practice of Zen discipline.”6 This correlates to the ideas of Musō Soseki, who wrote in his Dream Dialogues (Muchū mondō), “He who distinguishes between the garden and practice cannot be said to have found the Way.”7 In other words, for the garden designer who is a practitioner of Zen, garden making—both design and construction—must be understood as a vehicle for the attainment of truth in Zen.
The Lhiroma hall at the Suifūso guesthouse opens toward the east for a view of the karesansui (dry) garden representing the kusen-hakkai, the nine mountains and eight seas of the Buddhist universe.
Cloud-like beds of ground cover are interspersed with layers of gravel and roughly textured mountain-like rocks in the Tabidachi no Niwa (Garden for Setting Off on a Journey) in the Yūkyūen garden at the Hofu City Crematorium.
Understanding garden making as an act of Zen Buddhism is an important point when considering the definition of a Zen garden in the twenty-first century. Many gardens in Japan and abroad, especially in the United States and Europe, have been labeled “Zen” or “Zen-style,” but according to Masuno, only those created by a disciplined practitioner of Zen Buddhism truly are Zen gardens. In the West, the often copied simplicity and tranquility of the Zen garden may be sufficient to give an initial appearance of the garden being “Zen.” However, the quality of “Zen” goes beyond mere appearance. Hisamatsu Shinichi, a scholar of Japanese aesthetics has identified seven different characteristics particular to Zen arts: asymmetry (fukinsei), simplicity (kanso), austere sublimity or lofty dryness (kokō), naturalness (shizen), subtle profundity or deep reserve (yūgen), freedom from attachment (datsuzoku), and tranquility (seijaku).8 These are qualities that result from the mind (both the mental state and the spirit or kokoro) of the artist and the process of designing. Masuno notes that in the West, gardens often are an expression of an interior idea and are treated as rooms.9 This is very different than his own process of design, which begins by the designer emptying his mind and listening to the site and the context in order to allow the design and its inherent aesthetic qualities to grow from the place rather than be applied to it.
“Zen aims to teach one how to live, so it has no form,” notes Masuno.10 Yet from the late twelfth century, Zen monks began to experiment with artful expressions of the Zen mind. The initial medium they chose was ink brush painting (sumi-e). At the same time, Zen Buddhist gardens were designed based on Chinese poetry and garden design. When the essence of Zen expressed through sumi-e was combined with garden making, the result was the dry landscape garden (karesansui).11 The karesansui garden, the most renowned of which is the garden at Ryōanji that Masuno viewed as a boy, is now the garden type most closely associated with Zen Buddhism. However, by no means are all Zen gardens dry landscapes. Water is a key element in many of Masuno’s gardens, as well as those of his influential predecessors, including Musō Soseki, who designed the Zen garden at Saihoji temple (from 1339 CE), famous for the thick carpet of moss covering the banks of its quiet stream and pond.
Many Zen gardens are constructed within small contained spaces, such as the Ryōanji garden, which is built on the south side of the abbot’s quarters, with garden walls on the other three sides. These diminutive gardens typically convey important Zen principles such as emptiness (kyo) and infinite space. Emptiness often is expressed as yohaku no bi, literally the “beauty of extra white,” referring to the beauty in blankness or emptiness. “Emptiness is the fountain of infinite possibilities.”12 Infinite space is especially powerful when expressed within a contained area. “Large revelations often occur in very small places, sometimes as the result of a radical shift in scale and perspective.”13 Although small Zen gardens may be spaces of revelation, the size of the garden alone does not define it as Zen.
Common to all Zen gardens is the incorporation of the “heart” (kokoro) of the rocks, trees, and other materials that comprise them.14 The word that Masuno uses to express the “heart” of the materials, kokoro, also can be translated to mean “mind” or “spirit.” According to Zen Buddhism, each material has its own spirit, which must be respected. Therefore each rock or tree must be understood for its own unique characteristics. When Masuno speaks of his gardens being “expressions of [his] mind,” he is referring to his own kokoro—which is rooted not in the head but in the heart.15 Masuno’s gardens, therefore, are a dialogue between his kokoro and the kokoro of each of the elements in the garden.
The idea of garden design as a dialogue between the designer and the elements in the garden is clearly stated in the first known Japanese garden manual, the eleventh-century Sakuteiki (Memoranda on Garden Making). “Ishi no kowan wo shitagau,” or “Follow the request of the stone,”16 implies the requirement to have a dialogue with the elements in the garden in order to have a complete understanding of the unique character of each element. Philosopher Robert E. Carter notes, “In Western cultural climates, one would be looked at with the greatest of suspicion upon speaking of initiating a dialogue with rocks or plants.”17 It is this dialogue between the designer and the rocks and trees in the Zen garden that creates timeless beauty and profound spiritual depth in the garden. Masuno notes,
The carved stone chōzubachi (water basin) in the Fushotei garden rests on a rough rock base at the edge of the engawa (veranda) of the Renshōji temple reception hall.
Obviously, there is a great difference between a form that only sets out to be beautiful and one in which body and soul are united at the time of its creation. Even if the completed forms are very nearly the same, the impression of the viewer should differ greatly, too, because the mental energy that exists within the work is different:... if a garden has no soul, then even though it may catch the attention of many people for a time, they will completely forget about it as soon as something new comes along.18
As “ishi no kowan wo shitagau” suggests, this dialogue with the elements of the garden initially focused on the choice and siting of rocks. Rocks have long been revered in both Japan and China, where the prototypes for Japanese gardens developed. Before Buddhism entered Japan from China and Korea in the sixth century, rocks were venerated in Japan in the vernacular Shintō religion. They were believed to be “the medium of divine connection.”19 Deities were understood to reside in natural features, such as rocks known as iwakura (literally “rock seat”). These rocks often had distinctive features relating to their size, shape, color, or markings. These unique qualities distinguished the rocks as special, and therefore they were treated with great respect.
From ancient times in China, rocks were afforded a similar respect, as they were understood to contain the essential energy of the earth, the qi (or ch’i, ki in Japanese). These rocks were placed in gardens, first in China and later in Japan, so people could enjoy them and contemplate their power. “The garden thereby becomes a site not only for aesthetic contemplation but also for self-cultivation, since the qi of the rocks will be enhanced by the flows of energy among the other natural components there.”20
Yukimi-shōji (“snow-viewing” sliding screens) reveal a view to mountain-like rocks backed by a k Metsuji-gaki (“lying cow–style” fence) made of bamboo in the courtyard garden at Hotel Le Port.
These early leanings in both China and Japan toward understanding and respecting rocks for their unique qualities naturally led to rocks playing an important role in Japanese gardens. Garden making started in Japan with the introduction of Buddhism from China and incorporated Chinese cultural ideas and forms. Therefore, the first gardens in Japan were much like their Chinese counterparts. Gardens built for
