At first, it's the emptiness that takes hold of you. The beauty of emptiness. The kind of emptiness that, in our Western societies, is so frightening that we constantly try to fill it, by bustling about, consuming, possessing. To ward off 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. A stretch of raked gravel, smooth and shimmering, that reappears untouched each morning under the monk's rake. No trees. No flowers. Only a few rocks and stones stand in contrast to the depth of the void. Emptiness liberates the mind and, in doing so, allows a connection with the inner self, bringing to the surface the deepest part of oneself. Similarly, in Japanese ink painting, the landscape is composed of hazy and bright areas, some richly detailed and others left untouched. The emptiness of the painting alludes to a world that exists and invites the viewer to imagine it for themselves, thus stimulating their creativity. Likewise, the writer, by sometimes leaving the reader to decide the fate of their characters, encourages them to better understand and recognize themselves through the lives they invent. Like director Sofia Coppola, who explores the mysteries of Tokyo in her film Lost in Translation, leaving it to the viewer to fill in the blanks with the final words that Bill Murray whispers to Scarlett Johansson.
At Ryoan-ji, you are enveloped by the serenity, tranquility, and silence of the place. In Japan, silence is essential breathing. At the beginning of my trip to Japan, I was often struck by the silences some Japanese people would create during a conversation. Today, I see no awkwardness or lack of wit in it, simply a necessary pause, a time to adjust to the other person, an invitation to share the space together. The travel writer Pico Iyer* says that when you go to Japan, more than the Japanese language, you 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, in its entirety. We feel drawn in by the powerful movement of the gravel. Immediately, we know that we are in the presence of something very profound and mysterious. There are 15 rocks in the garden of Ryoan-ji in Kyoto, but we can only see 14 at a time, regardless of the angle from which we view it. Elements hidden in full light. In Eastern culture, the number 15 is said to have a connotation of perfection. The number 14, on the other hand, of imperfection, two opposing forces chasing each other in the cycle of life. As spectators, we are plunged into this gap, this pivotal moment between 15 and 14, invited to find our balance in the movement, to fully experience this energy.
The return journey holds another lesson. The ablution and purification basin bears these definitive words: “I am only learning to be content,” in other words, what you possess is all you need. I desire nothing material after this visit…