Taniguchi Garden Writing

Walking through the Taniguchi Garden I felt a combination of different feelings. No matter the audible or visual interruptions, the garden still manages to quiet the mind and soothe the conscience. Car alarms and an unruly toddler at the fish pond barely took away from my experience; nowadays we are so used to this background clutter it is barely noticeable. It takes going to the middle of nowhere to perceive these distractions. Ironically, when we do notice them is when they are no longer present at all. But the majority of the distractions, small side conversations or a child’s curious question, are part of the garden’s impact on people. Parents can bring their young ones to a garden to learn, therefore if the child asks a question about a rock or a fern or a fish, the garden has done its duty. Similarly, gardens are not built for complete silence; people come here to relax and should feel free to talk about things that normal conversations wouldn’t typically get to. I know that was immediately struck with the idea to bring my girlfriend to the Fort Worth Botanical Gardens for a picnic when I go home next week. It’s been far too long since we have had a conversation that did not involve college applications, grades, or our busy schedules. Gardens are other meditative spots allow for conversations saved up over time. Each carefully placed stone or seed has more secrets than a high school counselor most likely, because we feel free to talk to the garden just as it speaks to us. In particular this garden tells me to devote myself to a cause. Taniguchi’s sacrifice of eighteen months of labor with no salary illustrates the priceless gift to oneself and others that is utmost devotion. If an eighty-year-old man can single-handedly move rocks atop one another because he devoted himself to this garden, what can I do when I set my mind to something? The same thing. I can move mountains if I want to. This garden thus speaks to me not so much about determination or perseverance as it does about enthusiasm and devotion. The same sacrifice Taniguchi made for this garden I want to make for my own some day. My garden may not be made of bamboo, plants, and pebbles though; it could be a family. I can devote myself to creating that garden and selflessly pouring out love and enthusiasm to oversee its development.

This garden shows two key elements of Taniguchi’s writing: order in nature and the garden as peace. From the atmosphere alone this place is peaceful. Babies and traffic sounds are drowned out by babbling waterfalls and rustling leaves. There are benches and ledges spread about so that one can sit and relish the cool weather in an isolated place. On another hand, however, this garden shows that, as Taniguchi writes, “man may exist as long as Mother Nature allows his existence.” Though this garden is nature, it is ordered nature; it is nature as crafted by man and subject to man’s attention. From the rock where I sit now, I can see green sprigs of grass jutting through the white sea of pebbles beneath my feet. Even something as small as this demonstrates that nature can hardly be contained. A garden represents man in the Taniguchi quote; it exists only because nature lets it. It is still subject to nature’s rules.

The parts of the garden that relayed a message to me were the bamboo bridge and the fish pond. At the pond we crossed the water on slippery stones. This experience shows that our footing is never certain, but that to get to our goal – or simply across the water – we must put ourselves in positions to take risks. The bridge, similarly, told me that when crossing a threshold we have up parts and down parts. The bridge was not flat just as the process of life is not constant. The bridge and stones not only offer ways to cross the water, but more importantly show valuable lessons about the crossing. The crossing often the uncertain part, but it seems much more successful if completed accompanied by a guide. A guide can even be one’s own reflection in the water. No one knows yourself better than you, so one seems to be their own best guide or mentor at times. This illustrates that, at times, the crossing must be made using no one’s help but one’s own.

Seeing the Mother Tree in person puts things into prospective for me. I didn’t even notice it on my first pass until I was looking for a place to write. Voilŕ! Sitting here to the side of it I feel in composing that I am embodied with the spirit of Taniguchi; meaningful words are just coming to me. The withered tree has outlived the garden’s creator but still overlooks its upkeep. Upon my death I wish for something like the Mother Tree to keep my spirit alive. Sometimes I want to overlook my “garden,” or family, or whatever I later choose that to be. But there will be plenty of time for that when I am gone from this would. For now, I must create.