Finding Zen Under the Eaves of Kyoto: A Japan Travel Diary

During the summer solstice, I met fellow Taoists from Taiwan to visit Kyoto's Buddhist temples and encounter the beauty of their eaves...
If Kyoto is a dreamscape steeped in ancient charm, then the eaves of its temples are the most gentle enticements within this dream. Like a sweeping stroke from a Zen master, the language of emptiness and compassion is tucked away within the rising eaves. In this land intertwined with history and Buddhist spirit, I slowly strolled between Rokuon-ji Temple and Toji Temple, not for worship or for the study of classics, but to listen to the words those eaves and beams whisper in the wind.
Kyoto's temple architecture largely inherits the Tang and Song styles, with its soaring eaves and stacked brackets, creating a solemn yet unostentatious air, ornate yet not extravagant. Looking up at the animal-head tiles and dripping water tiles adorning the eaves, it feels like the concentration of a Zen master in meditation, a stillness imbued with immense power. Morning light filtered through the indigo-colored tile ridges, casting shadows like an ink painting, silently imprinting the profound meaning of time on the white walls and floor.
I often wonder, how can the beauty of eaves so captivate? It's just a tile, a beam, a piece of wood, a nail. Yet, if you pause at the Sanmon Gate of Tofuku-ji Temple and gaze at the soaring eaves, gently soaring into the sky like wings, the combined grace of stability and soaring power is enough to take your breath away. These soaring eaves aren't meant for show, but to catch rain and dew, guide the gaze, or perhaps symbolize the aspiration to "seek the Buddha's way."
That day, in a corner of Ryoan-ji Temple, I saw an old monk sitting alone in the dry landscape garden before the abbot, his gaze calm and profound. The eaves cast a soft shadow behind him, like a protective seal, serene and silent. I gazed at him for a moment, silent, but he smiled and nodded.
Beneath the eaves, the temple's aura is condensed and a place of spiritual respite. At the intersection of light and shadow, people shed their habitual attachments and external images, leaving only the present moment.

The architectural spirit of the Tang Dynasty, revived in Kyoto, is not merely a replica of form but an echo of the divine. Tang Dynasty temple architecture emphasized symmetry, spatial order, and the philosophical correspondence between heaven and earth. This was not merely a manifestation of technological sophistication, but a concrete expression of a cosmic and life-view. "Dougong" (brackets) resemble guardian celestial beings, layered one after another, supporting the roof and, ultimately, the canopy of faith. "Flying eaves" resemble the sleeves of a bodhisattva, floating yet still in the void, embodying the Zen aesthetic of "stillness in motion, movement within stillness."

Walking to Kinkakuji Temple, I saw the pavilion, clad in gold leaf, casting a shimmering shadow on the water. The lines of the eaves resemble dancing golden threads, both magnificent and transcendent. It was more than just architecture; it felt like a spiritual dream. It reminded me of the sutra: "Contemplating the house is as contemplating the Dharma Realm." Eaves are not merely a shelter from the rain, but a bridge that guides the mind. If the mind is not pure, all things become obstructions; if the mind is clear, the eaves become Bodhi.

Zen Buddhism often advocates "taking non-action as the basis," and the construction of eaves precisely embodies this wisdom of "doing without action." Silently, they guide us to gaze up at the heavens and bow our heads for introspection; they shelter us from wind and rain, yet also give us a sense of the sky's contours; they are both the "exterior" of the building and the "interior" of the soul. Perhaps this is the essence of the Middle Way in Buddhism—to see emptiness in form, to realize the ordinary in solemnity.

In the afternoon, I sat quietly in front of the Dharma Hall of Tenryuji Temple, letting the sunlight stream through the eaves, dappling the stone pavement. In the distance, a monk swept the floor, the sound of sweeping leaves blending with the melodious chirping of birds. I closed my eyes and let my breath merge with the surrounding air. At this moment, I felt as if I were a drop of water or a wisp of wind beneath the eaves, clinging to nothing, seeking nothing. It turns out that "seeing the eaves" can actually be a meditation. Beneath the towering five-story pagoda of Toji Temple, the soaring eaves resemble eagle wings, slicing the sky with their own unspokenness. The overlapping lines of the black tiles resemble the mandala of a vajra, layer upon layer, a gesture of both protection and enlightenment. As sunlight streams down, the shadows of the brackets cast across the white walls like an ink wash, silently captivating the heart.

The eaves of Toji Temple are silent and unmoving. They seek no glory, nor do they conceal. They simply endure the vicissitudes of life, the seasons, and through this silence, they speak of the truth of all things. Within them, one cannot help but let go of ego and breathe in harmony with all things.

In the evening, walking to Nishi Honganji Temple, looking up from the front of the Goei-do Hall, the tile ridges stretch across the sky, the brackets staggered with gold leaf, like a ship floating on a sea of dust, a safe harbor for all. Myoshin-ji Temple, the ancestral home of the Rinzai school of Zen Buddhism, boasts a simple, unadorned eaves, unadorned yet like the sharp, penetrating call of an old monk, its simplicity concealing power and plainness imbued with inspiration. Entering the Dharma Hall, I see the soaring eaves, like swords, opening up a void of enlightenment, and my heart becomes tranquil.

Sitting in meditation under the corridor beside Taizo-in Temple, I suddenly heard a drop of water drip from the eaves into the stone trough, a "pop" sound that shook the surroundings. Suddenly, a story emerged: Zhaozhou asked, "Does a dog still have Buddha nature?" The master replied, "No!"

That "no" is not a denial, but a shedding of the web of habit. A drop of water from the eaves, like a Zen master's call, shatters the ordinary mind and inspires greater inspiration and purpose.

Climbing Kiyomizu-dera Temple, Kyoto's oldest temple, and standing beside the wooden stage, I see the eaves gently lifted, like the side of a boat, floating above the clouds. As red leaves flutter, the wind beneath the eaves travels through time, stirring millennia-old echoes in our hearts.
That day, an elderly Buddhist lay Buddhist, standing before Otowa Falls, said, "Kiyomizu-dera Temple isn't a place to pray for divine protection; it's a place to learn to let go."
Ninna-ji Temple, once a temple for the imperial family, now stands in an elegant, tranquil, and detached atmosphere. The afternoon sun shone on the eaves, its golden light subtly fading, and the falling tiles resembled flowing clouds. Jade sand paved the ground, and verdant pines formed a screen. I walked alone between the Dharma Hall and the Goei-do Hall, gazing up at the gently raised eaves, a glimpse of detachment.
Walking for long periods beneath the eaves of Kyoto's ancient temples, my heart softened and became clearer. I began to understand that the language of Zen extends beyond words, lurking within the tiles and beams. Architecture is primarily a form, but the eaves have long transcended this "materiality," becoming a vision of "emptiness." I once heard an old monk say, "If a roof has no support, it will eventually collapse; if the mind lacks a way to imprint itself, it will find it difficult to stand firm." This quote has stayed with me. It taught me that architecture is more than just bricks and tiles; it's a metaphor for spiritual practice, a concrete manifestation of the Dharma. When we wander through the ancient temples of Kyoto, what we see isn't just architecture, but endless "Dharma assemblies," layers of spiritual refuge "beneath the eaves."

I once composed a verse, which goes something like this:

There's no dust beneath the eaves; the world is inherently pure, so let no mind be tainted.

I don't seek the Buddha's reflection on the beams; the sound of rain beneath the eaves is also the sound of the Dharma.

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