From the top of the mountain, as I stood gazing down into the still waters below, something extraordinary caught my eye—an entrance shaped like a pagoda, half-submerged beneath the surface. It was as though the mountain itself leaned forward to whisper this secret to me. The structure shimmered in the light, its form slightly distorted by the rippling water, yet undeniably graceful and intentional.
I had never seen such a rare work of art resting quietly underwater. It didn’t seem like a ruin or something forgotten—it felt sacred, deliberately placed, as if it were part of a greater design only nature and time fully understood. The iconic tiered roofs, curving upward like they were reaching for heaven even beneath the waves, evoked the elegance of traditional Japanese architecture. The entire scene was bathed in that deep, unmistakable red—aka—the color so often associated with Japanese temples and shrines. It’s a red that speaks not of boldness, but of inner strength, spiritual energy, and harmony. Here too, that traditional hue pulsed gently beneath the water, like a heartbeat.
It struck me then that this might be more than art—it might be a meditation. A physical representation of the Japanese concept of zazen—to sit, to reflect, to simply be. The pagoda, resting in the stillness of the lake, mirrored the stillness we are taught to seek within ourselves. The water, the mountain, the art—all were part of the same quiet breath.
In that moment, looking down from above, I felt I was standing not only between earth and sky—but also between past and present, silence and sound, thought and no-thought.
