As I shared in our previous newsletter, my transition from designing Japanese gardens to practicing ikebana happened naturally and seamlessly, without hesitation or regret. To me, it was a natural transition, a shift that required no internal debate. Ben, however, found this utterly baffling.
“You were so passionate about gardens,” he said more than once, his brow furrowed in a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “How could you just… switch?”
It was a fair question. After all, my entire world had revolved around landscapes, stone settings, and the delicate balance between water, trees, and sky.
My initial response was logical: ikebana and garden design are both creative fields. My passion had never been tied to a specific discipline—it had always been about creation itself. And besides, there was no pressure to make a living from it at the time, which made the transition feel weightless.
Yet Ben wasn’t satisfied. He suspected there was something deeper, something I hadn’t yet articulated.
The Invisible Connection between Gardens and Ikebana
Sometimes we know things before we can explain them. The answer lingers at the edge of our awareness, just out of reach, until something brings it into sharp focus.
For Ben, that moment came when he took it upon himself to improve the marketing for my ikebana practice. He needed to understand not just what I did, but why.
One day, he came across a phrase on a Japanese website that struck him like a revelation:
“Humankind must adapt to nature, not the other way around.”
There it was. The unspoken thread linking my past and present. The reason why I had moved from one discipline to the other so effortlessly.
This philosophy was the foundation of Japanese gardens. And it was the foundation of ikebana, too.
How different cultures design their gardens is a mirror of how they see their place in the natural world.
Japanese Gardens: Adapting to Nature
Japanese gardens do not impose themselves on the land—they work with it. The concept of borrowed scenery (Shakkei) means that the surrounding landscape becomes part of the garden itself. Mountains, trees, and rivers aren’t obstacles to be hidden or reshaped but elements to be embraced.
Rather than blocking out the view, Japanese garden designers often frame the distant landscape, making it an inseparable part of the garden’s composition. Nature is not rearranged but highlighted, respected in its existing form.
Or consider Zen gardens (Karesansui). They don’t attempt to control nature, but rather, suggest it. A stretch of raked gravel can evoke an entire seascape. A single rock can symbolize a mountain. Nothing is forced; everything is harmonized.
By contrast, Western garden traditions have often reflected a desire to impose order upon the wild.
Take the Gardens of Versailles. Every hedge is trimmed to mathematical precision, every fountain and pathway aligned to reflect human dominance over nature.
The difference is clear: Japanese gardens work with nature; Western gardens often shape nature to human will.
Of course, Japan also shapes nature—through careful pruning, like with bonsai, and cloud-like niwaki trees—but always with an emphasis on enhancing rather than dominating its natural form.
Neither is inherently superior—it’s simply a reflection of differing worldviews.
But why does Japan embrace this philosophy of coexisting with nature so deeply? The answer lies in its spiritual traditions.
Shinto: Nature as Sacred
Shinto, Japan’s indigenous belief system, teaches that nature itself is divine. Rivers, mountains, and trees are not just scenic elements; they are inhabited by spirits (kami).
This is why sacred forests remain untouched and why the Ise Grand Shrine is rebuilt every 20 years—not to fight against time, but to honor the cyclical nature of life.
If nature is sacred, it makes sense that Japanese art forms, from gardens to ikebana, would seek to enhance rather than dominate it.
Buddhism: Impermanence & Harmony
Buddhism, particularly Zen Buddhism, added another layer of thought: impermanence. Everything in nature is in constant flux, and to resist this is futile.
This philosophy is central to Zen gardens, which strip nature down to its purest essence—mountains, rivers, and islands represented in abstract form. It is also embedded in ikebana, which doesn’t try to make flowers last forever but rather celebrates their fleeting beauty.
Together, Shinto’s reverence for nature and Buddhism’s embrace of impermanence shaped Japan’s approach to art, design, and life itself.
And that was it. That was why my transition from gardens to ikebana had been seamless.
Both Japanese gardens and ikebana are rooted in the same philosophy—an acceptance of nature, a reverence for its beauty, and a willingness to adapt rather than control.
When I design an ikebana arrangement, I don’t force branches into place. I listen to the natural form of each element, finding its balance, giving it a second life. Just as in a Japanese garden, I am working with nature, not against it.
Ben’s search for marketing insights had led to an unexpected revelation: I hadn’t abandoned my passion at all—I had simply continued it in another form.
And that discovery led to another question, one that he insisted I answer next.
“But why do you do ikebana so passionately?”
Ah. Now that is a story for another time…
Why am I sharing my story? Every ikebana journey is different, but they all share a common thread: discovery, creativity and connection. In this series, I share my personal path in ikebana, from my first encounter to the lessons I’ve learned over the years. I hope to inspire you to explore your own ikebana story and, if you are a teacher, to share yours with your students. Ikebana grows when we share it - let’s grow together If you missed a few episodes, you can find them on this blog
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