The meaning behind the Japanese Zen garden

There is beauty and tranquillity to be found in Zen gardens. But these enigmatic spaces also express the highest truths of philosophy, write Steve John Powell and Angeles Marin Cabello.

For most gardeners, stones – along with slugs, blackfly and weeds – are a pest, something to be eradicated. Yet in Japan, some of the most astonishing gardens consist of nothing but rocks and stones. As 19th-Century writer Lafcadio Hearn wrote: "to comprehend the beauty of a Japanese garden, it is necessary to understand the beauty of stones."

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Rock and stones are vital elements in any Japanese garden, and the ultimate expression of the beauty of stones lies in the sekitei, or rock gardens, expanses of raked white gravel, dotted with strategically-placed stones. But there's more to the gardens than mere beauty. Explorer and art historian Langdon Warner (the inspiration for the Indiana Jones character) observed that Japanese gardens are designed "to express the highest truths of religion and philosophy precisely as other civilisations have made use of the arts of literature and philosophy". 

Sekitei first became popular in the Kamakura Era (1185-1333), following the arrival of Zen Buddhism from China in the late 13th Century. These gardens continued to develop in the Muromachi period (1333-1573). Zen emphasised the importance of meditation, as well as a simpler, more mindful outlook. During the Muromachi period, Zen-related arts, including calligraphy, tea ceremony, flower arranging, martial arts and landscape gardening blossomed.

Previously, the gardens of the Heian Era (794-1185) were lavish recreations of Buddhist visions of paradise. Lords and ladies of the Imperial Court would go boating there amid the sumptuous beauty. But in the Kamakura Era, the balance of power shifted, and the samurai-warrior class rose to prominence. Zen was quickly embraced by the samurai, who identified with its emphasis on simplicity, self-discipline, and the importance of meditation to find one's true self, undistracted by ostentation and worldly possessions.

Some samurai also devoted themselves to the Zen-inspired arts of tea ceremony and landscape gardening, like Ueda Soko (1563-1650), who not only founded his own style of tea ceremony, still practised today, but also designed the fabulous Shukkeien Garden in Hiroshima.

It may seem strange that fierce warriors should also be into tea and gardening. But as  Trevor Legget wrote in the book Introduction to Zen Training (Tuttle): "Many warriors were men of culture, poets and artists, with their work often illuminated by their Zen training."

Zen isn't just sitting cross-legged and meditating (which is zazen, or seated meditation). All manner of activities, from sweeping the garden and chopping vegetables, to the tea ceremony, ikebana (flower arrangement), and landscape gardening are all considered practices of Zen discipline, aimed at focussing the mind and working toward spiritual awakening.

Japan's leading contemporary Zen garden designer, Masuno Shunmyo, an 18th-generation Zen priest, explains this connection between Zen and the arts: "Through Zen ascetic practice, an emotion of the mind is found that can't be directly exposed or understood. One must therefore discover ways to communicate this emotion to others. That is, 'the expression of oneself'. The Zen priest has traditionally turned to such classical arts as calligraphy, ikebana and rock placement."

The first time you visit a Zen garden, it's hard to avoid a sense of awe at the mesmerising sight of the immaculately raked gravel – in wavy lines, straight lines or concentric circles – broken only by a handful of rocks, perhaps a shrub or two or a clump of moss, but definitely no flowers. Intuitively, you know you're in the presence of something profound and powerful, designed "to give the viewer that smack in the face that must happen before reflection intervenes," as painter Joan Miró said about art, according to the book Joan Miró: Painting and Anti-Painting (MoMA). After reflection does intervene, you're left with the question – just what does it mean?

Intrigued by the idea that a garden could be something that needs to be understood, rather than simply viewed for pleasure, we resolved to find out exactly what the sekitei are trying to tell us. We'd heard some say they represent islands floating in the ocean. Others claim they are 3D versions of traditional Chinese ink drawings of jagged mountain landscapes. Still others reckon that they symbolise something far deeper, mystical even. DT Suzuki (1870-1966) – Japan's foremost Zen authority – maintained that Japanese gardens express the spirit of Zen.

Puzzled by these conflicting accounts, and driven by a Western obsession with rational explanations, we visited Saizoji, our local Zen temple in Hiroshima, which has its own splendid, raked gravel garden. The head priest came out to greet us. We talked a little about how much work was involved in maintaining the gravel. But when we asked him to elucidate on the garden's meaning, he sighed, smiled, and said, "It's not something you can explain. You have to experience it."

Less is more

We next asked Reina Ikeda, a graduate of Kyoto's University of Foreign Studies. Kyoto after all is home to some of Japan's most beautiful gardens, the ones Steve Jobs referred to as "the most sublime thing I've ever seen". The most famous, and most visited of these is the gravel and rock mindscape at Ryoanji Temple.  

"The meaning of Ryoanji's garden is still a mystery," says Ikeda. "There are 15 rocks in the garden, but you can see only 14 of them at a time – whichever angle you look from. The number 15 means 'perfect' in Oriental culture. The number 14 means 'imperfect'. For Japanese people, it's beautiful precisely because it's not perfect. This idea is called wabi-sabi." Wabi-sabi is a concept that finds beauty in rustic simplicity, in objects worn by age, imperfect and transient. It infuses much of Zen art and design. So imperfection, far from being a negative concept, is an attribute in Japanese culture.

Another key concept in Zen gardens is the abundance of empty space – pristine and uncluttered – a reflection of how your mind should be when you're meditating. In the West, we are uncomfortable with an empty space, just as we are with silence. We feel compelled to fill both. In Zen, space is important, beautiful even, as demonstrated by the two concepts of ma (interval or space) and yohaku no bi (the beauty of emptiness).

According to Mira Locher, architect, educator and author of two books about Shunmyō Masuno (Zen Garden Design, 2020,and Zen Gardens – The Complete Works Of Shunmyō Masuno,2012): "The concept of ma, implies the existence of a boundary, something that defines the interval or space (for example, two columns). In the West, we tend to consider the boundary object(s) 'positive' and the space 'negative'. However, in a Zen garden, the space (ma) is understood as a positive element, and the garden designer uses the boundary objects to shape it... it is an important element within the garden."

Locher continues: "Yohaku no bi is a device that allows the viewer's mind to settle down. Unlike ma, which is intangible space, yohaku no bi typically is represented by something tangible, such as a bed of raked white pea gravel. The contrast of the whiteness and uniformity of the gravel juxtaposed against rough rocks or variegated greenery produces the sense of emptiness, which in turn allows the viewer to 'empty' their mind." So uncluttered spaces help unclutter the mind, invoking a kind of meditative state. 

Shunmyō Masuno is one of a vanishing breed,  a 21st-Century ishitate-so (literally "rock-setting priests"), a term of respect given to Zen priests who design gardens reflecting Zen ideals as part of their ascetic practice, with great importance given to rock placement. Centuries ago, many such priests existed. Today only a handful remain. Masuno's interest in rock gardens began when, as a boy, his parents took him to the garden at Kyoto's Ryoanji Temple. "It was a kind of culture shock," he wrote, "as if my head had been split open with a hatchet". Today his award-winning designs can be found in office blocks, apartment complexes and private residences from New York to Norway.

Masuno believes Zen gardens – even a small one – can play a vital role in today's cities, not only in brightening up the urban environment, but also in helping to "restore people's humanity". For those who spend their days working inside buildings, bombarded by information and divorced from nature, garden spaces can help them find balance in their lives by "creating space, both physical and mental, for meditation and contemplation within the chaos of daily life," writes Locher in Zen Garden Design.

Masuno sees 21st-Century life as being bound up in pursuing an abundance of things. What is needed to counteract this obsession, he says, is "an abundance of spirit," a chance for self-reflection and a connection with one's inner self. This is what he strives to provide with his Zen spaces. "There is a beauty in Zen gardens that many people find appealing and calming," says Locher. "Many people are suffering from being disconnected from nature in their everyday lives, and Zen gardens are designed to provide that connection."

By bringing the past into the present, today's Zen spaces offer hope for the future. So, returning to our original quest to find out just what Zen gardens mean, it is Masuno himself who provides the most insightful answer: "The garden is a special spiritual place in which the mind dwells… a place to come face-to-face with yourself."

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