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The Way Of The Kami
(A Shinto Zen Buddhist Rock Garden)

There is beauty in each stone. One stone is white as a crane. An almond stone is the color
of my wife’s eyes. I do not count each stone. Each stone must be placed exactly where it
belongs. It must not be disturbed. Notice the tone and voice of each pebble no matter how
small. Listen carefully as it tells you about our ancestors. It will tell you how it used to be
a mountain.  I have been around since the beginning. I swelled up against the clouds and held them back. The sun tried to melt me. The wind pushed, trying to move me. The rains thundered against my
chest. Men and oxen had to go around me.  Nothing could move me.  Then a small child found me and
chipped at me, taking a part of me as a keepsake. He placed me in his pocket and went home.
Occasionally he would take me out to admire me, even though I was no longer a mountain. Along the
way he became careless and I fell out of his pocket, forgotten as so many things.
A sandalwood stick burns to purify the garden. It pleases the Kami. I will not have any
bad dreams tonight. My wife will giggle in my arms as we discover each other like the
first time. This is the result of such careful gardening. Her voice sings in each pebble.
I am careful while sweeping the rocks so as to not disrupt their rest.  I can almost smell
fish cooked in wrapped seaweed and served with jasmine tea as I rake sand.  It surrounds
the reflecting pool with Koi shimmering like the sun.  It swims my wife’s name as the
sand is brushed like her hair. Everything ripples, even the air.  Her laughter climbs the
garden walls into the sky. It dances with our ancestors. The night swirls like tea.

Even the broom smiles.
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