On the ridge above is a Buddhist cemetery. I can see the gardener moving among the memorial markers. The winter day is warm. Sunlight graces the pines. There is a kind of Zen meditation that is done while walking.
Every step is intentional.
I feel I have stepped into this zone in which my walking is all that there is. I come and go as a thought, a memory, a snatch of song. I want to see this altar, which is all I know about Honenji. Perhaps I am looking for the traditional beauty of flowers on an altar, the scent of incense, the exotic. From the top of the steps at the entrance to the temple grounds, I look down on two rectangular mounds of dirt flanking the walk that leads to the gardens.