Before Hakone, we were in Ginza. Ginza is the quietest retail high street you’ll ever encounter in the world. This is the 5th Ave/Rodeo Drive of Tokyo but you can carry on conversations at a whisper. And the lights, all muted. True class.
A centuries-old ryokan. It practically looks like the building has grown out of the same soil as the trees around it, the way it’s blended in so well.
The ryokan where we stayed. Simple wood, polished by decades (centuries?) of guests walking over it. The wood creaked and bent – almost bounced – under your step. I’d never had that feeling of walking on wood before, with so much give.
The warm lighting in the hallway across this garden really makes this scene. This was in the dead of winter, and it looks like the building promises warm hearths and fresh, hot tea for a traveler that’s come a long way.
It’s hard to describe why the below scene affected me so much. To the right of here is a shrine, and that red torii gate is the threshold to the sacred space.
As you stand here, the sun bursts through the crack in the trees in just the right way to light the moss verdantly. The wind rustles the leaves gently and they sound like palms rubbing together, some sort of reverential gesture. You have the sense that this space, which if you were in a hurry and passed by it looks completely ordinary – what with the street signs and electric wires – was hallowed.
And why was it hallowed? Because of the torii gate? The way the sun hit the trees?
Or maybe because the combination of all these things made you just stop. Stop, and recognize the sacred or hallowed in the ordinary, which is the whole point of shinto and a core part of the Japanese aesthetic.
There were very few things in the courtyard/garden of this temple. But for some reason they looked artfully arranged. I don’t know why the whole scene was so beautiful. It just is. The fact that the grounds were completely silent helped.
But maybe the point of the space, with very few things in it, is precisely that there is space.
The space brings into greater relief the objects that are in the courtyard, like the bell and the beautiful trees.
Also, the space seems meaningful. The space allows for things to grow, like the moss. It provides space for the steps to the shrine. It provides space for you to move through it. The space is deliberately there, without space things cannot grow or develop or move.
Elsewhere in Hakone, this was a restaurant. And after eating there, you pass through this portal on your way out to the real world again. The way this dark entryway framed the winter scene outside was astounding. It wouldn’t have worked, I think, if the distance of this passage were any longer or shorter.
I just love how these trees are gnarled with character. Although the branches ended up growing in one general direction, they twisted and took corkscrew paths to get there. It’s about the journey.