| dze.label | 2026
On February 2026, I arrived in Kansai for the first time. Winter had burnished the streets of Osaka into a cool, lucid brightness, and lent the air of Kyoto and Kobe a lightful resonance. During those days, I walked with a recorder as if carrying an invisible vessel, gathering the sounds of water along the way. My equipments included Sound Devices MixPre-6 II, LOM basicUcho and mikroUši microphones, and our self-developed DZE Geophone for capturing low frequencies.
In the afternoon of 10 February, we entered Chion-in. The Miei-dō Hall was vast and dim; wooden beams rose high overhead, and time seemed to settle slowly within the space. Chanting flowed from the monks’ voices—low and sustained—circling through the hall like a subterranean river carving through stone. I scarcely dared to breathe, allowing the equipment to listen in stillness. The sound bore no sharpness, yet it carried weight, like unmelted winter snow resting upon the heart.
Behind the hall, snow along the roof ridge melted quietly. Droplets fell from above, piercing the cold air and striking stone and wooden steps. Clear, continuous, insistent. Each drop felt like a sigh descending from the sky back to earth. In that moment, I understood that water here was not only form, but time itself—it opened fissures within solemnity and gave silence a subtle breath.
Two days later, inside Ikuta Shrine, the fountain sounded bright and youthful. Columns of water rose and fell, tracing circular paths again and again in the winter light. It lacked the depth of temple chanting, yet possessed its own lucid rhythm. That afternoon, we arrived at Maiko Seaside. Waves advanced with the wind, layer upon layer; the gray-blue sea undulated faintly in the distance. Low frequencies stirred beneath my feet, like the pulse of the earth. The sea speaks no doctrine, yet it holds an immense, boundless, wordless faith.
At the night of the 13th, we returned to Shenzhen. At dawn on the 15th, we flew to Zhijiang in Hubei. At 3:30 in the afternoon on February 16, I stood alone beside the Yangtze River. A cold wind swept across the surface; the river was broad and restrained, flowing steadily eastward. There was no dripping from snowy eaves, no churning fountain, no surging surf—only an unbroken current. The sound was like a deeper river, passing through the body and rushing toward the distance.
In the morning of the 17th Feb, we went to the countryside to honor our ancestors. Firecrackers erupted abruptly, smoke tearing through the air; people stood in silence amid the explosions. That instant of violence echoed the chanting in Miei-dō—like thunder against a hidden river; a momentary blaze set against an enduring murmur. People remembered within the sound; heaven and earth fell silent within its reverberation.
Listening back to the recordings from this journey, I came to understand that water had been the hidden thread. Snowmelt from temple eaves, fountains circulating in courtyards, seawater striking the shore, river water flowing eastward without return. They crossed cities and borders, linking temple and homeland in quiet continuity. Religious chanting and Lunar New Year firecrackers were merely human responses layered above the sound of water.
And the water continues to flow—
in foreign lands, on the journey home, and deep within memory.
Text / Zen Lu 3 March 2026 Shenzhen
