I like to sit at my kitchen window and look out at my Japanese garden. It has been there 20 years and looks the same except when a few weeds pop up or a bush grows too big and needs trimming. It gives me a feeling of permanence.
My Japanese garden has a ground cover of pine bark mulch which gives it the appearance of being brown space with a few rocks, plants, a small tree and a bridge. This space cuts right across my back lawn, and stands out as a colorless void in the middle of flower beds, rose garden, patio, tomato patch, fig and pecan trees. A void or empty space gives one a chance to take a deep breath and relax, and that is the way I feel when I look at my Japanese garden.
The reason I call it a “Texas Japanese” garden is that my garden has a different geographical setting from a real Japanese garden. Water surrounds the island of Japan. Water only touches the south of Texas. Japan has high mountains. My part of Texas has only prairies. Japan has a scarcity of land. Texas has an abundance of land. Japan’s houses stand close together. My ranch- style house with its large lawn puts me at a distance from my neighbor.
Since land is at such a premium in Japan, gardens there start right at the door of a house, with stepping stones leading into the garden. The first stepping stone, always large and flat, is called “the taking-off-shoes stone,” which is carried out by the Japanese when they enter their homes.
With plenty of space available in Texas, it is more convenient for me to have my garden away from the house in back of the lawn. Nothing connects the garden with the house. The Japanese garden appears to be an afterthought, which it was. Stepping stones across the lawn would give the grass-cutters trouble—and Americans don’t take their shoes off before entering their homes.
In spite of the differences, my Texas Japanese garden and a real Japanese garden have much in common. One phase of gardening we both have is looking over our neighbor’s fence; the part we see from our side is called “borrowed scenery” according to the Japanese. They believe you should plan your garden so that it harmonizes with the plants and trees growing nearby. My neighbor’s wall makes her yard very private, but her two Bradford pear trees appearing above the wall make a nice background for my garden. Her red-tipped photinia looks down from above the wall to my tall red zinnias, which makes our gardens fit together nicely.
My type of Japanese garden, a “hill” garden, uses changes in levels along with stone to represent a mountainous landscape on a miniature scale. A “flat” garden pretends to be a mountain valley or meadowland. In it, large rocks lie close to the earth and plants spread close to the ground. A “passage” garden runs between two houses, or between house and fence using a minimum of plants and rocks to avoid a cluttered appearance. The “tea” garden has an outer garden leading to an inner garden with a tea house. The “sand” garden has only sand and rocks.When I visited the famous Ryoan-ji garden in Kyoto, it amazed me to see a rectangular area of about 360 square yards adjoining a Zen Buddhist temple, with only sand or very fine gravel combed in simple designs around five groups of rocks. I remember wondering what it meant, knowing that the interpretation depended only upon me.
My “hill” garden seems a misnomer until you realize that you have to call upon your imagination to see the two tall volcanic rocks at one end as mountains, and the large rocks between them as a splashing waterfall. From there, the 2-inch rocks, or cobbles, become a river (dry) which passes a tall lantern, goes under a wooden bridge, passes a small mound of giant liriope, comes to a small lantern by more “hills,” meanders around a tall, trimmed giant liriope bush, then reaches its destination, another pair of tall volcanic rocks like the first. Instead of a waterfall, a jasmine vine grows between them. Here, the river completes its journey, goes behind the rocks and disappears.
A triangular composition stands to the left, at the river’s end. A black pine tree (trained to bend toward the garden) represents Heaven; three rocks behind the tree symbolize Man, and out to the point of the triangle, beyond the green mound junipers, a small shiny rock depicts Earth.
Plants for a Japanese garden naturally recall the Orient: bamboo, heavenly bamboo (nandina), azalea, wisteria, Japanese aucuba and aralia. Since I have a Texas Japanese garden, I use plants which do well in Texas’ hot sun.
Giant liriope can stand the hot sun and the few freezes we have. I must trim it occasionally to keep it from overshadowing the rocks. Instead of tall bamboo plants behind the “mountain” (which the Japanese use) I use sanseveria. Bamboo grows too tall and spreads out of bounds. Sanseveria is clean-cut and stays the same. However, it is not winter hardy like bamboo.
I use a few ajuga plants, Boston sword fern and confederate jasmine near the rocks. Under the tree, I planted green mound juniper. By the side of the tall lantern, I placed three pots of hibiscus. When they bloom, they furnish the only color besides green; they freeze easily so must be moved to the garage in cold weather.
The Japanese garden reflects nature in miniature. Its beauty lies in its simplicity and scarcity of objects. The Japanese revere their gardens as do we. In this way, we are the same.
Note: This article appeared in the January/February 1993 issue of “TEXAS GARDENER” on pages 12 -13