Rocks.

Outside the temple, I stand on slabs of Japanese oak bordering the garden. I survey the landscape noting the absence of foliage, flowers, and fruit. Only millions of popcorn sized rocks lay on the ground. Their collective mass meshes into a sea of grey and beige. With such similar colors, the topographical map morphs from a live painting to a 3D Magic Eye.

A seated visitor stares into the midst as if hearing a prayer. I join her, listening to silence and moving to stillness. In the garden’s corner stands a mound of rocks shaped like a volcanic eruption among the manicured stony waves. The peak of each mound is bolstered by thousands of its rocky brethren. Ruling from high above, one rock is perched til the day it rolls to the bottom to repeat its ascent once more. Over years, new and old become relative terms in the cyclical eternity. Change within the constant.

I look at the garden and wonder if I’m deciphering a code from a celestial authority. A key to the universe. Exhausted, I let go. I don’t know what is happening here: in this garden and in this life. I choose to live it than learn it. And once again there’s just rocks and Kyoto’s setting sun. I feel alive and it feels good.

Yes, so good.