Japan is the only nation that is known around the world for its gardens.
The essence of all Japanese gardens is their use of natural materials without changing the landscape very much. The goal is to showcase their symbolic beauty. They remind me of a Scottish golf course in that they follow the natural contours of the land and do not alter the natural beauty with artificial flourishes.
The roots of the Japanese garden actually began in China. During the Asuka Period, between 500 AD and 600 AD, the emperor sent delegations to China for cultural exchanges. They brought back the idea of the pleasure garden and then added in a few of their own Shinto wrinkles, like incorporating rocks and gravel patterns into the garden as they had been doing at their shrines for many moons.
Today, there are three types of Japanese gardens.
The first is the kaiyu-shiki teien, or promenade garden. This is essentially a landscaped garden consisting of gravel paths encircling a central pond.
The second is the karesansui, often called a dry garden, which expresses beauty using rocks, sand, small sculptures, and other natural materials without water. These gardens most closely resemble a Shinto shrine.
And the third type is a roji, which are adjacent to a tea house. These are what most people envision when you say “Japanese garden.” They are as pretty as a painting, with cascading waterfalls, sculpted trees and bushes, and lovely flowers. In the spring they become a riot of color as the cherry trees that line the paths blossom wildly.
There is a wonderful sense of peace surrounding a Japanese garden. The spirits roam free and they make even the grandest cathedral seem like mere artifice. The only sounds are made by birds or water. They are not for show, or the spectacle of exalted treasure, but rather for the exploration of one’s inner self. They make you think about … everything … and nothing. It really is quite magical. And every time I entered one it felt like time stood still.
One day I was riding my bike around Kyoto and I stopped to check out the bright red and green Nanzenji Temple (Buddhist) over by the Museum of Modern Art. They have a lovely promenade garden that wraps around the back side of the temple grounds. There was a wedding taking place in a grand pagoda overlooking the pond and many people were dressed in bright, flowered kimonos and ceremonial garb.
I had just walked over this amazing wooden foot bridge enveloped by gnarly trees that seemed a part of the bridge itself. There were giant carp bottom feeding in slow motion as mallard ducks silently drifted on the pond, white puffy clouds reflected upon its surface like a sky mirror.
As I came around a bend in the trail there was a young man in the standard blue Japanese gardener’s uniform. He was wearing black, webbed, sock boots and standing on a ladder next to a lovely old pine tree. He cradled each branch gently, as if it was some delicate loved one, and was carefully straightening each pine needle in places where the wind had entangled them. That was his job. And he clearly loved grooming this ancient pine, like he was combing the hair of his child. I stood there for — I don’t know how long. And the young lad never took his attention from his task — never looked up at me or took a break. He had found his ikigai, his sense of purpose.
And that, my friends, is what a Japanese garden is all about.
