Preface

I would like to begin this talk with a tribute, however inadequate, to Masayuki Ogawa, without whose friendship, together with his profound experience and expertise, the construction of the Zen Garden in Sanrin Shoja and of the Stepping Stones in Tenrin Taya, not to mention the setting of the rocks at what has now become Gyosen Taya, could never have been achieved. His generosity in coming time and again to London to care, with unrivalled understanding, for the trees surrounding the Zen Garden is also beyond words.

So, in spite of what I have just said, I have written a Waka which goes like this:-

Masayuki kun

talks
to the trees
that he prunes.

Two
are indeed
one.

The tree
becomes part
of him

and together
they both
grow.

On Stepping Stones and Koans

As you know, a koan is the Zen word for a paradox, a contradiction in terms, for which a trainee practitioner might spend many months or even years trying to find a solution that satisfied his master. No simple, intellectual answer can ever be found or be acceptable.

There is one famous koan which states:

'The mountain flows,
 the river stands still.'

But perhaps the paradox embedded in this koan is today a little less strange-seeming than it once was.

For instance, if you sit in a slow train on a smooth track it is, as Einstein observed in the context of relativity, the platform that moves and the carriage that seems to be stationary.

If you walk, on a windless day, beside a slow moving river at the same pace as the water, or drift on it in a small boat, it is indeed the landscape and the distant mountains that flow smoothly past.

What is more, if the idea implicit in the flowing mountains is given a slight twist, the simple substitution of seas for rivers, the Zen Garden at Sanrin Shoja, in which the mountain rocks flow down its length and the ocean waves are forever still, is almost, but not quite, a physical actualisation of the paradox which lies at the heart of the koan.

Indeed, as soon as they think of it, few people have any great difficulty in straight away accepting dry gravel as being water and the motionless ridges in it as being waves.

Similarly, we are quite happy to talk of the stepping stones in the garden of Tenrin Taya flowing across the lawn towards Sanrin Shoja, though no stone ever moves.

The stepping stones and the Zen garden are therefore in this respect closely related to the waterless stone streams and stone pond in the garden of the Merchant's House in Hagi, where the differing sizes of the pebbles that are used reflect the difference between rushing and slow moving or stationary water, and the house itself is entered by walking across a series of dark, rectangular stepping stones that are set in yellowish brown gravel.

At Hagi, all is water, where there is no water.

Yet even in this seemingly wholly artificial, man-made environment, the Japanese designers were unknowingly doing what nature had already been doing for countless millennia.

One of the most surprising and most memorable things about my visit to the Falkland Islands many years ago was to see numerous waterless rivers of light coloured rock, many metres wide, flowing imperceptibly across vast areas of gently sloping peat towards the sea.

Indeed, it is only when we remain in the logical world of the intellect, and keep its contents in a separate compartment of our minds, instead of using our imaginations in the physical world of every day experience, that the paradoxes embedded in many koans present an insurmountable barrier.

Personally, long before I ever knew that koans existed, I thought of mountains with their jutting cliffs as great, breaking waves towering above the valley troughs.

Flying above the successive ridges and crumpled landscapes of the Alps or Pyrenees or between Siberia and Western China, I find it almost impossible to refrain from thinking of vast, raging seas.

In a small Zen Garden, it is easy to see a rock surrounded by moss and grey gravel as a mountain rising above the forests of a sea-girt island.

In a previous talk some years ago I even quoted a haiku that was a development of the well-known koan which asks

'What is the sound
 of one hand clapping?'

In this case, the problem, the paradox, is intimately bound to the modern habit of counting things and of using collective nouns, about which I spoke in 2009.

But, as I said then, the Pirahã people, who live in the forests on the banks of the Amazon, do not see two trees or ten or ten thousand trees. They see a tree and a tree and a tree, each one separate and individual and complete in itself in every respect, however close it may be to its neighbours.

When cymbals dash, the individual contributions which each of them makes to the sound we hear is very obvious.

Even when a drumstick strikes a drum, the stick vibrates as well as the drumhead, and therefore plays its own small part in the resulting sound.

So how about seeing a hand and a hand, and listening to the sound that each makes when it strikes the other one. Indeed, since both are in many respects quite different from the other, each of them makes a subtly different contribution to the end result.

We are just not sensitive enough to perceive such things, and in the purely abstract realm of the intellect, the koan, which brings together the seemingly contradictory ideas of a single hand and of the sound of clapping, retains its force.

The haiku that I spontaneously wrote, answered the paradoxical question in the koan by simply adding to it a further paradox.

It read, as you may remember,

All is paradox.

Listen
to one hand clapping.

That
is too much noise.

For which a weary Zen Master would undoubtedly have given me a sharp blow across the shoulders with his stick and made me slink away, crestfallen for a few more months of solitary meditation.

When it comes to the seemingly prosaic task of actually laying out stepping stones, it is vital not to lose sight of the fundamental ideas that lie at the heart of Buddhism, one of the most important of which is belief in the unity of all that is and is not.

It is remarkably easy to become so engrossed in the practicalities that one leaves the abstract intellectual ideas in a separate compartment of one's mind and that is a serious error.

For Buddhists, the making of distinctions, the separation of this from that, is one of the great impediments on the road to enlightenment.

Each and every decision that one takes, beginning with the first vague idea of what might be done, will have a profound effect on the final outcome. In this respect the smallest detail is as important as broad concepts. In design, the saying that the devil is in the detail is never more true than in the laying out of a line of stepping stones.

Not to understand, and indeed to feel, that this is so, is a huge mistake.

The realisation of this is, in its turn, however strange it may seem, no more than the application of another fundamental Buddhist concept, that of non-independent origination, to a seemingly far-removed physical task.

The idea that there is no such thing as an independent, immutable self, and that everything that exists is no more than an element in an unbreakable, interconnected chain of cause and effect, is a central feature of Buddhist thought.

There is every reason to think that to see ourselves as possessing unchanging 'selves' that are quite separate from the other 'selves' that we see around us is indeed an illusion, and what goes for each of us also goes for stepping stones.

In the case of those at Tenrin Taya each one of them is conditioned by, and intimately connected to, all its neighbours by their common origin.

In addition, the choice and placing of every one of them must also be conditioned by, and related to, that of all the others in the series, and not merely to that of its immediate neighbours, if as good an outcome as possible is to be achieved.

As with any successful painting or work of art, the designing of the whole is interdependent origination in action.

The idea behind the initial decision to use paddlestones to create a seemingly natural line of stepping stones, was not merely to prevent the eventual generation of a bare, unsightly track of worn grass from the terrace of the house of Tenrin Taya to the gate into the garden of Three Wheels.

It was also to help to break down the separation of the two houses, so closely connected in their essential purpose, by relating them to the already existing stepping stones in the next door garden.

That both sets consisted of similar, though not identical, paddlestones acts as an immediate visual and functional linkage between the two houses.

The number of stones needed is, of course, conditioned by the overall space in which they are to be set and, no less importantly, by the details of its configuration, and there should always be a few more than are actually required, since some may turn out not to fit when they are all brought together, and it is essential to maintain as much flexibility as possible from start to finish of the design process.

In the case of Tenrin Taya, the front line of the terrace, which is the staring point, is set at right angles to the fence containing the gate to which the stepping stones all lead.

What is involved is therefore not just a matter of measuring the straight line distance between the two, but of creating a varied curve which sets the whole sequence of stones in motion.

It is on the quality of that curve that the whole design depends. If it is wrong, no amount of subsequent attention to detail will ever retrieve the situation.

On the other hand, if the detail is not right in all its multifarious aspects, that too provokes disaster.

When it comes to the choosing of the stones, each must be seen and respected for itself as an object with its own particular qualities, before there is any question of turning it into one element in a sequence, since the quality of any small or medium sized group, whether it be of people or animals or stones, entirely depends on the quality of each of the individual members which it contains.

The laying of stepping stones is not, however, purely a matter of aesthetics.

Purpose and usage lie at the foundation of the enterprise, and the size and shape of the stones must be related not only to the surrounding space, but to such things as stride length and slipperiness, and to the different sizes of the human foot.

Within these limits there should be considerable variation in order to avoid monotony and to give life and variety to the whole.

In natural stepping stones across a stream or river, there is never regularity.

However, in general, there should be no stones so small as to seem out of place and disturb the harmony of the whole, and much larger stones are usually only justified at the beginning and end of the series or, as at Three Wheels itself, at the junction between two lines.

In a similar way, there should be variety in the distances between one stone and the next.

Although no stone ever actually moves, it is possible, by varying the sizes of the stones and the distances between them, to create a sense in which, like a range of mountains or the rocks in the Zen garden, they flow from one end to the other, and this is where keeping a koan in mind can come in useful.

Both the speed and direction of the flow has, of course, to be controlled, and in the case of Tenrin Taya it was the nature of its relationship to Three Wheels which was the deciding factor.

Since Tenrin Taya is an ancillary building and the whole focus of attention in the two houses is the Buddha Shrine in Three Wheels, it seemed to be natural that any flow should be predominantly from the terrace of the former towards the gate which leads towards the latter.

The stones at the terrace end are therefore relatively large and widely spaced and for the most part in a single line, and the idea behind their layout is to make them seem to be floating lazily, with a tendency to eddy, in slow-moving, placid waters.

Then, as the curve towards the gate is reached, the flow speeds up.

Numbers of smaller stone are brought together by the current as they sweep around the bend, until, before the gate is reached, it slows down once again with widely spaced, large stones.

This also has the effect of setting up a similar, though less marked, counter-flow, as one passes through the gate in the opposite direction and sees the large stones followed by the sweeping curve beyond.

In terms of the practicalities of usage, the larger, more widely spaced stones at each end begin the move in either direction by dictating the placement of the feet, but when the more densely packed stones flowing round the curve are reached they allow the walker freedom to use whichever stones come naturally and to do so in many different ways.

The increasing number or weight of more densely packed stones round the curve also gives added emphasis to that part of the sequence as a whole.

The very pale, creamy brown of the stones is variegated by a distinctive, straight and sometimes slightly ridged grain which, when it runs directly with, or is only slightly angled to the stream, speeds up the flow and, when set at right angles to it, slows it down.

Since, as I mentioned earlier, each stone will influence every other in the entire sequence, it is only after the whole group has been collected and brought together that the detailed process of design can be begun and carried forward, since the nature of what emerges is entirely dependent on the actual materials at hand.

Another central Buddhist concept to be kept in mind at this stage is that of impermanence; the awareness that nothing is immutable and that everything that exists is subject to continuous change.

The paddlestones have all, to differing degrees, been worn down. They are not what they once were, and now, in the garden of Tenrin Taya, they will continue to be imperceptibly worn away by the tread of countless feet.

But change and impermanence are not simply a matter of attrition, decay and death and of physical transformation.

They are also evident in more subtle ways, as was touched upon last year in the Talk on Buddhism and Language.

A word may change its spelling yet retain the same meaning, or retain its spelling and be totally altered in what it denotes.

A kitchen knife is just a kitchen knife until, when it has been employed to kill someone, it is transformed into a murder weapon.

A paddlestone is just a paddlestone, with its own particular geological history, until it is carried away and given a special function by being changed into one of a sequence of stepping stones.

What is more, our very perception of its size and shape will be altered by where it is placed in relation to its neighbours.

Apart from the colour changes which continually take place with the movement of the sun and the different times of day from dawn to dusk, and then to starlight and moonlight, as well as by the succession of sunshine and shadow, not to mention the dramatic transformation, in this particular case into a golden mid brown, that take place as soon as it rains, no colour, as we see it, is intrinsically a static thing.

As any painter knows, or certainly should know, if a number of patches of colour are juxtaposed, they will appear to the eye to take on different, and often quite radically different hues, according to their placing within the group.

As I think I mentioned in an earlier Talk, an area that is actually white in terms of the photons that are emitted can even be made to appear to the eye to take on quite another colour such as, for example, red or blue, through its relation to the colours around it.

Since stepping stones, with their relatively subdued colours, are only actually contiguous in one or two cases, and are never completely surrounded, it is mainly in terms of tone that analogous, extremely subtle changes in appearance take place.

If two darkish or relatively light-coloured stones are placed next to each other, there can be a mutual reinforcement of their apparent tone, but if one of the darker and one of the lighter stones are closely juxtaposed, the tonal contrast will be increased, the light one appearing to be lighter and the dark one darker.

The apparent tones and colours of all of them are also affected to varying degrees by their being set against the green of the grass and by their differing relations to the relatively dark background that it creates.

Even such apparently fixed features as the outlines of the stones will seem, subjectively, to alter if the stones are moved further apart or closer together, inevitably placing a different emphasis on particular aspects of their outer contours.

What is more, the apparent size of each stone will be affected, depending on how close to, or how far away it is from an immediate neighbour that is larger or smaller.

Stepping stones are indeed part of the ever-changing universe of emptiness in which our world, for the time being, exists.

The shapes of the spaces between the stones will, of course, be much more radically affected, and a series of small changes, some of them seemingly almost insignificant in themselves, will have a profound effect on the appearance of the sequence as a whole.

Most people tend to concentrate on, and be more aware of, what is solid, and the experience of the protracted search for and collection of suitable stones, and of carrying them about on site, can even accentuate the tendency.

Yet, in the world of stepping stones, as well as in the more obviously Buddhist context of Zen Gardens, space is the all-important factor, and the overriding principle of the unity of all that is and is not should never be forgotten.

The stones themselves are spaces within a space.

That is and what is not both have their part to play, and the intervals between the stones have just as much, at some points even more importance than the solids that they separate.

However, most of those who later walk in the garden will naturally be quite unaware of what has gone on in the process of creation, and will simply like or dislike what they see, if they even notice what is before them or under their feet.

Nevertheless, it is out of respect for the subtleties of design that a sense of rightness or harmony emerges.

When it comes to the seemingly abstract matter of the order in which the stones are set out, there can be no right, or correct, sequence in any absolute sense.

As one stumbles about in a permanent state of ignorance, it is just as well to be humble about what one does or has tried to do, and ignorance is, indeed, at its most intense when it comes to the abstract, mathematical question of order.

Even in a permutation poem of only twelve lines, which can be put into any position in relation to each other, there are two thousand million, six hundred and thirty-eight thousand and eighty possible sequences, and when it comes to the putting in order of twenty-two stepping stones, the possibilities are, for all practical purposes, infinite.

All one can ever do is to try, however feebly, to arrive at a sequence and pattern that looks or feels right; that is as it is and does not cry out to be changed.

It follows that the laying out of a Zen garden or a seemingly natural sequence or pattern of stepping stones, with its utilitarian primary purpose, has more in common with a koan than might seem at first to be the case.

In both, however intense the training that may or may not have been undergone, no simple recourse to logic or intellect can ever resolve the kind of visual problems that are involved.

The intellect, and any prior training, must be subsumed in the internal world of feeling or, if there is a sound underlying foundation, intuition.

Feeling and instinct, or intuition, if you like, are what matters when the actual design is being created.

To use a more down to earth analogy, it is akin to playing a game really well.

If when you go on court or onto the field of play and face the first ball, you are still thinking of where to put your feet for some particular stroke or movement, you will never be any good.

In the matter of the choice and laying out of stepping stones, it is only if every decision that is made when placing each individual stone 'feels' right, and the end result, after multitudinous adjustments have taken place, has a similar 'feel', that there is any chance of even a minimal success.

What is at stake is the ability, without thought, to bring to bear on each action the whole of one's life experience, including all the vast storehouse of one's subconscious existence and not merely that small conscious part of what we are.

For most of us, myself included, this, if not impossible, is extremely difficult to do, but is what a true Zen Master is trying to help his pupil to achieve when he presents him with a koan.

It also once more brings into play the fundamental principle of the unity of all that is and is not.

Our conscious and subconscious minds should be as one, and the whole of what we are should ideally be involved in all the decisions that we make in life.

If nothing else, to know what we should be aiming at is at least a beginning.

Within this unity of which I speak, the practical and the symbolic, the physical and the spiritual, blend in a multitude of ever-changing forms.

For Buddhists, in particular, this is very clear.

And so, perhaps, not only for Shin Buddhists, and the members of the Three Wheels sangha, but for all the Buddhists who will walk on them, the line of stepping stones that leads across the lawn of Tenrin Taya to Sanrin Shoja and the Buddha Shrine may symbolise the path to that Pure Land towards which all of them are travelling.

And now, to end this rather peculiar talk, I would like to read you a poem which happened a day or two after all the work on the stepping stones had been completed.

It goes like this:-

Mind worlds,

gravel seas

motionless waves

mountain rocks
towering
above moss forests
far below,

a stepping stone
stream

in which no stone
ever moves,

leading the way
across
the green waters
of the lawn

towards
the garden gate.


You
must tread carefully
here.

The waters
are very deep,

but none of them
deeper

than the koan
of our lives,

of selves

that have
no self.