At first, it is emptiness that takes hold of you. The beauty of emptiness. The kind that in our Western societies is so feared that we constantly try to fill it, by being busy, consuming, possessing. To curb the fear of missing out. In Japan, emptiness is not nothingness; on the contrary, it embodies all meanings and all possibilities.
The Zen garden of Ryoan-ji Temple in Kyoto is the ultimate garden of emptiness. It was designed according to Buddhist principles as a space for meditation and awakening. An expanse of raked gravel, smooth and shimmering, that reappears intact each morning under the monk's rake. No trees. No flowers. Only a few rocks and stones measure up to the depth of vacuity. Emptiness frees the mind and thereby allows a connection with the intimate self, bringing to the surface the deepest part of oneself. In the same way, in Japanese ink painting, the landscape is conceived with misty areas and clear areas, parts rich in detail and others left untouched in white. The emptiness in the painting alludes to a world that exists and invites the viewer to imagine it for themselves, thus stimulating their creativity. Similarly, a writer, by sometimes leaving the reader to decide the fate of their characters, encourages them to better know and recognize themselves through the lives they invent. Like director Sofia Coppola, who explores the mysteries of Tokyo in her film Lost in Translation, she leaves it to the viewer to formulate the last words whispered by Bill Murray to Scarlett Johansson.
At Ryoan-ji, you are captivated by the serenity, tranquility, and silence of the place. In Japan, silence is an essential breath. At the beginning of my trip to Japan, I was often impressed by the silence that certain Japanese interlocutors could create during a conversation. Today, I see no awkwardness or lack of quick wit, simply a necessary time, an adjustment to the other, an invitation to occupy the space together. The travel writer Pico Iyer* says that when one goes to Japan, more than the Japanese language, one must learn silence. There is something important in silence. Perhaps because it brings us closer to the absolute.
One does not enter a Zen garden as one would a French or English garden. The visitor is required to contemplate it from a designated viewpoint. And it is the garden that enters us, entirely. One feels drawn in by this powerful movement of gravel. Immediately, one knows that one is in the presence of something very profound and mysterious. There are 15 rocks in the Ryoan-ji garden in Kyoto, but only 14 can be seen at a time, no matter the angle from which one looks at it. Hidden elements in plain sight. In Eastern culture, the number 15 has a connotation of perfection. The number 14, of imperfection, two opposing forces chasing each other in the cycle of life. As spectators, we are thrust into this hiatus, a tipping point between 15 and 14, invited to seek our balance in movement, to fully experience this energy.
The journey back holds another lesson. The ablution and purification basin bears these definitive words: "I learn only to be contented," in other words, what you possess is all you need. I desire no material possessions after this visit...