(50,000 words / 10万字)

Table of Contents 

Prologue

Zen Reconnects Us
Zen Restores Us

Part 1. Through Thought

Chapter 1. Botanical Democracy

Ethical reframing toward Nature-Centred gardening.

The Definition of Beauty
A Gaze Toward Life
True Individuality blooming in altruism

Chapter 2. Post-Linguistic, or Pre-Linguistic?

Does a flower exist, or does Existence flower?

Altruistic Eternity, or Egoistic Eternity?
Beautification over Time, or Deterioration over Time?
The Continuous Flow in Impermanence
Eastern Philosophy — Perceiving the Pre-Linguistic World
Western Philosophy — The Quest for Absolute Being
Western Philosophy — Questioning the Absolute Being
Existence Flowers

Chapter 3. Eastern Philosophy Linked Through Physis

Bridging the gap.

Difference in Attitudes Toward Nature
The Rise of Logos
Physis Transformed into Physikē akroasis and Physics
The Holistic Restoration of Physis

Chapter 4. The Misconception of Zen

True Zen begins in the maximal.

Zen is Not a Tool
Zen is Not Design
Through More is Less, Toward Less is More.

Chapter 5. The Democratisation of Zen, Begins in Your Garden

From the garden governed by Logos to the garden entrusted to Physis.

The Restoration of Zen, Open to All
Cold Stillness & Warm Serenity
Shore of Logos & Great Ocean of Physis
The Meaning Within Re-Zennish Garden
Be the Moment, Feel the Seasons

Part 2. Through Embodiment

Chapter 6. Zen Gardening

A contemporary Zen garden based on the principles of Botanical Democracy.

Super-Diversity — The Beauty of Addition, A Home for Each One
Symbiotic-Ethics — Logos of Management or Physis of Coexistence
Harmonious-Chaos — Where Chaos Harmonises, The Zen State

Chapter 7. Semi-Nature

The garden as the dismantling of the human / Nature dichotomy.

The Cartesian Dualistic World-View
The Modern Ethical Perspectives on Plants
The Unconscious Japanese View of Life
The Japanese View of Symbiosis
The Views of Nature through the Lens of Language
Zen Gardening as Semi-Natural Gardening
The Flash of Airy Fulfilment

Chapter 8. Memories and Reflections on My Zen Experience

My personal experience of the Zen state and its scientific context.

Sudden Liberation from Language & the Body
The Inner Space Behind the Body
First Meditation & First Light Experience
Meditation Experience from a Scientific Perspective
The Discovery of the Self Prior to The Cartesian I (Cogito)

Chapter 9. Restoring Me, Reconnecting Me

Do I exist, or does Existence I?

Zen Begins with the Deconstruction of The Cartesian I (Cogito)
Mindfreeness, Not Mindfulness
You Gain Nothing, You Realise Everything

Epilogue

The Individual & the Collective
Zen and AI
Instant Gratification and Lasting Fulfilment
My Photography Work and My Re-Zennish Garden

Prologue

I invite you to consider a curious question. You are currently standing in your garden. Which of the following expressions is the most appropriate way to describe the situation?

1.  A flower exists.
    (S)       (V)

2.  Existence flowers.
    (S)         (V)

Undoubtedly, you would choose the former. And 99.99…% of people would find the latter profoundly counterintuitive. Yet, the latter is by no means incorrect. Many of the ancient sages of the East consistently viewed the world through this lens—a world where the subject and verb are reversed.

Now, consider the following list of discomforts and propositions. Do any of them resonate with you?

* I have no desire to align plants rigidly or mass-plant the same variety
for the sake of design.

* The conventional theory of ‘stars and supporting players’
somehow feels pitiful for the plants.

* The theory that ‘this flower colour clashes with that one’
feels somewhat distasteful to me.

* While ‘low maintenance’ is convenient,
I feel a subtle, honest discomfort with the term itself.

* ’Plants in a garden are not design components;
they are my family.

* I find the ‘Beauty of Subtraction’—the act of eliminating the unnecessary—
to be somewhat cold and exclusionary.

* I am drawn to Nature-Centred Gardening
rather than Human-Centred Gardening.

* If our way of interacting with garden plants changed,
perhaps humanity’s ethics toward the planet itself would change.

How did that feel? Did several points resonate with you, including those you had not yet been able to articulate? If even one of these rings true, it is no exaggeration to say that, through the act of gardening, you have already touched upon the initial insight of the Zen State of Consciousness. In fact, all of the discomforts and opinions listed above are intimately connected to the root essence of Zen (禅)—the Eastern wisdom that we have lost sight of in the modern age. 

However, for a long time, from the modern era to the present day, the term ‘Zen’ has taken on a life of its own across the globe. It has been used as a mere signifier for ‘tranquillity’, ‘mindfulness’, or ‘minimal and simple’ spaces—an ‘ambience’ to evoke a particular lifestyle. In fact, the Cambridge English Dictionary describes the adjectival form of ‘Zen’ as: ‘relaxed and not worrying about things that you cannot change’.

This essay seeks to strip away these superficial layers of ‘Zen’ and, together with you, look once more at the Zen State of Consciousness that already resides within your daily life—and within your garden. By the time you finish reading this essay, I believe you will understand through my own experiences how the physical practice of gardening is deeply connected to the Buddhist philosophy of life known as Zen, and how Zen Gardening is open to everyone, everywhere in the world.

Moreover, we live in an age where an endless torrent of images of ‘other people’s gardens’ floods into our lives via social media. These beautiful gardens, unfolding on a grand scale, present us with both a sense of longing and a cruel disparity. Aided by the universal psychology of ‘the grass is greener on the other side’, we, the ‘gardeners of daily life’, are frequently left with a sense of helplessness by the gap between those enviable landscapes and our own reality. In such constrained spaces as ‘small-space gardening’, there is a current reality where we unconsciously—or perhaps only in part—trace the design logic of ‘grand-scale gardening’. If we truly seek a garden for an enriched life, perhaps it is time to reconsider this appropriation of design logic. I, too, have envied gardening on vast, sun-drenched plots, and there were times when I felt despondent, wondering if gardening in a ‘narrow garden’ (approx. 20 m²) was destined to be nothing more than a lesser version of those grand estates. Unconsciously, are you not also tempted to give your own gardening—your own garden—a score? Your garden is not your artwork.

What I wish to convey to you all in this essay is a gentle Nature-Centred approach to garden-making, based on an Ethical Reframing of our attitude and stance toward plants—a concept I call Botanical Democracy—and a Boundary-less Zen State of Consciousness latent in your daily gardening life. This goes beyond mere style or aesthetics; it is a shift of the central axis—an exchange of the very OS of how we perceive the world. Instead of placing humans at the centre, we hand over sovereignty to the plants, the microorganisms, and the ecosystem itself, prioritising the providence of Nature as our fundamental stance. It poses an ethical question: ‘For whom does this place exist?’ When the centre of gravity shifts from the self to nature, the boundaries between us and the garden begin to dissolve, and we can easily immerse ourselves in the Zen State of Consciousness. Through this Ethical Reframing of how we approach garden-making, I hope to deliver a new sense of hope precisely to those who engage in small-space gardening, as well as to those who are about to take up gardening as a hobby. The ‘Zen Garden’ I propose here is not bound by any specific style; it requires only a new ‘mindset’. I believe that this Ethical Reframing of our approach to gardening—though born from my perspective as a Japanese person—is something that anyone in the world, regardless of nationality or culture, can practice in their own home garden.

This gardening philosophy of mine is profoundly influenced by the philosophy of photography that I have cultivated through over fifteen years of thought and practice since the age of twenty. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that my gardening has been a practice of my photographic philosophy. I am a photographer who works not only with digital and film but also with early classical techniques from the dawn of photography, such as the ‘Daguerreotype’—the world’s first photographic process invented in the 19th century—as well as the ‘wet-plate collodion’ and ‘dry-plate collodion’ processes. To prepare to succeed my family’s photo studio, which has a history spanning nearly a century, I studied business management at Sophia University in Tokyo and pursued postgraduate studies in photography at the University of the Arts London. I have been fortunate enough to receive around 20 international photography awards, and I currently serve as a juror for an international photography award where I was previously a 1st Place Winner.

However, there is something that has shaped me even more deeply than my career as a photographer: the fundamental question I faced when I decided to succeed the family studio—‘Why do people take photographs?’—and the ongoing journey of seeking that answer. Along this path of inquiry, I have several times experienced moments where the boundary between myself and the world silently dissolved: a liberation from time, the flattening of temporal sensation, a buoyant feeling where the awareness of body and breath vanished as my consciousness sank into the earth or ascended toward the sky, and my ‘self’ dissolving into a blinding light behind my eyelids. Through these rare experiences, I unintentionally began to intuit the true essence of Zen. I now believe that if I had been a photographer who only knew digital photography, I would likely never have realised the Zen State of Consciousness.

We entrust photographs with ‘eternity’. In contrast, these ‘physical’ photographs, such as the daguerreotypes and old glass plates that have survived for over a century, fade with time as if they are quietly dissolving into the world. During the development of classical photography under the red safelight, one can witness the very moment a latent image emerges. It felt as though time itself were beginning, while simultaneously providing a physical sense of the world’s providence—the way things dissolve into time over the course of 100, 200, or 300 years.

For me, these ‘physical’ photographs embody the philosophy of Zen. The beginning of time, the transience of time, the continuity of time. Photography is the supreme invention of Western civilisation—the culmination of the quest for a ‘material trace of existence’. And as photography becomes digitised, that ‘material trace’ has come to be treated as if it possessed a form of immortality. In ‘physical’ photographs, however, I have observed a philosophy where life and death, existence and non-existence, and eternity and impermanence are blended—an Eastern worldview that perceives no boundary between the living and the non-living.

Subsequently, I compiled my philosophical reflections on the WHY of photography—rather than the HOW—into an essay titled ‘The Story History of Photography’. Following my marriage, I began gardening on my small veranda at home. Eight months later, I obtained a qualification in home gardening, and within ten months, I had begun creating a small entrance garden at my family’s photo studio. It was then that I began to pose the same question of WHY toward the physiology of plants, just as I had explored in my photography: not HOW a flower blooms, but WHY it blooms.

My own garden was, quite frankly, unorthodox: an exceedingly dense planting in a small space, aiming for a Blooming Relay of approximately 1,000 varieties to connect the twelve months of the seasons for our celebratory guests. Yet, as if to answer that very question of WHY, I instinctively perceived a sense of affirmation and harmony within this unconventional garden that conventional gardening views could not explain—a harmony where boundaries quietly dissolve. In other words, I began to realise that the same truth of Zen that photography had revealed to me was also breathing within the activities of the plants.

Zen Reconnects Us

Modern society has exhausted our hearts to a profound degree through divisions caused by differences in faith and ideology, deep loneliness, and the relentless temptations of comparison and consumption. This is the result of people building excessive physical and psychological walls between themselves and others, a trend accelerated by the progress of individualism and the prevalence of social media. It can be said that we are now deepening social divisions by solidifying unhealthy boundaries (the lines between self and other) based on mutual distrust. In such an exhausted and exclusionary society, perhaps ‘Zen’ has become a concept that matches the times—offering a simple sense of fulfilment that removes the noise and compensates for our sense of deficiency. However, the original Zen is meant to transcend these excessive false boundaries and restore our fundamental relationship. 

Zen is the practice of encountering, through the ‘bodily sensations’ of our daily lives, that serene and ideal state of mind reached by Gautama Siddhartha, the founder of Buddhism, in ‘Nirvana (Cessation of Suffering through the Dissolving of All Attachment)’. It is a lived experience of a mind free from suffering, far beyond the reach of mere intellectual understanding. Zen is by no means something that can be instantly adopted as a mere lifestyle or design style. By the time you reach the end of this essay, I believe you will begin to realise that the impression you once held of ‘Zen’—while superficially similar on the surface—is, in its true essence, the exact opposite. And through my conclusion—that ‘ultimately, the Zen Sensibility of Eastern Buddhist philosophy finds its convergence with the Physis sensibility of ancient Greek philosophy‘—I shall bridge the connection between Zen and gardening.

The narrative that follows features numerous Buddhist terms and concepts, such as Buddha-Nature. Yet, I invite you to simply surrender to the flow and continue until the end. Please take this opportunity to cast aside the preconception that Zen is something only for practicing Buddhists. While Buddhism gradually took on a stronger religious tone as later interpreters incorporated indigenous beliefs, Siddhartha’s original teachings were a practical philosophy of living that avoided metaphysical debates about the origins of the world or the afterlife. It is a philosophy of ‘Life‘—one that involves both universal and concrete practice, focusing on how to navigate this world of hardship and how to extinguish that ‘suffering’.

I should also mention: Zen is not what is commonly called ‘spiritual’. Rather, Zen Sensibility is a non-verbal and fundamental experience—transcending the frameworks of religion, ideology, nation, and culture—that has been shared by many sages across all ages and regions, including ancient Greek philosophers, Chinese thinkers, Indian saints, Islamic Sufis, and Christian mystics. In essence, the core of these non-verbal experiences, regardless of the form of faith or thought, converges into the subjective sensation that the ‘boundary between self and other dissolves’ (recalling our original state of relationship, the Web of Relations). At the end of this essay, we will also examine this unique state of consciousness, which I consider to be Zen Sensibility, from a scientific perspective based on brain waves and neural networks.

Zen Restores Us

Buddhism is by no means a vague subjectivism. Rather, it is an extremely logical philosophy of life that dispassionately perceives both the functions and the limitations of language. However, the reason Siddhartha did not fully express the state of his Satori (Self-Dissolution into the Web of Relations) in words is based on the premise that Satori is an experiential state that transcends language and thought. For example, recall the moment you first learned to ride a bicycle or drive a car. No matter how much the method was explained to you in words, the way the world looked and the somatic sensations you felt at the very moment you succeeded were beyond language. For example, recall the moment you first learned to ride a bicycle or drive a car. No matter how much the method was explained to you in words, the way the world looked and the somatic sensations you felt at the very moment you succeeded were beyond language. Furthermore, between the time before and after you could ride, your way of interacting with the world—your own range of action—changed; it must have been a moment when your very perception of the world was transformed. Zen Buddhism developed by focusing on the recognition within the origins of Buddhism that truth cannot be fully conveyed through words. In other words, the emphasis of Zen is not on intellectual understanding or the possession of concepts that bring a temporary sense of satisfaction, but on experiencing a fundamental transformation of one’s existence—Satori, or a shift in perception—through physical practice, such as Zazen, where language and logical thinking come to a halt.

However, in today's society, where verbalising everything is regarded as the ultimate virtue, there is often no room for these non-verbal sensations to exist, leaving us feeling diminished. Simply holding onto those delicate sensations, which seem to evaporate the moment they are confined to words—has become increasingly difficult in the modern era.

Since my childhood, I too have been weary of the unspoken consensus in modern society that verbalisation is the most superior form of communication. Among those reading this, there must be many who have had experiences similar to my own. When we verbalise, there is inevitably a certain ‘something’ left behind, untranslatable and abandoned. However, that frustration—or sense of dissonance—we feel is not simply due to a lack of ability to verbalise; rather, it arises precisely because we know, somewhere deep in our hearts, that our sensations can never be fully told through words alone.

That ineffable ‘something’ you feel when holding a faded photograph in your hands and gazing upon it. Surely, each of you must have experienced such non-verbal sensations in your own way. Zen Master Dōgen (1200–1253) taught that Zen as something that is ‘already there’. He said that we all equally live within the World of Satori already. Not limited to Zazen, every activity of daily life itself can serve as a hint that reminds us we are already dwelling in the World of Satori.

While language is a wonderful means of sharing knowledge, there is undoubtedly wisdom and insight that are lost by relying too heavily on words. I would like to scoop up the richness that has been buried beneath the efficient symbols of language. Truth can only be considered truth if it is something anyone can put into practice, rather than belonging to a select few. That is precisely why I have chosen to convey this through gardening—an act accessible to everyone. Those of you captivated by the act of gardening and the living presence of flowers are, at the very least, possessors of Physis Sensibility—a heart that can enjoy the world without the mediation of words.

In short, while we acknowledge the ‘authority’ of language's expressive power, we must not fully embrace the ‘power’ of language that believes it can speak for all of existence. Our language is not perfect. For instance, the sentence ‘A flower exists’, mentioned at the beginning, illustrates our linguistic deficiency. Do you notice that the moment we make ‘a flower’ the subject, we are already assuming that the subject ‘flower’ physically or imaginatively ‘already exists?’ The sentence ‘A flower exists’ is, in fact, tantamount to saying nothing at all. If that sentence holds any meaning at all, it is only when discussing ‘actual existence‘—asking whether something ‘actually’ or ‘certainly’ exists or not. However, from a philosophical perspective, the moment we create the word or meaning of ‘flower’, whether it exists physically or only in recollection (memory or imagination), it is undeniably ‘existing’ within our perceived world. Then, what would the sentence ‘Existence flowers’, where the subject and verb are inverted, represent? What would manifest there? If you can perceive that, you will be able to sense from the daily life of your garden a Physis-like, dynamic ‘ontology’ where the predicate ‘flowering’ pulses within the subject of Existence—that is, a Zen State of Consciousness.

This essay has been written to offer a new perspective of hope—a new logic—to fellow gardeners around the world who tend their small gardens daily. Botanical Democracy and Re-Zennish Garden—the two pillars I will now discuss—are a re-weaving of the universal yet deeply subjective Zen Sensibility inherent in humankind, crafted so that everyone can gently discover and deeply savour it within their everyday garden. The entire source of this thinking stems from the discomforts and questions I harboured since my first year of gardening, as well as the physical intuition provided by the garden itself. In this paper, I will illuminate these discoveries, transcending fields and traversing eras, drawing from a multi-dimensional perspective entirely distinct from conventional horticulture.

My attempt—that is, verbalising the ‘something’ that exists before words arise, the non-verbal reality—means taking you into a Pre-Linguistic World. Because we are moving forward while embracing the contradiction of using words to express sensations that can never be fully explained by them, we will at times encounter unfamiliar concepts and specialised themes in plant physiology. However, for this essay to remain a light and warm dialogue, detailed academic excursions have been omitted as much as possible in this paper. Whether you choose to research unfamiliar terms or simply let the flow of the text carry you forward—for that Non-Verbal Sensitivity of ‘I just… get it…’ is often what truly matters—I sincerely hope you will enjoy the journey through to the end, at your own pace.

Part 1. Through Thought

Chapter 1. Botanical Democracy

Ethical reframing toward Nature-Centred gardening.

Botanical Democracy—is a concept born from my own direct experiences in gardening. It is an Ethical Reframing of our attitude toward plants; in other words, an Ethical Reframing toward Nature-Centred Gardening. I am a photographer and have never attended a formal horticultural school. Perhaps because of this, whenever I encountered books, magazines, or social media posts about gardening, I felt a faint sense of dissonance. Stepping into this world as an ‘outsider’, I immediately began to question certain values that are taken for granted as common sense in the gardening world, especially in Japan. However, I suspect that this dissonance, which seemed mine alone, is a sensation shared by many ‘gardeners of daily life’ around the world who live with plants in small gardens, as well as by the next generation of new gardeners. This essay is an attempt to verbalise, to the fullest extent, that ‘something’ you have felt somewhere in your heart, and to create new values and meanings. I believe that an authentic, life-sized gaze from a small garden can be the catalyst that opens the door to new possibilities in gardening. And by deepening this path of inquiry, we may eventually touch upon a glimpse of Zen, hidden in a reality that transcends words.

The Definition of Beauty

Traditional gardening has often established a norm where ‘orderly’ equals ‘beautiful’, characterised by geometric order—reminiscent of a mass game—such as symmetry, rigorous pruning, monocultural mass plantings, and meticulously calculated rhythmic arrangements. It is a space predicated on human control, much like a map delineating a territory of dominance. Even in gardens that attempt to replicate a natural style, most follow dense blueprints where plants are treated almost like ‘pawns’ on a layout.

As a consequence, clear boundaries arose between individual plants, forcing people to focus solely on the aesthetic of their combination—on ‘design aesthetics’ from an external gaze. This emphasis on purely design aesthetics is inseparable from the unconscious notion that a garden will wither and fall into ruin if not managed by human hands. In essence, nature is characterised by ‘disorder’ and ‘unpredictability’, existing far beyond human control. Yet, when we attempt to grasp this through our limited human perspective, it inevitably appears as ‘disarray’ or ‘imperfection’. Our anxiety and the impulse to manage may stem from this inability to truly appreciate nature’s inherent state, attempting instead to measure it with a human yardstick.

However, in my own garden, I perceive the greatest beauty in the way plants extend their stems and spread their leaves as if softly conversing with their neighbours, intertwining gently to create a single, sublime space. There, they accept each other’s leaves and flowers, and their individual boundaries dissolve gently into one another. This gradient of beauty continues to evolve, day by day.

The goal of Botanical Democracy is not a beauty created through domination or management,  but a non-linear gradient of beauty that arises from Co-Sustaining with plants and the Symbiosis between the plants themselves. When the source of the beauty we revere changes, our language toward them naturally transforms as well. This Nature-Centred approach to gardening—the antithesis of anthropocentrism—welcomes the autonomous existence of individual plants. It vividly reminds us that the definition of beauty is not an established norm existing ‘outside of myself’, but a fundamental sensibility that always dwells ‘within’.

A Gaze Toward Life

‘This one is the star, that one is the supporting role’ ‘Tall plants go in the back, short ones in the front’ ‘Exclude or restrain conspicuous colours’ ‘This colour matches that one’ ‘Let’s remove these weeds’—traditional gardening, based on anthropocentric hierarchies and values, may have restricted the place and potential of plants. Furthermore, the dissonance I feel toward the frequently heard term ‘low maintenance’ seems rooted in the anthropocentric premise of ‘managerial gardening’. Using the word ‘maintenance’ for plants—living beings—is something we would never apply to our pets or animals in a zoo; it cannot help but expose an unconscious framework of thought that treats them as inanimate objects.

There is a staggering gap between this unconscious disregard for plants as living beings and the perspective of animal welfare that has emerged in recent years. In other words, even today, the status of plants remains remarkably low. Is this because we pride ourselves on being ‘higher animals’? Is that why, when humans introduce ethics into living beings, the focus is almost always limited to animals? Yet, it was undeniably plants that made this planet habitable for all life. Despite this, in our current reality, there are almost no opportunities to even mention their dignity as living beings.

Just by reconsidering our choice of words even slightly, our relationship with plants should transform into something much warmer. However, regrettably, even those who enjoy gardening sometimes forget this ‘gaze toward life’. As only robust plants that require little effort are selected, gardens everywhere can consequently end up looking the same. Seedlings are easily discarded if their care becomes troublesome, and flowers that bloom only briefly are deemed to have ‘no value’. While only new cultivars are celebrated, older, traditional plants are sometimes dismissed as being ‘old-fashioned’ or ‘uncool’.

If we cannot love ‘weak plants’, how can we possibly claim the right to advocate for Naturalistic gardening? In the first place, even those we call ‘weak’ thrive in their own natural habitats. It was we ourselves who forcibly brought them into the environments where we live. If that is the case, then providing the necessary consideration—such as ensuring they can survive in the shade created by other plants—is surely the mercy and ethical stance we ought to take.

In an era where ethical debates regarding the existence of zoos have deepened so significantly, should we not also cherish plants even more deeply as living beings with the same ‘life’? To me, plants are living partners with whom I co-sustain this planet and the space of my garden. Shall we not begin by updating our relationship with them, starting with the very words we use?

What Botanical Democracy aims for is an Ethical Reframing of our consciousness toward plants. For us humanity to continue living on this ‘Planet of Plants’, we must question how we should relate to other forms of life—specifically, the plants that live in the soil beneath our feet. Perhaps global environmental issues also stem from the absence of such a small, humble gaze directed toward our feet. To re-examine the ‘welfare’ of plants on a global scale through the familiar daily act of gardening. I sincerely hope that such a transformation of our gaze will eventually become a great butterfly effect that heals the world.

True Individuality blooming in altruism

Even a small, inconspicuous plant protects the soil with its leaves, stems, and roots, creating a sanctuary for microorganisms. Furthermore, even without blooming, the colour of its leaves can further bring out the individuality of its neighbour. For example, a plant that absorbs plenty of water might live beside one that needs very little, or a plant with large leaves might cast a gentle shadow over another that is sensitive to the heat. Each possesses its own unique individuality, yet they are gently intertwined, building relationships of mutual aid and interdependence. Watching them in my own garden in this way reminds us that we humans, too, are perfectly imperfect living beings—uneven in every aspect, including gender, culture, body, mind, ability, and sensibility.

How should we richly nurture a world where this imperfection is the premise? From the conduct of the plants living freely in my own garden, I have found one answer. It is the aesthetic that ‘True Individuality Blooms in Altruism’. Instead of a single person standing in opposition to the remaining ninety-nine, it is a network of Symbiosis built on countless relationships, where ninety-nine gently support the one. It is as if they embody the supreme ideal of democracy—‘different beings living together’—and they eloquently speak the truth: that we are never entities completed as individuals, but are sustained within the correlation with others.

What Botanical Democracy aims for is to rediscover the spirit of democracy—where we humans often stumble in coexisting with different others—by first observing the modes of Symbiosis seen in the world of plants. Through this aesthetic of ‘True Individuality Blooms in Altruism’, we expand our own selves into a much larger Existence. That journey dissolves the hard boundaries separating self and other, leading us toward an opportunity for the realisation through experience of a Zen Sensibility: that all our imperfect shapes are inevitable puzzle pieces, each possessing an indispensable role.

Now, by standing upon these three ethically reframed perspectives, we can begin to perceive a certain truth that the flowers have been showing us. In the next chapter, we will trace the process leading to that encounter. Transcending domains and journeying back through periods, we will visualise the truth latent within the garden from a world completely separate from gardening.

Chapter 2. Post-Linguistic, or Pre-Linguistic?

Does a flower exist, or does Existence flower?

As a photographer of classical techniques, I have continued my exploration into the Existence of this world, centring on fundamental themes such as the eternity of life, consciousness and sensation, the living and the non-living, the circulation of matter, and everything-ness and nothingness. These are all expressions of perceiving ‘something’ that resides before words emerge—namely, the verbalisation of a non-linguistic reality. When I confront the garden from this philosophical perspective of Existence, the plants themselves appeared as if they were practicing my own photographic philosophy every day. It is a manifestation of a Boundary-less Existence; it is not that ‘A flower exists’, but rather that ‘Existence flowers’—as if individual flowers coalesce into one and speak to me. In this chapter, I will trace the outline of my photographic philosophy that served as this origin, along with the lineage of the philosophy of Existence in both Western and Eastern thought.

Altruistic Eternity, or Egoistic Eternity?

Have you ever considered why a flower blooms? At first glance, it might appear as if the flowers are blooming as if to compete with one another’s individuality. However, spending time with them in the garden, one begins to realise that their life is not something that is self-contained or completed within a single bloom.

The circulation of elements and molecules on Earth between the living and the non-living is termed the Biogeochemical Cycle. Even accounting for the influence of meteorites and cosmic dust, the total amount of matter on Earth hardly increases or decreases; within the biosphere, hydrosphere, lithosphere, and atmosphere, ‘synthesis’ and ‘decomposition’ have been repeated endlessly since ancient times. Within this vast cycle of circulation, life has repeated self-replication through ‘copying’ for approximately 2.8 billion years. However, about 1.2 billion years ago, a new way of weaving life was born: if an organism judged its own body to be declining, or its environment to be significantly deteriorating, it would exchange genes with another individual, entrusting its own life to an individual with a new genotype. I call this form of the eternity of life—where we all pass the baton of life to one another—Altruistic Eternity, as a counter-concept to the Egoistic Eternity of self-replication.

In the past, Richard Dawkins defined the essence of the genes at the root of life as ‘selfish’. However, to me, the flowers in the garden felt as though they were embodying not a closed, individual existence, but an Altruistic Eternity that circulates as the Many as One. The life of a flower is short and certainly appears to be a fleeting life; however, that fragility is but a ‘single frame’ in the vast flow that connects to the next life. Flowers bathe in light to create nutrients, grow, bloom, wither, set seed, and eventually return to the earth. Even within that soil, the roots build networks with countless microorganisms, secretly sharing nutrients and coexisting with innumerable lives. A flower does not merely bloom beautifully; throughout its entire life—through every action clearly becoming an act for the sake of the next or other lives—it continues to exist as a part of the chain of life. This way of perceiving life as Altruistic Eternity is the philosophy of life I have learned through Physical Photography, and the flowers in the garden felt to me like practitioners of that very philosophy.

Beautification over Time, or Deterioration over Time?

We, Homo sapiens, are the only animals in the biological world capable of reflecting upon and contemplating our own death. From the era of Homo habilis, our ancestors who first began making stone tools, over a period of approximately 1.96 million years, the brain underwent gradual evolution—from ‘increased intelligence’ to ‘self-recognition’, ‘theory of mind’, ‘introspective self-consciousness’, and ‘autobiographical memory’—integrating the dimensions of ‘past’, ‘present’, and ‘future’ cognitively. Consequently, Homo sapiens began to imagine the ‘death’ that would eventually befall them as well, and came to pursue ‘eternal youth and immortality’—the perpetuation of the individual. The grand belief that the ‘soul continues to exist’ after death has remained, from the era of primitive tribes to the present day, a common and universal religious belief for us Homo sapiens; across all ages and cultures, it has been the most effective solution to the agony of death.

While giving rise to such conceptual consolations, Homo sapiens also created and left behind various material traces of the existence of themselves and others. Over the course of roughly 40,000 years, the external memory storage objects created by Homo sapiens gradually increased in sophistication—from the ‘handprint murals’ found in the Cave of El Castillo in Spain, to the granite ‘royal statues’ by the ancient Egyptian sculptors known as ‘one who keep alive’, and the ‘psychological portraits’ that Titian of Venice began to paint.

However, as long as such material traces are created by their own hands, a fatal problem continues to remain: the ‘authenticity of existence’. In other words, a ‘true material trace of existence’ cannot exist unless the creator thoroughly eliminates intentionality, allowing the viewer to purely regard the trace as a trace without any suspicion of its truth or falsehood. No matter how exquisitely it is crafted, as long as there is even one Homo sapiens who tells a lie, it will never become a ‘true material trace of existence’. In terms of this ‘authenticity of existence’, Homo sapiens have been unable to produce anything satisfactory for as long as 40,000 years.

However, in 1839, the ‘true material trace of existence’ that guarantees this ‘authenticity of existence’ was revealed to the world at the French Academy of Sciences. It was one of the greatest inventions in human history—and one of my own identities as a photographer—the silver-plate photograph known as the ‘Daguerreotype‘. As the name ‘photograph’ (Photo: light + graph: depiction) implies, a photograph was not something made by humans, but something drawn by light. In such a process, neither intentionality nor suspicion could possibly arise. If the object or person does not exist, the image itself cannot be produced. Photographs, which materialise the existence of oneself and others onto a silver plate through light, were welcomed by the world as the ultimate form of material trace of existence that could satisfy the Homo sapiens’ desire for immortality of the individual, even if they were not the physical body and spirit itself. The Daguerreotype, which could preserve the image of an object or person on a silver plate with overwhelming resolution—resolution that rivals even modern photography—was a material trace of existence so exquisite that people of the time called it the ‘Mirror of Memory’.

People take and leave behind photographs so as not to forget, and so as not to be forgotten. Digital photography is the final form of the embodiment of such desires. Improved into a semi-permanent existence that promises immutability, our alter egos exist in a digitised state, as if they are to be preserved forever. However, when standing before old glass-plate photographs or faded prints, for some reason, we feel an indescribable beauty within the way they decay and lose their colour. Physical Photography, which was supposed to be entrusted with ‘eternity’, teaches us instead the truth of the ‘impermanence’ and ‘transience’ of time through its aged appearance.

However, digital photography is not like that. I have never seen the byte count of photo data stored on devices or hard drives decrease, nor have I seen pixels crumble away. Moreover, when data vanishes, it happens in an instant. It is not uncommon to not even realise that it has disappeared. In fact, I have lost almost all of the photographs of my memories from the mid-2000s, when I was a junior high school student and had first started carrying a digital camera. I call that era the Dark Ages of Photography. 

In contrast, photographs from disposable cameras using film, which were popular just before that, are still carefully kept away in places like my chest of drawers. At that time, the act of taking a photograph was inevitably and directly linked to the act of leaving behind a physical object—the Physical Photography of film and photo prints. However, that is no longer the case today. The act of photography has been divided into the ‘act of taking’ and the ‘act of leaving behind’, and people have become indifferent to the ‘act of leaving behind’. The computers, hard drives, memory cards, CD-Rs, and mobile phones where you have stored your photographs all have a lifespan. That lifespan is much shorter than you might imagine. Surely, you too must have lost photo data from some period in your life. You, too, must have had a Dark Ages of Photography. 

When I wish to leave behind precious memories, I make it a point to capture them as Physical Photography as much as possible. The catalyst for this was the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake. While many people lost their ‘digital photographs’, the fact that so many ‘Physical Photographs’ were rescued became the turning point that defined my life as a photographer. That is precisely why I taught myself the most long-lived form of photography: classical photographic techniques.

However, within Japanese society, I know of no other photographer who preaches the urgency of leaving behind Physical Photography. Neither camera companies nor film manufacturers—nor even the photo studios that have produced so many Physical Photography prints—look back upon that Dark Ages of Photography. While the wavering ‘authenticity’ of photographs is a major issue these days, I cannot help but reflect simultaneously on how photographs will remain for the future in 50 or 100 years. I find myself wondering: what kind of emotions will the people of the future feel when they receive photographs that do not age?

On the other hand, there has also been a very intriguing shift. That is the fact that anyone can now easily retouch photographs, such as through smartphone filter functions. This is an issue directly linked to the very authenticity of photography, yet what is particularly interesting is the ‘film-style processing’ that is currently popular among those in their 30s—my own generation—and the younger generation. For generations that have seen only digital photographs that do not age—that is, images that do not fade or change—I believe we must feel a greater sense of ‘photographic-ness’ in Physical Photography, such as film photographs. In other words, while they feel an indescribable ‘beauty’ in the aging photographs—the Physical Photography—of their parents’ and previous generations, the photographs we have taken themselves, unless retouched, all fail to convey the passage of time; they are nothing but ‘flat and flavourless photographs’. The dignity of a photograph increases the more it allows us to feel the passage of time. As if rebelling against the fact that we can only leave behind flavourless, overly clean digital photographs, this generation records their daily lives using Instax cameras, disposable cameras, film cameras, film-style processing for digital photos, and even early digital cameras with low image quality.

Of course, I do not believe that many in these generations are able to verbalise such psychology. However, I am certain that they are catching a glimpse of the essence of Time and Existence—something that precedes language—within aging physical photographs. While Physical Photography attempts to resist time, it ultimately fails and dissolves back into the world as mere matter. It shows us the true face of this world: the truth that time cannot be stopped. Just as the law of physics known as the ‘law of increasing entropy’ dictates, all matter and energy are destined to eventually diffuse and change; just as we within the photographs will one day blur and fade away, the cells that compose our bodies will also decompose with time and return to the natural world.

Some people call these fading and damaged photographs ‘deterioration over time’, but for me, that change is ‘beautification over time’. It is an emotion that is difficult to put into words, but what is certain to me is that the beautiful way they dissolve into the world as matter along with the actual image of the subject possesses a certain great embrace and a sense of profound affirmation. In other words, we may be seeing ourselves in these photographs that fade and suffer damage with the passage of time. Physical Photography also lives, grows old, falls ill, and dies. Our senses may be positively perceiving a certain providential ‘something’ that does not deny the ‘death of the individual’ that will surely come to us one day, but rather embraces it grandly.

The Continuous Flow in Impermanence

The truth articulated across ancient cultures is precisely this ‘passage of time’. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus stated that ‘Everything flows and nothing abides; everything gives way and nothing stays fixed’. The Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi wrote that ‘life and death are the manifestation of inevitable transformation in nature’. And the Buddha taught that ‘All conditioned things are impermanent, they are subject to birth and cessation’. 

The truth articulated across ancient cultures is precisely this sense of transience and impermanence. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus (c. 5th century BC) is said to have expressed this by saying, ‘Everything flows and nothing abides; everything gives way and nothing stays fixed’, teaching the doctrine that all things are in a state of flux. The Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi (c. 4th century BC) wrote that ‘life and death are the manifestation of inevitable transformation in nature’. And Gautama Siddhartha (c. 5th century BC), the founder of Buddhism, taught Anicca (Impermanence), stating that ‘All conditioned things are impermanent; they are subject to birth and cessation’. All of these teachings indicate that change itself is the providence of this world.

And modern science also recognises this subjective human sensation as a fundamental principle of the universe. All things are constituted by the continuous repetition of synthesis and decomposition of their components. The Japanese biologist Shin-ichi Fukuoka, in his works Seibutsu to Museibutsu no Aida (Between Living and Non-living) and Dynamic Equilibrium, described life as an ‘eddy’ within a flow of molecules. Within a single cell, there exist abiotic molecular groups, including over 100,000 types of proteins. Each forms a precise and delicate network, and through repeated complex chains and interactions, the ‘state we call life’ finally emerges. Eventually, the molecules that comprise our bodies decompose and return to the natural world; once these ‘non-living entities’ gather again, they pass through a new chain and cycle (the river) to become part of a ‘new life’ (the eddy).

It is possible that some of the very molecules that once formed the flesh and blood of Heraclitus or Siddhartha some 2,500 years ago are now, temporarily, a part of our own bodies. Such a phenomenon occurs even in our most immediate surroundings. Each morning, as we take a deep breath amidst the flowers in our gardens, the carbon dioxide we exhale is drawn in by them through photosynthesis, perhaps becoming a physical part of a new petal or leaf. In turn, the oxygen these flowers produce is inhaled by us, becoming the energy that fuels our own renewed life activity.

This ceaseless, grand circulation of matter and the profound relationships between all living things represent the complexity of life revealed by science; yet, it is also a chain of being—linking the organic and inorganic—upon which we must contemplate philosophically. We all possess a spirit that reveres the 'beauty' created by nature and time—a beauty that no human hand can ever truly replicate. For me, photography has been a medium that reveals the continuity of the world, transcending the dualism of life and death, of the living and the non-living. And my garden, where flowers bloom in an unbroken succession of life, is also a part of this magnificent material cycle—a place where the continuity of life manifests the truth that ‘change itself is the only constant’.

Eastern Philosophy — Perceiving the Pre-Linguistic World

As we delve even deeper into the philosophy behind this science of circulation, we arrive at a state of being known as the Pre-Linguistic World. Conversely, the everyday life we typically inhabit can be described as the Post-Linguistic World. That is to say, it is a World Filled with Meaning, where language has articulated our reality with countless boundaries. ‘Blue and green’, ‘day and night’, ‘he and she’, ‘nationality and family’, and even ‘life and death’—all of these semantic boundaries are drawn by us; they only begin to exist within our consciousness once humans have bestowed them with names.

Anyone who has experienced learning a foreign language will surely know, from first-hand experience, the reality that language carves up the world. When I studied English myself, I recall a sense of bewilderment at the inability to express various Japanese concepts succinctly in English, and I felt as if my very self were undergoing a transformation. 

For instance, I found no direct equivalent for ‘Ikigai’. It is not about the pursuit of a grand passion, but the profound sense of contentment found in the simple acts of living—the realisation that life is already whole and sufficient. And then there is ‘Mono-no-aware’—symbolised most poignantly by the sight of cherry blossoms scattering in the wind; it is the acceptance of transience in a land of natural disasters, finding the ultimate beauty in the very moment something ends, yet possessing the quiet will to begin anew. Concepts like ‘Wabi-sabi’—the beauty that emerges from imperfection and impermanence—remain uniquely Japanese. So too does ‘Shibui’—an understated elegance that reveals its depth slowly over time. There is no equivalent for 'Gaman' either—an endurance with dignity and quiet composure, practiced not only for oneself but to maintain harmony and comfort for those around us. There is also ‘Otsukaresama-desu’—a daily greeting used to acknowledge and honour the shared toil and dedication of others.

During my postgraduate years, a professor once even remarked to me, ‘Your English is very poetic’. Presumably, I was unconsciously importing the linguistic sensibilities and the rhythms of Japanese expression—these deep-rooted ways of perceiving the world—into my English. In this way, because we use language to carve out and assign meaning to the world in such diverse ways, the Post-Linguistic World in which we dwell varies significantly according to our country and culture.

Broadly speaking, Eastern philosophy teaches that this World Filled with Meaning—this Experiential World or Post-Linguistic World—is, in truth, a ‘dream’ or ‘illusion’, and it calls us to return to the Pre-Linguistic World. In China, Zhuangzi referred to this as the Butterfly Dream; in the Vedanta philosophy of India, it is known as Maya; and the Islamic mystic thinker Ibn ʿArabī—who emerged from the cultural crucible of medieval Southern Spain where Islam, Christianity, and Judaism coexisted and flourished—described it as the Illusion of Existence.

Our consciousness is invariably accompanied by intentionality—a constant state of being ‘consciousness of something’—making it profoundly difficult for the surface mind to grasp the world as it truly is, before it was partitioned by language. Yet, to gaze upon this world as the One, undivided and whole, is the very essence of Eastern philosophy. 

The person who sought to synchronically structure these Eastern philosophies, stretching from ancient Greece to the Far East, was the brilliant modern Japanese linguist Toshihiko Izutsu. A scholar of rare genius who mastered over thirty languages, he was deeply conversant in Greek, Islamic, medieval Jewish, and Indian philosophies, as well as Lao-Zhuang thought, Buddhism, and Zen. He identified that concepts such as the One of the Egyptian-Greek philosopher Plotinus, the Suññatā (空 Kū / Unbounded Flowing-ness) of Mahayana Buddhism, the Dao of Lao-Zhuang, and the Buddha World of Zen all point to the same state—the World Where Language Falls Away—regardless of region, era, or religion; he termed this the Zero Point of Reality and Consciousness. Furthermore, in Islamic thought, Ibn ʿArabī referred to this ultimate reality as Wujūd (Existence), asserting that Existence itself is the absolute, ultimate subject. This provides the philosophical foundation for the shift from ‘A flower exists’ to ‘Existence flowers’, as I introduced at the beginning. The perspective of ‘A flower exists’ belongs to the Post-Linguistic World, whereas ‘Existence flowers’ is an expression that springs from the Pre-Linguistic World. 

Eastern philosophy, spanning from ancient Greece eastward, temporarily retracts the Articulated Plurality of the World (多 Ta / the Many / 有 U)—which language has articulated into various meanings—back into a Primordial, Undifferentiated Unity (一 Ichi / One / Zero-ness / 無 Mu). Once we realise that this 無 (Mu / Zero-ness) is 悉有 (Shitsuu / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence), and subsequently return to this colourful articulated world, our perception of what was once this 有 (U / Articulated Plurality of the World ) undergoes a transformation, revealing it as 仮有 (Keu / Provisional Existence). In this way, a new ‘Cosmos’ is unfolded.

In Western philosophy, ‘Cosmos’ signifies a meaningful, ordered world constructed by consciousness, while the state preceding this order is termed ‘Chaos’. However, as previously mentioned, Toshihiko Izutsu’s philosophy posits that the very core of Eastern thought lies within this ‘Chaos’—the ‘Anti-Cosmos’. That is to say, the state prior to ‘Cosmos’ (仮有 Keu / Provisional Existence )—悉有 (Shitsuu / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence)—is the very origin of both the living and the non-living; it is Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu) itself, paradoxically encompassing the infinite richness of the world.

Applying this to the garden, a flower blooming in our world of 仮有 (Keu / Provisional Existence) is a manifest sign of Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu) itself, and even its scattering is an integral part of that Existence’s rhythm. With the passage of time, it dissolves back into the Great Existence. The ontology of Eastern philosophy is a Dynamic ontology.

Eastern philosophy moves from the Articulated Plurality of the World (多 Ta / the Many / 有 U) back into the Primordial, Undifferentiated Unity (一 Ichi / One / Zero-ness / 無 Mu), and then once more from the Undifferentiated Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Un-manifested Potential) back to the Provisional Existence (仮有 Keu). Eastern philosophy experientially posits that primordial, formless Reality—existing in the Pre-Linguistic World—as Ultimate Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu). Yet, it does not deny the Post-Linguistic World (World Filled with Meaning). Rather, it embraces every diverse manifestation, in all their ‘shared-root but different-quality’ forms, as expressions of that same Ultimate Existence. 

Our Experiential World encompasses the full spectrum of human emotion and experience: joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, hope and despair, affection and hatred, serenity and worldly desires, and life and death itself. From the perspective of Eastern philosophy, understanding that all these phenomena are interconnected allows us to envelop the entire World Filled with Meaning in a spirit of profound compassion. This is not a suggestion to ‘return to One because we share the same root and essence’. Rather, it is an attitude of cherishing our ‘shared root but different qualities’—it is to honour and love our differences and imperfection. 

Furthermore, have you noticed how, in this Ultimate Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu) that is in constant flux, the seemingly contradictory characters for Existence and Zero-ness stand side-by-side? It is here that the profound warmth at the heart of Zen is hidden.

To grasp this logic through the intellect alone is an exceedingly arduous task. But please, rest assured. It is for this very reason that I wish to convey this to you more clearly through the physical experience of gardening. That narrative begins in Chapter 6. I invite you to read on, just a little further.

Western Philosophy — The Quest for Absolute Being

However, in the history of Western philosophy—which explores the Post-Linguistic World—this Existence has frequently been conceptualised as Being (εἶναι). In this tradition, Being has been perceived as an Immutable Reality, or more specifically, a Static Reality. The Western philosophy of existence follows a dramatic trajectory: beginning with the primordial conflicts of Ancient Greece, reaching its limits in the modern era, and undergoing a profound transformation once again in the twentieth century. 

First, the primordial question—‘What is being?’—manifested as a fundamental struggle between two divergent visions of reality, embodied by two towering figures of ancient Greek philosophers: Heraclitus and Parmenides. Heraclitus sought the essence of the world in Becoming (γίγνεσθαι), famously asserting that ‘Everything flows and nothing abides; everything gives way and nothing stays fixed’. He argued that this world is a perpetual surge of flux, and that nothing is truly immutable. For him, True Reality was none other than this ceaseless, vibrant process of change itself.

In stark contrast, Parmenides asserted that Being (εἶναι) must be immovable and immutable, vehemently denying the concept of Becoming proposed by Heraclitus. He argued that ‘Thinking and Being are the same’ and that ‘Non-Being can be neither spoken of nor thought’. Based on this fundamental principle—‘What is, is; and what is not, is not’—he posited that if we admit to change, such as Being ‘coming-to-be’ from ‘nothingness’ or ‘passing-away’ into ‘non-existence’, we are forced to speak of Non-Being as a starting point or a destination—a state that we have already deemed unthinkable and unspeakable. To avoid this logical self-contradiction, he concluded that change itself is logically impossible. Consequently, he declared that True Reality is a ‘perfect, solitary sphere—eternal, motionless, and unchanging’.

And it was Plato who integrated these two conflicting claims—the Ever-Changing Becoming and the Immutable Being—thereby defining the foundational trajectory of Western philosophy. In Classical Greek, words like εἶναι (Einai), meaning ‘to be’, and the substance οὐσία (Ousia), meaning ‘substance’ or ‘essence’, pointed toward that which is immutable and eternal. To re-evaluate the Ever-Changing Becoming of Heraclitus and the Immutable Being of Parmenides within a single framework, Plato drew a clear distinction between True Reality (the Ideas), which ‘always Is and never becomes’, and the sensory world, which ‘always Becomes and never is’. Plato established the Ideas as the only True Reality. In contrast, concepts representing change, becoming, and emergence in the sensory world—such as γένεσις (Gignesthai) and γένεσις (Genesis)—were once held in high regard by Heraclitus, but from Plato onwards, they came to be treated as ‘imperfect’, relegated to a rank lower than that of εἶναι (To be).

Following the quest for ‘Immutable Truth’ established by Plato, Aristotle sought reality in the form of Eidos (Form), which he believed to be inherent within individual objects. This lineage was subsequently inherited by the Middle Ages, where ‘God’ within the Western tradition came to be grasped as the absolute, immovable foundation of a Static Reality. However, the Scientific Revolution and the Reformation of the seventeenth century brought about the collapse of this universal foundation of Being. Simultaneously, even within the new science of Galileo, the sensory world—vibrant with colour and feeling—was dismissed as subjective and unreliable, as the focus shifted to a reality defined solely by mathematical laws.

Amidst this crisis—where neither Medieval ‘Absolute Truth’ nor the ‘Sensory World’ offered a stable foundation—René Descartes shifted the bedrock of truth to the individual ‘Consciousness’ (= Subjectivity). Following a period of radical doubt, in which he found no basis for truth in the external world, Descartes arrived at the famous dictum, Cogito, ergo sum (I think, therefore I am). Through this, he posited the self as a Static Being—a Res cogitans (thinking thing) that remains unshakable regardless of any external experience. He established this as the unassailable foundation of truth. In doing so, he solidified an Immutable Reality—a Static Reality—within the confines of one’s own consciousness.

And it was Immanuel Kant who, taking this modern philosophy founded upon the Cartesian static self to its furthest logical extreme, clarified its fundamental limits. Kant concluded that humans can only perceive the world of ‘phenomena’, which is constructed through the innate forms of sensibility and understanding (such as space, time, and categories); the Ding an sich (thing-in-itself) that lies behind these phenomena remains fundamentally unknowable. Thus, he declared it impossible for pure reason alone to grasp an absolute Immutable Reality—that is, a Static Reality—placing it forever beyond the reach of human reason. With this conclusion, Western philosophy found itself compelled to retreat into a deep exploration of the limited domains of human consciousness and experience—a situation that forced a retreat into the nature of human existence—trapping philosophy within the boundaries of the human mind.

Western Philosophy — Questioning the Absolute Being

In an attempt to transcend these limitations, the twentieth century saw Martin Heidegger, in his seminal work Being and Time, return to the long-neglected question of Sein (Being Itself). This was a radical attempt to reclaim a dimension of reality that invites profound comparison with the dynamic perception of existence found in Eastern philosophy since antiquity.

The revival of the question concerning Sein (Being Itself) sent profound ripples through the landscape of late twentieth-century Western philosophy. Heidegger’s proposition—the temporality of Being—framed Being not as a static object, but as a temporal event perpetually moving toward death. This dynamic perspective catalysed a shift away from the quest for static foundations toward a philosophy rooted in ‘motion’, ‘freedom’, ‘body’,  ‘relationality’, and ‘language’. To explain this shift more simply: Western philosophy began to locate truth not in ‘that which is fixed’, but in ‘that which changes’.

For instance, the existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre famously declared that ‘existence precedes essence’. He argued that humans possess no preordained, fixed ‘essence’; rather, through the ‘dynamic act’ of choosing and acting, we continuously create ourselves, embodying a dynamic form of ‘freedom’. For Sartre, human beings are cast into a desperate situation from which they cannot escape choice—a state of engagement—where the self is never determined as a Static Being, but is perceived as the very flux of becoming, perpetually projecting itself toward the future.

Furthermore, Maurice Merleau-Ponty rejected the Cartesian ‘mind-body dualism’ that treated the mind and body as separate entities. He perceived the body not as a static ‘container’ isolated from the external world, but as a site where the self is continuously shaped through the active process of perception—an ongoing dialogue with the world. The body is not merely an ‘object’ that simply sits there; it is unified with the mind, engaging in such an intimate and incessant exchange with its surroundings that the very boundaries between the self and the world become blurred. This constitutes a ‘continuous relationship’, where the ‘shell’ that confines the self is cast aside, and the self and the world become seamless. Merleau-Ponty argued that this ‘fleshly body’—and not the detached consciousness—is the most authentic ‘starting point’ for our perception of the world and our existence in this place.

Furthermore, Emmanuel Levinas shifted the locus of Being—moving it from within the ‘Self’ into the very ‘Relationship with the Other’. He used the term ‘The Face’ to describe the raw, vivid presence of the Other that appears suddenly, transcending all our intentions. He defined ‘Ethics’ as the movement of the soul that cannot ignore the call of that overwhelming presence and is compelled to respond. For Levinas, the existence of the self is not established as a static entity; rather, it manifests as a process of fulfilling an ‘Infinite Responsibility’, answering the ceaseless questions posed within a dynamic ‘connecting’ with the Other. Ultimately, this infinite exchange shatters the illusion of a fixed self, bringing into sharp relief the nature of existence as a state of Perpetual Becoming.

Furthermore, Jacques Derrida turned his gaze toward ‘language’ itself—the very medium through which we contemplate existence. He rejected the traditional Western philosophical notion that the meaning of words is fixed as a static ‘centre’ or ‘truth’. According to Derrida, meaning is not a predetermined ‘point’, but rather an ever-moving ‘process’. This process encompasses two dimensions: one is différance (difference), where meaning emerges only through its ‘distinction’ from other words; the other is ‘deferral’, where the final determination of meaning is perpetually postponed. For example, when we look up a word in a dictionary, we find a definition composed of other words. If we then look up those words, we are led to yet more words. In this manner, we never arrive at a definitive goal of ‘absolute meaning’; the grasp of meaning is constantly deferred to the ‘next word’. Should this deferral ever cease, meaning would instantly become fixed and static. However, Derrida contended that meaning flows incessantly through a chain of language, never settling in a single location. By asserting that this endless movement of ‘slippage’ and ‘delay’ is the very source of meaning, Derrida fundamentally unsettled the ‘Static Truth’ to which Western philosophy had so stubbornly clung.

The common challenge embraced by post-Heideggerian contemporary philosophy was to dismantle the concept of the ‘eternally unchanging substance‘—οὐσία (Ousia)—which had served as the absolute bedrock of Western thought since the time of Plato. While rejecting this Static Ontology, these thinkers sought to re-envision Being through the lenses of ceaseless movement: ‘motion’, ‘freedom’, ‘body’,  ‘relationality’, and ‘language’. This marked the decisive turning point, where the focus of Western philosophy shifted from the Fixed Substance (οὐσία) it had clung to for millennia toward Ceaseless Becoming (γίγνεσθαι).

Existence Flowers

This return to Ceaseless Becoming (γίγνεσθαι/Gignesthai) within contemporary philosophy unexpectedly illuminates a vivid, latent power embedded in the very etymology of the word Existence. Hidden deep within this term—which we so often use without a second thought—resides a dynamic force that stands in radical opposition to the concept of ‘fixed substance’ (οὐσία/Ousia). Existence derives from the Latin existere—a fusion of ex- (‘out’) and sistere (‘to stand’). It enshrines the primordial act of ‘standing forth’ or ‘emerging’. In its truest sense, Existence is a movement and a process; it is the very antithesis of ‘immutability’. 

However, the philosophical and scientific perspectives rooted in modern static ontology have long overlooked this etymological dynamism. This is because, to the scientific gaze—which prides itself on analysis and measurement—the ‘flow of Becoming’ that changes from moment to moment is far too elusive to truly grasp. To analyse the waters of a swiftly flowing river, for instance, one must scoop up a portion in a bucket, severing it from the living current to create a ‘static sample’. In much the same way, science has traditionally defined the nature of its subjects by isolating them from their surrounding relationships (the context) and fixing them as a ‘state’ in which time has been suspended. While this method of gently fixing Existence—much like a specimen for observation—has bestowed immense benefits upon modern civilisation, it has come at a quiet cost: it has hushed the inherent vitality of our language and confined Being within the narrow frame of a ‘static substance’.

The Western inclination toward Static Reality is epitomised by the sentence: ‘A flower exists’. This suggests that a ‘mere flower’, neatly categorised by language, simply ‘is’—motionless in space. In contrast, the perspective Toshihiko Izutsu recovered from the World Where Language Falls Away—where ‘Existence flowers’—restores the dynamic essence inherent in the etymology of existere. Here, Existence is not a mere state; it is the very wellspring of ‘standing forth’, the pure ‘potentiality’ from which all things emerge. While the verb ‘exist’ typically indicates a subject’s (the flower’s) static state, Existence—when transformed into the subject itself—signifies the primordial reality that animates the world. This is what Izutsu calls the Zero-Point of Reality and Consciousness: the Undifferentiated Existence (悉有 Shitsuu) that resides as Un-manifested Potential. By becoming the agent of the active deed of ‘flowering’, the world is transformed: it is no longer seen as a mere Collection of Objects, but as a Inextricable Chain of Events.

The very structure of the sentence ‘Existence flowers’ shatters the notion of Being confined within the Western ‘static substance’. At the linguistic level, it reboots the dynamism of existence as Ceaseless Becoming. From the primordial potential of Existence, all phenomena vividly emerge—standing forth as if ‘flowering’ into concrete forms. The world does not present itself as a mere Collection of Objects; it manifests as an Inextricable Chain of Events. This vibrancy is the true nature of the Dynamic Reality that Eastern philosophy has explored through embodied experience. 

The essence of Eastern philosophy lies not in analytically dissecting the world, but in an ‘attitude’ of total acceptance—embracing all contradictions, such as life and death, suffering and joy, within the Ceaseless Flow of Becoming (γίγνεσθαι/Gignesthai). And this source of dynamic becoming reconnects us to the very wellspring of Western philosophy, which will be the key to our next discussion: Physis.

Chapter 3. Eastern Philosophy Linked Through Physis

Bridging the gap.

In this essay, I intend to ambitiously expand upon and posit the Western concept of Physis (φῦσις) as a ‘bridge’ to a deeper understanding of Eastern philosophy. Physis is an Ancient Greek term meaning ‘nature’ or ‘essence’, but it is also a word derived from verbal roots signifying ‘to sprout’, ‘to grow’, and ‘to flower’. It was a concept that referred to the dynamic force that spontaneously generates and unfolds through an inner power, rather than being moved from the outside. However, the Western intellectual inclination to perceive subjects as Static Reality gradually cooled the vibrancy of self-sprouting that was once Physis, transforming it into the fixed ‘laws of nature’ we now know as Physics.  There is no doubt that this progression served as the foundation for the material abundance and stable life we enjoy in the modern era. Yet, on the other hand, this also determined a history of confining the way of vibrant life within immobile ‘definitions’, hushing its primordial wildness beneath the weight of language.

Difference in Attitudes Toward Nature

For humanity, having chosen the path of sedentary agriculture, the intellectual passion to grasp the cycles of natural phenomena and stabilise the foundations of life was a survival strategy shared across East and West alike. However, the direction in which this ‘impulse to manage nature’ led was decisively bifurcated by the nature of each civilisation. In certain civilisations, a ‘vertical intellect’ developed—one that sought a single, coherent logic, or Logos (λόγος), behind the world, consolidating diverse phenomena into a single, unified system. Aristotle’s grand intellectual order, which attempted to classify and define all things, eventually merged with a spiritual tradition that centred upon an ‘absolute foundation’. This trajectory ultimately fixed nature within the frameworks of mathematical formulae and universal laws. It was an expression of a poignant will to re-fashion an unstable world into something ‘certain’ through the power of human intellect, thereby securing predictability.

In contrast, many civilisations—stretching across much of Asia east of India to the vast continents of the Americas—who were forced to confront, time and again within the span of a single generation, the overwhelming ‘uncontrollability’ of an overwhelming nature, tended to maintained an innate humility, turning away from the path of converging the world into a ‘single, absolute truth’. These were people who lived in the shadow of sudden, severe calamities—earthquakes, tsunamis, typhoons, tornadoes, and volcanic eruptions—elemental forces that defy all human foresight and possess the power to uproot the very foundations of life in an instant. To them, the great wilderness was an overwhelming Presence of awe that rejected management or prediction. Rather than seeking to dominate it, they honed the wisdom of Symbiosis, positioning themselves as beings utterly embraced by the fluid whole. This posture—locating oneself within the ‘unceasing flux and swell’ of nature—resonates with the vibrant, dynamic power inherent in the original Physis. It serves as a vital perspective for a profound understanding of Eastern philosophy.

The Rise of Logos

How, then, did the profound contemplations of Ancient Greece—where this concept of Physis was born—begin? In the 6th century BCE, within the city of Miletus in the Ionia region—along the coastal fringes of what is now the Republic of Türkiye—the Milesian school, led by figures such as Thales, Anaximander, and Anaximenes, began a rational quest for the ‘Primordial Principle’ (Archē), moving beyond the narratives of myth. This journey marked the definitive starting point of the unyielding foundation of Western philosophy: the endeavour to grasp a universal and objective truth of Being—one that remains immutable, independent of our sensory experience—through the power of reason, or Logos.

However, this early Logos was not yet centred upon the human subject; it was directed purely toward Physis—the primordial root of nature. For these early thinkers, Physis represented the undifferentiated, material, and dynamic ‘foundation of the world itself’, as it existed before being fractured by human subjectivity. Within it, they recognised the vibrancy of a primordial Existence—not the static ‘mere matter’ as we conceive it today, but an existence imbued with an intrinsic principle of self-motion. As the 5th century BCE ushered in the Classical period, a pivotal social transformation occurred: the ascent of Athenian democracy and the ascent of the Sophists. As conflicting theories regarding Archē proliferated among natural philosophers, and social norms began to be re-fashioned through civic debate (Logos) rather than by divine decree or natural providence, the foundational trust in the universal truth of Physis cracked at its very core.

At this critical juncture, the question of where to seek the bedrock of ‘Justice’—an element indispensable for the survival of the state (Polis)—became a matter of extreme urgency. As universal truths were cast into doubt, a deep-seated scepticism erupted regarding the legitimacy of the laws and institutions crafted by human hands, known as Nomos. ‘A mere majority vote can arbitrarily rewrite Man-made Nomos. If it is nothing more than the ‘interest of the stronger’, why should we be bound to defend it with our very lives?’ To address this poignant inquiry, a rigorous contrast was drawn between the artificiality of Nomos and the immutable, ‘given’ nature of Physis—that which remains untouched by human intervention. A fierce intellectual struggle ensued to determine which should serve as the ultimate anchor for justice.

It was Socrates who brought about a decisive shift in direction to this dispute. He rose to the challenge of restoring an ‘unyielding bedrock’ to Nomos (the norms of society), which had seen its legitimacy crumble under the weight of scepticism, dismissed as mere man-made convention. Through his method of elenchus—beginning with the ‘awareness of one’s own ignorance’—he dismantled the hollow knowledge that people had taken for granted. In its place, he sought to distil the essential definitions of ‘Courage’, ‘Beauty’, and ‘Justice’ itself—ideals that remain immutable, untouched by the whims of sensation or the passage of time—by refining human reason, or Logos. 

Crucially, for Socrates, the basis for ‘Justice’ or ‘the Good’ could no longer be found through the observation of the external world of Physis. The sole means of arriving at truth was consolidated within the exercise of humanity’s unique intellectual capacity: the process of aligning each individual’s internal ‘logic’ (Logos) to a point of absolute consistency through dialogue. Thus, Logos was elevated from a mere means of describing the world into a privileged instrument through which humans ‘give birth to and stand as guarantors’ of the truth.

Physis Transformed into Physikē akroasis and Physics

It was Plato who projected this grasp of truth—attained through Logos, the unique human capacity—onto the very primordial structure of the world. As previously noted, he drew a clear distinction between Ever-Changing Becoming (γίγνεσθαι) and the Immutable Being (εἶναι), establishing the eternal Ideas as the only True Reality. This privileging of Being by Plato fundamentally distorted the very nature of Physis, which the early natural philosophers had pursued as an existence filled with its own intrinsic principle of movement. Nature, which had once pulsated with its own inherent life force, saw its status relegated to an ‘imperfect sensory world’—a realm one step lower in rank, measured only by how poorly it participated in the ‘Eternal Truth’ (the Ideas). At this precise moment, Physis was silenced; it was reduced to a mere ‘object’, to be dissected and defined by the human Logos.

This transformation gave rise to a powerful current in Western philosophy that prioritised Logos as the sovereign human faculty. It shifted the focus of inquiry away from ‘undifferentiated nature’ toward the construction of the human inner world and social order, as structured by that very Logos. In this way, a ‘rational subject’ was established—one that seeks to observe and manage nature from the outside. This stands in stark contrast to the ‘dissolution of the subject’ in Eastern philosophy, where the individual dissolves back into the world, intentionally keeping the boundaries between subject and object fluid and ambiguous. 

In particular, Aristotle’s pursuit of the είδος (Eidos /Form)—the reality inherent within individual objects—belongs precisely to this lineage of systematisation through Logos. In his work Φυσικὴ ἀκρόασις (Physikē akroasis / Physics), he meticulously analysed Physis—once a vibrant, living chaos—and systematised its laws of change. The worldview established through this work became the logical foundation upon which later thinkers, such as Galileo, would shift their focus toward a reality defined strictly by mathematical laws. Thus, the fundamental intellectual framework by which the West defines the world as a ‘controllable object’ was decisively forged.

The academic system surrounding Physis in Ancient Greece blossomed into a unique spiritual and intellectual evolution within the ‘East‘—specifically the Islamic world—following the collapse of the Western Roman Empire. Islamic scholars did not merely preserve Greek texts through translation into Arabic; they vibrantly wove them deeply into their own intellectual tapestry. Their passionate absorption of Greek wisdom was sparked by an intuitive resonance between the ‘dynamic view of nature’ inherent in those texts and their own ancestral perspectives on the natural world. 

Then, between the 12th and 13th centuries, this deepened knowledge flowed back into the Latin West as a revitalising stream, forming the very bedrock of the modern Western mind. Islamic intellect had fused Aristotelian order with the Neo-Platonic concept of the ‘primordial unity of all things’—a trajectory that shared a seamless horizon with the Eastern vistas of nature extending toward India and Buddhism. This mode of knowing, which perceives all manifestations within a primordial unity, communicated deeply with the natural philosophies of the broader East, stretching from the Islamic world to India and beyond into the Buddhist tradition.

In other words, the self-generating vibrancy of the Greek Physis and the generative force—perceived in the depths of the East as driving all things from within—overlapped inseparably on Islamic soil. One might even say that such intellectual resonances offered a profound opportunity to bestow upon the foundations of modern Western knowledge a new perspective—one distinctly different from that of management and dominion. 

Tragically, following the Scientific Revolution of the 17th century, the word ‘Physics‘—derived from Physis—became specialised into a modern science that empirically explains the fundamental laws of the natural world. In this process, the teleological aspect of life—the ‘intrinsic will to become its own self‘—was fundamentally rejected. As a result of this transition, nature came to be viewed as possessing no inherent meaning or ‘purpose’. The prevailing attitude became one where humans, equipped with Logos, imposed order (Nomos) upon a purposeless nature from the outside, for the sake of management and utility. Consequently, nature was treated solely through the lens of mathematically describable mechanical causality, and the ancient Greek facets of ‘nature’, ‘essence’, and the ‘dynamic force that generates and grows of its own accord’ were banished from the forefront of knowledge. The Western world had transformed from a ‘vibrant swell of life filled with meaning’ into a collection of cold, inert objects to be dissected and controlled by the human subject.

The Holistic Restoration of Physis

At its very origin, Physis embraced two distinct facets. One facet represents the primordial, undifferentiated nature in its pure state—the world before it is partitioned by words and names; that is, the Pre-Linguistic World. Eastern philosophy sought its gateway through the embodied realisation of a realm that transcends rational thought within this particular aspect.

The other facet, however, refers to the vibrant behaviours of individual, concrete existences—such as ‘flowers’, ‘roots’, and ‘soil microbes‘—within the Post-Linguistic World (World Filled with Meaning). This is what the Greeks understood as the ‘natural disposition of particulars’.

Since the era of Plato and Aristotle, Western philosophy has steadfastly focused its gaze on the pursuit of objective Being that transcends individual subjectivity, advancing the meticulous mapping of this articulated Post-Linguistic World.

In contrast, the core of Eastern philosophy lies in the ultimate realisation of 無 (Mu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence) or 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness)—the primordial wellspring of reality. This is a realisation born from a thorough questioning of the ‘I’ and the gentle melting away of the ego, wherein one releases the grip of all linguistic distinctions and fixed ideas. The aspect of Physis as a ‘dynamic force that generates and grows’ vibrates in profound resonance with the Eastern concepts of 自然 (Zinen / Spontaneous Unfolding of Life) and 無為自然 (Wú wéi zì rán / Living in Harmony with Nature). These philosophies prioritise the spontaneous unfolding of all things according to their own intrinsic impetus. While the West sought to understand the world by ‘dividing’ it, the East sought to embody the very momentum of the world's unfolding, driven from within by allowing the boundaries of the subject to dissolve.

We must never forget that Physis was, at its heart, an ancient Greek philosophical concept signifying the primordial natural disposition that holds within it all generation and change. To an early Greek natural philosopher, the idea that ‘a manifest sign of Existence itself, and even its scattering is an integral part of that Existence’s rhythm’, would have resonated naturally with the concrete image of a flower’s emergence and dissolution—Physis as the dynamic essence of life. Furthermore, the notion that ‘Existence flowers’ and ‘with the passage of time, it dissolves back into the Great Existence might also have been perceived as a philosophical expression of the dynamic cycle that Physis represents. The Pre-Linguistic World, which serves as the entry point for Eastern philosophy, can be posited as this Greater Physis—the all-encompassing embrace.

While Western philosophy has primarily structured the Post-Linguistic World (the second facet of Physis) through Logos, Eastern philosophy has taken the Pre-Linguistic World　(the first facet of Physis) as the very place of Satori—the natural dissolution of the self into the Great Web of Life—committing instead to its realisation through direct experience. Therefore, reclaiming the full expanse of Physis—which lies at the very root of Western intellect yet was long ago severed—is exactly the bridge connecting Eastern and Western wisdom. In this restoration, we find the path to weaving together the wisdom of East and West, leading us toward a newly unified harmony.

To contemplate the ‘unfolding and scattering’ of a flower is to touch the primordial pulse of Existence. This is precisely the state of being where the boundaries between self and world dissolve—a sphere so long pursued by Eastern philosophy. Yet, we must also confront the reality of how Zen, the representative concept of that Eastern wisdom, is received and consumed within modern society, particularly in the West. In the next chapter, we shall cast light upon the disparate realities of the authentic Zen of Eastern philosophy and the commercialised ‘Zen’ that drifts through the global landscape as a pervasive cultural trend.

Chapter 4. The Misconception of Zen

True Zen begins in the maximal.

One day, a Canadian university student arrived at my home for a homestay. She mentioned that she was determined to buy matcha powder as a souvenir, explaining that this desire stemmed from the burgeoning matcha boom currently sweeping through Western society. According to her, the time spent whisking matcha has become an emblem of ‘mindful living’ in the West. Some people set aside dedicated time for the act of drinking matcha, labelling the performative ritual itself as ‘Zen’, and it has become trendy to share these moments on social media. While she candidly admitted to feeling a quiet dissonance regarding this ‘Zen’ craze, even she held the stereotypical misconception that all Japanese people must indulge in matcha on a daily basis. 

Indeed, the Cambridge English Dictionary now lists ‘Zen’ as an adjective, meaning relaxed or calm. Furthermore, with the recent proliferation of mindfulness and the success of ‘Zen Gardens’ as a tourism resource, the word ‘Zen’ has increasingly become a diluted, global buzzword. 

‘Be one with what you do.’—to become one with the action of this present moment. It must be said that there is a profound precariousness in the reality where Zen—essentially a rigorous physical praxis—is packaged within contemporary global capitalist society as a ‘healing tool’ or a ‘sophisticated style’ for comfort and strategic self-decoration. It has been shrunk into hollow labels such as ‘mental training’, ‘mindful lifestyle’, ‘serene space’, ‘minimalist beauty’, or ‘simplicity’.

Zen is Not a Tool

‘Self-regulation’, ‘mental self-care’—it is no exaggeration to say that contemporary ‘Mindfulness’ has often proliferated under such self-centric pretexts. Of course, this does not apply to all; yet, within the programmed mindfulness that originated in the West, one senses an excessive preoccupation with ‘acquiring’ something: a closed loop where the self is directed at the self, by the self, for the self. These mindfulness lessons began to flourish, sanctified by the seal of scientific evidence. Certainly, for us in the modern era, objective validity based on numerical data exerts an absolute authority over us. However, how those numbers are interpreted and utilised ultimately remains a matter of subjectivity.

In fact, empirical studies have produced data indicating that some practitioners of mindfulness exhibit heightened narcissism and a decline in concern or compassion for others and society. According to experimental results from the State University of New York, individuals of the ‘Independent’ type (those with a strong sense of autonomy) tend to link focus on the ‘present moment’ for their personal goals and desires. Consequently, they become more self-serving, and their ‘prosocial behaviour’ is inhibited. Conversely, it is reported that for ‘Interdependent’ types (those with a strong sense of reciprocity), ‘prosocial behaviour’ becomes more active. This is a distinction that warrants serious consideration, as it serves as solid evidence that ‘Zen’ and contemporary ‘mindfulness’ are fundamentally divergent. While the majority of programmed mindfulness focuses on the ‘I’, within the context of Zen, the ‘I’ may be the starting point, but it inevitably dissolves and expands into the ‘We’, and eventually radiates toward an infinitely vast Subject.

Recently, I have come to consider that my linguistic discomfort with the term ‘Well-being’ is rooted in the same structural dissonance. ‘Well-being’ is a term with a noble lineage, adopted into the Constitution of the World Health Organisation (WHO) at its inception in 1946. It defined health not merely as the absence of disease, but as a ‘state of complete physical, mental, and social Well-being’. Prior to 1945, much of the world was overshadowed by the darkness of totalitarianism, where countless lives—and with them, individual dignity—were sacrificed to serve the ends of the state. I fully understand that the collective aspiration to pursue the Well-being of every single individual was born from a profound historical shift. In the modern day, however, I feel that the term ‘Well-being’ is drifting away from its primordial essence. While it is frequently invoked as a symbol of the shift in the standards of happiness—from ‘economic growth’ to ‘living authentically’—the way it is being interpreted is precarious. In a society saturated by social media, the lifestyles of others flow constantly into our consciousness as information. Consequently, the individual pursuit of happiness is co-opted by the restless logic of capitalism. Unconsciously, it has been replaced by a desperate quest for relative superiority over others: ‘Am I happier than that person?’ ‘Am I more privileged?’ ‘Am I striving more?’

Furthermore, it appears to have become a trend for corporations to offer programmed mindfulness lessons to their employees, brandishing ‘Well-being’ as a convenient shield. However, such an approach—which effectively declares, ‘If only every individual trains their mind, all problems will be solved’—is highly questionable. It ignores the very social structures that necessitate mental care in the first place, dangerously substituting systemic societal failures with challenges of personal self-improvement. Zen is not a pragmatic tool for rationally extracting personal results and efficiency under the mechanisms of a capitalist economy. It is regrettable that only the adjectival and adverbial images—such as ‘quietly meditating equals Zen’ or ‘carefully whisking matcha equals Zen’—have been amplified and perpetuated, while its profound essence remains obscured.

Zen is Not Design

Glimpses of this superficial consumption of Zen within contemporary economic society are also evident in the way we view ‘Zen Gardens’. These spaces are frequently defined by terms such as ‘minimalism’, ‘Less is More’, ‘perfection’, ‘stillness’, or ‘order’. As Zen Gardens have become increasingly commercialised for tourism, Zen has been transformed into a mere ‘design style’—a commodified signifier to be easily consumed. 

It is frankly inconceivable that Zen Gardens were ever designed with the expectation that their essence could be absorbed in a few fleeting minutes amidst the bustle of a crowd. However, since these gardens have been positioned as tourist attractions, the superficial impressions of visitors are more readily justified within a commercial context. A tourist guide is compelled to advertise that there is something tangible, something that can be understood simply by looking. Furthermore, the temples themselves, in opening their doors to the public, face a profound structural contradiction: they find it difficult to directly negate the very impressions that their visitors have been led to embrace.

Before proceeding further, I wish to offer a brief clarification. In truth, the term ‘Zen Garden’—or 禅庭 (Zen-tei)—does not exist within the living Japanese vocabulary. Despite having used the term repeatedly in this essay, I confess to having lacked even the certainty of how to read the kanji characters (禅庭) for ‘Zen Garden’ aloud. While a cursory internet search will suggest the pronunciation ‘Zentei’, I had never once encountered this word in speech throughout my entire life. Indeed, there is no historical evidence of ‘Zen Garden’ being used in Japan. It was, in fact, a neologism devised by the American author Loraine Kuck in her 1935 work, One Hundred Kyoto Gardens. For the sake of convenience, however, I shall continue to use the term ‘Zen Garden’ throughout this essay. When one speaks of a Zen Garden, the image that likely comes to mind is 枯山水(Karesansui / Dry Landscape). Your mind’s eye surely envisions gardens that express a deeply interior spiritual world—landscapes where stone and sand evoke flowing water, or craggy peaks floating amidst a sea of clouds. However, even the term 枯山水(Karesansui) is merely one stylistic technique among many in Japanese gardening used to symbolise nature. Its first usage dates back approximately one thousand years, appearing well before the arrival of Zen Buddhism in Japan. Originally, 枯山水(Karesansui) referred simply to a style of garden construction where artificial hills and paths were made and stones were set, all without the inclusion of a pond or stream. It by no means originally carried the heavy symbolic weight of ‘expressing water without the use of water’.

In fact, it was not until centuries after Zen Buddhism first reached Japan that the gardens of Zen temples began to be consciously constructed in alignment with Zen philosophy. During this period, set in the very midst of persistent war and social unrest, resources and labor were severely limited. This scarcity naturally led to a demand for austere and symbolic gardens that emphasised spirituality, rather than opulent and extravagant landscapes. However, were we to ask whether Zen Gardens were truly created for the practitioners of Zen, the sobering reality is that no definitive historical documentation exists to prove it. Even if one examines the official website of 龍安寺 (Ryōan-ji Temple)—home to the world’s most renowned 枯山水(Karesansui)—it is nowhere explicitly stated that the garden was designed for the purpose of Zen. Instead, the temple’s official website poignantly asks: ‘Their abstract layout leaves us questioning what did the artist have in mind?  However, nobody knows for sure what the author's intentions were. Some might see it as a Zen köan riddle; furthermore, this garden sets the viewer's imagination free’. It entrusts the meaning of the experience to the observer—the tourist.

I cannot help but think that this ‘blank space where anything can be said’ has served as a perfect, empty canvas. Yet, this ‘projection of meaning’ onto the garden is nothing new. During the Edo period, as sightseeing became popular among the common people, guidebooks of the time overwrote the stone arrangements with catchy narratives like ‘The Tiger Cubs Crossing the River’, making them more consumable. In the modern era, these gardens were further dressed in the lofty robes of an abstract ‘spiritual philosophy’ for international audiences. In every age, it seems we have merely found comfort in these ‘easily consumable symbols’, rather than genuinely engaging with the garden itself or the act of gardening itself. 

While this distinctive spatial presentation is often discussed within the framework of ‘Symbolism’, I personally maintain a sceptical stance toward such interpretations in Zen gardens. More accurately, I believe this is precisely where the intellectual trap lies. The rocks, seemingly arranged with profound intent, and the flowing designs of the gravel—imagined as the ocean, islands, or a sea of clouds—compel the human consciousness to resolve this profound sense of incongruity by thinking, ‘There must be some meaning here’. While this is a natural function of the human mind attempting to intellectually grasp the world, is not Zen actually the very act of letting go of such ‘fixed interpretations’ conceived by our intellect?

In former times, before these gardens were reimagined as tourist destinations, that very stillness likely functioned as a space for the realisation that 平常心是道 (Byodō-shin kore Dō / ‘Your ordinary mind is already the way’.)—a place where the practice of Zen was found not only in the seated meditation of Zazen, but in the ‘ordinary life’ of sweeping and weeding. For instance, the custom of raking ripples into the white sand may originally have held no symbolic meaning; it might have been nothing more than a 行 (Gyō / Practice), where one simply moves one's hands in a state of selflessness, free from any grand truth.

However, the moment an ‘outsider’—someone other than the practitioner—peered in, this space of daily practice underwent a transformation. Exposed to the gaze of an audience hungry for consumable meaning, mere patterns in the sand were overwritten to signify ‘waves’, and simple rocks were degraded into the mere symbols of ‘islands’. If anything, it was only after ‘outsiders’ began to enter that the stillness of the Zen Garden began to function as a ‘trap’.

Having experienced both the academic world of a graduate school of art and the front lines as a judge for international photography awards, I am keenly aware of the ‘inconvenient truths’ and the ‘hypertrophy of context’ that plague the art world. Our societal premise—the demand that everything be presented to others and possess defined significance—frequently compels us to retroactively impose meaning upon things that were once simply there. Much of what is labelled as ‘art’ today is, in fact, merely maintaining a facade of loftiness. When a work fails to move the observer’s heart, it is often due to a stark dissonance between its linguistic framework—the Artist Statement—and the raw, non-verbal presence that the work itself is meant to hold. The converse is also true: a pattern where the linguistic context or the narrative background possesses undeniable strength, yet the non-verbal presence of the work itself fails to balance the scales, unable to withstand or match the weight of its own story.

We, Homo sapiens, are creatures incessantly ensnared by the magical allure of ‘meaning’. Were one to ask a Zen monk the ‘meaning’ of his garden, he would undoubtedly hesitate, offering only an elusive or ambiguous response. He would shy away from any definitive answer. It is a profound irony that we, in the modern era, willingly walk into the very ‘traps of meaning’ that Zen rigorously sought to keep at a distance. This tragic ‘misalignment’—this fundamental mismatch of intentions between the observer and the garden—is perhaps the True Reality reflected in the Zen Gardens of today. Consider an era before television or social media: how could a practitioner have ‘envisioned’ a landscape they had never truly seen? Is it truly plausible that a Japanese monk, gazing at a single hanging scroll, could conjure the majestic wilderness of the Chinese continent? Or that a monk who had never known the sea could project vast oceans and islands onto a cluster of rocks?

Even if Zen philosophy were projected onto the garden, to define it simply as a ‘vast ocean’ or ‘mountains floating in a sea of clouds’ feels like a far too simplistic use of the imagination. A true practitioner of Zen would surely counsel: ‘Just gaze, yet do not fixate. Before your mind is ensnared by the object—the sand or the stone—liberate your heart from the tether of thought’. 

I would wish to express this through a term of my own: do not seek to be ‘Mindful’, but rather, seek to be Mindfree. To be Mindfree is to dissolve the boundary between subject and object. It is a liberation from the ‘presumed meanings’ that society has conditioned us to accept as certain. By casting aside the preconceived notions imposed by society and standing within a state of absolute void, we finally become capable of autonomously bestowing ‘meaning’ upon the primordial stirrings that well up from within. We Homo sapiens incessantly seek comfort by attaching names and meanings to all things, while discarding the ungraspable as ‘meaningless’. This is our nature. Yet, life is nothing less than the act of autonomously creating meaning within a world that is, inherently, void of it. One must not be ‘Mindful’ of meanings that press upon us from the outside. We must first become Mindfree from such external dictations; only then can we truly begin to bestow meaning upon life itself, by our own hand.

Musō Soseki, the Zen monk who designed many classic 枯山水(Karesansui) gardens, writes in his work Muchū Mondōshū (Dialogues in a Dream): ‘Even if a person’s love for gardens appears no different from that of the worldly, if they embrace that sentiment as an inner spirit of devotion and use the garden’s scenery as a vessel for spiritual practice, then that is the true attitude of one devoted to the path of Zen’. This teaching suggests that it is not the ‘object’—the garden—that is of primary importance, but rather the ‘mind’ that receives it. It serves as a stern warning: if one views a garden through the lens of possessiveness or visual pleasure—merely as something ‘beautiful’ or ‘luxurious’—without using it as a place of practice to illuminate one's inner turmoil, and lacks the awareness of ‘living within the embrace of Satori (Self-Dissolution into the Web of Relations or Life) in both its creation and observation, then it is nothing more than a luxury item. To visit a Zen Garden and assume that the resulting pleasant tranquility is Zen itself is a hollow conclusion; it is nothing more than the adjectival ‘Zen’ found in the Cambridge English Dictionary. If a Zen Garden does indeed possess a function for discipline, perhaps it lies in a certain irony: by employing symbolic arrangements that tempt us toward easy interpretation, it intentionally provokes our hunger for ‘external meaning’, thereby challenging us to transcend it.

To gaze upon a garden and yet remain captive to external stimuli, reacting passively to what lies without—that is the very essence of unfreedom. Even as one seeks stillness in the garden, one is confronted by the ingrained habit of being ‘Mindful’ of meanings pressing from the outside, yearning for the solace of definitions. To notice that profound ‘discomfort’—a sensation as if the ground were being pulled from beneath one's feet—is the true point of departure for living Zen within the embrace of Satori. Zen is, in essence, the Serenity that enables one to remain present amidst the clamour. It is deeply regrettable that only superficial images—‘Zen is quiet meditation’ or ‘Zen is that which calms the heart’—have been amplified and perpetuated, causing the essence to be obscured.

Through More is Less, Toward Less is More.

Driven by an egoistic pursuit of efficiency and results within certain programmed ‘Mindfulness’ practices, and the superficial consumption of Zen Gardens as mere tourist attractions, the very concept of Zen is undergoing a structural hollowing out—degraded into a mere superficial husk, serving as nothing more than a lifestyle tool or a design aesthetic. I am profoundly concerned that the 2,500-year history of Zen Buddhist philosophy, once consumed as a passing fashion or a marketing trend, will be branded as ‘outdated’ within a few decades. This possibility weighs heavily upon me.

To my eyes, certain forms of ‘Zen-based Mindfulness’, when framed within the context of self-presentation, function as a structural equivalent to working out at the gym to sculpt a ‘strong-looking’ physique. Just as such a workout bestows the outward appearance of strength without necessarily translating to true functional power, I question whether this specific approach to mindfulness truly aligns with the dynamic reality at the heart of Zen. A Zen State of Consciousness—much like the functional muscles naturally formed in the bodies of construction workers or fishers through the necessity of their daily toil—is simply manifest in how one exists and how one lives within the reality of daily life.

Furthermore, the common perception of Zen as an act of ‘stripping away’ has a troubling affinity with contemporary exclusivism—the tendency to selectively embrace only what is convenient while rejecting all else. This, I feel, is inextricably linked to the sense of claustrophobia inherent in the superficial Minimalism of our time. For me, however, a Zen State of Consciousness is by no means something that can be contained within the narrow concept of Minimalism. On the contrary, Zen encompasses the polarities of both Maximalism and Minimalism. It is not an active effort to ‘strip away’ to reveal the essence; rather, the essence is what remains as the superficial is ‘naturally sloughed off’—precisely because one knows and holds a great deal. In truth, the true essence of Zen only begins to reveal itself within a world that is rich and maximal.

The design philosophy of Less is More—the hallmark of modern architecture—can be redefined not as a mere technique of subtraction, but as an aesthetic that sublates excessive trials and internal conflicts (More), distilling them into a single drop of essence (Less). One cannot move forward if one interprets merely as the idea that ‘excess causes the essence to be obscured’. The same holds true within Zen. To crave and to acquire in abundance is a primordial urge of life; for a human being, it is a natural desire. It is a journey of traversing vast experiences and deep contemplation, of encountering diverse others, and of sharing in their joys. At times, we face hardships, feel anger, and come to know sorrow. Yet, what we must never forget is this: the more we acquire, and the more we know, the more we require the strength to organise, select, and autonomously bestow meaning upon it all. This is the dialectical journey that leads to the true Less is More.

As our lives become enriched with vast experiences and possessions, we must scrutinise them and learn to let go of both what is redundant and what is unnecessary. This is not about being swept away by the endless tide of desires, nor is it about mere self-suppression; rather, it is about a decisive Non-valuation—removing them entirely from the frame of value, where things are weighed in terms of gain or loss. We must come to realise that the seeds of our suffering were, in fact, sown by our own hands within our hearts. Such an introspective More is Less—this disciplined practice—must precede the realisation of a true Less is More.　In the modern world, Less is More is frequently exploited as an excuse to justify an exclusive attitude—simplifying matters only to eliminate what is inconvenient. However, Less is More only truly manifests when we complete the paradoxical cycle: ‘Know much and experience much’ → ‘Lose one’s way’ → ‘Non-valuate’ → ‘Everything but the essence is stripped away’. It is established only when we attain the ability to maintain Serenity even amidst a reality saturated with excessive information, distractions, and desires.

There is a series of ink wash drawings known as the Ten Bulls (十牛図 / Jūgyū-zu), which depicts the nature of Satori. One wanders in search of a bull—the true self—and struggles with it; eventually, both the bull and the self vanish, resulting in a perfect circle where nothing is drawn within the frame. However, the journey concludes with a return to the sphere of ordinary life. 

It is within this very ordinariness that the true world of Less is More resides. With a superficial Less is More mindset that lacks physical experience, ‘Zen Gardens’ will forever remain confined within the narrow framework of a mere ‘garden style’. An authentic Zen Garden is not a sanctuary for retreating from the noisy daily life—misinterpreted as a state of ‘presence’ (有 / U)—into a quiet, extraordinary space, mistaken for a state of ‘absence’ (無 / Mu). Nor is it a device meant simply to project a new representation of the world from a minimalist space, as if filling a vacuum of 無 (Mu / Absence). with a new 有 (U / Presence). The true essence of Zen—which results-oriented Mindfulness and commercialised tourism fail to convey—resides not in the dualistic opposition of presence versus absence, but in the cyclical return between the inherent 有 (U) and 無 (Mu) as taught in Buddhist tradition. 

Furthermore, this inherent Zen is not reserved exclusively for special monks or specific temple gardens. Zen Master Dōgen (1200–1253) taught that Zazen (seated Meditation) is not the only form of Zen practice.

In the next chapter, in order to restore this true essence of Zen, I will discuss the necessity of possessing a space where one can experience a Zen State of Consciousness within the rhythm of daily life.

Chapter 5. The Democratisation of Zen, Begins in Your Garden

From the garden governed by Logos to the garden entrusted to Physis.

A Zen State of Consciousness is not something to be acquired through the accumulation of knowledge or personal growth; rather, it is a sudden realisation of that which ‘already exists’—an experience woven into the fabric of daily life. 

At the core of this realisation lies a unique reinterpretation of a passage from the Nirvana Sutra, which conveys the final teachings of Siddhartha: 一切衆生 悉有仏性 (Issai Shujō Shitsuu Busshō). 

The Restoration of Zen, Open to All

一切衆生 悉有仏性 (Issai Shujō  Shitsuu Busshō) — Traditionally, this phrase is interpreted as ‘All living beings possess 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-Nature / the potential for Satori)’, where the character 有 (U) is understood as a verb of possession—to ‘have’. It is often perceived merely as an internal ‘potential’ held within the individual.

However, Zen Master Dōgen radically reimagined this 有 (U) not as a verb, but as a substantive noun: Existence itself. Indeed, whether in modern Chinese, the language of a millennium ago, or even in the Archaic Chinese of the first millennium BCE, the character 有 (U) has consistently signified ‘to exist’ or ‘there is’. Thus, 悉有 (Shitsuu) signifies ‘the entirety of the world’s existence—all modes of existence itself’—and therefore, 悉有仏性 (Shitsuu Busshō) means: ‘This world is 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-Nature / the potential for Satori)’.

Furthermore, Dōgen did not perceive 仏性 (Busshō) as a hidden seed within the ‘self’; rather, he saw it as the very Buddha-World (World of Satori) that encompasses and enfolds the self. This resonates with the original Sanskrit, where the concept of 性 (Shō) denotes not only an individual’s internal potential but also the very ‘Structure of the World’.

Therefore, for Dōgen, 一切衆生 悉有仏性 (Issai Shujō  Shitsuu Busshō) was not interpreted as ‘All living beings possess 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-Nature / the potential for Satori)’; rather, he understood it to mean that the entirety of the world’s existence—including both the animate and the inanimate—is, in every mode of its being and exactly as it is, already within the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori).

And do you recall the term 悉有 (Shitsuu) appearing in Chapter 2, within the context of the ‘Continuous Flow in Impermanence’ and ‘Eastern Philosophy: Perceiving the Pre-Linguistic World?

The hallmark of Eastern philosophy, from Ancient Greece eastward, has been to draw us back from this Experiential World (Post-Linguistic World)—a world fragmented by labels and meanings—and return us to the Pre-Linguistic World. It guides us from the Articulated Plurality of the World (多 Ta / the Many / 有 U) back to a Primordial, Undifferentiated Unity (一 Ichi / One / Zero-ness / 無 Mu), leading us to the realisation that this One (一 Ichi / Zero-ness / 無 Mu) is, in fact, (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu). This triggers a transformation in our perception, whereby we recognise this fragmented Experiential World as 仮有 (Keu / Provisional Existence)

Furthermore, in Chapter 3, ‘Eastern Philosophy Linked Through Physis’, we noted that we must not forget that even in Ancient Greece, there existed the philosophical concept of Physis—the primordial nature of all things, containing within itself all generation and change.

A flower is a sign of Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu) itself made manifest; even its scattering is part of the movement of that very Existence. ‘Existence flowers‘, and in time, dissolves back into the great expanse of Existence. This dynamic cycle of generation and dissolution—of birth and death—is none other than the ceaseless Biogeochemical Cycle of synthesis and decomposition between the biotic and abiotic worlds, as recognised by modern science.

修証一如 (Shushō ichinyo) — Zen Master Dōgen rejected the notion of 修 (Shu) practice as a mere ‘means’ to reach ‘Satori’, asserting instead that 修 (Shu) practice and 証 (Shō) (Satori / Recurring Process of Self-dissolution into the Web of Relations) are one and the same (一如 / Ichinyo). What, then, is born from a heart that strives to ‘attain Satori’ by viewing 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-Nature)  merely as a potential? It is a dualistic attachment that cleaves the ‘current self’ away from an ‘ideal Satori’. For Dōgen, ‘practice’ is not a means to reach a distant goal of ‘Satori’.

本証妙修 (Honshō myōshū) — ‘Practice (修 / Shu)’ is nothing other than the process of continuously confirming, through the acts of the present moment, the reality that one’s very mode of being is inherently the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World /World of Satori) itself. Recall the Biogeochemical Cycle, where elements and molecules circulate between the biotic and the abiotic. The total mass of matter on Earth remains almost constant—excluding the minor influence of meteorites or cosmic dust—perpetually repeating the cycle of ‘synthesis’ and ‘decomposition’ across the biosphere, hydrosphere, lithosphere, and atmosphere since time immemorial. We are an integral part of this grand earthly circulation that knows no boundary between the biotic and the abiotic; in other words, we are the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori). Buddhist philosophy intuited this Biogeochemical Cycle thousands of years before the advent of modern science. We are the manifestation of Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu).

If this is so, it should be clear by now that ‘practice (修 / Shu)’ is not about becoming something special. Practice is about wholeheartedly living and being one with your surroundings; it is the process of confirming the truth that our existence is already, from the very outset, inextricably part of the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori). 

It is found in that moment every morning when you breathe deeply, surrounded by the flowers in your garden—as they take in your carbon dioxide through photosynthesis to build new petals and leaves. It is a total immersion in this profound activity of the world. 

It is found in cherishing the cycle where you, in turn, breathe the oxygen they produce, which becomes the energy for your own vital activities. This is the very essence of living within the continuum.

Dōgen writes in the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori) fascicle of his masterwork, 正法眼蔵 (Shōbōgenzō):

‘One group of people believes that 仏性 (Busshō) is like the seed of a plant or tree:
when the nourishing rains of the Dharma continuously moisten it,
the buds and stems grow, branches and leaves flourish,
flowers bloom, and fruits are borne. 

And within that fruit, they believe, a new seed resides. 

To perceive it in this way is
nothing more than the sentiment of an ordinary person,
measuring truth by a human yardstick. 

Yet, even if one holds such a view, one should investigate further:
both the seed and the flower-fruit are, in every instance,
the manifestation of a naked, sincere heart. 

Within the fruit lies the seed;
though the seed itself is unseen, it gives rise to the roots and stems. 

Without anyone having forcibly gathered them, myriad branches extend,
eventually forming a massive trunk and becoming a great tree. 

This is not a matter of debate between the internal and the external;
it is a reality that remains unfailing through all time, past and present. 

Therefore, even if we concede to that common perception,
the roots, stems, branches, and leaves all live together, die together, and are
—in their entirety—the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori) that is
‘Total Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu)’.

We tend to succumb to a ‘narrative of growth’—believing that we sow a seed, wait for the rain to bring sprouts, watch them mature into flowers, and eventually bear the fruit of ‘Satori’. Yet, the seed hidden within the soil is not a mere ‘future potential’. Its value does not depend on the hope that it will one day bloom into a magnificent flower. Even as a ‘seed’, it is not in a ‘preparatory period’ for the future; it is, in that very moment, a 100% manifestation of the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori). It is not only the roots that take hold in the earth; the leaves that wither and fall are also, in their entirety, a single 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori). Plants do not ‘practice’ in the hope of blooming better next time. At every moment—whether as a flower or a fruit—they are already living to their fullest the instantaneous reality of the Biogeochemical Cycle. 

In other words, in this very moment, any garden—wherever it may be—exists within the Biogeochemical Cycle, which is to say, the Buddha-World. Every single gesture in our daily lives becomes a ‘practice’ to confirm our own 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori). Seen in this light, tilling the soil or conversing with plants is no longer mere ‘toil’ to achieve a result; it becomes a practice to verify the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori) of one’s own existence. What a truly joyous practice that is!

A Zen State of Consciousness is a sphere that manifests equally within your own garden. The fact that Dōgen taught that Zazen (seated Meditation) within a temple is not the only form of Zen practice is the greatest illumination for those of us living in the modern world. Furthermore, Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki, who introduced Japanese Zen culture widely to the West, noted in his writings his wish that readers might ‘touch a fragment of the Zen experience and find it an aid in approaching their own essential nature’. 

Please, rest assured. It is a fundamental misunderstanding that one cannot encounter Zen without undergoing rigorous training at a monastery. Rather, what is urgently required of us today is the Democratisation of Zen. We cannot simply discard a social life that is buffeted by the countless ‘sufferings’ of temptation and bewilderment. Is it possible for us all to renounce the world, shave our heads, and lead an austere life within a temple? If we did, who would be left to provide the offerings that sustain such institutions? We must live our lives within a society inevitably tossed by these waves of suffering. 

That is precisely why we must secure a ‘space’ where a Zen State of Consciousness can be welcomed into the rhythm of our everyday existence. That space is your garden, your balcony, or even your windowsill. Within your own garden, you yourself practice the wisdom of Zen—a wisdom that is undergoing a hollowing out, increasingly treated as a mere adjective. You yourself reclaim the philosophy of Zen, so often treated as a lofty, inaccessible truth, right there amidst your plants. This is the Democratisation of Zen that you, as a lover of flowers, can participate.

Cold Stillness & Warm Serenity

Cold Stillness and Warm Serenity—have you already begun to perceive the difference? If so, which of the two do you believe embodies Zen? 

This inquiry brings us to the definition of life set forth by the French philosopher Henri Bergson in his seminal work, L'Évolution créatrice (Creative Evolution).

« Toutes nos analyses nous montrent dans la vie un effort pour remonter la pente que la matière descend. » All our analyses show us in life an effort to climb the slope that matter descends.

All our analyses show us, in life, an effort to remount the incline that matter descends.

While matter simply rolls down the slope of time and physical decay, passively awaiting its own dissolution, life exerts a constant effort to climb back up that very same incline, step by step. In biology, this dynamic process of resisting the tide of time and physical disintegration to maintain the internal environment in a constant state is called ‘Homeostasis’. This capacity is the primordial power of life—a mobilisation of physiological functions to maintain an internal environment within the boundaries necessary for survival. Microbes, plants, and even the simplest animals live through this very system we call ‘Homeostasis’. 

Furthermore, it was from this continuous physiological exertion that the development of ‘emotion’ and ‘consciousness’ became possible. Sensations of pleasure and pain serve as guides, leading the organism toward states favourable to survival. Consciousness then evolved to bestow meaning upon these sensations, enabling us to predict and avoid external crises before they even manifest. 

However, as humanity acquired this ‘higher-order consciousness’, we began to succumb to a particular temptation: ‘If we fill the world only with the meanings we already know, we can live more easily’.

Modern Minimalism, now so pervasive in contemporary lifestyles, could be described as an extreme transformation of the survival instinct—an attempt to minimise unforeseen external variables and solidify one’s surroundings only with pleasurable, predictable ‘meanings’. However, the stillness found there is merely a Cold Stillness that shuts out noise and rejects diversity. It is here, I believe, that the term ‘Zen’ has been misappropriated to symbolise a stillness that draws a line between oneself and the ‘otherness’ of the world. 

To hold the artifice of ‘stripping away’ as a virtue, or to believe that peace can only be found in a space devoid of noise, is to fundamentally undermine the essence of Zen. Rather, one might say that realising the true essence of Zen lies in the cyclical return—the constant movement between Maximalism and Minimalism. 

In recent years, exclusivism has gained ground; algorithms strip away the diversity of information available to us, and the ‘noise cancellation’ of consciousness increasingly accelerates. We must not bestow the name of ‘Zen’ upon the Cold Stillness that is physically manufactured from exclusion and uniformity. Stillness is not a ‘possession’ obtained by excluding the external environment; it is a ‘state’ that arrives as a result of dissolving the boundaries between oneself and the entire world—noise and all.

By soothing the ego-centric habit of assigning fixed meanings, we sharpen the senses that bind the self to the world. That is to say, we erase the ‘boundaries devoid of 慈悲 (Jihi)’—those ruthless lines we unconsciously draw between ourselves and the world, between self and other. At the risk of being misunderstood, 慈悲 (Jihi) is not the same as ‘love’. Whether for better or worse, there are many forms of love, and at times, love has a tendency to draw boundaries. Therefore, it might be more intuitive to describe 慈悲 (Jihi) as a ‘love that draws no boundaries’. If you encounter the world and others with this Non-Verbal Sensitivity, you will surely begin to notice a certain ‘coldness’ within what you once perceived as a pleasant Stillness.

Yet, it is not the world itself that has changed. Rather, it is because your recognition of the relationship between yourself and the world—between self and other—has been revolutionised, that the world appears transformed. To daily recall this state of surrendering oneself to such Warm Serenity, it is vital to secure a ‘rehabilitative space’ in your everyday life—a place where you can constantly sense the paradoxes of Less is More / More is Less and the Many is One / One is the Many.

Shore of Logos & Great Ocean of Physis

The Warm Serenity within a garden is the quietude that arrives after the subject-predicate inversion mentioned earlier: the shift from the static spatial perception of ‘A flower exists’ to the dynamic perception of ‘Existence flowers’. In elucidating this Philosophy of Existence, the two concepts rooted in Western philosophical tradition— Logos and Physis—provide us with profound insights. 

Logos signifies ‘word’, ‘logic’, ‘reason’, and ‘order’—the universal rational framework through which we seek to systematise the world. Modern science is founded upon the exploration of this Logos, and we live today under its immense benefits.

Conversely, Physis represents the dynamic generation and change of primordial Existence—such as nature and life—which cannot be partitioned by reason alone. In essence, Physis encompasses elements that resonate deeply with the Zen Sensibility: a dynamic ‘Cyclicity’ that undergoes ceaseless transformation; an ‘Immanence’ possessing an inner generative and growth power; an intuitive ‘Embodiment’ that bypasses linguistic grasp; and a ‘Transcendence’ that nullifies all limitations.

These relationships between Logos and Physis—while appearing as polar opposites such as ‘Order and Fluidity’, ‘Reason and Sensation’, ‘Logic and Intuition’, or ‘Word and Experience’—are, in truth, inextricably intertwined within our worldview. And there was a titan of Logos who may have been earnestly pursuing this Zen-Physis. It was none other than the father of modern science, Sir Isaac Newton. Having ordered the universe through the laws of mathematics and physics, he could rightfully be called the quintessential seeker of Logos. However, in his final years, he left behind these words:

« I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me. »

While these words may appear to be a simple expression of humility regarding his achievements, to me, they suggest that Newton was captivated by the very ‘ocean of truth’—the Physis that lurks beyond the horizon of Logos-based discovery. In this light, his ‘discoveries’ were merely the pretty pebbles and shells he managed to gather on the shore, just before the water’s edge of that vast ocean. Indeed, it is said that among the books Newton left behind, those pertaining to theology and philosophy outnumbered his works on mathematics, physics, and astronomy by nearly two to one. While Newton mastered Logos as a scientist, he was, perhaps even more so, a seeker of the world of Physis—that which cannot be grasped by language or reason—committing himself passionately to theology, philosophy, and alchemy.

Alchemy, in its time, was an academic endeavour widely practised in advanced centres of scholarly enquiry such as Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, India, China, and Medieval Arabia, aiming to approach the profound essence of nature. It should be understood not as superstitious magic, but as a form of Logos-Based Experiment applied to the Physis-Based Concepts that shifted across different eras and regions. While Newton is sometimes mocked as ‘the last magician’ for his non-scientific pursuits, ironically, our 21st-century world is still teeming with its own forms of ‘magic’. Whether it is the enduring belief in fortune-telling, the pilgrimage to ‘power spots’ at shrines in Japan, the quest to grant consciousness to AI, or the attempt to replicate the self by extracting neural memories—these are all modern manifestations of the same impulse. Alchemy is a sophisticated and multifaceted discipline of human sensibility and intellect; it involves intuitively perceiving the secrets of nature through symbolic thought (Physis) and attempting to materialise or analyse that intuition through experiment (Logos).

Newton, while searching for pretty pebbles and shells on the shore of Logos, was surely always gazing at the vast ocean of Physis spreading beyond. The facet of Newton known as ‘the last magician’ was by no means a form of unscientific delusion; it was the earnest countenance of a seeker who, at the ultimate reaches of Logos-Based Enquiry, was reaching towards the Physis-Dynamic Reality that spreads beyond its boundaries—a kind of Zen State of Consciousness. If this is so, then we who live today—even within the gardens we have constructed through Logos-based gardening—must also be able to perceive Nature itself: that is, Zen-Physis, the very essence of Existence (悉有 Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness / 無 Mu).

The Meaning Within Re-Zennish Garden

A Zen State of Consciousness manifests suddenly at the point where the self and the world begin to dissolve and meld into one another once more. This place of encounter is exactly what I propose as the Re-Zennish Garden. I have deliberately refrained from using the existing term ‘Zen Garden’, as it carries the risk in the modern day of being confined strictly to the traditional aesthetic forms of Japan.

The prefix ‘Re-’ in the newly coined term Re-Zennish Garden encapsulates a commitment to ‘Reinterpret’, ‘Reorganise’, and ‘Regenerate’ the popularised, adjectival ‘Zen’ that circulates in the world today. Simultaneously, it carries the intent to ‘Recover’ and ‘Restore’ the latent Zen State of Consciousness that has always been slumbering within your own garden. In the suffix ‘-ish’ of Re-Zennish, I have deliberately embedded both ‘Ambiguity’ and ‘Praxis’. While I considered alternatives such as ‘Zenny’ or ‘Zenful’, these terms risk suggesting a state where Satori (Recurring Process of Self-dissolution into the Web of Relations) has been 100% attained—an implication fundamentally at odds with the spirit of 不立文字 (Furyū monji / not relying on written words). In contrast, ‘-ish’ does not prescribe a specific model or style; it is a term that becomes valid the very moment one begins the practice. This aligns perfectly with Zen Master Dōgen’s concept of 修証一如 (Shushō ichinyo) which asserts that ‘the very act of practice is, in itself, the manifestation of Satori’.

本証妙修 (Honshō myōshū) — This concept asserts that our very mode of being is inherently the 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori / 本証 Honshō) itself. It is precisely to ensure that this 仏性 (Busshō)  does not remain a latent image hidden in the dark, but is continuously developed into a vivid reality, that we engage in practice (修 / Shu). Within this thought, there is no ‘finish line’ between practice and Satori. One does not ‘strive because one is lacking’. The act of tending to your garden, of continuing that ‘-ish’ praxis—that very conduct becomes your Zen. 

‘Be the Moment. Feel the Seasons.’ — The soil you touch now is the harvest of your past gardening, already holding the very cause of the garden yet to come. Within the tactile sensation of the ‘here and now’ as your hands move, you must find all seasons and the whole of time equally present. Rather than waiting for the future, by embracing the continuum of ‘time’ within this single moment, your solitary garden work transforms into a rich, lived experience of participating in the vast, ever-flowing cycle of life and Earth.

Through the accessible act of gardening, we share the philosophy of Zen—long protected within the ‘institutions’ of specific temple structures and lineages—broadly within the individual’s ‘practice of living’. Zen is not something to be partitioned by location or status. There are no boundaries in Zen. Instead of passing through a lofty temple gate, let us kneel upon the humble ground of our own gardens. It is from within your own garden that the Democratisation of Zen begins.

Be the Moment, Feel the Seasons

I must clarify beforehand that I do not exist in a constant, permanent state of Satori. This is, quite naturally, impossible. No one but Siddhartha himself can know the state of mind in which he continuously dwelled. 

We are beings who live through a continuous cycle of practice (修 / Shu), inseparable from Satori, while being tormented daily by various ‘desires’ and ‘suffering’ in our social lives. As a human being living in modern society, I, too, am naturally swept up in the busyness of daily life, occasionally swayed by worldly desires and shaken by secular emotions. However, Zen Master Dōgen criticised the very act of attempting to move from a ‘world of delusion’ to a 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori) as a ‘delusion’ in itself—one that falsely projects ‘Satori’ as something external to the self. The heart that sets up a special goal to be reached outside of its own existence, and strives to chase it, is what constitutes ‘delusion’ in its truest sense.

Our social environment differs vastly from that of practitioners one or two thousand years ago; we have our own modern way of living. Donning monastic robes, shaving one’s head, and retreating from the secular world is not the only true path. What is essential is not to dwell permanently in Satori, but to experience those Physis-Moments—the Zen State of Consciousness—in a gradational way within our daily lives, even amidst this noisy society filled with worldly desires and suffering. Furthermore, in an age where we tend to feel we have understood something simply through internet videos or convenient summary sites, we must remember that Zen can never be reached through 知得 (Chi toku / Acquisition through Intellect). The essence of Zen lies in 体得 (Tai toku / Realisation through Experience) of that state—which transcends written words 不立文字 (Furyū monji)—within the fabric of daily life. Terms like Physis-Moments or the Zen State of Consciousness are merely linguistic labels used for communication; if something can be fully grasped by language alone, it is nothing more than a product of Logos.

That is precisely why I wish to convey the philosophy of Zen to you through the concrete practice of gardening. Winter does not exist for the sake of spring, nor does summer exist for the sake of autumn. Within this single moment of ‘now’, the past and the future are equally present. I invite you to intuit this: ‘Be the Moment. Feel the Seasons’. If Zen has not yet ‘clicked’ in your mind, it is simply because your senses have not yet captured it. The Democratisation of Zen is by no means an abstract ideal. It is a concrete ‘praxis’ that begins today, right before your eyes, in the garden within your reach. 

Chefs, teachers, doctors—perhaps there is a Zen unique to each person in their respective vocations. Yet, I cannot know it, for I am neither a chef, nor a teacher, nor a doctor. I cannot speak with certainty about that which I have not experienced myself. However, as a gardener, I have come to perceive the Zen State of Consciousness within the garden. That is why I seek to share with you this relationship between gardening and Zen: ‘Be the Moment. Feel the Seasons’.

Gardening is a magnificent, universal, and non-verbal activity of humanity that transcends all vocations. It is for this reason that I feel a profound sense of hope in realising 抜苦与楽 (Bakku-Yoraku / Relieving Suffering [distress], cultivating fulfilment [Bringing Serenity]) for others by sharing the philosophy of Zen Gardening with people all across the world. 

I extend my deepest gratitude to you for reading this far, navigating the intricate intersections of philosophy, horticulture, and these perhaps unexpected perspectives. While Zen is indeed 不立文字 (Furyū monji / Unbounded by Words), we have no choice but to exhaust the limits of language to convey it—just as Siddhartha and Zen Master Dōgen once did. In the following chapter, I shall detail the specific path of my personal practice: how to cultivate a Re-Zennish Garden within the fabric of daily life.

Part 2. Through Embodiment

Chapter 6. Zen Gardening

A contemporary Zen garden based on the principles of Botanical Democracy.

As previously discussed, photographic technology is one of the supreme inventions of Logos throughout our history. It was conceived by Homo sapiens for the purpose of creating a ‘material trace of human existence’ within our Experiential World—ultimately born from the pursuit of a selfish, eternal life for the individual; that is, immortality. While it was not the physical body or spirit itself, it served as a sufficient material trace to anchor the certainty of one’s existence. However, the advancement of chemistry through Logos has begun to illuminate the very essence of life and the circulation of matter—namely, the return from 有 (U / articulated Plurality of the world / Manifested Form) to 無 (Mu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence), which is the primordial Physis of existence. 

Since 2015, I have referred to my own non-digital photographic techniques—involving ‘material photographs’ such as daguerreotypes, ambrotypes, film, and prints—as Physical Photography, a retronym I coined. My intention was to strip away the nostalgic sentimentality inherent in the term ‘analogue’ and to draw a sharp, new semantic boundary against ‘Digital Photography’—which is nothing more than an accumulation of data.

Physical Photography exists alongside us in the physical realm; it changes in accordance with physical laws, and through its physical form, it stimulates our own physical senses. Unlike ‘data photography’, which can only be perceived through a display, a ‘material photograph’ is always there. Through its texture, its scent, and a full range of sensory experiences, it teaches us the ‘origin of time’, the ‘ebb and flow of time’, and the ‘continuum of time’. My motto as a photographer has always been: ‘A photograph is half taken, half raised’. That is to say, ‘A shutter makes up half of a photograph; nurturing it completes the rest’. It was this experience of Physical Photography that awakened a ‘primordial sense of life’—the act of cherishing imperfection—and guided me toward the linguistic roots of Physis: the innate power of life to burst forth. 

My garden is situated at the entrance of my family’s portrait studio. It was a narrow, shallow planting area, yet it was essential to maintain a radiant and splendid garden regardless of the season—even in the depths of winter or the heights of summer—for the sake of the clients who visit daily to celebrate life’s milestones. Since this was not a tourist garden to be showcased only in spring, I wished to avoid the common gardening practice of leaving gaps between plants during autumn and winter, as such vacancy might evoke a sense of loneliness in our guests. Though I had only recently obtained my gardening qualifications and was under the influence of the Dunning-Kruger effect, I began to dig the earth, lay bricks, improve the soil, and create a garden using Super-Dense Planting, a method often considered reckless by conventional standards. Based on the premise of a Blooming Relay, I planted a vast variety of flowers as if to leave no gap unfilled. This was the genesis of my Super-Diverse, Super-Dense Garden.

Thus, while my initial objective was to create a ‘show garden’, once the process began, I started to feel a certain suffocation under the logically presented design rules—concepts like ‘place small plants in the front and tall ones in the back’ or ‘this colour pairs well or poorly with that’. It felt as though I was treating these living beings as mere ‘decorations’. Instead of fitting them into positions determined solely by human convenience, I began to plant them while deciding each one’s ‘comfort’ on-site. This marked the beginning of a garden-making process that could be called ‘improvised collaboration’—driven by a dialogue with the plants rather than by design rules.

And so, I realised that my unconventional approach was perhaps not merely ‘un-common-sense’ but ‘pre-common-sense’ in a pioneering way, thanks to the clients and visitors who graced my garden. Overturning their preconceptions and offering a new sense of hope for their own small gardens at home was a significant turning point for me. The act of Super-Dense Planting initially sprang from an immature arbitrariness—the ‘confidence of the Dunning-Kruger effect’. Yet, this acted as a catalyst that awakened the autonomy of the plants themselves. Through observing their responses, I was awakened to a Symbiotic-Ethics, and gardening transformed into a process of collaboration between the plants and myself. As a result, I encountered the Zen aesthetic sphere of Harmonious-Chaos.

To reiterate: the Zen State of Consciousness is, in essence, that profound instant when the self and the world dissolve back into one another, or when one grasps reality directly, prior to the intervention of language. Zen teaches us that this is not a truth to be understood through intellect, but a realisation to be embodied through the senses. The primary impetus for this essay lies in the fact that, within our beloved practice of gardening, there are moments when we suddenly reclaim these instants of primal relationship.

In my own journey as a practitioner of Physical Photography, it was by chance that I first encountered this Zen State of Consciousness—this Zen-Physis or Physis-moments. Thus, in retrospect, the very act of taking a photograph was, for me, Zen. Subsequently, within the garden as well, I came to experience firsthand that Physis-moments when ‘Existence flowers’. 

Yet, the essence of Zen remains 不立文字 (Furyū monji)—that which is unestablished by words. Therefore, my words—my Logos—are merely the ‘finger’ pointing at the moon (the truth). Even so, without that finger, one cannot point toward the moon at all. Thus, I deliberately weave these words to provisionally draw a new ‘boundary of meaning’ within your consciousness, hoping that, together, we may venture toward the depths of Zen-Physis.

In Buddhism, Satori is not a binary ‘0 or 100’ state, but rather a spectrum of gradations. Even from a small planter on a balcony or the weeds that most treat as nuisances, a transition from ‘0 to 1’ can occur. To invite this shift, one must never strive to create a garden as an ‘orderly, finished product’ governed by Logos. Ask yourself: have you unconsciously begun to assign scores to your own gardening? Your garden is not your ‘work of art’. It is an ever-unfinished entity, much like a single organism that undergoes constant synthesis and decomposition. I urge you to perceive the dynamism of Physis dwelling within your garden. Based on my own experience, the starting point for this is to enjoy gardening through the lens of Botanical Democracy. After all, even I did not realise from the very beginning that gardening was, in itself, the path of Zen.

The Re-Zennish Garden I am about to describe is an approach accessible to everyone who lives alongside plants in their daily lives. It is not about mimicking a specific aesthetic style, such as ‘Zen-style minimalism’. Furthermore, there are no ‘model gardens’ or ‘perspective drawings’ to follow. What is essential is the cognitive transformation that occurs within you—a journey from 有 (U / articulated Plurality of the world / Manifested Form / Diversity-World) to 無 (Mu / Un-manifested Potential / Harmonious-Chaos), and then looking back at the world of 仮有 (Keu / Provisional Existence / Super-Diversity-World / Harmonious-Chaos) from that vantage point of 無/悉有 (Mu / Shitsuu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence / Harmonious-Chaos). In the following sections, I will briefly introduce each waypoint on the journey toward a Re-Zennish space, before guiding you through the details of each step.

(1) Super-Diversity — The Beauty of Addition, A Home for Each One

The Re-Zennish Garden begins from the vantage point of Super-Diversity. Though this concept may seem simple, it demands a specific kind of ‘bravery’—the courage to break free from the spell of others' evaluations. Disregard the gaze of society and freely select the flowers that truly make your heart leap. This should be effortless if you recall those early days when you first visited a nursery, marvelling at the vibrant individuality of every plant with eyes full of wonder. 

Furthermore, when it comes to placement, try asking the flowers themselves where they wish to dwell. To do this, you must possess—or be willing to acquire—knowledge regarding each plant’s requirements for sunlight and drainage. However, I urge you to momentarily discard the ‘design thinking’ that dictates which colours must match. 

‘Will this look strange?’ ‘I want to be seen as having good taste’ — if you preoccupy yourself with ‘correct’ design or the gaze of others, your garden risks being reduced to a mere collection of ‘objects’. We have no need for the Logos-Driven Mindset that treats nature as a controllable blueprint. Begin, once again, by simply welcoming the flowers that make your heart throb.

By doing so, your gardening will transform into an act of ‘Bricolage’—as theorised by Claude Lévi-Strauss—where you connect the distinct individualities of the diverse lives before you, unconstrained by pre-existing frameworks.

As you engage sincerely with the plants, the garden shifts from a ‘space to be viewed by others’ into a ‘space for connecting separate lives together’. Gradually, your previously narrow ‘preferences’ will diversify, and the courage to build these new connections from scratch will evolve into an awareness of the garden as a ‘space for discovering the relationships that are already there’. Ultimately, you will reaffirm a profound truth: as your own perception transforms, the world itself begins to change.

And so, as more and more diverse individualities gather in your garden, you will arrive at a striking realisation: ‘These plants, which once seemed so disparate, are generating a profound harmony precisely because of their exquisite irregularities’.

(2) Symbiotic-Ethics — The Logic of Management or the Physis of Coexistence

Once you sense this ‘dynamic harmony’ that thrives precisely because of its inherent disparity, your garden has already entered the next stage: Symbiotic-Ethics. This transition occurs because the diversity above ground is directly mirrored in the diversity within the soil. In fact, plant roots, fungi, and microorganisms weave complex networks, sustaining one another in a silent, subterranean alliance. Consequently, you will likely notice a striking phenomenon: ‘Everything is growing vigorously even when I neglect pesticides or fertilisers’. Witnessing the plants flourish so autonomously, powerfully, and joyfully, you will begin to relinquish the anxiety of trying to control the garden (‘Doing’) and, instead, awaken to the power of life as it regulates itself—the state of simple (‘Being’).

The essential shift lies in reconsidering your garden not as a ‘possession’ or an ‘object of dominance’, but as an ‘autonomous symbiotic organism’ where diverse lives intersect. As the organic relationships between the subterranean root systems, fungi, and microbial communities deepens, the garden begins to distance itself from the Logos of human ‘control and domination’. Gradually, an autonomous ecology—a Physis-Existence—manifests itself. ‘I understand your garden now. You aren’t ‘managing’ it; you are ‘tending’ to it’. — These were the words spoken to me one day by an elderly gentleman who visited as a client. I remain deeply grateful to him for contrasting ‘management’ with ‘tending’, capturing the atmosphere of my garden with such insightful precision. 

By the time you come to feel that you are not the ‘master’ of your plants but rather their ‘companion’, your garden will inevitably transform: shifting from a ‘place of action’ where you facilitate relationships, to a ‘place of participation’—a sphere where relationships weave themselves together. This is the very embodiment of ‘Be one with what you do’.

(3) Harmonious-Chaos: Where Chaos Harmonises — The Zen State.

The garden is a place that reconnects you with ‘Nature’. As I mentioned, the Re-Zennish Garden does not aim to create a garden as an ‘orderly, finished creation’. However, to those who wish to perceive nature through a dominant, deductive lens—a methodology that forces life to conform to pre-established design blueprints—the spectacle of a garden that does not aim to be an ‘orderly, finished creation’ may appear like a Logos-Driven Chaos, and it might not seem attractive to them.

But in truth, you will perceive a warm Physis-Driven Chaos within it. Rather than relying on the deductive ‘Logos-Thinking’ of design theory, you have accumulated an inductive Physis-Thinking by asking each plant, ‘Where do you wish to be?’ Within the ‘chaos’ of a garden collaborated on by the ‘plants’ and ‘yourself’, you will inevitably perceive the 'connectedness' as the Warm Serenity rooted within the Chaos.

The Beauty of Subtraction of the Logos, which eliminates the unnecessary, brings a Cold Stillness. In contrast, The Beauty of Addition of the Physis, where all relationships are interwoven, bestows a Warm Serenity. When you can truly perceive through your whole being that everything—‘you (the subject) and the plant (the object)’, ‘the animate and the inanimate’, ‘life and death’—is connected in a Boundary-less continuum, you will surely come to realise that what exists there is not Logos-Driven Chaos, but rather, a Physis-Driven Chaos.

This Physis-Driven Chaos is the very essence of Harmonious-Chaos. At this stage, your perception undergoes a further, more decisive transformation. It is a transformation of perception that moves from 有 (U / articulated Plurality of the world / Manifested Form / Diversity-World) to 無 (Mu / Un-manifested Potential / Harmonious-Chaos), and then looks back upon the world of 仮有 (Keu / Provisional Existence / Super-Diversity-World / Harmonious-Chaos) from the vantage point of 無/悉有 (Mu / Shitsuu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence / Harmonious-Chaos). When you can non-verbally digest this paradoxical expression of 無/悉有 (Mu / Shitsuu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence / Harmonious-Chaos) within yourself, the philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness) awakens within your daily life. 空 (Kū) is by no means a philosophy of Nihilism. To translate it into simpler terms, 空 (Kū) is the warm Physis that integrates the animate and the inanimate—a realisation that everyone and everything is connected somewhere, and that all beings are mutually supporting one another.

While the character for 空 (Kū) can denote ‘Sky’ or ‘Emptiness’, you must not imagine an ‘empty sky’ where nothing exists. Instead, envision the very ‘sky-scape’ itself—one where clouds drift and expressions shift from moment to moment. A ‘cloud’ is not a fixed, solid entity; it is a temporary ‘state’ that emerges from the convergence of the wind, humidity, and dust particles of that particular moment.

In other words, a flower blooming in your garden is also a phenomenon—a manifestation arising from the convergence of various 縁 (En / Pratyaya / Interconnected Web of Occasions), such as soil nutrients, sunlight, and your own tending. It becomes possible to perceive it as the very process of incessant change. Grasping the world not as a collection of ‘fixed objects’, but as a ‘continuum of shifting relationships and states’—this is the essence of 空 (Kū). Rather than rationalising this sensation through logic, it is essential to internalise it as a physical experience, absorbing it into your very body. The Re-Zennish Garden is precisely the place for accumulating this daily practice of ‘Embodying 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness)’.

How did that feel to you? I firmly believe that anyone, anywhere in the world, can ignite a Re-Zennish movement within their own garden, manifesting and cultivating it into a Contemporary Zen Garden. From here, I shall guide you through these three steps in greater detail. 

Precisely because we live in an era where — through the media — grand, palatial gardens created with abundant capital, time, and labour tend to receive the most attention, I truly hope that the ‘pre-common-sense’ idea of the Re-Zennish Garden serves as a new beacon of hope for us ‘gardeners of daily life’.

Super-Diversity — The Beauty of Addition, A Home for Each One

Super-Diversity, the starting point of the Re-Zennish Garden, is not merely a ‘collection’ aimed at increasing plant varieties. Its true purpose lies in collaborating with the plants to foster a space of generous affirmation for the individuality of every single life.

The colour of a petal, the shape of a leaf, the timing of a bloom, the rhythm of life, and the environment of its origin — even when these all differ, the Super-Diversity Garden is a place where every unique plant truly has a place to call home.

For this to unfold, however, one must first possess the ‘bravery’ to shatter the spell of external evaluation. We should set aside the gaze of others—those lingering anxieties like ‘Will this look strange?’ or the ego-driven desire to be perceived as ‘tasteful’ or as ‘having a good eye’. A Logos-Driven Mindset, which treats the garden as a controllable and predictable blueprint, is unnecessary for us ‘gardeners of daily life’. What we truly require is to reclaim that original spark of excitement felt when we first began frequenting the plant nursery. Start by welcoming flowers that genuinely move your soul, and then gradually expand those horizons of affirmation. This begins with the process of deconstructing your own ‘preferences’, which may have become narrow and biased.

True individuality blooming in altruism — individuality is not a self-contained trait, but inherently a force that allows others to shine. To prepare a stage for such resonance, start by letting go of the question: ‘Where should I place this flower?’ Instead, try asking the trees and the flowers themselves. For instance, converse with them like this: ‘Where would you feel most at ease? Ah, nestled between these two? I agree! Since your places of origin are so different, this is your first time meeting, but I think you’ll suit each other perfectly’. Or perhaps: ‘Where can you best flourish? Ah, beside that one? I see—so you’ll bring out her character too? Indeed. And that makes the plant behind you look wonderful as well’. I am speaking in earnest. Do not decide through your own ego; instead, incline not your ears, but your heart, to the silent voices of the plants. Allow yourself to become the very hands and feet that move for them.

This is a ‘Bricolage’ shift—as theorised by Claude Lévi-Strauss—where we cast off pre-established rules to interweave the diverse individualities before us, based on the relationships emerging in that very moment. Through this sincere engagement with the plants, the garden transforms from a ‘space to be viewed by others’ into a ‘space for connecting separate lives together’.

Gradually, a subtle shift in perception occurs: the ‘space for connecting’ begins to evolve into a ‘space for discovering the relationships’. It comes down to a fundamental question: Is everything disconnected from the start, or has it been connected all along? 

If the world is seen as disconnected, one must struggle to connect the fragments, and whatever cannot be connected is simply judged as ‘un-connectable’. However, if everything has been connected from the start, the only role is to discover the relationships that are already there. If the relationship remains unseen, it is not that the thread is absent—it is simply that it has not been discovered yet. Whether you are ‘connecting’ separate things (Doing) or ‘discovering’ the relationships that are already there (Being) — this subtle shift in perception makes a world of difference.

Your once-rigid ‘preferences’ will be deconstructed, replaced by a heart that actively seeks to affirm a multitude of diverse individualities. When this capacity to truly affirm the individuality of others is nurtured, a profound inversion occurs: the very bravery required to reach out and connect separate things, and the subsequent will to discover the relationships that are already there, transforms into a fundamental sense of belonging — the realisation that you, yourself, are already affirmed by the world. 

In this way, even more diverse personalities will inevitably be drawn to your garden. Gradually, you will begin to hear a rich harmony rising from the garden — a resonance born precisely from its exquisite irregularities.

In fact, within my modest garden, nearly 1,000 different plant varieties coexist throughout the year. Those who have never seen the space often ask: ‘Won’t planting that many varieties create utter chaos?’ Yet, interestingly, those who actually visit the garden invariably remark: ‘Somehow, it feels remarkably harmonious. But then, upon closer inspection, it’s astonishing how many different plants are actually tucked away in here…’.

To be sure, this Super-Density garden initially stemmed from a purely human-centred motive: my desire to maintain a ‘Blooming Relay’ across the twelve months—or more finely, across the twenty-four micro-seasons of Japan—to welcome guests for celebrations with a profusion of blooms. Yet, as a result, every visitor perceived a profound sense of harmony. I believe they were intuitively sensing a non-verbal philosophy of existence — that ‘true individuality blooming in altruism’ is a reality here. Despite the presence of a thousand differences, what dwells there is not a fierce clash, but a serene resonance.

Have you been crafting your garden through the lens of the ‘Beauty of Order’ or the Beauty of Subtraction? Are you perhaps projecting your own ego onto the landscape, desperately trying to control it: ‘This leaf colour must be paired with that one’, ‘This vibrant flower here would be too loud’, or ‘This flower must be the star; I shall surround it with supporting foliage’. 

In contrast, a garden of Super-Diversity embodies a gentle Beauty of Addition. This is not a mere rebellion against established aesthetics; it is an alternative path for the small, everyday gardens of our lives — one rooted in generous affirmation, where diverse individualities are interwoven to empower and sustain one another. 

In such a space, the thought that ‘this flower’s colour doesn't suit this garden’ simply never arises. Even for the newest plants joining the community, a place they can call home is always found somewhere in the garden. Through this tender, warm Beauty of Addition, the true essence of Zen is manifest.

Symbiotic-Ethics — Logos of Management or Physis of Coexistence

I host an ‘Open Garden’ every month, regardless of the season. One day, while enjoying a deep conversation about gardening with a visitor, I was struck by a realisation: my garden had maintained the vibrant health of its plants without ever relying on chemical pesticides or fertilisers. Seeking to identify the defining difference, I began to hypothesise that the cause lay in the sheer diversity of the flora above ground. Driven by this curiosity, I decided to investigate the mystery for myself. This marked the beginning of a new phase — the moment my Un-Common-Sense Gardening began to revolve into a Pre-Common-Sense Gardening.

It is widely recognised that as above-ground diversity flourishes, the diversity within the soil increases in tandem. Plants, generally unable to directly absorb nutrients from the soil in their raw form, beckon their own specific soil fungi and microorganisms to their roots. From the plant roots to these microbes, and from the microbes back to the roots, they send each other the nutrients they respectively need. Furthermore, through this subterranean network, it is even said that they distribute lacking nutrients to other plants. 

However, chemical fertilisers provide ‘immediate-release nutrients’ that roots absorb directly. When over-applied, the plants no longer feel the necessity to coexist with soil microbes, and they gradually cease to hold hands. Consequently, the subterranean network thins out, and the soil enters a downward spiral of depletion.

In soil where diversity has flourished, the ‘niches’ available for fungi that might distress the plants (a situation we humans find unfavourable) to settle in are diminished, naturally reducing the risk of plant disease. Indeed, in my own garden, instances of diseased plants are virtually non-existent. 

Similarly, I rarely observe leaves being eaten by insects. This is not to say that such damage is zero, but rather that the insects might take a small nibble and appear to move on almost immediately, without ever finishing the plant. I suspect that this, too, is thanks to Super-Diversity and Super-Dense Planting.

According to the latest research, environments with high plant diversity exhibit significantly lower rates of herbivory compared to less diverse settings. This phenomenon is driven primarily by two mechanisms. The first is the ‘jamming’ of foraging signals: a dense tapestry of diverse plants makes it difficult for pests to locate their preferred hosts. The second is that a diverse habitat attracts a wider array of natural predators—such as spiders and mantises—thereby increasing the overall predatory pressure within the ecosystem. 

Furthermore, latest research reveals that when plants encounter herbivory, they initiate complex defensive responses. Using calcium ions as initial signals, they produce hormones—such as jasmonic, salicylic, and ethylene—and synthesise defensive compounds like bitter agents, toxins, or digestive enzyme inhibitors. This process transforms them into ‘unpalatable leaves’, making them far from delicious for the insects. They can even release substances to summon natural enemies. Moreover, they emit specific olfactory signals (such as HIPVs) to communicate the danger to surrounding flora. Upon receiving these ‘scents’, neighbouring plants begin their own preemptive defensive responses—a fascinating phenomenon known as ‘Talking Plants’.

To human eyes, plants may appear to endure their existence in lonely silence. In reality, however, they live within a dense, constant web of communication, both above the ground and within the soil. 

When I first began creating my garden in 2021, I had no such scientific foreknowledge. Yet, as visitors to the Open Garden asked in amazement, ‘Why are there no diseased plants?’ ‘How are they not being eaten by insects?’ ‘How do they remain so vibrant during the stifling Japanese summer?’—this vitality transformed into a tangible certainty as we gazed upon the garden together. When we later encountered the botanical facts, everything suddenly clicked; it was a profound moment of ‘Aha!‘, confirming that the tactile certainty we had felt in the garden was indeed grounded in truth. However, the primary purpose of this essay is not to lecture on botany. I have touched upon these mechanisms simply because the way these lives resonate and connect with one another feels so quintessentially aligned with the Philosophy of Zen. If you wish to explore the intricacies of this symbiotic mechanism further, I encourage you to seek out specialised literature on the subject.

What I wish to impart here is not mere knowledge, but the inherent independence of the garden and its power to stand on its own. We often fall into the trap of thinking, ‘A garden will inevitably wither and lose its vibrancy unless managed by human hands’. However, if we simply prepare the environment that plants naturally desire—a diverse habitat where they live alongside companions of varying forms and characters—the garden begins to move beyond our hands. It matures into a self-reliant community, living by its own rhythm.

‘Symmetry’, ‘meticulous pruning’, ‘monocultural mass planting’, ‘calculated rhythmic arrangements’—those deep-seated stereotypes that go unquestioned: ‘this flower is the star while that grass is the supporting cast’, ‘tall plants to the back, short to the front’, ‘exclude or restrain bold colours’, ‘this colour goes with that’, or ‘these weeds must be removed’. Conventional gardening has long been an act where humans design and dictate. Looking back, it feels as though these methods reflect the very relationship between humanity and nature. From the very start of my gardening journey, I have harboured a vague sense of unease and hesitation toward treating plants merely as ‘design materials’ or ‘objects to be managed’. Why is it that while many show deep affection and care for animals, they often fail to accord the same level of respect to plants? In human society, the status of plants remains unfairly low compared to that of animals. ‘They lack consciousness’, ‘they have no intelligence’, ‘they cannot express emotion’—because of these perceptions, I feel that plants are often treated as if they were inanimate objects.

This injustice is even woven into our language. In Japanese, there are two forms of the verb ‘to be’: いる (Iru) and a ある (Aru). Generally, いる (Iru) is used for living things, while ある (Aru) is used for inanimate objects. However, in Japanese, いる (Iru) is applied to animals, while ある (Aru) is applied to plants. As I witnessed the undeniable vitality of my plants through daily gardening, I found myself naturally using いる (Iru) for them as well. When translating these feelings into English, I often hesitate. It feels emotionally cold to call a plant ‘it’, yet using ‘he’ or ‘she’ can feel biologically out of place. However, when I heard native English speakers affectionately say ‘She is so sweet’ about their pets, I wondered: how should we speak of plants? I was overjoyed to discover endearing phrases like ‘little friend’ or ‘little darling’. In this regard, Japanese has the phrase この子 (Konoko / literally ‘this child’), which can be used for any living being regardless of gender—and even for inanimate objects. Because of this, most garden lovers in Japan naturally use expressions like この子、可愛い。(Konoko kawaii / literally ‘This one is so lovely’.). In such cases, we adopt the verb いる (Iru)—reserved for living beings—and this remains true even when the subject is an inanimate object.

However, such mindful language toward plants remains, for the most part, a practice limited to those who engage with them intimately on a daily basis. It seems that for many, the natural empathy and ethical consideration habitually extended to animals are still unconsciously withheld from plants. 

We must never forget the fundamental truth: without plants, animals could not exist on this planet at all. We, as humans, are maintained and sustained by them; we must not forget the premise that it is the plants themselves that create and maintain the very environment that allows us to survive. I have long pondered, since I first put my hands into the soil, whether this tendency to disregard such a vital fact is precisely what leads to our disregard for the Earth itself. When news breaks that ‘a forest is being destroyed’, many instinctively shift their perspective to: ‘The animals and insects living there will suffer’, or further still: ‘This will interfere with human life’. As long as we remain trapped in this ‘heterotroph-centric’ worldview, I fear we have yet to truly address environmental issues in a way that considers the Well-being of plants—the primary autotrophs. Can we truly claim to protect the Earth while we ignore the very beings that anchor all life upon it?

For me, the flowers that ‘are (いる / Iru)’ in my garden are ‘members of the family’, no different from the beloved dogs I have shared my life with. I trust that many of you reading this share this very same sentiment. What is essential is for all of humanity to approach plants with the same ethical lens as we do animals—or at least with the kindness of using equivalent language. Secondly, for us garden lovers, it is crucial to foster the subterranean networks that plants inherently desire. Thirdly, we must step down from our throne as ‘masters’ and distance ourselves from the Logos of ‘management and control’, engaging in gardening as equal ‘companions’. In doing so, we shift from Human-centred to Nature-Centred Gardening. This Symbiotic-Ethics, which evokes an autonomous ecology—the Physis of existence—is the very core concept of Botanical Democracy.

This philosophy is perhaps best encapsulated by an encounter I had with an elderly gentleman. For some time, he had been observing my garden with great curiosity while I was away. Upon spotting me later, he approached and remarked, ‘I understand your garden now. You are not ‘managing’ it; you are ‘tending’ to it’. I received his words as a profound tribute to an ethical stance—a shift away from the obsession of ‘Doing’ (the compulsion that humans must do something) toward a reverence for ‘Being’ (the simple act of life existing as it is). 

Of course, as the word ‘tending’ implies, this does not mean that human presence is unnecessary. With deep gratitude for these plants that have crossed seas and mountains from distant lands to take root here, I ‘care’ for them and ‘attend’ to their needs. Just like a barber, I lightly trim branches that have grown too long, and I offer a ‘cane’ (a stake) to those that seem about to fall. This is not ‘control’, but rather ‘presence and support’. Even those plants often dismissed as ‘weeds’ are not forcibly uprooted; I simply give them a ‘haircut’ to maintain balance. For they, too, are an integral part of the chaos that weaves the harmonious subterranean network within the soil.

Harmonious-Chaos — Where Chaos Harmonises, The Zen State

As the linguist Ferdinand de Saussure argued, Homo sapiens ‘articulate’ the world through language. By naming every phenomenon, we carve out subjective boundaries of meaning, understanding the world only by dividing it into fragments.

Indeed, in its original state, the world possesses no such boundaries, nor any fixed ‘meaning’. A colour one person calls ‘orange’ may appear ‘pink’ to another, and since every hue contains infinite intermediate tones, the boundaries of this world are shaped by subjective differences. The world is composed of a seamless gradient—an uncountable spectrum that defies the very act of categorisation.

Nearly seventeen centuries before Saussure formalised this linguistic insight, the 2nd-century Buddhist philosopher Nagarjuna had already identified the essence of this phenomenon as ‘Prapañca (Prapanca)’—the conceptual proliferation or ‘wordplay’ that constructs false boundaries of reality. The essence of a Re-Zennish Garden lies in the very moment we discard these layers of ‘articulation’ and ‘Prapañca’. 

In a Re-Zennish Garden, plants are never arranged in rigid alignments or spaced with clear, clinical boundaries. Furthermore, because they are planted with little regard for conventional spacing, the plants grow as if they are negotiating their positions through silent dialogue. They bend their stems to weave through gaps and unfurl their leaves as if graciously yielding space to one another, leaning on each other as they reach toward the light. This sight of blurring boundaries and mutual dissolution seems to offer us a first glimpse into the unraveling of ‘articulation’ and ‘Prapañca’.

Many may fear that clashing random colours and forms will lead only to unmanageable chaos. However, if one relinquishes the ego and plants while gently asking each seedling, ‘Where would you feel most at ease?‘, then even if a thousand distinct varieties coexist, strangely enough, an effortless equilibrium invariably emerges. In tandem with this, one’s own perception undergoes a revolution. Indeed, witnessing how the landscape achieves greater harmony the more diverse it becomes, it becomes clear that what matters is not a confrontation of ‘1 versus 99’, but the construction of countless relationships where different beings live together—where the 99 sustain the 1.

When viewed up close, each individuality shines, empowered by its neighbours. From a distance, a singular garden emerges, evoking a sense of the Boundary-less. To be able to perceive such a gradational space of coexistence is the true quintessence of a Re-Zennish Garden. The garden becomes the place that reconnects you to Physis—nature as it was before it was severed by language. The boundaries between ‘self’ as subject and ‘plant’ as object, between ‘living’ and ‘non-living’ in the soil, and between ‘life’ and ‘death’ in the cycle of seasons—all begin to dissolve into a Boundary-less Unity. In that moment, your whole being will realise that the ‘chaos’ of the garden is not a Logos-Driven Chaos, but a Physis-Driven Chaos. This is the aesthetic realisation of Harmonious-Chaos.

Critics might argue that such a concept ‘lacks an objective basis for how it becomes beautiful’. However, it is precisely this Non-Verbal Sensitivity of certainty and comfort—existing entirely outside the sphere of Logos—that represents the visceral state of ‘beauty’ we must reclaim.

Harmonious-Chaos is not the result of deductive design theory—Logos-Driven Thinking. Rather, it is a dynamic and Boundary-less, yet serene chaos that reveals itself only through the accumulation of ‘inductive intuition’—the embodied insight earned through countless non-verbal dialogues with each individual life. This is Physis-Driven Thinking, where one derives—and is simultaneously guided toward—answers and relationships directly from the plants themselves.

Moreover, the dynamic stillness dwelling within that chaos cannot be born from a Beauty of Subtraction—the act of excluding the unwanted and ordering through mere logic. Instead, it arises from the Warm Serenity born of the Beauty of Addition, where every possible relationship is interwoven. In essence, we must find the courage to seek ‘difference’ not as a troublesome conflict, but as a complementary harmony. 

Flowers, soil microbes, insects, and even we Homo sapiens are all equals; we are nothing more than ‘stagnations’ within the ceaseless flow of molecules. When we perceive 無/悉有 (Mu / Shitsuu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence / Harmonious-Chaos) through the manifestation of 有 (U / articulated Plurality of the world / Manifested Form / Diversity-World), and then look back once more at the world of 有 (U) unfolding around us, our perception will recognise it as a world of 仮有 (Keu / Provisional Existence / Super-Diversity-World / Harmonious-Chaos)—where everything is interconnected. In this revolution of consciousness, the very structure of reality is inverted: it is no longer that ‘flowers exist’, but rather that ‘Existence flowers’.

Plants bloom, scatter, wither, and eventually fade away. Yet, as you likely understand by now, this ‘fading’ is by no means a mere ‘non-existence’. Plants do not simply vanish in a material sense. In fact, even the vivid blooms standing before us are not fixed entities, but mere temporary ‘states’ manifested through the interplay of 縁 (En / Pratyaya / Interconnected Web of Occasions). This very ‘flowing-ness’ and ‘interplay’—where all boundaries dissolve—is the true essence of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness). Plants have not succumbed to material extinction; rather, the distinction between ‘plant’ and ‘soil’ has dissolved, and they remain present there, having transformed into their next manifestation. Within the living site of the garden—whether in the moment of blooming or in the return to the earth—the Buddhist philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness), where all things equally meld and circulate eternally, breathes with vivid clarity.

I have heard that this philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness) resonates remarkably with the ‘true form of the world’ as unveiled by modern physics. It is said that in the quantum realm—at a scale far beyond the reach of any microscope—no substance exists in solitary isolation. A thing only manifests its form temporarily through its contact with and influence on its neighbours. In other words, it is not that ‘substance’ precedes all else; rather, the ‘relationship’ exists first, and we merely witness the appearance of ‘things’ as sparks ignited by those interactions. All things are interwoven like a vast web, assuming their current forms only through these interplays. The ancient Buddhist teachings of 縁起 (Engi / Pratītyasamutpāda / The Dynamic Web of Dependent Co-arising) and 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness)—which saw through the illusion of permanence long ago—align perfectly with the conclusion of modern science: that everything is but a shimmering ripple of mutual support. Should you find your curiosity piqued by the intricate relationships revealed by physics, I encourage you to seek out specialised literature on the subject.

Grounded in the cosmic principles of modern science—where all things are composed of atoms, perpetually cycling through synthesis and decomposition—it becomes clear that some of the molecules creating the rose fragrance you inhaled this morning may have been carbon atoms from your own body just months ago. The CO₂ you exhale is absorbed by that rose through photosynthesis, becoming part of its petals; when you sip herbal tea brewed from chamomile picked in your garden, the molecules of that chamomile dissolve into your very bloodstream. Weeks later, some of those molecules return to the atmosphere through your breath, perhaps becoming nutrients for a sunflower in a neighbour's garden. Take the hydrangeas your grandmother once tended with such care: the nitrogen atoms within those flowers may have been part of her own body years before. As those blossoms withered and returned to the earth, their molecules once again nurtured new life. Looking at this atomic circulation through a more magnificent axis of time, we realise that atoms that once formed a flower blooming somewhere two thousand years ago may, through countless cycles, now constitute part of our own bodies today. Likewise, the atoms currently forming our physical selves may one day compose a flower in someone’s garden two thousand years from now. Truly, life is nothing more than an ‘eddy’ within the ceaseless flow of molecules.

Furthermore, the very act of a flower blooming is the moment when the essence of life—described by the French philosopher Henri Bergson as ‘an effort to remount the incline that matter descends‘—is manifest. Through such a lens, every instance of photosynthesis, flowering, and fruiting becomes perceivable as the act of passing on the spark of life to the next. You will come to realise that the plants in your garden live not for an Egoistic Eternity,　but for an Altruistic Eternity. Thus, the garden allows us to envision the unbroken, cosmic circulation of matter that has flowed since the dawn of the universe. In this way, the garden serves as the site for a realisation through experience of the philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness)—the realisation before words that we, including our very selves, are embraced by an immeasurably vast 悉有 (Shitsuu / Undifferentiated Existence / Zero-ness), which is not a collection of fixed objects but a state of Unbounded Flowing-ness. ‘Forget the Self. Become the Garden.’.—the garden is a philosophical site where one can ‘realise the 空 (Kū), a personal space for living Zen, where one can dissolve back into a free and unbounded love.

Now, having read this far, it pains me to reiterate what I touched upon at the end of the previous chapter: a Zen State of Consciousness can never be truly ‘acquired through intellect’. Although I have exhausted words to explain Botanical Democracy, the philosophy of Existence, and the Zen State of Consciousness manifested in my own gardening, the essence of Zen ultimately lies in 不立文字 (Furyū monji / not relying on written words), being something to be ‘realised through experience’ within the reality of daily life. 

The East has long upheld the teaching of  知行合一 (Chikō gōitsu)—the unity of knowledge and action—positing that ‘to know (知 / Chi)’ and ‘to do (行 /  Kō)’ are inextricably one. The Zen State of Consciousness sensed through the physical act of gardening likewise resides within the very ‘doing (行 /  Kō)’, transcending any intellectual grasp. In the next chapter, to lower the threshold for this practice, I shall introduce the concept of 半･自然 ( Han Shizen / Semi-Nature), which guides my own approach to the garden. This perspective of Semi-Nature—where we, as ‘humans’ who once departed from ‘Nature’, can finally return—will surely serve as a vital guide in your own practice of Zen Gardening.

Chapter 7. Semi-Nature

The garden as the dismantling of the human / Nature dichotomy.

Have you ever heard of the book Imagined Communities, published in 1983 by the American political scientist Benedict Anderson? He argued that the nation-state and nationalism are not spontaneously occurring phenomena, but were historically constructed under specific conditions. By turning this sense of belonging—this ‘imagined community’ created through language—on its head, I wish to introduce a neologism I use when engaging with the garden: the concept of 半･自然 ( Han Shizen / Semi-Nature). This term is designed to lower the threshold for the practice of Zen Gardening. The garden is, so to speak, a Semi-Nature—a space co-sustained by ‘myself’ and the ‘plants’. My purpose in creating this neologism is to fundamentally re-examine our conventional understanding of the word ‘nature’—for the very word we use so casually inherently harbours a dualistic structure that separates humanity from the natural world.

The Cartesian Dualistic World-View

It is perhaps this very articulation of the world through the word ‘nature’ that acts as a root cause of dualism, preventing us from unifying with nature and forcing us into a state of confrontation. To explore this inquiry, we must first unravel the threads of etymology and the history of thought.

The English word ‘Nature’ originates from the Latin natura (the state of being born or the principle of generation). From antiquity through the Middle Ages, this term denoted the inherent ‘order’ and ‘workings’ of the entire cosmos—a totality that naturally encompassed humanity. 

However, in the 17th century, the ‘mind-body dualism’ advocated by René Descartes brought about a seismic shift in the Western perception of nature. By severing ‘Mind’ (Spirit) from ‘Matter’ (the body and nature), Descartes privileged the Mind, positioning the human intellect in a domain superior to the natural world. Consequently, the material realm was reinterpreted through a ‘mechanistic view of nature’, where all of the natural world—including plants and animals—was reduced to pure matter: machines entirely devoid of ‘Mind’.

This worldview provides a rigid foundation for what Peter Singer and others denounce today as ‘speciesism’. It justified dismissing even the ‘pain’ and ‘cries’ of non-human species as mere mechanical reactions, devoid of any indwelling spirit. 

As ‘mind-body dualism’ redefined nature as an object to be ‘managed’ and manipulated at will through external design, the conviction grew that the human mind—or Reason—was capable of fully deciphering and dominating it. This ‘anthropocentric’ paradigm catalysed the advancement of modern science and mass production, embedding a restrictive perception within society: ‘nature’ as nothing more than a non-human, non-artificial world of matter. This logic provided an ethical scaffolding for the boundless exploitation of nature as a resource; amidst the tide of capitalism and technological innovation since the Industrial Revolution, it became the ideological pillar that underpinned modern crises—from mass resource extraction to environmental destruction.

At the same time, in stark contrast to this Cartesian trajectory, there emerged another philosopher who presented a monistic perspective: Baruch Spinoza. Born into a Portuguese-Jewish family in Amsterdam, Spinoza was influenced by his early immersion in Jewish mysticism, leading him to develop a philosophy rooted in a non-dualistic worldview. He did not divide ‘God’ from the ‘World’ (Mind and Matter), but grasped everything as a single, indivisible substance—a concept famously termed ‘God, or Nature’ (Deus sive Natura). This vision of finding divinity within all things later had a profound impact on the course of human thought; so much so that Albert Einstein, perhaps the greatest intellect of the 20th century, famously declared: ‘I believe in Spinoza's God, who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists’. By weaving together his own internal inquiry, Spinoza fundamentally challenged Cartesian dualism to build this unique monistic framework. Yet, his radical ideas were at odds with the dominant values of the society of his time; tragically, Spinoza found himself ostracised and ultimately expelled—suffering the harsh fate of excommunication from his beloved Jewish community in Amsterdam.

The Modern Ethical Perspectives on Plants

This mechanistic view of nature—perceiving it as an object to be deciphered and dominated by Reason—was inherited by the Enlightenment and the ‘Ideology of Progress’, effectively laying the foundation for contemporary civilisation. This prioritisation of Reason and rationality became the philosophical bedrock for the modernisation of social and political systems, contributing to the rise of democracy and the rule of law. 

From the 18th century onwards, the momentum of the Enlightenment and the Scientific Revolution birthed a ‘linear view of history’—the conviction that the world must be advanced through science and Reason. Consequently, European civilisation positioned itself at the very apex of this rational development. However, this powerful paradigm of progress inherently harboured a form of violence. While there were dissenting voices among some Enlightenment thinkers, the prevailing trend was to categorise societies with animistic worldviews—those perceiving nature in its totality—as ‘primitive’ or ‘underdeveloped’. As a result, ways of life where humanity and Nature remained inextricably linked were judged against a single scale of ‘progress’. This functioned as an intellectual framework that justified colonial rule under the guise of ‘civilisation and development’.

Around a century ago, in the early 20th century, a concept emerged that redefined this animistic ethic—the treatment of flora and fauna as ‘kin’—not as primitive superstition, but as a form of sophisticated modern intelligence. This was the concept of ‘Umwelt’—an ‘agentic and subjective world’ proposed by the Estonian-born German biologist Jakob von Uexküll. He argued that living beings do not perceive an objective, universal world; rather, each species constructs and inhabits its own ‘subjective world’ based on its unique sensory organs and behavioural patterns. A creature’s actions are not mere mechanical reflexes to external stimuli, but are directed by the ‘meaning’ and ‘value’ inherent to that specific organism. Uexküll suggested that while an objective ‘physical environment’ (Umgebung) may exist, the Umwelt—not merely an ‘environment’ in the objective sense, but an ‘agentic and subjective world’—is as numerous as the species themselves. He asserted that a living being is not a passive machine, but an ‘agent’ (subject) that actively constructs its own world.

This perspective offers a clear critique of the Cartesian view, which defines ‘nature’ as a mere world of non-human, non-artificial matter. In other words, when a plant secretes defensive compounds against predators, we should not dismiss it as a mere mechanical reflex. Instead, we can re-perceive it as a poignant ‘expression of life’—an act of agency within the plant’s own subjective reality. This humble attitude—acknowledging that ‘while I cannot truly know it, a unique reality surely exists there’—resonates deeply with the animistic ethics shared by indigenous peoples across the globe. As Homo sapiens, we bear the inherent destiny of analysing, naming, and objectively observing the world. Yet, could we not redirect this power of perception? Instead of using it to dominate nature, could we not use it to truly ‘listen’ to its voice?

The concept of the Umwelt—an agentic and subjective world—introduces the perspective that non-human lifeforms possess their own inherent ‘subjectivity’ (internal, sensory experience). However, it remains a fundamental truth that we can neither directly experience nor scientifically prove the subjectivity of any other existence, whether human or otherwise. Despite these epistemological limits, modern ethics has adopted the concept of Umwelt as its theoretical foundation, assuming that beings other than ourselves experience their own forms of ‘reality’, thereby granting them ontological rights. What, then, of plants? Whether a plant feels ‘pain’ or ‘distress’ is as unprovable as it is for any other existence. Yet, when we witness plants deploying their physiological functions to transmit crisis signals throughout their entire being and mounting a defence against an invader, is this not essentially the same as our own experience? Is it not a chain of exquisite biochemical reactions, fundamentally no different from the ‘survival’ we ourselves enact?

The fact that we ‘cannot know’ their inner worlds should not lead us to treat them as mere mechanical objects; rather, it is a reason to honour their Umwelt and re-perceive them as agentic ‘others’. To question our ethical relationship with plants is, in essence, to question the very ethics of our existence—the fact that we are merely permitted to dwell upon this Earth. This reframing in perception represents a modern form of 知行合一 (Chikō gōitsu / Unity of Knowledge and Action): a necessary step for us to return to the vast cycles of life. 

Of course, we humans are heterotrophs; we cannot survive without consuming other lives. We cannot live by the extremes of ‘all or nothing’. Yet, it is for this very reason that I make this proposal: since our very existence is made possible only by autotrophs—the plants—could we not, if nothing else, elevate the language we use for them to the same level of respect we accord to animals?

The Unconscious Japanese View of Life

This animistic sensibility is, in fact, deeply integrated into the landscape of modern Japanese daily life. Shinto, Japan’s indigenous faith, embraces the concept of  八百万の神 (Yaoyorozu no Kami / literally ‘Eight Million Gods’, but representing the infinite and diverse spiritual presence within all existence)—a worldview where divinity resides in all things, from the majesty of mountains and ancient trees to everyday tools like needles and knives, and even the lavatory, a place dedicated to the purification of impurities. Even today, rituals of reverence and gratitude for the ‘spirit of the place’ itself are performed throughout the country—from remote, primeval forests to the bustling street corners and riverbanks where human lives intersect. This attitude reflects a deep-seated psychological awareness: we do not view nature or the environment as a mere ‘external resource’. Instead, we acknowledge that it is we who are permitted to coexist alongside them. This is, in essence, a lived expression of an animistic ethic of Symbiosis.

What is particularly noteworthy here is that in the Japanese language, the word for 物 (Mono / object) and the word for 者 (Mono / subject) share the exact same phonetic resonance. At the very root of the ideological code of Japanese culture, I believe, lies a non-dualistic worldview—one that refuses to sever existence into two opposing categories. Drawing a parallel with Japanese Buddhism, for instance, Kūkai—the 9th-century founder of the Shingon sect—taught the principle of 色心不二 (Shikishin Funi / Non-Duality of Matter and Mind). This doctrine asserts that the physical (色 Shiki = 物 Mono) and the spiritual (心 Shin = 者 Mono) arise inextricably from a single source. This perspective eventually blossomed within the Tendai sect into the philosophy of absolute affirmation: 草木国土 悉皆成仏 (Sōmoku Kokudo Shikkai Jōbutsu), suggesting that even inanimate existences like stones and soil possess 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-Nature)—the potential for ‘Satori’. Later, as explored in Chapter V, Dōgen’s reinterpretation of 一切衆生 悉有仏性 (Issai Shujō  Shitsuu Busshō) likewise viewed ‘object’ and ‘subject’ as an indivisible whole, encompassing every existence in the entire universe. I believe that this subtle, fluid sensibility—this intentional preservation of the ‘ambiguity’ between ‘object’ and ‘subject’—is the ideological code that flows through the deepest layers of Japanese culture.

Furthermore, this ethical sensibility of ‘revering all existence as a subject’ finds its most unconscious yet profound expression in the everyday phrase Itadakimasuいただきます (Itadakimasu), spoken before meals. Looking across the globe, one finds that customs surrounding the start of a meal vary significantly between cultures.Many cultures lack the habit of reciting specific words at all, and even where such words exist, the recipient of the gratitude differs. Typically, in monotheistic cultures, the traditional ‘grace’ is directed clearly toward ‘God’ (the Creator). In a different yet related vein, the French Bon appétit (‘Good appetite’) is a social gesture toward fellow ‘humans’, while the Chinese 我要開動了 (Wǒ yào kāidòngle / I am going to start eating) and the Korean 잘 먹겠습니다 (Jal meok-gesseumnida / I will eat well) focus on respect for the preparer or on the speaker’s own action. What these phrases share is a perspective situated outside the life that is to be eaten—focusing instead on the divine or the social. Of course, いただきます (Itadakimasu) naturally encompasses gratitude toward the people who prepared the meal. However, the singularity of this phrase lies in its target: the gratitude is directed fundamentally toward the ‘life itself’ laid out before us.

Originally, the verb いただく (Itadaku / to receive) was a humble term derived from the passive gesture of lifting a gift bestowed by a deity or a person of noble rank reverently above one’s head. Historically, いただきます (Itadakimasu)  was an expression of etiquette directed toward ‘bounties bestowed by superiors’. What is fascinating, however, is how this linguistic form—the act of receiving something from a ‘higher’ place into oneself—has evolved within the modern Japanese consciousness. Today, it is inextricably linked to an awareness of the ‘responsibility of taking life’ and ‘gratitude for welcoming that life into one’s own existence’. At first glance, this interpretation may seem to diverge from the word’s origin of showing respect toward a deity or a person of noble rank. Yet, in reality, the object of reverence has simply shifted: in the modern mind, the awe once reserved for the divine has been redirected toward the ‘life of the other’—an existence that commands profound awe.

There is a theory that the custom of interpreting いただきます (Itadakimasu)  as ‘receiving a life’ became widespread only about a century ago, influenced by dietary education in Japan during the Taishō and early Shōwa eras, and further reinforced by post-war moral education. However, within a Buddhist context, while there is no definitive proof that commoners before the Meiji or Edo periods used this specific phrase as a universal greeting, the spirit of perceiving a meal as the ‘sacrifice of other lives’ has been deeply rooted since antiquity. Furthermore, even in this modern age, and even for myself, I cannot claim to be fully conscious of ‘receiving a life’ every single time I eat. Yet, I believe that this linguistic form, ingrained in us from our earliest childhood, acts as a spiritual anchor. Even if unconscious, it tethers the minds of most modern Japanese people to a sense of reverence and gratitude for non-human life, lingering at the edge of their awareness whenever they partake in a meal.

The Japanese View of Symbiosis

Looking at these examples, one might assume the Japanese to be an exceptionally devout people. Yet, the majority of Japanese people live lives entirely removed from strict religious doctrines; few attend shrines or temples weekly. In fact, most people don't even know the names of the specific deities or Buddhas they encounter. Even with the concept of  八百万の神 (Yaoyorozu no Kami / literally ‘Eight Million Gods‘, but representing the infinite and diverse spiritual presence within all existence), the vast majority remain ignorant of their individual names. While Shinto and Buddhism permeate daily life in seamless layers, nearly 70% of Japanese people firmly declare themselves to be ‘non-religious’. 

To say, ‘I believe in Shinto and I believe in Buddhism, yet I am non-religious’, would be a logical paradox. However, consider a subtle shift in phrasing: ‘Shinto is there, Buddhism is there, and yet I am non-religious’. For the Japanese, there is no subjective decision to ‘believe’ or ‘not believe’. Instead, they accept multiple values as something that is ‘already there’—as part of the very landscape before their eyes. This is far from mere indifference; it is a ‘culture of the mix’ that neutrally blends even conflicting concepts. Far from perceiving this as a contradiction, the Japanese naturally accept rituals and styles of various religious origins as equally ‘precious’, integrating them into their daily lives and the various turning points of life, such as festivals, weddings, and funerals. What we see here is an extra-logical stance that allows multiple interpretations to coexist simultaneously, refusing to narrow ‘rightness’ down to a single point. If I may venture to say so, this unconscious courage to leave things unsettled—to refrain from defining a single ‘justice’ in black and white—is the very core of Japanese culture. 

This subconscious cognitive structure—‘how to coexist and live in Symbiosis with what is already there’—is the true essence of Japanese animism, and perhaps a wisdom of Symbiosis that offers hope for our modern age. It is the ambiguity of accepting the fact that ‘an existence different from myself exists in this world as a subject (mono), just as I do’. By refusing to clarify everything into black and white, we allow a heterogeneous ‘grey zone’ to remain. This attitude, which modern humanity often seems to despise, might instead be seen as a form of receptivity combined with a profound flexibility. This is the fundamental power that allows the 八百万の神 (Yaoyorozu no Kami) to manifest. Rather than excluding others by narrowing down a single correct answer, we first accept the presence of the ‘other as they are’—a being that we cannot, and should not, change. This may indeed be a philosophical art of living: a way to pass through time together while embracing the otherness of the other in its entirety.

Japan’s ‘high-context’ culture is a vivid reflection of this logic. In Japanese, first-person pronouns (I/You) are rarely used. Consequently, many of us as Japanese speakers feel a sense of hesitation—even a quiet bashfulness or a sense of being overly assertive—when forced to constantly declare I in English. We find ourselves thinking, ‘I didn’t really want to push my ego this far’, even as we speak. This omission of the subject is fundamentally different from languages like Latin, where the subject is simply implied by verb conjugation. In Japanese, we make our conversations work without an explicit I at all. 

On the other hand, while most languages in the world possess only one primary first-person pronoun, Japanese has roughly ten in daily use—and more than seventy if historical terms and dialects are included. As native speakers, we choose our I depending on how we wish to exist within a world that is ‘already there’—selecting the self-appellation we feel is most appropriate for our age, our intimacy with others, or the character we project. Unless absolute self-assertion is required, we intentionally keep the subject ambiguous, creating a ‘margin’ where the presence of the other can reside. This is perhaps a uniquely Japanese technique of Symbiosis: an art of positioning oneself within the relationship with the ‘other’, never fixing one’s outline, but allowing it to shift and breathe.

This posture — of meta-cognitively perceiving one's relationship with a world that is ‘already there’ — has been honed as a vital survival strategy, sharpened by the distinct climate of Japan, where inescapable natural disasters such as earthquakes, typhoons, and volcanic eruptions are a frequent reality. In the face of Nature’s overwhelming power, human beings are rendered almost powerless. Rather than positioning Nature as a ‘world to be conquered’ through confrontation, the Japanese have chosen a distinct sense of distance: they revere even the bringers of calamity as untamed, ferocious divinities, waiting with quiet acceptance for the fury to subside.

The Views of Nature through the Lens of Language

However, while this non-confrontational view of humanity and Nature remains deeply ingrained in Japan, the contemporary Japanese word 自然 (Shizen)has come to carry the same connotations as the English word ‘nature‘: as an ‘object external to humanity’ or ‘that which is not artificial’. Behind this shift lies a historical turning point: the creation of translation terms during the Meiji era. In truth, prior to this period, the Japanese language possessed no single, overarching word to describe the natural world in its entirety. Instead, people used compound phrases such as 山川草木 (Sansen-Sōmoku / mountains, rivers, grasses, trees, and all such existences) or 天地万物 (Tenchi-Banbutsu / heaven, earth, and all myriad existences). At first glance, these may seem like mere synonyms for ‘nature’, but they conceal a decisive difference in how the world is perceived.

As a general concept, the noun ‘nature’ can be likened to a single ‘box’ into which the non-human environment has been packaged. Consequently, when we employ this word, we unconsciously position ourselves outside that box, occupying the privileged stance of an observer who analyses and manages its contents. In contrast, the phrase 山川草木 (Sansen-Sōmoku) is an expression that lists individual existences side-by-side: ‘There are mountains, there are rivers, there are grasses, there are trees’. It is a dispassionate description of a state where all myriad things—including ourselves—simply coexist. Here, the ‘human’ is merely one of the items listed in an equal enumeration. The same applies to 天地万物 (Tenchi-Banbutsu); humans are but a small part of the ‘myriad’, where stones, insects, wind, and people are all listed as existences of equal weight. Breathing within these terms is a world-view where everything that exists is interconnected and in a state of constant flux. In other words, in these expressions, Nature was not an ‘object’ to be classified and objectified, but a ‘field’ where all things—including humanity—simply are together.

What, then, was the original meaning of the word 自然 (Shizen) before it was adopted as the translation for ‘nature’? In the Chinese classics where this kanji compound originated, it described the unfolding of events or the spontaneous course of things—conveying the sense of ‘that which becomes of its own accord’. In the past, it was read as Jinen rather than Shizen; it functioned more as an adverbial concept, pointing toward a certain state of being or a momentum. It is akin to the modern Japanese sensibility of ‘things progressing naturally without the application of forced power’.

Intriguingly, when we look at the adverbial form ‘naturally’, a remarkably similar meaning emerges in English as well. In phrases such as ‘Naturally, things will work out’, there resides a nuance of things unfolding of their own accord without forced manipulation—a dynamic resonance that evokes the ancient Greek concept of Physis. This suggests that Western thought, too, once perceived within ‘nature’ a ‘generative power’ that permeates all things, rather than a mere ‘object’ to be observed from the outside. In fact, in the English of the late 13th century, the word signified the ‘restorative powers of the body’ or the ‘capacity for growth‘—powers emanating from within life itself. By the mid-14th century, it had come to be used in a more comprehensive sense to describe the ‘forces or processes of the material world; that which produces living things and maintains order’.

As anthropological research demonstrates, a holistic perspective—one that does not separate ‘humanity’ from ‘nature‘—was the universal worldview of our species, shared across cultures from Asia, Africa, Oceania, the Americas, and even ancient Europe. Compared to the long span of human history lived through this non-dualistic understanding, the modern dualistic view of nature is a remarkably recent and peculiar phenomenon. Yet this peculiar gaze toward nature that emerged in the modern era continues to dominate our world today.

Even now, we unconsciously position ‘humanity’ outside of nature, viewing it as an ‘object to be managed’ or a ‘resource to be protected’. While various environmental actions and voices are indeed rising, many remain trapped within the framework of ‘humans protecting nature’. However, humanity's responsibility is not ‘to nature’ as an external object. Rather, we must bear responsibility toward the vast, encompassing cycles of existence that include humanity itself—a truth we must never forget.

Zen Gardening as Semi-Natural Gardening

Reflecting on the ‘Mechanical View of Nature’ born of dualism, our ‘Ethics’ toward plants, the ‘Ambiguity’ required for Symbiosis, and the ‘Dynamic Interconnectedness’ embracing all—it becomes clear that my coined term, Semi-Nature, is far more than mere rhetoric. It serves as a threshold to a profound philosophical and ethical practice.

Once we have articulated the world through language, we humans find it exceedingly difficult to return to a state prior to that fragmentation. It is easy to intellectually grasp the logic that ‘humanity is part of Nature’. However, to reconnect our very existence to the interior of the natural world at a sensory level requires an experience that is inherently physical and embodied. If so, why not adopt a new term—Semi-Nature—as a conscious bridge? Let us consider a garden as a field of Semi-Nature—of Co-Sustaining—jointly formed by ‘the self’ and ‘the plants’.

We are not creating vast estates ruled by economic logic, nor are we designing public flowerbeds. When nurturing a small, private garden within the intimacy of our own lives, why must we dominate and manage nature through Logos-Centred Gardening, with perfect design plans? We, as ‘gardeners of daily life’, should take the lead in cherishing the ethics of Co-Sustaining and Symbiosis.

The introduction of this new concept, Semi-Nature, is intended to trigger an ‘irreversible metamorphosis’ in our perception. It is akin to a caterpillar—which knew only how to crawl upon the earth and consume the leaves before its eyes—entering the serenity of the chrysalis to dissolve its own tissues into a fluid state, leaving only the core of its existence, before being reborn as a butterfly that soars in a world of an entirely different dimension. Even those who once held a stoic, rigid impression of the word Zen will, through the practical field of Semi-Nature, find themselves able to draw its true essence into their daily lives with a newfound softness and lightness.

Through the continuous practice of a garden Co-Sustained  by ‘the self and the ‘plants’, the Zen State of Consciousness, wherein the boundaries between self and other dissolve, gradually manifests as a lived reality. We deepen our Subjective Sense of Non-Duality with the ‘all-encompassing Nature’, transitioning from the linguistic dimension of consciousness to the pre-linguistic dimension of sensation. To begin, I invite you to call this Zen Gardening by the name Semi-Natural Gardening, and to embrace it as a vital practice of daily life.

Collaborating a garden through Co-Sustaining between ‘the self’ and the ‘plants’. Listen to the plants that don't speak to us with words, asking where they truly want to belong (Super-Diversity); imagine the invisible, autonomous communities of plants and microbes (Symbiotic-Ethics); and finally, allow yourself to be embraced by that all-encompassing Nature—which can neither be touched, seen, nor spoken of (Harmonious-Chaos). What is revealed through this new coinage and its practice is the state of being: ‘Forget the Self. Become the Garden.’—the profound realisation that we are, in truth, already Nature itself.

At the stage of Co-Sustaining through the collaboration between ‘you’ and the ‘plants’, the two entities are still perceived as separate. However, if one can perceive within them the philosophy of 縁起 (Engi / Pratītyasamutpāda / Dynamic Web of Dependent Co-A-rising) through one's own sensory experience, a dramatic shift in recognition occurs: ‘From the very beginning, the self and the plant were not two’. In this world, there is no such thing as an absolute ‘self’ that exists independently and in isolation. All things arise only within their interconnectedness, possessing no fixed, inherent nature自性 (Jisho) as isolated entities. In other words, Semi-Natural Gardening is a delightful Zen practice through which one embodies the Buddhist philosophy of 縁起 (Engi) and the philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness)—the recognition of 無自性 (Mujishō). And through Semi-Natural Gardening—a garden Co-Sustained by ‘you’ and the ‘plants’—you will surely come to realise firsthand how arbitrary the boundary between ‘humanity’ and ‘nature’ is, hidden behind the pleasant-sounding expression ‘untouched nature’, and that it is nothing more than an empty ‘fragmentation’ demanded by the structure of language.

The Flash of Airy Fulfilment

Whether you delightfully follow the three steps I have shared based on my own experience, or not, is entirely up to you. Zen Gardening is the practice and experience of the philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness) in the garden—a synthesis of 縁起 (Engi / Pratītyasamutpāda / Dynamic Web of Dependent Co-arising), which integrates the biotic and abiotic through a circular vision of mutual support, and 無自性 (Mujishō / Niḥsvabhāva / Absence of Inherent Nature), which perceives the world not as fixed ‘objects’, but as shifting ‘relationships’ and ‘states’.

However, I must emphasise once more: you must not settle for merely knowing the formula of 縁起 (Engi) + 無自性 (Mujishō) = 空 (Kū)—to truly know is not merely to understand through words, but to attain a comprehension rooted in the physical sensation of things ‘clicking’ into place, and then to put that into practice. Eastern wisdom is not something that can be merely ‘acquired through intellect‘. Simply knowing is not enough to trigger the ‘0 to 1’ metamorphosis of perception.

When explained through a mere sequence of words, Eastern wisdom is often misunderstood as nothing more than simple logic. This is precisely why, when this wisdom leaves the East—or even within the East, when people are satisfied with a purely logical understanding—it is stripped of its essence. Is it not then—once its surface has been skimmed and explained with the wrong vocabulary—converted into consumable symbols and reduced to a mere exotic design style or a tool for ‘self-improvement‘? Therefore, we must never forget the words left by Zen Master Dōgen: that Satori (Recurring Process of Self-dissolution into the Web of Relations / Zen State of Consciousness)  is not something to be ‘acquired’ (Doing).

In truth, the word for Satori originates from the Sanskrit ‘Buddha’—an intransitive verb meaning ‘to wake up’ or ‘to have one's eyes opened’. Therefore, there is no need to strain oneself with the desire to ‘attain’ it. Such effort is merely another form of attachment, giving rise to new 苦 (Ku / Suffering). The moment of ‘0 to 1’ realisation begins with a garden Co-Sustained by ‘the self’ and ‘the plants’; it is the quiet deconstruction of the dualism between ‘human’ and ‘nature’, visited upon you suddenly, in a single instant that is an instant. To know the ‘0 to 1’ world through physical sensation and experience is not the feeling of ‘taking a step forward’; it is a ‘flash’, an ’ airy’ sensation, akin to the flipping of a switch or the sudden snap of a coin’s reverse. From ‘1’ onwards, it is not a matter of ‘clinging with one’s will’ (Doing), but merely the continuity of a momentary reality where one’s ‘eyes remain open’ (Being). It is not a cumulative process from 0 to 100 points, nor is ‘100 points’ the only state we call Satori— Zen State of Consciousness. The world that unfolds after this ‘Flash, Airy’ metamorphosis of perception is the very essence of a constant, gradational fluctuation of awareness—times when you dissolve deeply into it, and times when the connection becomes shallow. Precisely because of this, it is vital to keep returning and dissolving back into the ‘state of Satori’ itself, through these ebbs and flows of perception. And that is why I recommend having a personal space—a Re-Zennish Garden—as an extension of your daily life.

Within the vast web where irregular lives go their own way yet mysteriously support one another, I, too, exist as a part of it (Being). The garden is a space of ‘Co-Sustaining’, a collaboration by ‘you’ and the ‘plants‘; within our daily lives, we can deepen our Subjective Sense of Non-Duality with Nature, transitioning from consciousness to a sensory level. However, this Subjective Sense of Non-Duality is still merely a subjective state where the ‘I’ feel(s) a pleasant connection to the world. Even that intellectual thrill—the moment the body ‘clicks’ with the thrill of realisation—still contains a ‘self’ that rejoices in having ‘understood’.

What, then, is the difference between the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality and State of Non-Duality? State of Non-Duality refers to a deeper, calmer ‘fact’ itself, remaining even after that subjective excitement has vanished. It is the moment when you immerse yourself silently in the act of tending the garden, and your initial purpose, your joy of ‘understanding’, and even the boundaries of the ‘self’ dissolve without a trace. There is no longer a lonely observer—The Cartesian I (Cogito) defined by Descartes. In its place emerges the fact of State of Non-Duality, filled with a Warm Serenity that existed before the world and the self were ever severed. It is precisely what it means to dissolve into the Pre-Linguistic World we had long forgotten.

However, for those of you who have read this far, I wish to be honest: this Pre-Linguistic World may actually be a world you have already experienced—namely, those moments when you are deeply immersed in something without a single thought. It is a succession of instants where the subject of ‘I am X-ing Y’ and the object of ‘Y is being X-ed to me’ do not arise, and perception remains in a state of Non-Duality. In most cases, however, we only realise this after the fact; thus, it rarely leaves a deep mark on our memory. Nevertheless, without even knowing it, we have indeed returned to that Pre-Linguistic World, time and time again.

It is for this very reason that I wish to emphasise the value not of State of Non-Duality itself, but of the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality—the subject—as a vital element in the formation of the self. For us in the modern age, not as monks, the best way of Zen lies not in the total rejection of Logos, but in passing through Subjective Sense of Non-Duality and the State of Non-Duality to once again select and live by a Logos that feels truly resonant, returning to society with a sense of fulfilment.

It is an undeniable fact that a State of Non-Duality filled with serenity exists. However, in a state where the subject and object have completely vanished, the ‘I’ who express(es) emotions—joy, anger, pathos, and humour—is absent. 

Yet, the true essence of the experience in the field of the garden for the ‘I’ who have(s) undergone the metamorphosis of perception—from ‘A flower exists’ to ‘Existence flowers‘—lies in the very process of dissolving from the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality into State of Non-Duality and then returning to the subjective I to once again immerse oneself in that Subjective Sense of Non-Duality.

This is the very moment when the ‘I’, having undergone the metamorphosis of perception, can truly spread its wings and take to the air. It is the beginning of a life view filled with an Airy Fulfilment, a state where the absolute contradiction of being both an ‘individual life’ and ‘One life’ becomes unified, and we live within the truth that ‘The Many are One, and One is the Many’. The ‘reward of life‘—that which we wish to savour through the very act of gardening (Doing) by inhabiting a physical body—is precisely here.

Returning from the ‘deep sea’ of Non-Duality, the ‘I’—nourished by that experience—immerse(s) itself once again in the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality within the garden. This back and forth is the very source of the fulfilment found in Zen.

Through the daily practice of gardening, this fact of Non-Duality is gradually yet steadily etched into our bodies. In this final chapter, I wish to use every word at my disposal to convey my firsthand experience: the moment when my perception—cultivated continuously in the garden—surpassed its critical point through the practice of meditation, and I was cast into a state of pure, naked Subjective Sense of Non-Duality and State of Non-Duality, as well as a Memoryless Temporal Void.

Chapter 8. Memories and Reflections on My Zen Experience

My personal experience of the Zen state and its scientific context.

The ‘overflow of information’ in modern society has not left the world of gardening untouched. We, the ‘gardeners of daily life’, are bombarded daily with visual stimuli that proclaim, ‘This is the ideal garden’. In the midst of this, we often find ourselves unknowingly imprisoned by the habit of comparing our own gardens to those vast gardens, viewing them through a ‘demerit-based’ lens.

The visitors who came to my open garden, in most cases, harboured negative emotions toward their own gardening and their own gardens. However, as I spoke to them of the Symbiosis of plants and ethical ways of engaging with them, the majority began to sparkle with a renewed light in their eyes—as if the heavy burdens of an unconscious ‘mindset of forced management’ or feelings of inadequacy had suddenly been lifted. Some even headed straight to the garden centre on their way home. 

It is precisely the role of Buddhism, as a ‘philosophy of life’, to prevent such negative phenomena from being perceived as 苦 (Ku / Suffering). Is a small garden any less beautiful than a vast one? Is there less to be experienced within a small garden? I think not. On the contrary, I believe it is the ‘owners of small gardens’—within those spaces that fit snugly within one’s field of vision, where the relationship between the ‘self’ and the ‘plants’ can be more easily deepened—who have the greatest opportunity to feel the ‘Co-Sustaining sense of oneness’ even more intensely.

Zen Gardening / Semi-Natural Gardening possesses a profound affinity with the small gardens that unfold in the quiet corners of our daily lives. By engaging with plants on a flat, one-to-one basis—sustaining a dialogue, embracing their diversity, and witnessing their Symbiosis—you will eventually find yourself in a moment where you perceive a singular harmony through Physis, hidden within the chaos captured by Logos. In that fleeting instant, you will realise that your own existence has also dissolved into that very harmony. ‘Be one with what you do’—let us enjoy gardening by entering the State of Non-Duality with the act itself. Such moments of ‘dissolving’ are precisely what lead to a Zen Experience in the modern age. A Zen Experience requires neither special training nor severe commandments. Within the reality of daily life, it is about joining hands with the plants before your eyes—watching their daily transformations, living together, rejoicing together, grieving together, and together collaborating to bring a single space into being. Whether called Zen Gardening / Semi-Natural Gardening, or Botanical Democracy, this single practice is where you resonate with Altruistic Eternity in Warm Serenity and, undoubtedly, witness the very moment when ‘Existence flowers’, because we already dwell within 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori).

Up to this point, I have frequently employed extraordinary expressions such as ‘Existence flowers’ or ‘dissolving into World of Satori’. It is only natural, frankly, that most people would find such philosophical experiences difficult to grasp. Some may feel that these are ‘mystical experiences occurring only to a special few’. It is understandable. We, who live in the modern age, are imprisoned within the cage of The Cartesian I (Cogito) as defined by Descartes, having lost sight of that ‘sense of peacefulness in Symbiosis’ that has been etched into our genes over millions of years. 

Precisely for this reason, I wish to meticulously verbalise and share with you—without concealment—what those experiences of a Subjective Sense of Non-Duality and a State of Non-Duality within the Buddhist philosophy of life truly were. I want to convey that these are not dubious spiritualism, but a ‘tangible salvation’ that can occur within the functions of the brain and as an extension of our daily lives.

Sudden Liberation from Language & the Body

A physical sensation that visited me the moment I suddenly awoke one night was my first experience of the State of Non-Duality. Later, as I continued my journey through gardening, I would occasionally experience—just before falling asleep—the Loss of the Sensation of Breathing’ and the Dissolution of Bodily Awareness that led to this same state. 

It was during a period when I was cycling through the input of information and the output of thought to consolidate my photographic philosophy. I had pushed myself to such an extreme that the walls of my room were covered with sticky notes of ideas. The curtains remained drawn, the lights were left on, and in a state of profound physical and mental exhaustion, I simply drifted off and fell asleep late one night. I suddenly awoke and, in an instant, entered a state where I was literally interconnected with everything in this world. That fleeting instant was too abrupt for comprehension; I could not even think through language. If I dare to reflect upon it now through words, the sensation was as follows:

The moment I woke up,
the sense of time—morning, noon, or night—was absolute zero…

Or rather... the very consciousness of time itself had simply dissolved…

At that instant, I dissolved into time, dissolved into the World…
My ego had vanished, the boundaries of my body lost…

Or rather... I wasn’t even inside my own body at all…
A world just prior to Descartes’ ‘Cogito ergo sum’…

Enveloped by something sweet, cool, and soothing...
Neither subjective nor meta-perspective...
I had become ‘Serene Consolation’ itself…

A state with no past, no future...
Only the absolute present, where all was one…

Gradually, consciousness started to return, simultaneously with language beginning to descend into my mind: ‘What is this soft, sweet, cool, serene consolation…?’ At that moment, a clock above my head caught my sight, and instantly, I was pulled back into the reality where Descartes’ ‘Cogito ergo sum’ resides. 

I had absolutely no sense of time then, and I have no idea how long that state had lasted. If it had been a dream, the memory would have faded gradually, but instead of opening my eyes to return to reality, perceptual information smoothly returned to my body and mind, as if rewinding a video, and I returned to this conscious reality with my eyes already wide open. I still clearly remember that sensation, if not the sensation itself.

Eastern philosophy speaks of  The World of Language Falling Away, and Dōgen of The World of Mind and Body Falling Away. When language and body fell away from me, I believe I was precisely in the world where ‘all existence, the entire world, is 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori)’. I knew, in my own body, that ‘Satori is not something to be acquired’. Just as Dōgen stated, we were already, truly, woven into the very process of Buddha-World—Satori (Recurring Process of Self-dissolution into the Web of Relations). I dissolved into ‘Something’ that could not possibly be articulated by the four or five words—soft, sweet, cool, quiet, serene, consolation—and then returned to this conscious reality.

The Inner Space Behind the Body

Since being liberated from language and body, I began to occasionally experience a peculiar phenomenon when going to sleep: the sensation of breathing would disappear, and my body would gently sink into the bed. Just before sleep, if I focus on my breath, I am suddenly made aware of the state of Loss of the Sensation of Breathing. It is not breath-holding; rather, the movement and the very feedback of the breath vanish entirely.

Ah, am I not breathing right now?

Ah, faintly, slowly... I seem to be breathing... no, wait, I’m not…

Wait, why am I checking my own body objectively?

Of course, these clear verbal thoughts are not running through my mind, but in that moment, I distinctly fall into a sensation of being ‘another layer inside my body’. To use a simple analogy, it is the sensation that my body is a large, humanoid robot from an anime, and ‘I?’ reside in the cockpit located within its chest or head. While in the cockpit, which is the ‘Mind’, I quietly remain in the sense of ‘here, now’.

The exterior of the mind begins to sway and shimmer like a wave...
Only the mind sinks silently, gently into the ground…

Yet, no matter how deep it sinks, it remains in the same place...
Yet, that place is not a single point,
but a single point that stretches out endlessly…

The boundary disappears, everything dissolves together, and there is only the feeling of being in a tranquil darkness. This deep stillness is surely engraved within me as a personal reality. Amidst these experiences, when I began to face the small world of the garden, I began to encounter the moments when ‘Existence flowers’ on multiple occasions. Flowers and soil microbes transcended boundaries, dissolving together into a Harmonious-Chaos of unified life.

First Meditation & First Light Experience

Most of these experiences had been, so to speak, passive. However, I have actively, on my own initiative, attempted meditation only twice in my life—not through formal lessons, but through my own ‘imitation’ of the practice. During the first session, I thought only fifteen minutes had passed, but when I opened my eyes, an hour had already elapsed. During the second, an hour and forty-five minutes felt like a mere thirty minutes.

I am sure many would think: ‘You just fell asleep, didn't you?’ However, if I had fallen asleep, I would have been jolted awake by a sudden return to consciousness. In my case, at the very moment I decided to conclude the meditation, I opened my eyes by my own will. I did not ‘wake up’; I chose to end the state while retaining a clear awareness—despite the ‘lacking memory of the interim’ and a ‘subjectively compressed sense of time’.

Within about one minute of starting, my sensations of breath and body changed rapidly. The awareness that had been poured into my fingertips withdrew and vanished into the core of my body, as if retreating into a shell. As the bodily sensation dissolved, I began to feel an ambiguity, as if I were ‘connected to the space outside my body’ without a boundary. By then, my breathing had slowed to an extreme, arriving at a state where I felt as if I were not breathing at all. Silently, I entered that ‘unnamable space deeper within’. Occasionally, miscellaneous thoughts or ‘earworms’ would sweep through my mind like a gust of wind, but as I let them blow, they would vanish in less than a second. While doing this, suddenly:

As if light were slowly breaking through a rift in the clouds...
The inner side of my eyelids began to shine white…

It couldn't possibly be the sun... yet, somehow, the light came for me.
And slowly, I was shrouded in that light.

I experienced this in both sessions. During the second, the light appeared not slowly, but abruptly—an overwhelmingly dazzling, ‘semi-transparent white light’, like a single ray piercing through a heavy overcast sky. A fraction of a second before its arrival, there was a premonition. Beyond that, my memory lacks clarity.

Once enveloped, I found myself slowly and steadily ascending, as if riding an elevator—rising through a light where the concepts of direction—up, down, left, right—did not exist. And it was then, during the second meditation, that I encountered the following:

Hmm, time... is a plane.
It is not flowing.

I entered a strange synesthesia of time and form—the Flattening of Time. There was no past, no future, not even the sensation of a ‘flow’. If I dare to verbalise it, it was as if the moment of ‘Now’ had been infinitely stretched: ‘N-O-O-O-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-W.’.. I remained immersed in this ‘zero sensation’ of breath and body until I decided to open my eyes. When I checked the clock, several times the amount of time I had subjectively felt had actually passed. This is the verbalisation of my experience.

Meditation Experience from a Scientific Perspective

However, I must state this clearly: I do not want this series of experiences to be interpreted within the context of ‘spirituality’ or ‘energetic self-improvement’. Personally, I do not rely on such things to live. Since early elementary school, I have been a genuine non-spiritualist, shouting at the horoscopes in the newspaper, ‘Shut up! Don’t dictate my life!’ Furthermore, I do not believe in concepts like ‘spiritual energy’. I believe that the only energy that can exist in this world is that which is governed by the laws of physics.

These experiences are strictly events within the context of my own philosophical practice. I simply performed the act of lying down, closing my eyes, and being consciously aware of nothing, without any prior knowledge or wisdom regarding meditation or Mindfulness. I was simply coming from a place of total ignorance, thinking, ‘Meditation seems a bit questionable…’.

Therefore, when I later investigated the states of deep concentration and observation I had subjectively experienced, I discovered that what I had embodied was corroborated by various specialised terms in the narratives of meditation practitioners and related scientific research.

What is the meditation experience from a scientific perspective? For the scientifically minded reader, I will now delve into the neuroscientific underpinnings of these experiences. If the technical nature of brain waves and neural networks proves too taxing, rest assured: the central argument is simply that these states are complex, explainable brain functions—not mystical phenomena—and are therefore accessible to every mind, regardless of discipline. You may proceed directly to the philosophical conclusion if you wish.

What is the meditation experience from a scientific perspective? For those seeking scientific validation, I will now delve deeper into the neuroscientific underpinnings of these experiences. Should the specialised discussions on brain waves and neural networks feel too daunting, do not worry: the core of this analysis is to demonstrate that these unique states of consciousness are explainable brain functions, rather than mystical phenomena, and are thus accessible to anyone. You may proceed directly to the philosophical conclusion if you wish. 

Firstly, in the practice of philosophical meditation, there is an initial state known as ‘Samatha’ (Concentration Meditation). Many practitioners aim to reduce miscellaneous thoughts by settling the mind through attention to the movement of the breath or bodily sensations. This is followed by ‘Vipassana’ (Insight Meditation), where attention expands non-judgementally to all phenomena—including passing thoughts, subtle bodily sensations, and ambient sounds—from a ‘third-person perspective’. In my case:

Rather than clinging to the sensation of breath or body…
but focusing from the outset on the ‘nothingness’ of each passing moment… 

And after what subjectively felt like only a minute or so…
I found myself suddenly awakened to
loss of the sensation of breathing and
dissolution of bodily awareness… 

Yet, if I turned too much awareness toward the breath…
The awareness would become overly sharp…
causing a subtle trace of my own breathing to manifest…
So I immediately released even that conscious focus…

The miscellaneous thoughts that blew through like the wind were also…
simply allowed to pass, their frequency gradually receding…
Thus, I maintained a concentrated state without placing an object for focus…

Then suddenly,
as if a single shaft of light descended straight to me from the rift in the cloudy sky…
I became enveloped in a dazzling, translucent white light…
with a floating sensation, as if gently lifting away…
and the ‘self confined to the here and now’ vanished,
yet remained connected and integrated into the state of non-duality…

During the second light experience:

The sensation of past and future dissolved…
I experienced the flattening of time
 — a never-ending moment of the present…

And I instinctively remember that there was Memoryless Temporal Void before this light experience; when I opened my eyes to end the meditation and checked the clock, several times the amount of time I had subjectively felt had passed.

Such non-ordinary self- and body-sensations, as well as the incomprehensible Memoryless Temporal Void, are, from a neuroscientific perspective, seen as phenomena emerging from the step-by-step reorganisation of brain waves and multiple neural networks. With approximately 100 to 200 billion neurons in our brain, ‘brain waves’ arise as the sum of their electrical activities. These waves are classified by frequency—Alpha, Beta, Theta, Delta, and Gamma—appearing in various patterns depending on the state of consciousness and activity.

For instance, while Beta waves (13–30 Hz) typically dominate daily life, the onset of relaxation or meditation increases Alpha waves (8–13 Hz), bringing a sense of peace and mental stability. In deeper immersion, Theta waves (4–8 Hz) become predominant, linking to the subconscious, intuition, creativity, and a sense of refreshment. In even deeper states of meditation or sleep, Delta waves (0.5–4 Hz) appear, which are related to the subconscious, recovery, and the dissolution of the boundaries of the self. Furthermore, it is known that Gamma waves (30 Hz and above) increase during ‘Satori-like’ experiences and states of strong integration; these are associated with complex information processing, intuitive insights, and the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality and the ‘light experiences’.

Additionally, the Loss of the Sensation of Breathing and the Dissolution of Bodily Awareness I experienced are explained by activity changes in the insular cortex and somatosensory cortex, which govern ‘interoception’. A temporary weakening of the integration within these regions during meditation reportedly causes the ‘feedback‘—the tangible sensation—of the breath and body to diminish. Modern research has shown that Tibetan Buddhist practitioners and mindfulness meditators provide similar subjective reports, which are corroborated by EEG and MRI data.

Furthermore, the reduction of miscellaneous thoughts is also related to the activation of the prefrontal cortex and the Executive Control Network, particularly as ‘objectless awareness’ strengthens. This naturally reduces mind-wandering, leading to a clearer state of concentration and awareness. 

Regarding the ‘dazzling, semi-transparent white light’, it is widely recognised in Buddhist tradition as an appearance of a significant meditative stage called ‘Nimitta’. From a neuroscientific perspective, this experience of white light is linked to the activation of multiple brain regions, such as the visual cortex, prefrontal cortex, amygdala, and hippocampus; in particular, the increase in high-frequency Gamma waves (30 Hz and above) has been associated with the light experiences of many adept meditators. Thus, the experience of white light during meditation is not merely an illusion or hallucination, but can be understood as a complex, multi-layered conscious phenomenon—both a testament to traditional religious attainment and a state supported by neuroscientific evidence.

The ‘floating sensation’ and the experience of the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality and the State of Non-Duality are strongly related to the reorganisation and reduced activity levels of self-awareness and spatial cognition networks (such as the DMN, TPJ, and insular cortex). Specifically, the Temporoparietal Junction (TPJ) is a crucial region that codes ‘where the self is‘; its temporary reduction in activity and subsequent reorganisation creates an immersive feeling where ‘the boundary between self and environment blurs’ and ‘the self dissolves into the world’. This is likely what religious accounts throughout history and many advanced practitioners have described as the ‘dissolution of the ego’ or ‘oneness with the universe’.

Finally, subjective senses of time—such as the Flattening of Time and the Memoryless Temporal Void—are also frequent themes in meditation research. This occurs when attention becomes excessively fixed on the ‘present’, stemming from reduced connectivity in the DMN (particularly the medial prefrontal cortex and posterior cingulate cortex). Consequently, memories of past and future are not encoded, leading to a phenomenon where ‘only the Now continues’. It is spoken of among many adept meditators as a ‘pure consciousness experience’—a state of being awake yet ‘contentless’. Regarding the Flattening of Time, it may be explained by the neuroscientific theory of ‘Discrete Consciousness’, the so-called snapshot theory, where consciousness is seen not as a continuous flow, but as a series of intermittent snapshots. Since I naturally possess synaesthesia between taste and form, I suspect that this discrete consciousness was perceived through a synaesthetic visualisation and ‘flattening’—a phenomenon occurring at a neural level.

As a further insight, I would also like to touch upon the posture during meditation. The method I adopted—‘lying down, closing my eyes, and being aware of nothing‘—stands in stark contrast to the traditional Zen sitting style (Zazen), as I practised in a ‘supine Dai-no-ji position’ (lying on my back, limbs stretched out like the character for ‘large’). I believe the sitting posture in Zazen serves multi-layered functions, such as maintaining wakefulness, preserving clarity of consciousness, unifying group discipline, and providing social proof of one’s practice. The seated position demonstrates the practitioner’s earnestness to the outside world; any forward or backward tilting of the head due to dozing is immediately apparent. It likely encompasses spiritual and social meanings such as ‘maintenance of alertness’, ‘sense of unity’, and ‘authority’ within group practice. In contrast, my ‘lying supine in the Dai-no-ji position’ is outwardly indistinguishable from mere sleep; practising it in a group would likely risk a significant loss of social dignity. However, it is my view that this posture minimises physical tension, allows breathing to deepen naturally, and enables a more delicate observation of the flow of consciousness.

I must preface this by stating that the above is based on the information I was able to gather and includes my own speculations. As the experience and perception of meditation varies from person to person, there is much that scientific research has yet to uncover. It is immensely difficult to fully explain subjective experiences—which are so hard to articulate—through data alone; this is where I feel the limitations of current science. Nevertheless, I have come to understand that the non-ordinary conscious experiences occurring in deep meditation are not merely dubious spiritual phenomena, but rather complex brain functions that can be explained through neuroscience. Through this understanding, the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality—the moment when 'Existence flowers'—which I embodied in the garden, can also be re-examined from a scientific perspective.

The Discovery of the Self Prior to The Cartesian I (Cogito)

The most vital sensation taught to me by this experience of the State of Non-Duality was the way I perceive ‘I’. The ‘I’ that I embodied during meditation was something distinctly different from this Body or Thought. That meditative practice was an experience where the very existence of the ‘I’ was destabilised. During meditation:

The connection with the body was severed...
I resided within the inner space of the body...
 I had now become the deeper than I (the serene core)…

Then, the occasional thoughts, appearing like distractions, would arise outside of this The Deeper than I (The Serene Core)—the ‘I’ whose boundaries had completely dissolved.

The body was nothing more than my husk...
The thoughts were exactly like the wind…

In this way, The Deeper than I (The Serene Core) felt liberated from the Body and Thought that I had once considered to be Me. The disappearance of the sensation of the Body, which had formerly been my boundary, transformed quietly into a Subjective Sense of Non-Duality—a feeling that The Deeper than I (The Serene Core) was connected to everything.

The deeper than I (the serene core) seemed to be connected to all things...
The deeper than I (the serene core) seemed to extend infinitely…

As even the wind of Thought began to cease and The Deeper than I (The Serene Core) became immersed in a unique stillness, the sense of Time—future and past—faded. As the purity of The Deeper than I (The Serene Core)—the ‘I’ that am(is) ‘here, now’—increased, there was, it seems, a Memoryless Temporal Void.

Looking back, while I was:

The Deeper than I (The Serene Core)
=  The here-now-I 

, a memory remains that I was indeed in that state. However, I have absolutely no memory regarding the Memoryless Temporal Void. Nevertheless, the void certainly existed.

It seems that while I was:

 The Deeper than I (The Serene Core)
=  The liberation from Body and Thought as the I
=  The immersion in a paradoxical Subjective Sense of Non-Duality
      with everything as the I

, the sense of time, such as future and past, gradually faded. Thus, this purity increased, I came to spend time within that Memoryless Temporal Void. In other words, Spending the Memoryless Temporal Void as the I can be described as the liberation from both Time and Memory.

Furthermore, I am left with the sensation that Spending the Memoryless Temporal Void as the ‘I’ was an even more The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence) than The Deeper than I (The Serene Core) who retains memory. It is a self-contradictory sensation: that even though it is The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence), it is not Me. This state is surely what Siddhartha once taught as 無我 (Muga / Anatta / Not The Deeper than I, nor The Cartesian I [Cogito]).

Siddhartha primarily taught the extinguishing of attachment to the ‘I’—the illusion of a substantial, fixed entity—as it is the root of human suffering. In other words, his focus was on the liberation from 苦 (Ku / Dukkha / Suffering). 無我 (Muga / Anatta / Not The Deeper than I, nor The Cartesian I [Cogito])is not nihilism. This is evident from that profound sense of peacefulness—the realisation that ‘Zero-ness was Existence’—which arose when The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence) manifested as a reality without attributes, quietly witnessed by The Deeper than I (The Serene Core). To sever the ‘I’ was, in fact, the very means to connect that I to everything. What resided there was not a Cold Stillness akin to nihilism, but rather the Warm Serenity characteristic of Zen.

Ultimately, the Subjective Sense of Non-Duality held by The Deeper than I (The Serene Core)—that feeling of being connected to everything—was revealed to be the true State of Non-Duality. This occurred as The Deeper than I (The Serene Core) shifted to The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence), thereby unifying with the undifferentiated Existence in the Pre-Linguistic World. The Deeper than I (The Serene Core) and The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence), are The Essential I, whereas what I once perceived as Me was The Provisional I (The Interconnected I). 

In other words:

 The Cartesian I (Cogito)
=  有 (U / Articulated Plurality / Manifested Form / Diversity-World
         / Static Reality) 

The Deeper than I (The Serene Core)
=  The Completely dissolving self-boundaries as the I
=  The Here-Now-I
     represents Metamorphosis of Perception
                       = Subjective Sense of Non-Duality

The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence)
=  The Spending the Memoryless Temporal Void
      liberated from both Time and Memory as the I
=  無我 (Muga / Anatta
               / Not The Deeper than I, nor The Cartesian I [Cogito])
     represents 無/悉有 (Mu / Shitsuu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential
                                       / Undifferentiated Existence / Harmonious-Chaos)
                                  = State of Non-Duality / Dynamic Reality. 

The Provisional I (The Interconnected Self)
=  The ‘I’ after opening my eyes and
      beginning to reconnect with Body and Thought
=  自我 (Jiga / Ahamkara / Ego)
     represents 仮有 (Keu / Provisional Existence / Interconnected Reality
                                  / Super-Diversity-World / Dynamic Reality
                                  / Harmonious-Chaos)

有 (U / Articulated Plurality) =仮有 (Keu / Interconnected Reality) and 無/悉有 (Mu / Shitsuu / Zero-ness) are two sides of the same coin; everything is interconnected (= Non-Duality), and there is no fixed substance of the ‘I’. Yet, it was surely:

The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence)
=  Spending the Memoryless Temporal Void as the I
     that was unified with this substanceless Dynamic Reality
=  Ultimate Existence.

In this way, as meditation deepens, The Cartesian I (Cogito) of ‘I think, therefore I am’ begins to tremble at its very foundation. Yet, how are we to connect this discovery of the self—this journey from The Cartesian I (Cogito) to The Deeper than I (The Serene Core), The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence), The Essential I, and finally to The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence)—with the reality of our daily lives?

Chapter 9. Restoring Me, Reconnecting Me

Do I exist, or does Existence I?

The ‘I’ was, in truth, a ‘state’ that shifts constantly depending on conditions. There is no fixed essence to the ‘self’. Yet, simultaneously, it is this very realisation of 無自性 (Mujishō / Niḥsvabhāva / Absence of Inherent Nature) that deconstructs The Cartesian I (Cogito) and reconnects us to the 縁起 (Engi / Pratītyasamutpāda / Dynamic Web of Dependent Co-A-rising) . Through this metamorphosis of perception, the ‘I’—suddenly realising I(it) have(s) begun to live within 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness), which is Zen—is restored to an Airy Fulfilment. In this state, the vision of ‘Existence flowers’ finally begins to manifest with profound reality.

Zen Begins with the Deconstruction of The Cartesian I (Cogito)

I have embodied and realised firsthand that Body, Thought, Memory, and Time had together constructed the subjective phenomenon of the ‘I’ (Ego). From the perspective of Western philosophy, which prioritises the logical derivation of objective truths through language, these accounts of meditative experience may sound nonsensical. However, Eastern philosophy prioritises the direct embodiment of truths through individual subjective experience. Eastern philosophy finds the ultimate truth of the world not in Static Reality, but in Dynamic Reality—manifested as ‘processes’ and ‘interdependent relationships’. Furthermore, beyond the mere inquiry into universal truths, the ultimate purpose of Eastern philosophy lies in returning from that state of truth to the mundane world, to transform one’s very way of life: to seek how one should live and how one can be liberated from suffering. 

Siddhartha taught that to manifest ultimate Satori, a life of renunciation—leaving the secular world to devote oneself entirely to practice—was the most ideal path. Yet, he simultaneously offered teachings to those remaining in the mundane world, acknowledging their own ways of accruing merit and experiencing Satori within their daily lives. 

It was Mahayana Buddhism—systematised by Nagarjuna and now one of the two major branches of modern Buddhism—that came to place even greater importance on this Secular Satori. Mahayana Buddhism actively encourages returning to—or remaining within—the mundane world. One of its core teachings is captured in the phrases 煩悩即菩提 (Bonnō soku bodai / Worldly Passions, as It is, are Revolutionised to Satori—Recurring Process of Self-Dissolution into the Web of Relations, through the ‘0 to 1’ Metamorphosis of Perception) and 生死即涅槃 (Shoji soku nehan / The Indivisibility of Birth and Death, as It is, Manifests as Nirvana—Cessation of Suffering through the Dissolving of All Attachment after the Metamorphosis of Perception). In other words, Mahayana Buddhism does not prescribe a two-stage process—leaving the mundane world for mountain asceticism and only ‘returning’ after attaining ‘Satori’. Rather, it teaches that the realisations and actions within one's daily life are precisely 修証一如 (Shushō ichinyo / Manifestation of Satori through the Act of Practice).

This is precisely why I have consistently adhered to the term I—using expressions such as The Deeper than I (The Serene Core), The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence), The Essential I and The Provisional I (The Interconnected Self)—even while asserting that ‘there is no fixed substance of the ‘I’. Buddhism aims to realise, within the mundane world, a way of living freely by releasing the attachment to the Self—the ‘I’ as a fixed subject. In my own meditative practice, I did not experience a reinforcement of the ‘I’, but rather the deconstruction of the ‘I’.

The proposition ‘I think, therefore I am’ is one that almost everyone has heard at least once in their life. In the subsequent history of philosophy, The Cartesian I (Cogito) has not remained unquestioned. However, most of us living in the 21st century continue our daily lives without doubting for a moment the existence of a firm, substantial Self—the ‘I’ as a fixed subject.

In most cases, the problems, anxieties, and conflicts people face originate precisely from The Cartesian I (Cogito). It seems that certain contemporary forms of ‘Mindfulness’ and ‘Well-Being‘—leaning heavily towards individualism—were initiated not to ‘liberate’ this suffering Cogito, but rather to ‘fortify’ it. Hidden within this approach are the ‘exclusion of weakness’, the ‘pursuit of excessive strength’, and a ‘competitiveness-first’ mentality. Such attitudes and cultures should be termed Physical and Mental Armourism.

The claim that ‘health’ and ‘happiness’ are prizes to be won through individual effort actually contradicts the original essence of ‘Well-Being’, which implied a system where society as a whole supports a ‘state of fulfilment’. Furthermore, this individualistic ideology differs significantly from the spirit of Zen, which focuses on the ‘forgetting of the Ego’ to understand our interdependence with others and the reciprocal relationship between the ‘I’ and the world. True Zen begins with the deconstruction of The Cartesian I (Cogito).

It is by no means my intention to condemn Descartes. Whilst Cartesian thought is not the sole catalyst for modern science, it is no exaggeration to say that the world we enjoy today—with its advanced technology—was born precisely because of a philosophical paradigm that treated the material realm and the human body as physical machines. Furthermore, one could argue that thanks to Descartes’ proposition, ‘I think, therefore I am’, we were liberated from the constraints of the Body. If that is the case, then the next philosophical paradigm we must re-examine is none other than Thought itself.

Most of us likely perceive our Thoughts as being our very selves. Yet, I invite you to reflect on this: everyone must have experienced at least one night of tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep because of endless thinking. You surely felt ‘irritated’ at yourself for thinking, despite wanting to stop. If so, is the answer not blindingly obvious? If Thought were truly your essential self, ceasing to think would have been effortless. You would simply have willed yourself not to think. And yet, the thoughts persisted. One after another, the cycle of Thought began. Does this not demonstrate that Thought is something that cannot be governed by your will alone?

Since my primary school days, I have employed a certain technique for falling asleep. To quiet the Thoughts that would start of their own accord on restless nights, I made it a habit to drift off while immersing myself in music, or the sounds of the television or radio. Consequently, I have rarely experienced the inability to sleep. This method was born from a peculiar habit I had as a child: whenever my mind became overwhelmed, noisy, and distressed by a torrent of Thoughts, I would simply stare at a single point in space without ever fixing my focus.

Perhaps because of this habit, I have recognised since childhood that Thought begins in defiance of one’s will; I felt very strongly that Thought was, in essence, an ‘Other’. Consequently, I had naturally conditioned myself not to attempt to control Thought, but rather to shift the focus of my concentration toward a different object. Even now, I fall asleep every night using this same style, usually drifting off within five minutes. In this way, the opportunity to arrive at the answer—that Thought is not one’s pure possession but rather an ‘Other‘—has actually visited us every single night. To ‘think’ about something is heavily dependent on information external to the body, such as society and culture. Therefore, it should be impossible to claim that Thought belongs purely and exclusively to oneself.

Mindfreeness, Not Mindfulness

Equipped with a firm The Cartesian I (Cogito)—formidably armed with language and rationality—we march out every day into society: a battlefield of the Ego, tormented by ‘competition’, ‘comparison’, and the ‘desire for recognition’. On such a battlefield, where resilience of spirit is demanded, Zen is often misperceived and degraded into an easily digestible, exotic concept—used merely for enhancing personal concentration or mitigating the stress caused by others. However, no matter how much we continue to polish The Cartesian I (Cogito), only a sense of ‘emptiness’, accompanied by a persistent feeling of deficiency, remains.

According to insights from cultural and evolutionary anthropology, this sense of ‘emptiness’ is by no means a personal weakness; rather, it is suggested to be rooted in the very genes of our species. The genetic sense of happiness and fulfilment—formed over millions of years since humans diverged from a common ancestor with chimpanzees approximately four to seven million years ago—may have ceased to function effectively within the social structures of the last ten thousand years following the emergence of agriculture. In the era of hunter-gatherers, those who did not possess a spirit of Fairness, Collaboration, and Symbiosis would lose their standing within the collective. For humanity, happiness and fulfilment were a homeostatic sense of reassurance guaranteed by a communal life founded on these three principles. Since the emergence of agriculture, however, hierarchies have emerged in human social structures, creating disparities between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’, and leading to concealment, pillage, and fortification. For millions of years, humanity evolved a genetic sense of reassurance based on ‘mutual aid and transparency within small groups‘—the hallmark of hunter-gatherer societies. Yet, the social structures of the post-agricultural era—defined by ‘disparity’, ‘competition’, and ‘domination‘—have a history of only ten thousand years. This fundamental lack of genetic adaptation may well be the true identity of the ‘emptiness’ that can never be filled by the reinforcement of The Cartesian I (Cogito).

‘I am’, yet I am not; ‘I am not’, yet I am. This ambiguous mindset was likely the very philosophy of living—the way of ‘existence’ for the ‘I’—during the millions of years of the hunter-gatherer era. In our modern society, where survival into tomorrow is almost guaranteed, we have maintained a sufficient distance from physical death—that is, we have secured a homeostatic sense of reassurance at a genetic level. Yet, on the other hand, what of our distance from ‘mental death‘? I refer to mental peace. Regardless of the cultural sphere, the pursuit of short-term pleasure and a profound craving for recognition have become problematic. To me, it appears that many modern people are dancing to the frantic tune of the supposed ‘peace’ offered by The Cartesian I (Cogito).

How, then, should we live in a modern society that so often lacks this mental happiness and fulfilment? The answer lies not in completely discarding The Cartesian I (Cogito), but in recognising its fixedness and then ‘repeatedly experiencing small ‘experiences of Symbiosis’ every day’. What matters is not a ‘subjective sense of acquisition through intellect’ that claims ‘there is no fixed substance of the ‘I’, but rather a ‘subjective sense of realisation through experience’ that feels ‘there is a state of the ‘I’. Furthermore—though it may seem paradoxical—one must not fall into the state of believing that ‘Body and Thought are not my-Self at all’. In other words, rather than completely abandoning the illusion of the ‘I’, we should live ‘ambiguously’ and ‘airily’, letting go of the fixedness of the ‘I’ as necessary. What I realised through my two meditative practices was precisely this Ambiguity and Airiness of the ‘I’.

The imperceptible, substanceless 動的実在/無我 (Dynamic Reality / Anatta / Not The Deeper than I (The Serene Core), nor ‘The Cartesian I [Cogito]’) that existed the moment everything fell away from the ‘I’. From that state of unity with 動的実在/無我 which is The Pristine to I (The Pristine Existence), or Ultimate Existence—the elements of Time, Memory, Body, and Thought gathered like magnets, returning to the state of I = 自我 (Jiga / Ahamkara / Ego). That experience was precisely the moment when ‘Existence flowers’, or rather, ‘Existence “I”s (Not “I exist”)’. This Dynamic Reality is exactly what Siddhartha called 縁起 (Engi / Pratītyasamutpāda / Dynamic Web of Dependent Co-Arising); its ultimate truth is 無自性 (Mujishō / Niḥsvabhāva / Absence of Inherent Nature). Every phenomenon is not an independent substance, but a temporary collective state of interdependent conditions. The state of the ‘I’ am(is) constantly changing depending on these conditions. If this is difficult to grasp, try replacing the ‘I’ with the Mind. ‘The mind changes’. Phrased this way, it may become easier to understand. And do you know where the Mind resides within the human being? No—the Mind is nowhere to be found. This is because the Mind is not a ‘thing’. The ‘Mind is a function; it is a state.

In other words, I believe that Siddhartha’s concept of 無自性 (Mujishō / Niḥsvabhāva / Absence of Inherent Nature) refers to the letting go of our attachment to the fixedness of this ‘state’. Since the ‘state’ we call the Mind is constantly changing depending on conditions, there is no need to cling to it. Nagarjuna demonstrated that not only human beings but all things in the universe lack an inherent, fixed substance; he expanded Siddhartha’s teachings of 縁起 (Engi) and 無自性 (Mujishō) into the philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā / Unbounded Flowing-ness). The ‘subjective sense of realisation through experience’ of this 空 (Kū) is precisely what Zen is. The state attained when one is able to Embody 空 (Kū) is the true Zen Mind.

Yet, reflecting on those moments, it was an experience where the Mind momentarily dissolved—a profoundly positive experience in which the Mind, once armoured with various concepts and attributes, was liberated from that heavy pressure. There was no negative sensation of the Ego being nihilistically absorbed or vanishing; rather, I held a positive, tangible sense of connecting with the world through 動的実在/無我 (Dynamic Reality / Anatta / Not The Deeper than I, nor The Cartesian I [Cogito]). As Zen Master Dōgen taught, we are already living within 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori)—and we were already 仏性 (Busshō) itself.

We must not be ‘Mindful’ of The Cartesian I (Cogito). While taking the ‘I’ as a starting point, it is the expansion of that I into the We, and further into the vastness of Ultimate Existence— 無/悉有 (Mu / Shitsuu / Zero-ness / Un-manifested Potential / Undifferentiated Existence / Harmonious-Chaos)—that manifests the true essence of Zen. It is a mistake to remain ‘Mindful’—watching, seeking, and perpetually struggling toward World of Satori that remains at a distance. In each moment, and in each place, it is enough. That very place is already the world of 悟り (Satori / Recurring Process of Self-dissolution into the Web of Relations); you need only live Airily and Mindfree within the environment in which you dwell.

You Gain Nothing, You Realise Everything

Why not begin Zen Gardening in your own back garden, at your doorstep, or on your balcony if you live in a flat? The ‘subjective sense of realisation through experience’ of Mindfreeness can occur within the very ‘garden of your daily life’. To practice Zen Gardening, there is absolutely no need to landscape your garden into a traditional ‘Zen Garden’ by laying gravel or placing stone lanterns. A Re-Zennish Garden is about practicing Zen within your garden exactly as it is, reflecting your own unique self. 

Observe the plants living in the miniature world of your garden. They cannot change the environment in which they dwell by their own will, yet in each moment and in each place, they live within 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori), existing as the very 現成公案 (Genjōkōan / Very Dynamic Manifestation of Satori). We can project onto the lives and activities of these diverse plants the Zen State of Consciousness—the world of Fairness, Collaboration, and Symbiosis that our genes have sought for millions of years.

What is vital to understand is that this experience is not merely a form of spiritual healing; it brings about a ‘profoundly physiological transformation’. The recurring process of these small ‘experiences of Symbiosis’ within a personal space in Zen will fundamentally alter both your body and your brain. It is an integrated transformation of your very physiology—an irreversible metamorphosis: opening new windows of sensory perception, rewiring the cognitive patterns of thought, and reclaiming a sense of reassurance at the very foundation of life. To playfully navigate the complexities of modern society, we then consciously re-harmonise these fluid elements—Body and Thought—within this ancient yet new flow of fulfilment, gently weaving them back together. Through this direct, embodied experience, you yourself are transformed, and the world begins to appear in a different light. This is the very essence of Eastern philosophy.

We Homo sapiens, with our overdeveloped brains, cannot seem to navigate life unless we attach names and meanings to things, perpetually worrying and ruminating. In terms of our beloved ‘linguistic sensibility’, it might be said that we are a species far inferior to other living creatures. However, could we not instead utilise this very skill of naming and attributing meaning as a way to truly live? 一切衆生 悉有仏性 (Issai Shujō Shitsuu Busshō)— We are already dwelling within  仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori); therefore, the very act of practice performed within it is, in itself, Satori. Why not re-attribute meaning to your life in this way, and begin to live?

Be one with the heat, its burning; be one with the cold, its biting. Become the heat; become the cold. An immersion of existence in the garden: ‘Be one with what you do.’. ‘Forget the Self. Become the Garden.’. ‘Be the Moment. Feel the Seasons.’. It is an experience so beautiful and joyful that the boundaries between subject and object dissolve. ‘What can one gain from practising Zen Gardening then?’ No—there is nothing to be gained. You merely come to realise what has been granted to you all along. Even with such realisations, we are pulled back into a mundane life where delusions will come at you again and again. However, you will undoubtedly find yourself in the state of a New You—no longer the same person you were in the past’.

Please do not forget: Satori  is not a matter of ‘0 or 100’. It is not about whether or not one has arrived; rather, it is a continuous gradation—a question of whether or not one is walking that path every single day.

Ultimately, you may even discard the word ‘Buddha’ from 仏性 (Busshō / Buddha-World / World of Satori). Nor is there even a necessity to call this Zen. This is not a religion. Whatever you choose to name this universal, subjective experience of Non-Duality for humanity, I do not mind. However, I do wish to voice my dissent against the hollow formalisation of Zen that clearly leads to misunderstanding.

To me, Siddhartha’s teaching is a ‘philosophy of living’ for moving airily through a world of suffering. And to me, gardening was the practice of that very ‘philosophy of living’—an airy way of living. There are already countless ‘how-to’ guides for gardening in the world. Yet, as for the mindset with which one enjoys it—I simply wished to share with you this beautiful and airy way of enjoying gardening as the relatable, lived experience of my thirty-five-year-old self—living with my beloved wife and daughter.

Epilogue

I extend my deepest gratitude to all of you who have read this far. Initially, I intended only to document briefly the mindset I value in gardening. However, as I mentioned regarding my meditation experience, thought is a wind that constantly blows through us. Once I began to write, the discomforts and questions I had harboured since my first year of gardening began to storm through my mind; I found myself desperately striving to verbalise that flow each time, determined not to let the wind escape. At last, I have managed to arrive at this point.

What I sought to share with you was the Boundary-less Zen State of Consciousness hidden within daily gardening life, and a gentle, ‘Nature-centric’ approach to garden-making—one rooted in an Ethical Reframing of our attitudes toward plants, which I term Botanical Democracy. Furthermore, I believe that the indescribable aesthetic emotion born from the symbiotic spaces of plants—where chaos and harmony are two sides of the same coin, and where the blurring of boundaries allows one to realise that ‘True Individuality Blooms in Altruism’—offers a vital hint for an ‘aesthetics of existence’ that can resolve the dilemmas of diversity we humans face within society.

The Beauty of Addition—where diverse existences overlap and individualities elevate one another—generates a warm, all-encompassing Subjective Sense of Non-Duality, contrasting sharply with the Beauty of Subtraction rooted in exclusion and homogenisation. One cannot possibly profess to follow a ‘Naturalistic garden’ while maintaining an attitude of excluding ‘weak’ plants. Criteria such as ‘growing large’ or ‘abundant blooming’ are also merely definitions of ‘Success’ arbitrarily decided for efficiency and appearance by agrarian societies—a structure with a mere ten thousand years of history. We have no way of knowing if the plants themselves desire such things. For us as gardeners of daily life, the essential ethic of gardening is to refuse to weigh plants on the scales of ‘Success’. Gardening—the act of ensuring every unique plant truly has a ‘place to call home’, transcending human-made yardsticks of ‘strong or weak’—is an actual practice of cultivating a heart that accepts the ‘Other’. Furthermore, by discarding a beauty based on ‘domination’ and ‘control’ that treats plants as mere ‘Objects’, we embrace an ethic where plants are the living ‘Subjects’ that manifest beauty. This shift is the very core of Nature-Centred Gardening: accepting a natural order that is not human-centred.

The simplest, yet most vital step we can take is this: to refrain, as much as possible, from using the kind of language toward plants that we would never dream of using toward our pets or other animals. This Ethical Reframing in our relationship with plants must begin from within the world of gardening—from us, who find such profound joy in living alongside flowers. And, since plants do not speak in human words, it is we who must initiate this. Botanical Democracy.

The Individual & the Collective

In deepening the philosophy of symbiotic spaces within the garden, I have rediscovered something profound: a unique equilibrium between the ‘Individual’ and the ‘Collective’ that is deeply rooted in Japanese society. Western society is fundamentally built upon individualistic values where self-assertion is encouraged. Yet, through actually living in the West, I discovered that daily life—from the food people choose to the clothes they wear—is underpinned by a certain degree of stylistic conventionality within each cultural root. As a Japanese person, I was struck by this vivid contrast: while there is a distinct posture of individual self-assertion and a vast diversity of backgrounds, the practical framework of the ‘Collective’ in daily life remains relatively homogenous within each respective group.

Admittedly, the phrase ‘highly homogenous’ is frequently employed when discussing Japanese society from a foreign perspective. Furthermore, regarding the posture of self-assertion, Japan is often labelled as being ‘poor at self-expression’. However, looking anew at Japan through the lens of my life in the West, I have come to realise that Japanese society actually possesses a vibrant cultural tendency and a high degree of receptivity toward the energetic pursuit of individual preferences and meticulous obsessions. This is manifest in the ‘Otaku-like’ devotion individuals bring to their myriad hobbies, the vast range of product choices that facilitate such pursuits, and the ‘artisan spirit (Shokunin Kishitsu)’ characterised by an unwavering dedication to one’s profession, regardless of the vocation. This, in turn, results in an astonishingly broad spectrum of options across every facet of life—encompassing, but far transcending, the basic areas of clothing, food, and housing. This ‘true face’ of Japanese society is increasingly evident in the social media and YouTube content shared by the growing number of international tourists. These visitors share a multitude of surprises—such as the vast range of individual fashion tastes found in Japan—but above all, the ‘true face’ of Japanese society they speak of most is surely the sheer diversity of its culinary culture.

For us Japanese, traditional ‘Washoku’ is merely one option among many. In reality, a diverse and fusion-like culinary culture has flourished even in domestic kitchens, incorporating essences from cuisines across the globe. At the micro-level, our convenience stores introduce an average of 100 new products—each a new ‘Individuality’—every week, reaching a staggering 5,000 varieties annually. The nationally beloved sandwich, ‘Lunch Pack’, has produced over 2,500 types to date, and even the global ‘Kit Kat’ has seen approximately 450 variations developed within Japan. Despite being a small island nation, the internal regional differences are so pronounced, and the curiosity for the novel and the diverse so profound, that a single television programme has been able to broadcast weekly features on the unique festivals, dialects, and local cuisines of each of the 47 prefectures for over fifteen years. Within this small island nation, there is a swirling vortex of regional diversity and an insatiable curiosity for the heterogeneous and the new.

While this energetic pursuit of individual preference and curiosity for the heterogeneous exists, the moment one steps into a public space, a different mechanism takes over: one restrains oneself for the comfort of others and seeks to make the ‘Individual’ semi-transparent within the collective. This sharp contrast—between the energetic pursuit of individual preference and the quiet self-restraint in the public sphere—may appear contradictory. However, I perceive this as a proactive, rational, and strategic ‘Ambiguity’—a social skill employed to ensure that the precious individuality of each person is not carelessly exposed or allowed to clash and break.

This communication style, which permits such Japanese ‘Ambiguity’, often invites criticism or misunderstanding within ‘Low-context’ cultures, where it is labelled as ‘not speaking one’s true mind’, ‘slowness in decision-making’, or a ‘lack of self’. Yet, this is a wisdom of communication that prioritises harmony within relationships and consideration for others over blunt self-assertion. Within this flexible and receptive posture lies a vital hint for ‘living alongside the anonymous many’ that our modern society so desperately needs.

Since the pandemic subsided, there has been a surge in social media and YouTube posts by international tourists expressing astonishment at various aspects of a ‘public spirit’ unique to Japan. To the Japanese, these are merely scenes of a mundane and commonplace daily life; yet, to visitors, they are a revelation: the sight of streets remaining pristine despite the absence of rubbish bins; the cleanliness of public toilets; public transport that operates exactly on schedule; the silence within trains and the consideration shown in how passengers carry their luggage; the tranquillity of roads where horns are rarely honked; the scarcity of illegal street parking; and the dedicated service in restaurants provided without the expectation of excessive tipping. The unique public spirit of Japanese citizens—evident even in Tokyo, a metropolis with the world’s largest population—is not something enforced by strict rules or laws. This ‘orderly comfort’, which emerges even without formal regulations, can be explained by the very ‘Ambiguity’ I have discussed: a state where the ‘Public’ and the ‘Private’ become integrated. Rather than asserting the ‘Individual’ and drawing firm boundaries, it is a ‘non-verbal Ambiguity’ born of mutual trust. It is an intuitive, mutual anticipation—the understanding that one naturally restrains oneself for the comfort of others, just as that very same consideration is and will be extended toward oneself.

In fact—setting aside a thoughtless few—the vast majority of well-meaning international tourists notice this non-verbal consideration extended toward them by Japanese citizens. In response, they naturally begin to adapt their own behaviour: taking their rubbish home rather than littering when they find no bins, or responding with sincere courtesy to the dedicated service they receive in restaurants.

Symbiosis is a ‘mutual honouring of presence‘—the recognition of the Other, premised on refraining from the unilateral expansion of one’s own domain. In other words, it is to respect not only one’s own I but to honour the Other as an equal ‘presence within this world’. Order is not something enforced by strict rules; rather, it is sustained by a quiet ‘cost’ borne by each individual. This unvoiced psychological cost—the internal restraint that whispers, ‘I must not deprive others of their comfort’—is precisely why a metropolis like Tokyo, despite its staggering population and inherent chaos, remains harmonised. Witnessing this ‘harmony within chaos’, international tourists often share striking insights into the equilibrium between the ‘Individual’ and the ‘Collective’ that defines the Japanese cityscape.

At the end of World War II, Japan—where wooden construction was the mainstream, unlike the stone and brick structures of the West—saw 229 of its cities obliterated, foundations and all, by incendiary bombing raids. This forced a reconstruction literally from zero, resulting in an urban landscape rare in the world, where architectures of differing eras and styles coexist. While we Japanese often cast an envious gaze toward Western townscapes with their historical continuity and unified architectural norms, international tourists view this very landscape as one of Japan’s greatest charms. They describe Japanese cities as ‘unpredictable’, ‘energetic’, and ‘vibrant’. Rather than seeing a mess, they perceive a diversity free from fixed preconceptions—where traditional houses stand alongside modern skyscrapers and signs jostle for space. They have come to value this unique coexistence: a spatial chaos underpinned by a normative harmony.

The fundamental difference in balance between the West and Japan may stem from their underlying logics of social formation. Broadly speaking, whereas the West constructs new collective rules through the competition and debate of ‘Individuals’ with differing assertions, Japan appears to take the framework of the ‘Collective’—the concept of ‘Wa’ (Harmony)—as a given premise, focusing primarily on how to accommodate diverse ‘Individuals’ within that vessel. 

Regarding the aforementioned ‘homogeneity’, Japan is often viewed from abroad as a mono-ethnic nation, but the reality is quite different. Since ancient times, the Japanese archipelago has served as the ‘far eastern terminus’ of the Orient—a place where people of various origins from the north, west, and south eventually drifted and converged. 

Those fleeing persecution, those defeated in conflict, those driven by adventure, and those seeking a new world—people crossed the sea (or the land-bridges of earlier eras) for myriad reasons, meeting and mingling on these islands (the length of the Japanese archipelago is longer than the straight-line distance between London and Istanbul) to form what we now know as Japan. Haplogroup analysis (genetic ancestral groupings) clearly reveals the extremely diverse roots of the Japanese people. This complexity—which includes the heritage of the Ainu (primarily of northern Japan and Hokkaido) and the Ryukyuan people (primarily of the Ryukyu Islands in the south of Japan)—represents one of the rare instances in the world where such an intricate genetic balance is maintained.

The acceptance and integration of immigrants from the continent, leveraging their specialised skills, is a historical fact of immense significance. Notably, during the pre-Yayoi period and the early stages of mass immigration, records of conspicuous conflict between these newcomers and the indigenous inhabitants are remarkably sparse. Instead, these immigrants are believed to have become deeply involved in politics, administration, and culture—particularly in civil engineering and architecture—often seeking to earn a family name from the Japanese Imperial Court. This spirit of coexistence was eventually captured in the Seventeen-Article Constitution (AD 604)—a fundamental document in the history of Japan’s national formation that was more of a moral code than a legal constitution. Its first article, ‘Harmony is to be valued’, serves as the very bedrock of Japanese social formation. Indeed, so central was this concept that Japan originally defined itself through the very character for Harmony, ‘Wa’ (和), naming the nation 和国 (Wa-koku / another name for Japan: ‘the Land of Harmony’).

The Japanese archipelago has always remained adjacent to the great powers of the Chinese mainland, yet it is separated by the sea. Due to this geographical condition, large-scale state-level invasions were relatively limited compared to those experienced by continental nations. Instead, for those dwelling on these islands, the true objects of terror were natural disasters: earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanoes, and typhoons. Japan is a nation defined by an extraordinary frequency of natural calamities. Please try to imagine: we Japanese live our daily lives with a subconscious, primal fear tucked away in the depths of our hearts—the knowledge that we might perish in an earthquake tomorrow. In such an environment, an individual’s strength is utterly powerless. When homes and fields vanish in an instant by a tremor or a wave, a spirit of mutual aid and collective cooperation becomes indispensable for the survivors to rebuild their lives. Consequently, the valuing of ‘Wa’ (Harmony) within the community may have been shared as a vital normative consciousness for survival itself. While history certainly records social unrest caused by famine, the subsequent rise of banditry, and the fierce internal conflicts of the Sengoku period, the fundamental wisdom of survival on this archipelago remained rooted in collective harmony and mutual support. Furthermore, cultural elements arriving from across the sea were welcomed with an open and curious heart—rather than suspicion—provided they harboured no intent of invasion. The ease with which we then deconstruct and transform these imports into a uniquely Japanese style is perhaps a manifestation of a fundamental tolerance toward the uncontrollable, and an inherent sense of  Impermanence—the acceptance that ‘nature changes, and society changes as well’. This profound awe toward nature, coupled with the underlying normative consciousness that prizes ‘Wa’, is arguably the very fountainhead of Japan’s cultural flexibility.

Furthermore, supported by archaeological evidence and established historical fact, Japan is home to an Imperial Lineage that has endured for approximately 1,600 to 1,700 years—making it the oldest hereditary monarchy in the world. However, 

mperial House has not always wielded formidable political power. Throughout the vast majority of its history, the Imperial Family has occupied a symbolic position of ‘Authority’ rather than ‘Power’. Even during the Sengoku period—the age of warring states that saw nearly a century of relentless internal conflict—no force emerged that sought to completely negate this authority or to usurp its place. For the warlords of the time, the Imperial Court functioned as the supreme guarantor of culture, history, and legitimacy, quite apart from any practical political control. Everyone respected this ‘symbolic centre’. In this sense, Japan can be described as a nation where a central national power exists, and yet, it is as if that centre itself is not even there.

The concept of ‘the absence of a centre’ is frequently cited when characterising Japan’s culture, social fabric, and political identity. It describes a state where no fixed, absolute core exists; instead, the centre remains hollow or shifts, defined by surrounding circumstances and collective consensus. Throughout every era of history, no one has ever sought to negate the symbolic presence of the Imperial House; its authority has always been respected. Fundamentally, the Japanese spirit tends to reject structures where an absolute centre exerts total control over the whole. Rather, the centre is often left void—a space no single entity can occupy—around which various elements align themselves concentrically. In this sense, Japan can be described as a nation where a central national power exists, and yet, it is as if that centre itself is not even there. When viewed through this historical lens, the Meiji government emerges as a rare and exceptional entity. In a desperate bid to avoid being swallowed by Western imperialism, Japan hastily constructed a political system that mimicked Western styles of governance, vesting the Emperor with tangible power. However, the reality remained a system of collective leadership by the ‘Genkun’ (the founding fathers of the Meiji state). Because there was no tradition of an absolute dictator, the will at the top remained ambiguous. Driven by a psychological evasion of responsibility, everyone operated under the instinct that they were not the centre—acting as if they were merely following the Emperor’s will or the prevailing ‘air’ of the time. This left the massive military machine with no central agency to control it, leading to an unstoppable rush toward catastrophe. As we know, Japan’s reckless plunge into the Second World War was the consequence of this fatal lack of agency within the decision-making processes of the military and government, where critical and cautious voices were systematically suppressed.

In today’s advancing digital society, anyone can broadcast their own ‘justice’. The era of elite-monopolised values has ended, and individuals now shout their convictions to the world. Yet, by absolutising these personal truths, discussion has lost its common ground, devolving into sharp confrontation. In truth, justice is rarely a singular entity.

The lyrics to ‘Anpanman‘—a children's superhero anime known by almost everyone in Asia—symbolically capture this current state. Remarkably, despite being a superhero song, the word ‘justice’ never appears. Instead, it famously says, ‘Love and courage are my only friends’. Do you grasp the profound depth of this? The creator, Takashi Yanase, experienced World War II and knew firsthand that the word ‘justice’ (the centre) can be overturned overnight. The conclusion he reached was the ultimate self-sacrifice: tearing off a piece of one's own face to feed the hungry (Anpanman is a character whose head is made of bread, and he helps those in need by giving them a part of himself to eat). Here, ‘Love’ refers to a selfless devotion that helps the suffering person before one's eyes, regardless of whether they are friend or foe. ‘Courage’ is the lonely determination to take that step, knowing one will be hurt in the process. Rather than attacking others as a group under the banner of a specific ‘justice’, one simply follows one’s own conscience and takes responsibility alone. This phrase, ‘only love and courage’, contains a solitary ethics that refuses to depend on shifting external values. Sadly, however, when this song is translated in other countries, the word ‘justice’ is inserted, or the vital phrases of ‘love’ and ‘courage’ are erased without being understood.

In many nations today, the fierce clash between the Right and the Left is prominent. When Japan's second Abe administration was established, the world warned of a ‘shift to the Right’. Yet, in retrospect, that trend became far more pronounced in Western societies and other nations; the world is now clashing over conflicting ‘justices’. In contrast, ideological divisions that split a nation in two remain relatively scarce in Japan. For better or worse, a fundamental ‘balance’ is maintained—perhaps because, by keeping ‘justice’ intentionally ambiguous, we avoid total collision. (I say this not to express a specific political belief, but as an observation of historical trajectory.)

The world is currently seeking an equilibrium for coexistence. Japan, due to the strength of its public spirit, tends to suppress the diverse ‘Individual’ excessively within the public sphere. Conversely, in the West, the virtuous assertion of the ‘Individual’ is robust, and opinions are voiced without hesitation; yet, this is remarkably accelerated and contracted by social media and sensationalist reporting, leading to a tendency toward polarisation and societal division. Regardless, exclusive nationalism will never bring about true Symbiosis.

Regardless, exclusive nationalism will never bring about true Symbiosis. We must move beyond the mere assertion of identity—‘We are different’—and instead mutually express a harmonious sense of identity from a standpoint of: ‘We are the same, yet let us celebrate and cherish our differences’. The crisis of ‘Our culture is being destroyed!’ or the fear that ‘Our identity is being lost’ is widely shared in modern society. However, history makes it clear that the very concept of an ‘inherent culture’ is, in many ways, a fantasy. As one delves deeper into world history, it becomes painfully clear that culture is a fluid entity, constantly shifting through the eras and through interactions with neighbouring nations and regions. Culture is a gradational phenomenon; the borders that demarcate it, and even the framework of ‘the nation’, are nothing more than artificial constructs.

This cultural fluidity is clearly visible within our daily lives. In architecture, traditional wooden houses and stone-built townscapes are dwindling; instead, every nation is now dominated by modern buildings with strikingly similar glass-fronted exteriors. Our preferences in music, popular films, actors, and dramas are also rapidly converging. Furthermore, compared to a century or two ago, the habit of wearing traditional garments has faded across the globe, with people from almost every cultural sphere now dressing in a remarkably similar fashion. In Japan, we still refer to these everyday clothes as Yōfuku (Western clothing) to distinguish them from our traditional Wafuku. This linguistic distinction itself vividly demonstrates how profoundly our modern culture has been shaped through our interactions with the ‘Other’. 

Yet, to acknowledge the fluidity of culture is not to condone a chaotic imposition of values. For those settling in a new land to unilaterally force their own lifestyle without paying heed to local cultures and customs cannot be called true Symbiosis. Likewise, for the host community to demand a monolithic assimilation is equally far from the mark. Culture, in its true essence, is neither something to be imposed nor something to be submitted to; rather, it is something naturally interwoven through a process of mutual learning and respect.

Building upon this understanding of cultural transformation and fluidity, it is essential that we return to the Buddhist perspective of 縁起 (Engi / Pratītyasamutpāda / Dynamic Web of Dependent Co-Arising) —the insight that all things exist in a state of mutual interconnection. Neither the self, the other, nor culture itself are independent, isolated entities. If we remain preoccupied solely with the surface question of ‘how we differ’, we shall never truly reach a state of mutual recognition. 

To be clear, I do not intend to offer uncritical support for Japan’s ‘non-verbal public spirit’. It undeniably creates negative facets, such as excessive pressure to conform and a stark divergence between Honne (true feelings) and Tatemae (public facade) used to preemptively avoid conflict. Indeed, many within Japan describe this public mind as a ‘stifling atmosphere’ or a ‘tension born of mutual surveillance’. I, too, have suffered from a culture of excessive peer pressure that often views healthy debate as mere fighting or quarrelling. 

The challenge of coexisting with diverse peoples in modern society cannot be resolved simply by the mindset of ‘mutually recognising one another’. For this reason, I believe we must reconsider the widely popular aesthetic of Beauty of Subtraction—the pursuit of purity by eliminating the unnecessary. While this aesthetic seeks to refine the ‘Individual’, our subconscious thinking habits and daily behaviours also tend to drift toward ‘stripping away’ and ‘purification’. Consequently, this may alienate the ‘Collective’—the coexistence with others and the disparate—and foster a sense that exclusion or standardisation is natural.  In a symbiotic society, I believe that the Beauty of Addition—the question of how to connect and embrace diverse elements—should be sought as the fundamental norm that allows both the ‘Individual’ and the ‘Collective’ to flourish.

Zen and AI

The title, ‘Zen, Revisited in Your Garden’, carries my hope: that the Zen you have ‘revisited’ through this reflection and in your garden may now truly ‘revisit’ you once more within the garden. The attempt to restore Zen—not as a mere style, but as a living practice—within our respective small gardens is the democratisation of Zen; and that personal space, I named the Re-Zennish Garden. ‘Be one with what you do’. — Zen is not about ‘acquiring something new’, but rather a ‘realisation of what is already there (Satori)’. The essence of Zen does not begin with the Beauty of Subtraction, as it is commonly understood, but rather starts with the Beauty of Addition.

What is Satori? I prefer not to define it too strictly with words. Please remember that Zen teaches you to encounter it through your non-verbal and direct sensations. When Botanical Democracy begins in your small garden, and Super-Diversity unfolds; when you learn Symbiotic-Ethics through dialogue and coexistence with plants, and awaken to the beauty of Harmonious-Chaos—when ‘Existence flowers’ in your garden—you will come to know a world that is more fulfilled, airy, and Boundary-less. I invite you to lead a gardening life that does not lose itself in the contemplation of Logos (logic), but instead finds pure joy in Physis (nature). Do not strive for Satori. Begin from the place where you can feel that you are already within World of Satori.

We do not simply begin as an ‘Individual’ and conclude as an ‘Individual’. We are constantly supported by, and exist within, a web of interaction and interdependence with ‘something that is not the Self’. We must reclaim this truth through a Non-Verbal Sensitivity, one rooted in bodily experience. This interconnectedness must be reimagined beyond the human species. We must depart from an anthropocentric perspective and awaken to our symbiotic relationship with all existence—not only with animals and plants, but with the stones, soil, water, and air. This is why the sensibility we must emulate is an ‘animistic sensibility’—the Physis-Driven Insight that the world once shared. Such a philosophical paradigm shift is precisely the posture we must reclaim in the age of AI.

In the AI industry, there was once a contradiction known as ‘Moravec’s Paradox’. It is the paradox stating that while high-level intellectual tasks deemed ‘difficult’ by humans are easy for AI, the physical movements ‘easy’ for us are exceedingly difficult for machines. Today, this prophecy has become reality. AI writes, codes, and performs complex analyses in an instant; many roles once defined as ‘intellectual labour’ are being superseded. Now, through integration with robotics, even this paradox is nearing a solution. As AI evolves from ‘thinking’ to ‘acting’, its capacity to ‘substitute’ for humanity is approaching completion. 

However, let us pause and reflect. The anxiety evoked by this ‘substitution’ stems from our long-held belief that Logos is the essence and supreme value of being human. But if AI can take over our Logos-Driven Endeavours, could we not view this as a quiet liberation—a chance to set down that heavy burden and return to something else we have long forgotten? We should recognise that humans and AI possess not ‘superiority or inferiority’, but simply ‘differing strengths’.

AI excels at processing information and maintaining logical consistency. In contrast, humans possess non-verbal sensations—smelling the scent of the earth, feeling the wind—perceptions received directly by the body before they are ever translated into language. These ‘pre-linguistic sensations’ exist in a fundamentally different dimension. While all inputs for AI are processed as mere data, the human body, at a stage prior to that, generates something where Logos does not reach. The touch of a breeze, the texture of a bloom, the stirrings of the heart when encountering a familiar scent—these are already ‘felt’ before they are ever named.

In an era where Logos-Driven Work is shared with AI, the 知得 (Chi toku / Acquisition through Intellect) becomes common ground. However, the ‘non-verbal sensations’ attained through the body will distinguish their value as a uniquely human sphere. Consequently, ‘Gardening in daily life‘—touching the soil and engaging with living beings—becomes an essential practice for reclaiming our original human senses. Furthermore, we can layer ‘symbols’ and ‘narratives’ onto these experiences. ‘Soil is not merely matter; it is the source of life and a place of return’.—This power to bestow meaning is uniquely human. Yet, if these symbols are created by a Logos that has increased in its ‘exclusiveness’, rather than by ‘Physis-Driven Inclusiveness’, they result in something entirely different. In fact, unless a user actively poses a question, AI exhibits a remarkably strong tendency to uncritically affirm and reinforce that user’s own unconscious biases and prejudices, eventually framing them as an unshakeable ‘correct answer’. This is highly likely to manifest the problem of ‘echo chambers‘—already prevalent in modern society—in an unprecedentedly sophisticated form. In this sense, the use of AI can become a mechanism that amplifies the exclusiveness of Logos in an even more refined way. Just as the etymology of ‘Reason’ can be traced back to the Latin ratio, meaning ‘calculation’ or ‘proportion’, AI—often situated as an ‘external extension’ of our own reason—is merely articulating the most logically consistent response to the words it is given. This is precisely why the realm that even the most sophisticated AI cannot reach—the Non-Verbal Sensibility born at the very moment your body directly touches the world—becomes our most primordial anchor in this era. It is within this boundless, Non-Verbal Sensibility that our ethics reside. It is within this boundless, Non-Verbal Sensibility that our 慈悲 (Jihi / Compassion / Love that draws no boundaries) dwells. We must not let our Logos, with its history of only tens of thousands of years, take the helm of our lives alone.

While Physis-Driven Inclusiveness fades, Logos-Driven Exclusiveness continues its relentless expansion; it is amidst this climate that AI has emerged. Now that we can share our Logos-Driven Endeavours with AI, we can finally confront the primordial question: ‘What does it mean to be human?’ I feel that, for once, we should bring the history of human Logos to a close—the era where we brandished reason as our sole pride and greatest value. This is because the modern question of ‘What is human?’ often hides a persistent, anthropocentric obsession: the search for a uniquely human value that makes us superior. ‘We are superior to fungi, plants, and animals—so what makes us superior to AI?’ As Homo sapiens, we still cling to the desire to stand at the apex of the pyramid.

Recall the Non-Verbal Sensibility I mentioned earlier. What I have discussed in this essay is entirely incompatible with anthropocentrism. It has never been about placing other forms of life at the bottom of a hierarchy. Instead, it is about the ‘faculty of bestowing meaning for the sake of connection’. I have presented the Non-Verbal Sensibility found in the garden as a Symbol of Inclusiveness. By bridging this with the Inclusive Logic of Eastern Buddhist Philosophy and Western Physis, I have translated this union into the practice of Zen—accessible to everyone in the modern world. This is why I have consistently argued that Zen begins not with Minimalism, but with Maximalism—not with the Beauty of Subtraction, but with the Beauty of Addition.

‘What does it mean to be human?’—The answer is the ‘something’ that emerges only after the boundaries of the self are affirmatively dissolved, and every existence—living and non-living alike—is enveloped into a vast, radiant cycle, just as once intuited by an animistic sensibility.

As I have experienced, Zen Gardening—practiced within the extension of our daily lives—serves as an entrance where this Non-Verbal, Physis-Driven Sensibility re-emerges. It is where we bodily affirm and resonate with the four-billion-year journey of life and the millions of years of human history. Practicing Botanical Democracy in one's own garden, beginning with a perspective of Plant Welfare that honours plants as ‘lives’ rather than ‘objects’, is the starting point. This is clearly more than a mere ethical approach. This somatic engagement of Zen Gardening, where we feel the circulation of the living and the non-living alike, will become the richest foundation for our return to Nature—a return that allows us to remain ‘good humans’ in the heart of an AI society.

Ironically, even the very thought process that leads to such a conclusion remains, at its core, dependent upon the foothold of Logos. We humans can no longer escape the chains of Logos. Since this is our reality, perhaps there is a place for a Logos that simply chooses to live as Physis. For we can no longer hope to return, just as we are, to that innocent and pure world of Physis.

‘Floral Homescape’ —My hope is that as many people as possible, as soon as possible, may ‘Escape’ from the wilderness of reality and find a life that is ‘Floral’ and at peace. I fervently wish that your gardening may become more fulfilled and airy than ever before, overflowing with the pure joy of Physis. We can no longer escape the chains of Logos. However, if the mind becomes Mindfree, the reality before you will surely be liberated from the shackles of ‘human-centred meaning’. In that moment, the world will vividly appear in your eyes as a landscape reflecting the sheer miracle of simply being.

‘Be one with what you do.’ —And so, each of us brings about the Democratisation of Zen within our own small gardens. That personal space is precisely what I call the Re-Zennish Garden. It is not a place to ‘acquire something’. It is a sanctuary to soothe The Cartesian I (Cogito) that lives within a noisy, distressing, and bewildering social existence; it is a stronghold for ‘re-awakening to what is already there’. Within the abyss of Physis, the absolute bedrock of our lives already breathes. This is the logic that has surged forth from my own bodily realisation.

Instant Gratification and Lasting Fulfilment

However, reflecting upon my own experience, I have come to believe that rather than starting only when one reaches the stage of seeking peace of mind after enduring countless hardships, it is precisely those in the midst of their youth who should embrace a life with living flowers as a vital ‘non-productive activity’.

In recent years, following the pandemic, it has been often noted that more young people have begun to cultivate plants. This is, of course, a heartening development. At the same time, however, I find myself somewhat concerned. While seeking a sense of solace in greenery, there are many instances where plants appear to be treated merely as elements of interior decor—in other words, as ‘objects’.

‘I gave it water every single day, yet it still withered. Perhaps I simply lack the talent’. I have heard these words countless times. I know that feeling all too well. Yet, in truth, that very act of daily ‘shallow watering’ is often the primary cause of root rot. Furthermore, one frequently sees pots placed in the dim corners of rooms or hallways where light barely reaches, only for the plants to lose their vitality. As you are well aware, most plants thrive with ‘deep watering’ only after the soil has dried, and appropriate light is essential for them to flourish. Air circulation is also important, and the use of a circulator is even recommended indoors. Paradoxically, then, it is sometimes those who are too busy to water their plants more than occasionally who find themselves, in the end, most successful in their cultivation.

It is perhaps inevitable that such misunderstandings arise. In shopping centres or office interiors, it is common to see plants that appear to be thriving. Yet, what many do not realise is that these plants are frequently swapped out—replaced on a regular schedule or the moment their vitality begins to wane. Simply by being around such scenes, it is easy to fall under the illusion that plants ‘do not require sunlight’ or can ‘thrive perfectly well indoors’.

If we were to welcome a dog or a cat into our homes as a member of the family, we would surely strive to research their needs and care for them with the utmost devotion. But what about plants? Today, there are countless websites providing accurate information on plant care; a quick search would immediately reveal the proper watering methods and ideal locations. This should be even more so for the younger generation, who are accustomed to accessing information. Indeed, many young people do research thoroughly and cultivate their plants magnificently. However—at the risk of sounding somewhat harsh—in cases where plants are repeatedly lost, the root cause may lie in an attitude that values them as interior decor rather than seeing them as living beings.

On the other hand, kitchen gardening, which yields tangible utility, enjoys far greater popularity than floral gardening. To be sure, understanding the toil of those who grow our food, feeling gratitude for what we eat, and experiencing the joy of harvest are all noble pursuits. However, precisely because we live in a modern society that demands ceaseless efficiency and productivity, I wish to propose a life with flowers that is ‘non-productive’ and not for any specific profit. While fruits and vegetables provide us with essential ‘physical nourishment’, the act of floral gardening offers the ‘mental nourishment’ that we truly lack today. For this reason, I want the younger generation—those often swayed by the various temptations and pleasures of consumerism—to become familiar with floral gardening.

In truth, the majority of products spawned by consumerism fail to satisfy the soul. The pleasure derived from consumerist stimuli stems primarily from dopamine—a neurotransmitter in the brain’s reward system that drives the craving for ‘more’. This dopamine-induced gratification is highly addictive, yet its perceived value begins to diminish the very moment it is obtained. When we are artfully whispered to that ‘something is missing’, a more potent desire is sown within our hearts. Consequently, many in the modern world have been conditioned to believe that happiness increases with the number of digits on a price tag. Entrapped in an endless loop of consumption, they remain in perpetual, insatiable pursuit of ‘instant gratification’.

渇愛 (Katsuai /Craving)—this endless, driving impulse is the very psychological state that Buddhist philosophy addresses. Notably, Buddhist philosophy does not demand the mere suppression of this craving, for it understands that endurance is inherently unsustainable. Instead, it encourages us to redefine craving so that it no longer arises in the first place—prompting us to see that ‘in the object of craving, there is no intrinsic happiness’, and that ‘in the object of craving, there is no substance that can truly satisfy the Self’. It is only when we truly perceive the attachment to dopamine-induced gratification as devoid of meaning that we can, for the first time, liberate ourselves from the world of 苦 (Ku / Suffering). 

Living as one who nurtures flowers, and is nurtured by them in return, I can say with absolute conviction: the practice of Floral Zen Gardening allows one to autonomously maintain a comfortable distance from those grandiose consumerist products. The source of this power lies in the sustained sense of fulfilment derived from serotonin and oxytocin.

A life shared with ‘non-productive’ flowers serves as the most accessible and profound lesson for shifting the brain’s neural circuitry from ‘instant gratification’ to ‘lasting fulfilment’, allowing us to experience ‘happiness in the here and now’ through our own bodies. Also, in reality, floral gardening is remarkably modest and humble. Thanks to the tireless efforts of flower nurseries, we live in a world where one can grasp the ‘seeds of fulfilment’ for a mere few dollars. Yet, so many people continue to pay sums several digits higher simply to obtain the ‘labels of happiness’ defined by others, remaining immersed in the pursuit of ‘instant gratification’. Moreover, it appears to me that many are frantically hunting for the ‘cheapest and best deal’, desperate for gratification that incurs the least possible cost. 

Therefore, to the modern individual who measures all things by the yardstick of ‘cost-performance’, I wish to say this: floral gardening is, in the truest sense, the supreme hobby of ultimate cost-performance.

It takes weeks, sometimes months, for a flower to bloom. Even when it finally does, there may be but a few blossoms to show for it. Yet, it is this very ‘time of waiting’ that becomes our missing nutrient—our ‘mental nourishment’. In floral gardening, a profound transformation occurs within that poignant emotion we all harbour: the desire for ‘time to stand still’. Instead, you find yourself whispering: ‘So looking forward to next month. Just to see them bloom’. This simple longing for the month to come is, in fact, a quiet affirmation for ‘time to move forward’. When you can pray for time to advance in this way, you are surrendering yourself to the ‘rhythm of the universe‘—a current that envelops the living and the non-living alike. This is a worldview diametrically opposed to the modern obsessions with ‘immortality’ and ‘anti-ageing’.

Recall the philosophy of 空 (Kū / Śūnyatā). The world is not a collection of fixed objects, but rather a state of Unbounded Flowing-ness. It is like the very ‘sky-scape’ itself—where clouds are not solid entities but temporary states that drift and shift from moment to moment, emerging only to vanish. Therefore, happiness does not exist only at the moment a flower blooms. Within the quiet, temporal process of touching the soil with anticipation and continuing one’s care, a modest ‘Fulfilment’ has already begun. The blooming of a flower is not merely a transient ‘event of gratification’. It is the moment in which a quietly sustained ‘state of fulfilment’ reaches its sublimation.

Cherishing life simply for its growth and blooming, even without the visible outcome of a harvest. Cherishing the very ‘time’ in which these plants strive to pass the torch of life to the next generation. This shift in our perception of ‘Life and Time‘—brought about by such moments—is what truly becomes our irreplaceable benefit: our truest fruit.

Here, as an alternative to the yardstick of productivity, I wish to propose a concept I like to call Life-Performance. Just as ‘Cost-Performance’ and ‘Time-Performance’ refer to economic efficiency and temporal effectiveness, Life-Performance measures the degree of fulfilment and the sense of sufficiency within life itself. In a society that prioritises economic productivity above all else, floral gardening may appear to be an entirely inefficient pursuit. —Waiting months for a single bloom; waiting a year for a single bloom.— Indeed, at first, such ‘results’ may feel profoundly difficult to justify. You might even feel it is far more expedient to simply purchase a bouquet for the table. Yet, by the time you realise it, a profound transformation will have occurred: a sustained sense of fulfilment driven by serotonin and oxytocin, and a radical shift in perception that allows you to wish for ‘time to move forward’. Moreover, you will gradually begin to perceive that the world does not merely move in a straight line; it circulates. 

Consumerism sells ‘instant gratification’ stimulated by dopamine. However, the sensation of quietly sustained ‘fulfilment’ can never be sold as a commodity. To those weary of days spent chasing efficiency, I hope this new measure of Life-Performance, rooted in the spirit of Zen, finds its way to you.

My Photography Work and My Re-Zennish Garden

In closing, I wish to emphasise once more that there is no specific design style that defines a Re-Zennish Garden. Nevertheless, I imagine some of you may be curious about my garden. If so, I invite you to visit my website or Instagram. On Instagram, in particular, I share the daily lives of the plants inhabiting my garden (just approx. 20㎡/ 215ft). Throughout all four seasons, I post daily, weaving together the unique charms of each plant with a philosophical perspective. These posts chronicle how my plants and I co-sustain a ‘relay of blooms’ within a limited space, composing a rhythm and harmony that I hope will inspire you; I wish for you to feel the hope that even a small garden can warmly welcome a vast multitude of plant life.

While I post these images as a photographer, nothing would bring me greater fulfilment than for you to sense through them a Zen-Warm Serenity In these photographs, you will surely perceive a Beauty of Symbiosis, where every existence supports the others through its own unique hue and radiance.

The way I delight in adjusting colours and tones, increment by single increment during the retouching process, perhaps resembles the sensation of solving a Sudoku puzzle. It is not an act of asserting my own artistic ego, but rather a task of deriving the harmony that the photograph itself inherently seeks. I adjust the light and shade with the conviction that each element already possesses its most harmonious hue and brightness, waiting to be found, so it can best radiate in concert with the others. Green is supported by colours that are not green; yellow by colours that are not yellow. This is the precise moment when Botanical Democracy and the Beauty of Addition are manifested through the visual art of photography.

Upon reflection, I realise that through both photography and post-processing, I have been in constant pursuit of the non-verbal Physis. My journey as a photographer into the joy of gardening was perhaps the inevitable result of expanding this search for a Symbiotic-Harmony into the sphere of physical reality.

On Instagram, I also introduce the plants that share my indoor living space. My home is a complete DIY, built entirely from scratch by my wife and me—from drawing the initial blueprints to sourcing every piece of timber. Much like my garden, I built this space as a ‘practice of integrating diversity into daily life’, resulting in a multinational and multicultural environment that embraces elements from across the globe. In recent years, minimalist interiors have become highly fashionable. This is likely an escape from an exhausting social life, as people seek to eliminate any factors that overstimulate the consciousness. However, the space I have built is the exact opposite. Once you see it, you will understand.

Surely, the fact that you can engage in gardening signifies that you possess ‘surplus time’ in your life, or that you are striving to create a ‘surplus space’ for yourself, your family, and your neighbours; in either case, it is undeniably a precious and pure endeavour. Adopting a perspective and attitude that seeks to extract as much 苦 (Ku / Suffering) as possible from the plants will become the catalyst for building an ethical and wholesome relationship with them, which in turn leads to your own sense of Airy-ness.

There will be moments when you must endure: a storm may level your plants, scorching heat or freezing cold may weaken them, or the animals and insects that are part of Nature may cause mischief. Even so, you must never forget the ethical mindset of extracting their 苦 (Ku / Suffering). For in your interaction with plants, you too are having your own 苦 (Ku) removed and are being granted 楽 (Raku / Ease) in return. When you stand alongside plants in their distress, you find yourself liberated from your own. This is the essence of 抜苦与楽 (Bakku-Yoraku / Relieving Suffering [distress], cultivating fulfilment [Bringing Serenity]) for others in Buddhist philosophy, and it is the true form of Symbiosis embodied by Floral Zen Gardening.

I sincerely hope that your gardening life will be liberated from days spent lost in the ruminations of Logos. I wish for your garden to be a place of quiet reflection where you can silently revisit the essence of Zen, and where the Warm Serenity that breathes alongside Physis may, in turn, revisit you.