A friend asked me,
“Why do you keep visiting Saihō-ji? The world is big, Why not go somewhere else?”
Kyoto, Japan. 2025/02/16
So, I planned my third trip to Kyoto to find out Why.
I joined the winter zazen session at Saihō-ji. Only about fifty people were allowed to visit that day.
Given how well the last shoot went, I brought three cameras this time, ready to put my skills to the test.
During zazen, I sat in a corner of the main hall. The winter wind drifted in through the half-opened paper doors. As I settled my mind, I began to hear the chirping of insects, the calls of birds, and the sound of water flowing through the moss — sounds I hadn’t truly noticed in my previous two visits.
In my previous two visits, I wasn’t really living in the moment. I was too caught up in the desire to capture beauty. It struck me like a sudden awakening
After zazen, I stepped into the garden and surrendered myself to the present, to this place, to the light, to the air, to every moment unfolding. I focused completely on feeling it, and only when the gates closed did I realize that three hours had passed in what felt like an instant.
I found the answer to my friend’s question:
Saihō-ji is like a book. Reading it in different seasons and at different ages gives you new insights. But the book itself doesn’t change, it’s you who changes. I’m not here to admire the moss garden through the seasons, but to gather the me who has lived through each season.
No matter how many times I visit, Saihō-ji will always be here. I am just a passing guest — Saihō-ji is the true observer.
