“Is there a good place to scatter my mother’s ashes?” This question came from a traveller visiting from the UK. He had a pensive gaze. His mother, he said, had always wanted to go to Japan. A place to scatter ashes. No one had ever asked me such a thing before in my life. And now, someone was asking me – as their guide.
I was born and raised in Kyoto and have lived here all my life. Last summer, I began working as a tour guide. I needed the income to support my family while continuing my theatre practice – an art form that brings next to no financial stability. I am raising three children. Choosing between art and parenting was not a sacrifice I was willing to make. To live in a way that felt true to myself, I had to find an extra way to earn somehow.
Kyoto is often described as a place where you can “travel abroad without leaving Japan”. Since the COVID-19 pandemic, the number of visitors to Kyoto has increased year by year, reaching 56 million in 2024, outnumbering the local population twentyfold.
But the places we locals go, and the places travellers go, are entirely different. Travellers visit the shimmering halls of Kinkaku-ji or the serene Arashiyama bamboo grove and enjoy traditional Japanese cuisine. I go to the neighbourhood Aeon supermarket. Sometimes I reward myself with a ¥1,500 (£7/$9) lunch at a modest restaurant run by a friend. We are in the same city, yet we have completely different experiences. But now, as a guide, I stand in between.
Kinkaku-ji Golden Pavilion (金閣, Kinkaku) is a three-storey building on the grounds of the Rokuon-ji temple complex. The top two storeys of the pavilion are covered with pure gold leaf.
To be honest, before becoming a tour guide, I had only visited Kinkaku-ji once. I had never even walked along the tranquil pathways of the bamboo grove. To begin my new work, I studied all the tourist hotspots – and then started visiting many places together with travellers. Everything I saw felt new. At times, I found myself deeply moved alongside the travellers in my charge. Kyoto is simply extraordinary. I couldn’t believe I had been living in a place like this the whole time.
To this day, what moves me most deeply are the Zen gardens. For nearly 900 years, every branch, every stone placement, has been carefully composed, imbued with Buddhist Zen philosophy. The moss garden of Saihō-ji is astonishing. I have never experienced such an immersive space before. Every time, I am truly amazed.
As we walk together in these Zen gardens, I glance at my guests’ faces. Their eyes are welled up with tears. Regardless of where they are from, there are always guests with a certain sensitivity who find themselves weeping.
I am still a beginner when it comes to Zen, so I cannot offer sophisticated explanations. But what I do understand is this: these gardens delicately – yet sometimes boldly – remove noise, creating beauty together with the forces of nature. Their purpose is to align the gaze inward. Isn’t that extraordinary? Everything you see, everything you feel there, reflects your inner world. Like a mirror.
In classical Japanese, there is a word, awai. Its root lies in the verb ‘au’ – ‘to meet’. It refers to the liminal space where two points A and B meet, where they intersect and overlap. Standing between the mundanity of an Aeon supermarket and the majestic splendour of a Zen garden that draws thousands of tourists, I myself exist in awai.
Awai 間 / あわい – Awai – In contemporary usage, the term is often used in arts and philosophy to explore ambiguity and interconnectedness, moving beyond dualistic thinking.And the traveller, too, stands in awai. A traveller leaves one country and arrives in another. Even when the place changes, the body that accompanies them may itself be called awai. Their homeland and the place they’re visiting do not merge neatly through the traveller’s body. They collide, cancel each other out, and gradually lose their original form. In the end, what remains is the essence of the person themselves.
Perhaps my guests cry not because they have come to deeply understand Japanese culture, but because they encounter themselves anew. The discomfort within. The loneliness within. And yet, the beauty that still remains.
Zen gardens have this power over people. I’ve witnessed it. These days, the world feels frantic, it feels as though we’re being pushed in many different directions. One way or another. Correct or incorrect. We are constantly questioned, and risk drowning in those questions.
To stand in awai is not to choose black or white, or to seek resolution. It is simply a vantage point for one to stop at, pause, take a breath and view. It is to notice your own isolation, and how lonely that can feel. To recognise the beauty that remains within oneself. To be deeply shaken by the world, and yet not let go of your own heart.
I told the traveller where he might scatter his mother’s ashes. It was a place passed daily by both locals and tourists. Now, part of his mother has mingled with the soil, and will someday become nourishment for the plants. We do not know what kind of plants they will be. We can speculate, but there is no answer. The only certainty is that time continues to pass, and as time accrues, something will eventually sprout.
Each time I pass that place on my shift, I offer a small, affectionate greeting to his mother. Hello.
With an awai body, I enjoy being a guide.
