Certain places seem to express a unique serenity and peace.
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To each thing, its own
true deepest inner nature:
water does not think
of itself as consort
of the bright moonlight it hosts.
Sōgi (1421-1502)
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It is always whimsical to try to describe what zen is “from within”, as though one can momentarily choose to remove oneself from the flow, suspend one’s judgment and view a situation in completely objective terms. It can though be said that zen offers immediate insight into the true nature of the world. A central concept to zen thought is the Tao: the holistic, harmonic, universal process from which it is impossible to deviate, and from which one cannot escape. This process is what we commonly refer to as “the course of nature”. Even when attempting to name the Tao, one is only acting as a part of the continual play of nature. In a sense one becomes an avatar through which the universe is discussing itself. This belief also recalls the Japanese concept of musubi (産霊 / 結び): the creative force within the universe that gives rise to all the variety of experience.
There are spaces which seem to be created to awaken in us a sudden awareness of this united state of being. As with the philosophy of zen itself, zen-inspired spaces take on many forms. Zen art is the art of the incipient and the potential, and in space it is expressed by a suggestion of incompleteness and continual transformation. Emphasis is laid on the suggestion, rather than outright literal telling. It is by indicating rather than showing that a space gains an additional sense of immersion, and invites a visitor to receive an impression of it in his or her own way. Beauty is sought in impermanence, imperfection and constant transformation.
The philosophy of zen has always found stunning expression in garden design in particular. One intention of the zen garden is to invoke unique, ephemeral events within the context of a repetitive natural landscape. Through compositions of water, stones and plants, the nature of the world is made apparent. Stone is one of the elements which undergoes the least change in nature, while water and plants undergo continuous change. Because of this contrast, both of these elements are thought to belong together. Mountain and water, vertical and horizontal, volume and empty space, human-imposed order and organic pattern all exist together in the zen garden. It is a perpetual play of light and shadow, thresholds and passages, statics and dynamics, abstract open space and a prospect to places beyond. There is often a low wall around the garden, which both serves to define the space and focus the garden inward. The beauty of empty space is conveyed visually through the use of white pea gravel (shirakawa-suna). This gravel is often formed such that it represents a stream or an ocean, but it also takes on meaning as a material that serves to connect different elements in the garden. At the same time it connects the garden to the infinite space of the sky above.
It is inspiring that in the zen garden, the human hand has in some way or another enhanced nature as it existed previously. In contemporary discussions about ecological design, there is often an undertone that human presence in nature is something inherently negative, and that the ideal state of nature is one where humans are not there. The persistent history of vernacular design across the world proves that this assumption need not be true. The zen garden is perhaps one of the best examples of how human mastery can create spaces of serene beauty in a local landscape which can only be made apparent through human presence. This is in no way to devalue the concept of ecological restoration and preservation, but rather to recognize the additional creative potential that careful human design can add to a place.
It all reaches apotheosis at the temple of Ryōan-ji in Kyoto. Upon entering the temple garden, there appears before one a space of incredible serenity that holds an immediately apparent power. 15 stones lie in an abstract pattern on a bed of white gravel. This dry rock garden (karesansui) is surrounded by a low clay wall that is stained with subtle orange and brown tones. The enclosure can be said to reflect sabi, the appreciation of the patina of use and age, and the garden expresses wabi, utter simplicity and the appreciation of a higher beauty amid the apparent lack of beauty. The walls form an irregular background in stark contrast to the carefully ordered forms within. Sitting on the edge of the garden, one can reflect upon the continual passing of time and the ephemeral nature of being in a space of austere elegance.
Life is constantly flowing. That is the nature of the Tao. You can swim against the stream, but you will still be moved along by it. After all, that is part of the fun: to flow on and wonder where one will end up. The spaces of everyday life can be formed to enhance this experience, both to draw attention to it and offer a comforting reminder of the eternal reliability of nature.
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I post these visual narratives/essays also over on my Substack, "Archetypal Spaces".
