My Search for Zen

Tofukuji （東福寺） temple made its way to the top of the list of places I must see for no apparent reason. I've seen a few postcards of the place and noticed the train station of same name, that's it. But somehow in past few weeks it was clear to me that next time I go traveling alone it will be to Tofukuji.


In general, of all the numerous temples and shrines in Kyoto, I love those of the Zen sects most. (So if any of my readers want to recommend one I'll be grateful). Mostly because they are less overcrowded with golden Buddha statues that don't agree with my either religious or aesthetic ideas. Instead you get quiet wooden corridors, smell of rain and forest and enigmatic stone gardens.



As I arrived to Tofukuji, my first impression was that way too many people were walking around and no Zen was likely to be had. But as it goes with the big temple complexes, you can always find a secluded corner, some tree or rock no one else is admiring at the moment. And when you breath in the temple's atmosphere, nothing disturbs you anymore. The feeling of raw wood beneath your bare feet, the open corridors drowning in green take your mind away.



I was swept by the Japanese obsession with changing seasons. I can't explain why is it that I can't wait for the leafs to change color but it's true. What do I think will happen once they do? One of the greatest things in Japanese culture is its ability to celebrate nature. The most simple things, colored by ritual, give reason for harmless and effortless joy. And I believe the human soul demands it - the promise of change, of new hope and of continuation at the same time. After all, maybe it's all there is. Flowers blossom and scatter, people live and die, and seasons come and go.



When the leaves turn red this place will be violently beautiful. Now it's just a touch of blush, a hint of change, a promise of a miracle. If I were a Japanese poet it is this passing moment I would find most beautiful.