Living in the Present

Living in the Present is a discipline of attention in which John Blackthorne is asked to meet the immediate day on its own terms, instead of being consumed by uncertain futures, death, or karma. Mariko gives the idea its clearest expression at sunset: today is real, while tomorrow is not yet here. Blackthorne is moved by her composure and watches the light disappear, but the moment offers neither a solution to his circumstances nor a release from desire. Later, he recasts the principle as a practical decision to abide by the rules today, a choice that shapes his conduct without proving that his fears have vanished.

Mariko’s Counsel at Sunset

Blackthorne and Mariko are discussing death, religious belief, and the possible value of dying. He acknowledges that he is in her power, while she tells him that being Christian should mean believing in God and heaven, and that he may have sufficient reason to die. Her response does not settle whether he should do so. Instead, she redirects his attention from an abstract judgment about life and death to the time and place they actually share.

Mariko leans toward him and touches him compassionately. She asks him to set aside the village’s troubles and the future: before six months have passed, she says, a tidal wave or earthquake could intervene, he might get his ship and sail away, Lord Yabu might die, or they all might die. The range of possibilities makes prediction futile, not because danger is absent, but because no one can know which possibility will arrive. Her counsel is to leave the problems of God to God and karma to karma, and to recognize that Blackthorne is alive, present, honored, and fortunate today.

She makes that appeal concrete by directing him to the sunset. Its beauty exists now and will never recur in precisely the same form. Blackthorne is beguiled by her serenity and words; he looks west as purple-red and black spread across the sky, and watches the sun until it disappears. The scene gives the principle a visible duration: attention holds on the changing light, then must accept its passing. The sunset is neither preserved nor repeated, and its impermanence is exactly what makes it worthy of attention.

Desire, Death, and Karma

The conversation does not dissolve the constraints between the two. Blackthorne says he wishes Mariko could be his consort. She answers that she belongs to Toda Buntaro and cannot think or speak of what might happen while he is alive. The exchange places present attention beside an attachment whose fulfillment depends on another person’s death. Blackthorne thinks of karma, then wonders whether he accepts his own, hers, or the village’s. His questions remain open; Mariko’s counsel offers a way to inhabit uncertainty, not a guarantee that he has resolved it.

That unresolved quality matters. Blackthorne notices that the night is beautiful and that Mariko is beautiful, while recognizing that she belongs to someone else. The immediate world offers real beauty, but it does not erase obligation or desire. Living in the Present therefore does not mean that every conflict is settled by looking at what is beautiful. It asks him to see what is actually before him without pretending that the conditions around it have changed.

“Today Is Forever”

In a later passage, Blackthorne briefly wakes from drowsiness after Suwo’s fingers have pleasured him and wonders what he had been thinking about. His thoughts return to his “ninth life,” which he regards as his last, and to the superstition that frightens him. He then judges such superstition foolish in the Land of the Gods, where, in his momentary formulation, “Today is forever.” The phrase intensifies Mariko’s lesson: the present is not merely the interval before a more important future, but the whole field of life available to him now.

That conviction is immediately balanced by the recognition that “Tomorrow many things can happen.” The two propositions are not a prediction that tomorrow will be safe, or a claim that the future is unreal in its consequences. Rather, the uncertainty of what comes next makes it impossible to live tomorrow in advance. Blackthorne’s response is explicit and limited: “Today I’ll abide by their rules.” He repeats the intention, “I will.” The decision turns attention into conduct. Instead of trying to master all the consequences that might follow, he chooses how to behave in the present circumstances.

Everyday Practice and Its Limits

The next details give that resolve an ordinary setting. At a meal with Fujiko and Mariko, a maid holds a covered dish above her head so that her breath will not defile the food, then kneels and places it carefully before Blackthorne. The tables hold bowls, chopsticks, saké cups, napkins, and tiny flower arrangements. Fujiko and Mariko wear flowers and silver combs; incense burns against the night bugs. These specific arrangements present the present not as an empty abstraction but as a sequence of customs, objects, and shared company that requires attention.

Blackthorne has composed himself. He knows that showing displeasure would destroy the evening, so he does not let his frustration govern the meal. His thoughts turn instead to possible game: if pheasants cannot be caught, other game may be available; he has a horse and guns and could hunt if he can find the time. The passage does not suggest that his plans or worries have disappeared. It shows him holding them alongside the evening and choosing not to spoil the occasion.

Across the sunset and the meal, Living in the Present is both a way of seeing and a modest form of self-command. Mariko’s counsel makes transience perceptible in the vanishing light; Blackthorne’s later decision makes it actionable in his willingness to follow rules and preserve an evening. Neither scene claims that he has escaped karma, fear, longing, or uncertainty. The practice is narrower and more immediate: attend to what exists today, and act within it before tomorrow’s possibilities become real.