When I was a child, my father lovingly tended to a beautiful Japanese garden in our backyard. My friends and I tucked flowers in stone lanterns and played hide and seek behind rocks thoughtfully placed in the garden. During quiet times, we serenely watched dragon flies land on the horsetails next to the pond's stone bridge or the tiny toads sitting on the lily pads. The garden seemed to thrive and blossom with the happy chatter of children, while giving back nurturing and healing energy.
With each visit to Minidoka, I stop at the historic rock garden designed by Fujitarō Kubota. A basalt rock “V” pathway leads to the replica Military Honor Roll listing the names of those who served during WWII. A ring of rocks surrounds a large basalt rock, standing tall with blue sky and a wisp of cloud as its backdrop.
Like Jamie Ford’s essay about Kubota’s Seattle garden in Spirited Stone, I imagine the experiences of this basalt rock. Born eons ago from hot lava, it sat for many years among the sagebrush, watching the golden eagles soar in the sky and the pronghorn antelope and sage grouse graze nearby. Suddenly, there was the buzz of thousands of people. Some lifted and moved the basalt rock to a knoll with an expansive view of the flat valley. They strolled among the rock formations to grieve or reflect; the rock breathed in their sorrow. The pride and pain of identity, as evidenced by the rock garden contrasting with the honor roll, hung heavy. Then, the people were gone, and the rock was by itself. There it remained for years with the smaller rocks circling it in solidarity, waiting, until rediscovered. Still standing proud and upright, it is a symbol of our community’s strength and resilience.
I cannot but think of the Japanese garden of my childhood and what it gave to me, of what Kubota’s garden at Minidoka gave to those incarcerated, and of the lessons it continues to give to us today.
