Winter is an extraordinary season. The cold air that invigorates the body, menacing ice crystals dangling from the evergreen, but most beautiful of all is the sheets of pure white that blanket all of the world. I indulge in the hobby of observing the various threads of footprints embossed in the snow which tell many stories untold, of man and beast, comedies and tragedies. These tales so thoroughly documented on the delicate surface of white powder are easily wiped fresh by a new coat, and in a twist of irony, become forever erased from known history.
Twas by pure luck then I happened upon a trail in the snow that led away from the main road and ventured up towards the mountains. Following the trail, I encountered a young man with the most bizarre appearance: He wore several straw hats, stacked and towering atop his head with many more still hung from his back. He appeared to me entirely armored in handwoven kasa, which slowed his plod to the degree he was easily approached. Before I could introduce myself, he began to regale me with a story.
Many years ago, there was an elderly couple who lived deep in the mountains. For a living, they wove straw hats and thus were very poor, but they were happy and generous. As the New Year approached, they decided to buy rice cakes to give as an offering and wove several hats to sell that night. However, only five were completed when the wind began to howl and the snow fell faster. Wishing to avoid a blizzard, the old man gathered the five hats and quickly descended towards the village.
The snow was heavy and the wet cold soaked through his clothes as if he wore none. He took a shortcut through a sacred path, passing five Jizo statues, carved with warm expressions and the robes of a Buddhist but topped layers of snow. The kind man bowed to them, excusing himself for rushing past but thinking they looked very cold, carefully brushed off the snow from their heads before hurrying down the mountain.
Finally in town, he set up by the bustling main street and appealed to passer-bys to purchase a hat but even after many hours, not a single hat was sold. As the sun fell below the horizon, the old man, with no money for any rice cakes, packed away his kasa and left town for the long trip back home through the blizzard.
The old man once more took the shortcut through the sacred path and again offered his apologies to the statues when he was shocked to realize there were now six statues, not five. Thinking he simply didn’t notice, he meticulously brushed off the snow cloaking the statues once more. With no proper offerings, the old man decided the least he could do was protect the statues from the cold. One by one, he placed the kasa he and his wife made on each of the statues heads but none were left for the sixth. The old man smiled and placed his own hat upon his head, then continued home.
When he returned home, his wife greeted him eagerly but the old man had only apologies. He explained how he couldn’t sell the hats and instead offered them to the Jizo statues. She smiled and embraced him warmly, proud of his charity and graciousness.
Late that evening, while the couple laid in bed, the wind moaned and howled. It was so noisy, they believed they could hear distant chanting but as the wind lulled to a stop, the elder couple realized it was indeed chanting! They hurried out of bed and looked outside to see six figures marching up the mountain, each carrying large sacks. Frozen in surprise, the couple watched as the chanting figures left their bundles at the foot of their door and returned down the mountain just as they had come.
When the figures finally disappeared, the old man and woman hurried to the door and were overwhelmed to find chests filled with rice, gold, silk, and jewels. The old man, eager, to thank whoever was responsible for this charity, followed the tracks the figures left behind. He descended down the mountain and followed the sacred path but the trail stopped cold. Beside the final footsteps were the six Jizo statues, their smiles warmer and their hat speckled with snow.
The young man’s story completed, I asked him if he was planning to gift straw hats to the Jizo expecting the same miraculous charity. He marrily said, “I do not give in hopes of receiving. I have already received and so I give.”
We parted ways, he ascended into the chilly haze as I descended back towards the road, the falling snow erasing the evidence that our paths had ever crossed. Perhaps snow is the paper of the Gods, written with inkless brushes that both begin and end our stories, molded by the choices we make. Were I or the young man or the old man never to venture into the harsh Winter, none of us would be richer for it nor know how appreciated a simple act of kindness could be.
Douglas Rysdyk 