The sound of silence

(RNS Correspondent Gregory Trotter is spending the summer in Japan and files this report from the road …) I am not really a Buddhist, but I’ve always appreciated certain things about Zen Buddhism, in particular the embracing of nothingness, the strange sense of humor, the simple meditation form, the thought-provoking ‘koans.’ So when my fiance, […]

(RNS Correspondent Gregory Trotter is spending the summer in Japan and files this report from the road …)

I am not really a Buddhist, but I’ve always appreciated certain things about Zen Buddhism, in particular the embracing of nothingness, the strange sense of humor, the simple meditation form, the thought-provoking ‘koans.’


So when my fiance, Kerry, and I went to Kyoto last week, it was my intention to see some of the temples and perhaps deepen my understanding. It was not a pilgrimage per se, but it meant more to me than basic sight-seeing.

We woke early our first morning in Kyoto. We were staying at a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn, in the Gion district of Kyoto. I went for a run along the Kamo-gawa, while Kerry explored the grounds of a nearby temple, Chion-in. When I got back, she insisted that we go back up to the temple. After hitting up the neighborhood Starbucks for an iced coffee fix (enter self-loathing here), we walked back up the hill to Chion-in.

It was early, and amazingly, we were the only people up there. We walked up the massive stairs, ducked our heads in the elaborate main hall and admired its gold altar. We were taken aback by the decadence of the altar but later learned that such altars were common to the Amida school of Buddhism.

The temple was built in 1234, according to our handy guide book, but Amida, or ‘Pure Land,’ Buddhism goes way further back to India and China before coming to Japan, pre-dating the distinctly Japanese schools of Buddhism-Zen and Nichiren. The altars are supposed to symbolize the ‘Western Paradise’ that awaits devout practitioners. But alas, photos of the altar are forbidden. Sorry,folks.

It wasn’t until we kept climbing up the hill, though, that we felt an overwhelming sense of sacredness. More stairs led us to some meditation rooms that looked out over a sweeping view of Kyoto. Continuing up, we wound our way through an old cemetery surrounded by ancient forests. Incense burned in giant bowls of ash. The day’s intense heat started to burn through the morning’s coolness.

There was a dense feeling of centuries past, our fleeting lives and nothingness.

I was reminded of mono no aware, a phrase that I learned from a Japanese literature class almost 10 years ago. With no exact translation into English, it roughly means when there is something about an experience that taps you on the shoulder and says, ‘It will all be over soon. This is how to miss me while I am still here.’ It is, I suppose, a gentle sadness on the passing of time, missing something while it’s still there.

We walked down the hill in silence.

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