Daitukoji is the head temple complex of the Rinzai sect of Zen Buddhism located in Northern Kyoto. It’s the school of Buddhism that believes—pow!—one day, in one instant, you can just suddenly attain enlightenment. I say “complex” because Daitokuji is really a series of temples. In order to set up my experience, and small brush with fame, I wanted to address the type of day it was. It’s important to realize that Daitokuji is still a working temple. The area has seen nearly 500 years of continuous use. In a neighborhood of temples separated by high walls and narrow streets, life moves on like it always has. Monks’ small cars sit by gates and locals cross the complex carrying groceries; all this is done like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Dense bamboo groves section off areas. White walls with carefully tiled roofs line the streets. Large ancient trees tower over every structure.
Between traveling during the New Years period and Daitokuji being a working temple complex—other than the locals—My brother and I pretty much had the whole complex to ourselves that day. Add to this lonely setting the fact it was raining and everything was seen in the dramatic light of grey skies. The rain dampened the sound of our foot steps and blocked out the noise of modern society. Exploring in freedom, not tied to any one destination but just aimlessly wondering, we passed many temples, some with gates open but restricted access. My brother and I were enjoying just peaking past the entrance gates at the beautiful Japanese gardens that lay beyond. I remember clearly that even in the ominous light of a rainy day the gardens looked so colourful; saturated with greens and the deep colours of fine stone and aged wood. A damp earthy smell filling our nostrils. Fresh air that extended into one’s soul. And such perfect architecture!
Seeing teahouses and delicate bamboo gates, stone paths and gracefully curved roofs, everything was designed to trigger feelings harmony and peace in the viewer. Of course the monks would claim these sights were simply existing—nothing more—and certainly nothing to be celebrated or fussed over. In our modern age we have created a habit of always being plug into things such as iPod’s, laying out a soundtrack to our lives, or viewing life through the lens of a digital camera. But between the rainy skies and ancient architecture, to bring that personal technology here seems irreverent.
After a time exploring in the rain I just had to get inside somewhere and warm up. I followed the signs to Daisenin ; a safe bet because I knew the kanji “dai” meant big. Daisenin is one of the most celebrated gardens in Japan, loving laid out in 1509 by unknown monks (in association with Kyoto’s other famous Zen garden at Ryoan-ji). Ducking under several sturdy gates meant to frame views of the gardens, following the path of square cut stones that have known centuries of visitors, and past neatly trimmed trees representing life size examples of bonsai, we came to the entrance and the ubiquitous step up. It was quickly evident from rows of empty shoe shelves that the throngs of summer visitors were absent and we would have the temple practically to ourselves.
It turned out to be an ideal choice because the ordered Zen garden, which surrounded the temple on four sides, could be viewed from under a roof that overhung the veranda. Textbooks note how the rocks and fauna of the garden mimic a real landscape, and the whole garden is a metaphor for a human’s passage through life. But on that day in December, these things were far from my mind. The subtly of the garden is nearly lost of visitors coming in from the 21st century with its rock music and airplanes and food processors. I have always enjoyed Japanese gardens for their ability to be highly planned but look incredibility natural. It’s a trick of design that doesn’t seem entirely rational or studyable.
After viewing the garden and warming up slightly we were ready to leave. As we started for our shoes we noticed, sitting at a table, an old monk. He had definitely not been there when we entered. I had a simple but nagging question about the rock garden and was happy to have found the perfect person to ask. I guess it’s a sign my Japanese is slightly good because it triggered a whole conversation. I was nervous speaking to a superior with my pitiful Japanese; okay for the classroom but not good enough for someone who has dedicated their life to attaining enlightenment. It turned out to be alright because he knew some English—well, at least he could sing in English.
A couple of things struck me about his character I would like to share. In contrast to the stereotypical image we carry of monks—old, quiet, brow furled in deep thought, exuding wisdom—this monk was particularly happy. I cannot remember anyone so confident in the spirit of good. His joy at living was contagious and the gracefulness he exuded hit me like cold water. I was so happy to have met a real monk and working hard to show respect, I don’t remember much of the conversation. My brother, unaware of my struggle, was at leisure to look around.
After politely excusing ourselves for taking up so much of his time, touching on where we were from and why we had ended up there, to whether the design of the rock garden is changed periodically [no, it’s been like that for centuries but is raked everyday], we returned to the exit and our shoes; my spirits high after our chance meeting. It was only then that my brother brought up the question of who we had just met? I assumed it was just a monk from the temple but he had observantly picked up other clues; why was his image on postcards? Why was his picture on the cover of books at the table? Why was he signing said books? I had completely failed to pick these points but had wondered myself at his resemblance to the robes and hands detailed in a huge poster behind him about the temple’s Zen garden.
From these clues I later pieced together that we had met not just any monk but none other than the head of the Rinzai sect of Buddhism! Like meeting the pope at the Vatican. Even today I often turn over the experience in my mind; What brought him there that day when there were so few tourists to meet? It seems like the inexplicable workings of fate. Spooky, spine-tingling fate. It was the sort of experience to be treasured because of it’s rarity and difficulty to duplicate. It’s an experience that can’t be planned or summoned, it can’t be captured for upload to youtube.com, it has to be found accidentally, stumbled upon in loose wonderings, it shares many characteristics with the magic of live music, or Zen Buddhism for that matter, and I'm very grateful for it.
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