some past event by translating it for the page. We understand that no one emotion is everything about the character—or ourselves—but each one is important. And either the emotion we write rings false coming from an author who hasn’t learned, or the emotion is true and resonant and real. Like a child. Like coping with a great loss.
Find my new book of essays, The Oasis This Time: Living and Dying with Water in the West (due out from Torrey House Press in March 2019), available for presale at Indie Bound, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon.