Meltdown at the Moss Temple

It’s axiomatic that we travel to learn about ourselves. Sadly, sometimes the lessons we learn are unpleasant ones. I met my Waterloo, ironically enough, at the place in Kyoto I most wanted to visit, Saihoji, affectionately known as Kokedera--The Moss Temple.

According to my sadly out of print Japan Handbook (J.D. Bisignani), Saihoji was founded in 731 by Gyoki Bosatsu, then rebuilt by Muso Kokushi in 1339. The latter is credited with the garden layout we see today, including the arrangement of the ponds in the shape of the character 心, which means heart, but is often used in a sense that combines heart with soul or spirit. Whether the original intent was to allow moss to carpet the garden or if the humble plant simply asserted its will, the beauty of its effect was recognized and it was allowed to take over.

In 1977, the temple devised a novel solution to save their luxurious moss garden from being trampled by throngs of tourists. They raised their entry donation fee (which today is 3000 yen, five to six times the typical entry fee of a Kyoto temple garden), instituted an application process that required forethought from potential visitors, and sought to weed out casual tourists by asking that applicants sit through a service and the writing of a sutra before entering the garden.

As an unrepentant Japanophile during my first year in the country, I had come to deny the existence of culture shock, because I had rarely experienced anything even slightly resembling a bad day while there. In fact, my worst day to that point had been when a pudgy bureaucrat from my home and native land made me feel unwelcome at the Canadian Embassy of all places--but that’s a story for another day. If pride comes before the fall, I would have to admit to even questioning the open mindedness of people who had succumbed to culture shock.

I could not have been more ready for Saihoji. I had appreciated every Kyoto garden I had seen, harboured a particular affection for moss gardens, and was curious enough about Buddhism that even the thought of a long service and sutra writing session sounded promising.

The big day came in early November, and I was joined by a couple friends I had offered to guide around Kyoto. We proceeded to the southwestern outskirts of the city, then trekked through a forested area with enough mossy ground cover that we half-joked about the redundancy of seeing the temple garden. Having come this far, there was no serious talk about turning back.

We joined a group of mostly Japanese visitors in a large hall and sat near the back. A priest began a short lecture that was nothing compared to a sideshow I had once witnessed in northern Japan where a sweaty priest promoted the goods of his temple with a brazenness that would have made a carny blush. If anything, this time my small group was the embarrassment, as we carried out a whispered conversation during the presentation. When it finished, our attention was drawn to the large sheets of paper lying in front of us. On it was written a long sutra in tightly packed kanji that felt like would take an hour of painstaking writing to retrace perfectly.

Something inside me snapped. I let out a long, bitter rant that probably included some aspersions on organized religion and definitely incorporated some complaints about having to jump through arbitrary hoops to see a garden. After gaining some initial sympathy from my friends, I could tell they were quickly tiring of my tone and invective, yet I still couldn’t stop myself. In the end, it took a sharp reminder from a member of our party that I was the one who had organized this part of the trip to finally shake me out of my self righteous rant.

I bit my tongue and got down to doing a sloppy job on the sutra. It might have been wrong to rush, but it seemed better if I simply finished off and headed to the garden as soon as possible before embarrassing myself again. If my actions to that point weren’t bad enough, I later learned that the temple looks sympathetically on visitors who make a short, symbolic attempt before handing in a largely unmarked sheet that at least contains a wish, a hope, or a prayer, depending on the supplicant's religious affiliation or lack thereof. Looking at a copy of the sutra today, I now realize that if I had studied kanji before going to Japan like I did after returning, it probably wouldn't have been more than a ten minute exercise.

Needless to say, we were among the last people to enter the garden. I can still recall stumbling down the path from the temple, wondering if the day could be saved. That’s when the transformation happened. One step into the garden and I felt like I had entered Eden. There is some ineffable quality to seeing so many varieties of fragile moss thriving on such a large area of land that it can only be experienced to be believed. In a moment, my foul mood had been displaced by a sense of contentment and wonder that endured for the entire circuit of the garden.

That’s not to say I was left speechless. Such is the nature of the stroll garden here that it seems to have the same meditative effect on everyone. My friends and I shared an appreciative conversation about the features of the garden, snapped numerous photos, and paused to enjoy favourite scenes without ever feeling like we were transgressing on the sanctity of the place. It was a truly extraordinary experience, magnified by how it exposed one of my faults without punishing me for it in the end.

For more information about visiting Saihoji, try Kyoto's tourist website or contact the temple directly:

Saihoji
56 Jingatani-cho, Matsuo, Nishikyo-ku
Kyoto, Japan
615-8286

If you can only visit virtually, The Japanese Garden website is your best choice.

Travis Belrose is the author of The Samurai Poet, a work of historical fiction set in 17th century Japan. Learn more here.