“Nammu Amit’abul” on My Lips
48. 입으로만 나무아미타불
48. “Nammu Amit’abul” on My Lips
Typhoon Kong-rey had just passed through. Each leaf left under the clear blue sky was filled with autumn and the air had become much cooler. I went out to pick up chestnuts scattered by the heavy winds.
I took a burlap sack, work gloves with a red rubber coating on the palms, and a Korean traditional sickle. I also wore boots, so as not to risk being bitten by a snake. I remembered to wear my straw hat too, lest my bald pate get scratched by the chestnut thorns.
Taking the path behind the Great Enlightenment Hall where the Buddha was honored, I went up in search of the sections I had already visited. Open chestnut burrs rolled about at the bottom of the slope where the chestnut trees stood. The chestnuts were quite ripe.
Stepping on one side of one’s shell and using the sickle to pry it apart, I went to take out the meat when I felt something on my left hand—a mosquito. With my other hand, I ruthlessly squashed it.
As I crushed the mosquito, I wished it an easy passage, uttering the words “Nammu Amit’abul”—“homage to Amitābha Buddha, the Buddha of Limitless Life.” A red stain spread over my cotton gloves. My skin swelled and began to itch.
I had violated one of the precepts, “Do not kill without due cause.” There had been no time for loving-kindness to intercede; my decision to swat the mosquito had happened in an instant.
Upset, I could only blame the words of the proverb: “Once Cheoseo [a date falling around Aug. 23, when the summer heat begins to die down in Korea] passes, the mosquito’s mouth becomes twisted.”
I hadn’t killed the mosquito out of hate, nor had I due to the pleasure of the hunt. Perhaps a fear and loathing of mosquitoes had been deeply ingrained long ago in the DNA of our human ancestors, many of whom lost their lives to malaria or encephalitis.
The mosquito, for her part, hadn’t buried her proboscis into my flesh out of any fondness for me. It had probably been a desperate effort so that she could lay her eggs as it grew colder.
At moments in which two instincts cross, action always comes first. The mosquito swooped upon me to draw energy for reproduction; I had swatted her because I didn’t want to get sick. Two actions in opposition. The mosquito’s body burst, and I saw the blood.
More than the sense of guilt for having violated the precept of not killing, or fear of the punishment that I would receive according to the principle of cause and effect, I was left with a strong sense of regret—the feeling that I had committed an act that I could have avoided with a bit more care.
After that, I could have used mosquito spray or one of those repellent wristbands to avoid this in the future. I have been careless and neglected to do so. Looking back, I can see many other innocent lives that could have been spared with the use of a mosquito net.
Instead, I’d sprayed toxic fumes every night, pointing to the harm the mosquitoes were doing me. Then, as the mosquitoes staggered their way across the River Styx, I would recite the Buddha’s name with the words “Nammu Amit’abul” and leave the rest to him—turning the tragedy to comedy.
As a diligent practitioner of mindfulness, I should have made the effort to shoo away mosquitoes with the same care that I showed when I wore long boots so as not to run in with snakes. My negligence is all the sadder because I did not have the strength of mind to not concern myself with biting mosquitoes. Without meaning to, I had ended a life.
When a death happens inevitably after one has done all they can as a person, a new life will take root with the single thought of a heartfelt “Nammu Amit’abul.” It is like sunshine caressing the frozen ground.
All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes
— Kobayashi Issa
