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The fourth and last of the immeasurables of Buddhism is translated as "equanimity" — in Sanskrit, upekkha. Has the ring of authenticity, doesn’t it? Equanimity, not so much. Too familiar, too ordinary. Besides, nobody really knows what it means. Note how much more authoritative it sounds when we use the Sanskrit.             Brings to mind the Peter Sellers scene in The Naked Truth where, trying to pass for Irish in a pub in order to buy a bomb from the IRA says, “Well, we always have the Gaelic…” and after launching into a monologue, is immediately punched in the nose and thrown out of the bar. Fake accent of an Englishman — a dead giveaway.             This tendency — to rely heavily on jargon-speak — has a similar deleterious effect in any category of discourse, and can be especially disingenuous in dharma dialog. For one thing, it sets up an “us and them” dichotomy, whether intended or not. It tends to imply that the speaker possesses greater knowledge, moreexpertise — at least in her or his own estimation — and therefore, presumably, the listener is rendered lesser inthat regard. It leverages the faux asymmetry of the relationship. Zen is, or should be, the great equalizer.             Boldly brandishing the Zen vernacular implies that I must have mastered its deeper meaning. This is whywe have to keep reminding ourselves that we do not master Zen — in any language — it masters us. Far betterto de-mystify any discussion, eliminating jargon wherever possible, and to rely on our own, direct experience — and plain language — to explore the true meaning of these ancient teachings. We teach each other Buddhism, as Matsuoka Roshi often said.             Equanimity brings to mind other terms derived from the same root, such as equipoise, and equilibrium. The good thing about these terms is that they imply something physical, rather than strictly emotional, or mental. The first two syllables derive from “equal,” and the dictionary definitions all refer to balance. So all three would have some connection to the Sanskrit samadhi, one of the more frequently mentioned jargon terms in Buddhism, which loosely means "centered" or "balance."             In zazen, if we sit still enough for long enough — and straight enough — we begin to experience equipoise in our upright seated posture, coming into perfect alignment with gravity. All forces of mass and weight come to center around the spine, like the cables supporting a digital cell tower. When we hit that sweet spot in the middle of our stomach, it is as if we are floating off the cushion — free-falling. Equilibrium ensues, profoundly affecting our mental clarity and emotional composure; which leads to equanimity. Eventuallyequanimity manifests even in the social sphere, where relationships with others benefit from less friction and conflict, more harmony.             If we regard equanimity — along with loving kindness, compassion, and empathy — as essentially immeasurable, they connect to Master Dogen’s closing lines in Jijuyu Zammai (Self-fulfilling Samadhi):   Hundreds of things all manifest original practice from the original face It is impossible to measure Know that even if all the buddhas of the ten directions As innumerable as the sands of the Ganges Exert their strength and with the Buddha’s wisdom Try to measure the merit of one person’s zazen They will not be able to fully comprehend it   So what is truly immeasurable is the whole of the effect — the merit — of zazen. Zen claims to transmitBuddha’s meditation, bringing about the very same process that took place that night under the Bodhi tree some two-and-a-half millennia ago. We all have the same equipment to work with that he had, after all — the toolkit comes with birth as a human being.             We also enjoy relatively supportive causes and conditions — the circumstances of contemporary life —including exposure to the buddha-dharma, and access to training in meditation. As Hakuin Zenji asks toward the end of Zazen Wasan (Song of Zazen), “What is there outside us? What is there we lack?”             He goes on to claim that “Nirvana is openly shown to our eyes. This earth where we stand is the pureLotus Land and this very body the body of buddha.” A bit hard to swallow, in the light of our self-effacingself-doubt, which at its worse becomes the life sentence of self-loathing. Nobody said this would be easy.             Bringing our focus back to zazen, I think it is critical to recognize and accept that the immeasurablesof this excellent method are also the most important aspects. It matters less how regularly we sit inmeditation, how frequently, how long we sit, et cetera. Whatever measurable parameters we may put around it,the most important is that we simply never give up, as Matsuoka Roshi always reminded us.             The downside to setting up strict regimens around zazen — as we are prone to do around working out, aerobics, and other activities that we expect to show results — is that the results of zazen are not so obvious. And, just as with any goal-oriented activity, if and when we do not live up to our own expectations, we are naturally disappointed, may become discouraged, and tend to reaffirm our own self-criticizing proclivity, proving that we are the failure we always suspected we were.             Better to sit without expectations, but without abandoning our aspiration to something that cannot be sosimply expressed as a measurable goal. This does not mean that we do not set reasonable benchmarks to assure enough depth of experience that we give zazen a legitimate chance to work its magic. But the immeasurable of the qualitative dimension of the experience takes precedence and priority over any quantifiable dimension.             Which brings us back to the old cliché, “Just sit.” This overworked expression is not a cavalier or flip comment meant to dismiss any consideration of the serious issues that we face, including actual mental disorders and chemical imbalances that we may be dealing with, but to suggest that when we do sit, we just sit,rather than engaging in daydreaming, planning, ruminating over the past, et cetera.             If we turn up the intensity knob, sitting “more” in the qualitative sense — when we are actually sitting —then we begin to manifest the true meaning of “just sit.” Would it were so simple. But of course we find that "just sitting" includes the full panoply of monkey-mind machinations, the impertinent imprecations of negative thinking on steroids, as well as the more trivial but distracting push-you-pull-me of everyday tedium, those mundane but persistent weasels of samsara ripping our flesh. It is difficult to feel equanimous on the Titanic. The ship is definitely going down, and it doesn’t matter that the lifeboats are made in Japan. Zen is American as apple pie. Just not as sweet.             The gateway drug to equanimity is patience. If we can come to practice patience on the cushion — patience with our situation in this imperfect world, and patience with the monkey’s inept attempts to cope with it — we may find our way clear to the equilibrium, the equipoise, the equanimity that is at the heart of all the clamor, clutter, and seeming chaos. It is all floating in samadhi. Time to release our grip on our imagined reality, so as to float in the equanimity of Zen.   In the next segment, we are taking a new direction for 2026. Stay tuned.

The third of the Four Immeasurables of Buddhism, as defined online, is sympathetic joy, or empathy, I have long taken to indicate the kind of genuine delight that one can feel at the good fortune of others.Unfortunately, in the context of our prevailing dog-eat-dog, winner-take-all, loser-victim mentality—the emerging tribal take on social and economic standing in America—this fulsome embrace of the success of others has become a diminishingly rare commodity, if we are to believe the daily reporting. Your winning at the game of life means that I must be losing. As if there is a finite store of happiness, from which any one’sindividual achievement, or gain, necessarily takes away from the total available to others. However, if empathy has a more substantial base than its conventionally positive, but dualistic or relativistic meaning—reduced to like-mindedness, or even pity—it must also be operative in negative mode. In certain cases, when and where we are not at all sympathetic, but stubbornly indifferent; we may even find ourselves opposed to others. In which case, empathy for oneself tends to trump — no pun —any possibility of empathy for others. Shakyamuni Buddha was reputed to have been able to read minds. One of the ten honorifics accorded him during his lifetime translates as something like “controller of men,” which is roughly the meaning of Matsuoka Roshi’s first dharma name, “Soyu.” Empathy plays a central, determinative part in this ability to win friends and influence people. But our inborn, naturally altruistic empathy may need an occasional boost from the nurturing, tender loving care of meditation. My supposition is that Siddhartha Gautama was already a highly sensitive youngster, becomingestranged from existence itself, owing to the pain and suffering he had witnessed in his life. Like MasterDogen, he witnessed the death of his own mother at an early age. But his realization in meditation during hismid-thirties must have engendered the emergence of an even deeper and broader sensibility for the suffering of others. He clearly was a natural empath, born of magnanimous and nurturing mind, innately endowed with compassionate traits. Which were only amplified in, and by, his intense meditation under that fig tree. In the Surangama Sutra, attributed to Buddha, he suggests that it is possible, and even probable, that his followers will themselves develop such paranormal powers (Skt. siddhis) through their own meditation. One of which would be this ability to “know others’ minds.” In the Fifty Warnings attached to this sutra, cautionary tales against falling into certain states of delusion (Skt. mara), he offered specific spoiler alerts,flagging the likelihood of getting stuck at various stages of the process, ten in each of the Five Skandhas. By misinterpreting fifty gobsmackingly vivid meditative experiences that Buddha describes in meticulous detail—occurring at remote passes on the parallel track of transcending ordinary perception of reality—your average monk or nun might come to believe, falsely, that they are now fully enlightened. When, truth be told, they still have a long way to go, before finally getting off the train at anuttara samyak sambodhi, the end of the line. He also admonished them not to demonstrate any such abilities to others, as their audience might also get the wrong idea, that gaining such seemingly mystical or magical powers is what the practice of the Noble Eightfold Path is all about. Too soon. Wait—there’s more. Just keep on keepin’ on, no matter whateverfantastic or fabulous transformation seems to have taken place. You are not home free, yet. It is worth mentioning that at this time there were apparently any number of clever charlatans andwould-be magicians plying their trades of trickery in the public marketplace, masquerading as genuine sages (Skt. sadhu) or seers. Buddha apparently did not want his followers to settle for a “me too” position in the contemporaneous war of ideas, competing for the attention of the hoi polloi. This throughline of the teaching further suggests that in Buddha’s case, he had persevered, making itall the way down and through the rabbit hole, and all the way back. In other words, he did not fall for thevarious offramps that Mara (the spirit of delusion), offered up to sidetrack him, that long dark night under the Bodhi tree. Even the daughters of Mara, with their seductive wiles, were unable to distract the young prince from his single-minded focus on penetrating the primordial koan of suffering existence. According to the story, he had already been there, done that, with many a merry maid, under the direction of his doting father. Whose game plan was to keep him in thrall to the sensory pleasures of the world, so that he would succeed to his inheritance, the leadership of theShakya clan. But young Siddhartha was not buying it. He had other fish to fry, starting with himself. Because Buddha was able to resist the temptations of fantasy and overcome the nightmares of fear, ifwe are to believe the story—doggedly persisting in the face of all resistance—he eventually emerged from the other side of the wormhole. In other words, he went full circle through the looking glass, returning to whence he had launched his excellent adventure, exploring the new frontier of mind-only. He came home again, the prodigal son, but home had been miraculously transformed into the entire universe. Yet nothing special, indicated by his touching the Earth. But his enhanced empathy, for himself and his intimately personal causes and conditions, extended to include all beings. It had to be an even more painful embrace of universal suffering, than had been his initial, self-centered view of suffering that drove him to the cushion. Fortunately, his profound, newfoundinsight swayed him to try to help all others, the very beginning of the bodhisattva vow. So compassion turns out to be just one of those things—as one of the Supremes famously said of pornography—difficult to define definitively. But you know it when you feel it. When you feel true compassion, however, it will not be compassion for others. It will be compassion for your sorry self. And it will not be coming from yourself. In other words, it will not yet manifest as true empathy. Along with all the other findings, conclusions, and recommendations that formed the deliverables of Buddha’s contract with humanity, empathy fits all three. He found that it constitutes a description of reality, concluded that it is a fundamental law of sentient existence, and recommended a big dose as a prescription for negotiating the Path. At once a cause, as well as an effect, empathy is a natural attribute of the Way. It is only natural that we realize it, the sooner the better.

The second of the Four Immeasurables of Buddhism, compassion is a term that is frequently bruited-about in Zen circles, the ubiquity of which extends to the customary reference to buddha-dharma itself as “the compassionate teaching.” Which begs the question, Compassionate to whom? When we look at the teachings of Buddha, beginning with the Four Noble Truths, they do not look all that compassionate at first blush, at least not in the conventional sense of coddling us poor babies, who,after all, are the ones who are suffering, here. Right out of the blocks, with no warning emoji, comes the shock of the raw, blunt, undeniable existence of suffering — and the charge that we are to fully understand it. This does not seem very forgiving if you ask me, not of the intensely personal nature of our birth, aging, sickness and death, nor of our personal comfort level in confronting it. No rose-colored glasses here. Take it or leave it.   The origin of suffering — consisting mainly in our own desires, exacerbated by our own attachments to them,which we are to fully abandon — is not very user-friendly, either. Since they — beginningless greed, angerand delusion, to name a few — are inborn — indeed, according to the Repentance verse, arising naturally from body, mouth and mind — it does not seem fair that we bear all the burden for abandoning them. Whose bright idea was this, anyway? We are not God, after all. The third reality-check — that there can be a cessation of suffering, but wait, there’s more: its realization is entirely dependent upon each individual’s personal efforts — is equally cringe-worthy. Is there no interlocutor, no savior to whom we can turn for succor and salvation? At least a support group we can join? Lastly, that we must follow some righteous, prescribed Noble Eightfold Path, every day — in order to realize this cessation of suffering — seems insufferable. Can’t we just be done with it and move on? This is obviously a set of inconvenient truths, intended to place the onus for acting on them directly on us. So what, exactly, makes them so noble? Well, you could say they are ennobling, in that they remind us of the true meaning of compassion, “suffer with,” implying that we are all in the same boat, ultimately. Our woes are shared with all other sentientbeings, who are also subject to these truths, perhaps with the exception of the Eightfold Path, which is more within the human social realm of practice, though by extension, all sentient beings are on the Path, whether they know it or not. You cannot accuse chickens, cats, dogs and cows of talking the talk but not walking thewalk. Only humans can manage that. Of course, along with his description of unvarnished reality, Buddha offers certain prescriptions for practice, i.e. what to do about it. The Three Treasures may be interpreted as the highest values in Zen, butalso as the three legs of its practice stool: Buddha as right meditation; Dharma as right understanding; and Sangha as right action. Or you may want to substitute the tripartite model of right discipline, wisdom, and conduct, respectively. The implication that we can get this right doesn’t necessarily mean that we can get it wrong. Thenotion of compassion suggests that we have the right to be wrong. Fall down seven times get up eight, thank you Dogen. We have to allow ourselves to fail, in order to succeed. Master Dogen makes the point — no pun — that the arrow hitting the bullseye depends upon the preceding 100 misses. Also, place your oxygen mask on before attempting to help others. Okay, Dogen did not say that. We speak of “practicing compassion,” which doesn’t make sense when expressed as “practicingsuffering with others.” We are already suffering with others, so practicing what already is does not seempossible. What we can practice is ways of helping others. Which implies that what we come up with may notwork. It largely depends upon them. It does not help to suffer fools gladly. But that does not mean that we should not even try. So karuna, compassion, may mean something more like practicing loving kindness, engaging in selfless behaviors of a bodhisattva, without making a big deal of it. In spite of our obvious limitations, doing what we can to help others, but without any attachment to outcomes. Suffering the consequences of failed attempts with equanimity, and practicing the kind of patience that recognizes that this may not end well. Taking up the bodhisattva path of saving all beings begs the question, “From what?” Save them fromtheir own ignorance? Even Buddha could not do that. Also, how many are there? How long is it going totake? And Where do I begin? Living by vow, the bodhisattva vow, means embracing the possibility of eternal rebirth. The possibility, not a belief in inerrancy, nor even the probability. Buddha’s teachings are not arguments. Taking the long view of Buddhism means that issues arising in this lifetime may not be resolved in this lifetime. But this is not a shrug of the shoulders, just a real-world platform for mounting our well-intentioned actions. If there is such a thing as compassion, it must already exist. It cannot be dependent upon, let alone created by, our actions. Compassion is not a karmic consequence. If we are to “practice” it, we have to already have it. Having compassion is not a trait that we can develop, but a fact. We already have compassion, in the sense that the universe has suffered us to be born. We are in receipt of all the compassion that there is to be had. We did not create this mess, but we are responsible for what we do withthe opportunity. Our actions can add to the chaos, or perhaps mitigate some of the stress. The kind of compassion we can conceive of practicing must be balanced with wisdom, which is also notsomething we can actually practice. It is the same slippery slope to imagine that we can acquire either. Wisdom is said to be the natural merging of right view and right thought, from the Noble Path. This merging cannot be said to be completely dependent upon the practice of right meditation, but it is less likely to come about without it. Sitting in upright seated meditation, zazen, is the form of expressing our aspiration to compassionate action, the fertile training ground for realization to be made manifest. The theory is that if it becomes clearenough that all beings, sentient as well as insentient, are instantiations of compassion, it will be possible to join them. Just as we are naturally manifesting the truth that we cannot speak, if we settle into the real world of compassion, it will naturally emanate from our most mundane activities. We will find ourselves rowing the “boat of compassion” (shout out to Master Luopo) gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily — life is but a dream.

From a downloaded document from one of my online dharma dialogs — dated June 8, 2016, but otherwise unidentified — we find the following definitions of the Four Immeasurables of Buddhism:   Metta (loving kindness) Karuna (compassion) Mudita (sympathetic joy or empathy) Upekkha (equanimity)   I have always felt that the immeasurables of Zen practice are more important than those aspects subject to measurement. For example, it is more important in doing meditation, zazen, to never give up, as MatsuokaRoshi would often encourage us, than how long we sit when we do, how often, how frequently, how regularly, etc. More important than the quantitative dimension is the qualitative. Folks bring this up in dokusan frequently, saying they know they need to “sit more.” I ask them when do they think they can do that. You cannot sit more in the past — it’s too late. You cannot sit more in the future, because it is not yet here, though you can plan to do so — and possibly set yourself up fordiscouragement by failing to live up to your own expectations — been there, done that. The only time you can do more zazen is when you are doing it. You can do zazen more by refraining from doing anything else while you are on the cushion. Such as daydreaming, worrying, planning, ruminating, regretting, and so on. Turn up the intensity knob. The list is followed by an extension of the definitions:   The ease of equanimity, the full-heartedness of love, the tenderness of compassion, the radiance of joy.   There follows a brief “prayer,” a term we do not often see in Buddhist teachings, a “short version” attributed to H.H. the Dali Lama: The Four immeasurables are found in one brief and beautiful prayer: May all sentient beings have happiness and its causes, May all sentient beings be free of suffering and its causes, May all sentient beings notbe separated from sorrowless bliss, May all sentient beings abide in equanimity, free of bias, attachment and anger. This sounds very similar to the familiar Metta Sutta, or Loving Kindness Sutra, from the Soto Zen liturgychanted often in Zen temples, though finding our “bliss” is not a term I would use as a goal or objective of Zen practice. While human beings are included in the panoply of sentient beings that we pray may be happy, it is also acknowledged that human beings can be a significant part of the problem, the cause of unhappiness and sorrow in their fellow sentient beings. Needless to say, we “pray” in the sense of earnestness — not to a god, to Buddha, nor to a specific bodhisattva. Our basic prayer is that we wake up, as soon as possible. It should be equally needless to point out that the prayer, or wish, for all beings to be happy does not imply a rose-colored, magical-thinking belief that somehow just because we pray for it, it shall come to pass that all beings will suddenly become happy, via some “spooky action at a distance” — thank you, Zen Master Einstein. We “transfer merit” at the end of our service because we don’t want to suggest that we actually believe we personally accumulate any real merit owing to our devotional activities. Whatever merit there maybe, it must already finitely exist, and can be neither increased or decreased by what we do. Likewise, the practical worldview of Buddhism and Zen dictates that if and when all beings actually do become happy, it will be happy with the causes and conditions of existence just as they are, or in spite ofthem: the unsatisfactory nature of life, being subject to aging, sickness and death, etc ad infinitum. Zen isnothing if not realistic. “Things as it is” is an expression David Chadwick attributes to Shunryu Suzuki Roshi in his charming book, “Crooked Cucumber,” as his condensed expression of one of the central truths of Zen. It does notmean “things as they are.” If it did, there would be no reason to engage in all the necessary discipline andwork of Zen, if it were only to result in things staying the way they are. That is, if our own perception and conception of our own reality did not undergo some kind of meaningful change as a result of our efforts, what would be the point of practicing? Which begs another central question, What kind of change is that? The kind of change that can come about through the practice and study of Zen, particularly itsmeditation, is pointed to in the Heart Sutra, chanted ubiquitously in Zen centers all over the world. The linethat declares, “Given Emptiness, there is no suffering, no end of suffering.” This Emptiness is capitalized tostress the unique meaning of the Sanskrit shunyatta. It is not voidness of existence, or devoid of meaning, but the dynamic nature of change that underlies all existence, the operative meaning of dukkha, usually translated as “suffering.” The suffering that can change through our coming to this insight that Buddha experienced and coached others to find, is of the unnecessary sort — that needless suffering that we heedlessly inflict upon ourselves and others. The suffering that does not — indeed cannot — change is that of the natural type, e.g. sickness, aging and death. Metta, nonetheless, is a worthy and worthwhile aspiration to a frame of mind that, while embracing the universal givens — impermanence, imperfection and insubstantiality — continues to encourage a hopeful mindset, and an engagement in compassionate action for all, toward that ideal of all beings being as happy as is practicable, under the circumstances. However, kindness — and likewise the other three immeasurables — is not at all separable from the immediate circumstances of life. Suffering fools gladly, or humoring others in their delusions or neuroses, is not an act of kindness, but of uncaring, a kind of cop-out. Treating others in ways that may not be helpful, butthat allow one to sustain a false sense that one is being kind, is not truly kind. In Zen, we recognize that the kindest thing to do, with and for others, is sharing the dharma assets, including those aspects that are most adaptable by others, such as the unsurpassably simple method of Zen meditation. But we also recognize that, even then, the effect of Zen training upon their lives is entirely up to them. You can lead a horse to water, et cetera. It requires a sense of modesty and humility to accept that we can actually do very little to help anyone else. And that what we suppose to be the most important kind of help they need may not be so. The most we can do is to expose them to the practice and teachings of Zen — sanzen and zazen — in the midst of the universal, ongoing, relentless pandemic of ignorance. Whether the inoculation against this virus takes, or not, depends upon them.

APPROACHING THE SINGULARITY Siddhartha Gotama, the founder of Buddhism, known as the Buddha — as well as the Ancestors of Zen — struggled mightily to express the essence of the practice, meaning, and implications of Zen's meditation in the language and idiom of their time, throughout the countries and cultures of origin: India of 2500 years ago; China from around 500 CE; Korea and Japan a half-century later. As Master Dogen reminds us in the closing section of Fukanzazengi—Principles of Seated Meditation: The Buddhas and Ancestors all preserved the buddha-mind              and enhanced Zen training And then goes on to give us our marching orders:  So you should devote yourself exclusively to              and be completely absorbed in the practice of zazen Their instructions were and are quite clear when it comes to the personal dimension of practice — just sit. But when we enter into the social arena, we face the same kind of dilemma that they did in attempting to express a direct experience of fundamental reality that is beyond the scope of conceptualization, let alone the reach of language. Buddha and Dogen used parables and analogies to illustrate their point, and along with other masters conjured various models and inventive paradigms to help their followers picture    the reality they had intuited, which often contradicted the received wisdom of the period. In our modern context, the closest analogy that I have come across to the process and effects of sitting still enough, upright enough, for long enough, is that of the black hole, or rather the description of what occurs to matter in thrall to the gravitational field of one. Firstly and perhaps most obviously, we align ourselves with the planet by sitting upright. Our backbone comes to approximate a one-to-one correlation with the force field of gravity, visualized as a vector running from the crown of our head through the spine and spinal cord, straight to the center of the Earth. Like a mountain settling into place after the collision of two tectonic plates, our body enters into equilibrium, equipoise. With all forces equally balanced, maintaining the natural posture of zazen becomes relatively effortless. We experience a sense of floating in space, which is what we are doing.   Once we have become physically comfortable in the posture, the body goes through its natural process of sensory adaptation, resulting in a blurring of the boundaries of our senses usually taken for granted. Beginning with the tactile sensations of the body, the adaptation extends to seeing, hearing, smelling and tasting. Eventually even thinking, the activity of the brain, adapts and settles into a profound stillness as well. Again, vintage Dogen: In stillness, mind and object merge in realization             and go beyond enlightenment Dogen's choice of the verb "merge," it seems to me, captures the essential dynamic of the process of realization. Merging of mind and object, of self and other, of subjective and objective interpretation, of inner and outer — the resolution of all seeming dichotomies — and the non-separation, or nonduality, of the four fundamental spheres of activity and influence from my model of the real-world context in which we live: the merging of our personal sphere with that of the social, natural, and universal spheres.     "Realization," in this context, points to a transformative event that is not the same as conceptualization, or even within the realm of recognition, as Dogen points out elsewhere. It is literally the "becoming real" of subjective and objective reality within the personal realm of intimate experience, known as the "hard problem" of philosophy. From our friendly online AI: The "hard problem of consciousness," a term coined by philosopher David Chalmers, is the challenge of explaining how physical processes in the brain, such as neural activity, give rise to subjective, qualitative experiences—like the feeling of redness, the taste of sugar, or the experience of pain—which he calls qualia. Unlike the "easy problems" of consciousness, which involve explaining cognitive functions, the hard problem focuses on the subjective, internal feel of "what it's like" to be a conscious being, something that cannot be fully captured by objective scientific explanations alone https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5DfnIjZPGw&t=7s  So we can take it from this that the process of merging that will ensue — when and if we sit still enough, straight enough, for long enough — is not something subject to our control. Which is why we do not try to control what happens in Zen meditation, other than exerting a modicum of discipline on the physical level, relinquishing our usual, restive proclivities for lounging around and fidgeting. In particular, Master Dogen does not suggest any mental regimens or disciplines for controlling the monkey mind, in his manuals of meditation (a key point made by Carl Bielefeldt in his analysis of Fukanzazengi — Google it). Current online gurus of mental health are finally catching up to this millennia-old wisdom, from one of several recent postings on the subject: Why You Should Let Your Mind Wander Cut your brain some slack We've all been there. There's a test to study for, or a new concept to learn for work - but we can't help but daydream about something else entirely. For a long time now, the general assumption has been that a wandering mind is counterproductive. According to new research published in the Journal of Neuroscience, we might have that all wrong. The Study: Researchers at Eötövos Loránd University in Hungary designed a study in which they had 27 participants in their early 20s complete a simple probabilistic learning task while hooked up to an electroencephalogram, which measures electrical activity in the brain.  Participants who said they allowed their minds to wander demonstrated a boost in their ability to learn the information. The Takeaway: Next time you're trying to learn something new, don't be afraid to let your mind wander a bit. It may very well help you retain the information you're trying to internalize. Keep in Mind: This study was designed specifically around simple learning tasks that didn't require focused attention. A couple of caveats are in order: In zazen, we are not trying to learn something new. In fact, we are unlearning what we think we know, in general, about our take on reality. We question everything, including our direct sensory experience, as is indicated by the early lines of the Great Heart of Wisdom Sutra: "Given Emptiness, no eye, no ear, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind..." and further, just to drive the point home: "no seeing, no hearing, no smelling, no tasting, no touching, no thinking..." and finally, in case we still didn't get the point, "no realm of sight...no realm of mind consciousness." In that last, the other sense realms are not repeated for the sake of brevity. Secondly, zazen definitely requires focused attention, but the focus is not on something outside the realm of the sensory surround in which we are immersed, our conscious mind and body. Zen does not have a specific subject or content, as such.  So this raises certain questions. What are the "do's and don'ts" of Zen meditation? Beyond Buddha's findings, conclusions, and recommendations - known as the buddha-dharma - what are the implications of this teaching and its central method of sitting still enough, long enough, and upright enough? In assimilating this counter-intuitive and counter-cultural approach to assessing the salient dimensions of our existence, some attitude adjustments are going to be required. For example: Why do we sit still? It is said that the Buddha "stopped the sun in the sky," or words to that effect, the night of his awakening, when he "became the Buddha," as is often misconstrued. This concept of what happened to him is belied by his own expression at the end of his First Sermon, when he declared: My heart's deliverance is unassailable - this is the last birth - now there is no more becoming. I take this to mean that when he sat down that night, after six years on the road and a lifetime of struggle, he called time out, on an absolute basis. He stopped doing everything he had been trying to do, and so entered into non-doing. As part of that process, he first entered into non-thinking, as Master Dogen described it about 1500 years later. Neither thinking nor not thinking. Beyond thinking. Before thinking. Neither doing nor not doing; no becoming, just being. Thus he entered into real spacetime, where he had already existed, so nothing really changed. Except that he left behind conceptual spacetime, including thinking and doing. That is, thinking about space and time, and imagining that he was actually doing anything. He awakened to what he already was, so there was no becoming involved. In the face of this startling, direct remembrance of the immediate reality — which is the heart of so-called "mindfulness" — he must have experienced some sort of total cognitive dissonance on a cosmic scale. Afterwards he was not sure whether he could communicate this experience to others — being that it is the opposite of conventional experience — or even clarify it to himself. But he decided to try. Thank Buddha for that. In the next segment, "Passing the Event Horizon," we will consider his description of what had transpired, and attempt to translate it into the current vernacular. Stay tuned.

This segment is excerpted from the introduction to a yet-to-be-published manuscript of selected podcasts from 2020 forward. The working title is "Speaking with One (Zen) Voice," the "Zen" in parentheses, subtitled "25 Centuries of Buddha-Dharma; 3 Countries of Origin; 9 Dharma Masters; 2 Dozen Teachings; with Commentary by an American Zen Elder." Selections from the text are posted monthly as our new Substack column, along with my paraphrases of traditional teachings, beginning with Buddha's "First Sermon," otherwise known as "Setting in Motion the Wheel of the Law," or, more simply, "The Four Noble Truths." Check it out.   This volume represents an attempt to present Buddhist teachings selected from the vast canon of sutras (indicating direct testimony) and shastras (connoting indirect commentary) spanning some 2500 years, a quarter of a millennium, from three of Buddhism’s countries and cultures of origin — India, China, and Japan. According to scholars, the early talks delivered by Buddha himself to his followers were not written down until several centuries after his death, but were preserved through the oral tradition of chanting and memorizing his spoken teachings. But the accuracy of that transmission is not considered inferior to the later written records, for one reason that it is more difficult to change the content of an oral tradition than it is to modify written documents, either intentionally, by accident, or the ravages of time.   Another reason is that the truths of Buddhism and Zen are to be discovered in one’s own experience, primarily via the practice of the same meditation process that led to Buddha’s insight. Buddhism is, perhaps, unique amongst the Major Religions of the world, in this, its tradition of “face-to-face transmission.” Each of Buddha’s Dharma heirs — from those who were exposed to his live dialogs in India, to those who propagated Zen practice and teachings in foreign lands, and the ancestors of those  countries — were themselves beneficiaries of direct insight.   Of course, the further we go back in time, the provenance or historicity of the canon is less certain, the record from China is more documented than that of India, and that of Japan even more so, as we approach modern times. Most of the selected pieces from these later periods of the evolution of the canon are derived from the liturgy of Soto Zen, verses that are recited in monasteries and temples of today.   Speaking with one voice The point in surveying this collection, which is merely the tip of a massive iceberg — the Pali canon, Tripitaka, or “three baskets” alone is said to comprise some 84,000 teachings — is that these great Zen forefathers were all speaking with one voice. The written texts selected by Zen’s ancestors in China and Japan to be recited on a daily basis as liturgy were obviously not casual or arbitrary choices. They come at the central truth of Buddha’s message from differing cultural and linguistic contexts, of course, but if we read between the lines, we might get a glimmer of the existential and experiential reality to which they refer, as so many fingers to the same moon.        Let us first consider some of the underlying premises of the teachings of the historical Buddha, Shakyamuni (“sage of the Shakya clan”), which differentiate his from other teachings of a philosophical or religious nature. Let it be understood from the beginning, however, that the worldview of Buddhism — and Zen in particular — places emphasis on overarching sameness, rather than petty differences, between   people, and sentient beings in general. This inclusive attitude also applies to the other worldviews, belief systems, philosophies, and religions propounded by humankind. We who follow Buddha’s Way are not interested in proselytizing or converting, debating, or winning anyone over to our point of view by argument, nor in discrediting another’s viewpoint. As to any perceived difference between Zen and Buddhism, you are free to substitute one term for the other where mentioned in the following.   Three key distinctions where the Buddha’s teaching, usually referred to as “buddha-dharma,” or more simply, “Dharma,” differs substantively:   One: It is human-centered.  Unlike other spiritual founders, the Buddha claimed no mandate from a god, a deity, or power outside himself; no “Wizard of Oz” behind the curtain preaching his message, other than his teachers in past lives, the so-called “prehistoric” Buddhas. Zen is all about humanity, and our place in the universe. And, for that matter, the place of all sentient beings, on the path to awakening.   According to mythical tradition, the newborn baby Buddha declared: “Above the heavens and below the heavens, I alone am the most honored one!” as he sprung forth, fully formed, from his mother’s womb. This expression, while clearly legendary, capsulizes Buddha’s view of humanity’s unique position in the scheme of things, as represented by his human birth. In today’s societal context, this might be interpreted as a form of “secular humanism,” a limited, egocentric, or anthropocentric, perspective.   On the other hand, to claim exclusive divine guidance, when the audience consists of other human beings like yourself would seem the more egocentric, closer to the height of arrogance. Think of all the things this leads to. Those claiming a direct mandate from God feel compelled to proselytize, to save all other beings, which is, ironically, the Bodhisattva Vow of Buddhism. But if the unsaved do not seek out the message themselves, the apostles bringing the gospel appear to disrespect and demean the innate spirituality of those they would save. Claiming to be already blessed, or saved themselves, they feel uniquely qualified to save others.   One stunning difference here is Buddha’s decision to attempt to teach his great discovery to others, based only on his own experience. This must have required great confidence and resolve, in that his authority to teach was not based on an established lineage, outside intervention of some “greater being,” nor on a previously existing canon or belief system.  There was no directive from on high to go forth and spread the good news. So why do it? The urge to share the “compassionate teachings” stems from “suffering with” — the very definition of compassion. No one, not even Buddha, can save another. Zen’s message and method of meditation offers a way to release oneself from one’s own ignorance.             Two: It is self-reliant.  Buddha’s teaching emphasizes self-reliance, individual responsibility and initiative.  It is the ultimate in do-it-yourself. He teaches no-reliance on anything outside the self. We cannot rely on scripture, on beliefs, on somebody else to do this for us.    This is where what is called “Great Doubt” arises. If we can’t rely on  anything outside ourselves,  everything we’ve always relied upon is now called into question.  If we begin to doubt everything that we’ve always felt to be dependable and sure, we come to an experience akin to that which people in earthquake or mudslide zones are said to undergo. Suddenly one day, the earth trembles, falls apart, opens up fissures and nearly swallows them up.  What they always depended upon as “terra firma,” solid earth, turns extremely fluid, not at all stable..    Similarly, what Buddha points to can be as unnerving, but on a spiritual level,   sometimes described as something like the earth “trembling in six dimensions,” meaning the Six Senses. When doubt — including doubt in the dharma —  becomes such that we feel as if we are “perched atop a 100-foot pole,” and we step off. It is like vertigo on steroids. “No toe-hold”— nothing to hold on to, nothing to cling to.    With his emphasis on self-reliance, individual responsibility, and initiative, taking this on for ourselves, by his own example, Buddha established the tradition of awakening without a teacher. We can learn from living, true teachers, those who have personal insight, yes, we can rely on them not to mislead us but after their death, we have only the teachings, which we can rely on, because they hold true, anywhere and anywhen in spacetime.   Three: It has nothing hidden. In Buddha’s teaching there is nothing hidden, nothing held back — no inner secret, something the teacher has up his or her sleeve, that the student has to try to get.  Dharma is ubiquitous, and self-apparent. As Master Dogen said, “Now when you trace the source of the Way, you find that it is universal and absolute.”  There isn’t anywhere or any time that Dharma is not present. In the most ordinary, common, everyday thing that you go through, this teaching is manifest in that activity and in that experience. All things are manifesting buddha-dharma "without ceasing for a moment," another trope from Dogen.    Recapping these three aspects: First, Buddha-dharma is humancentric, based on our consciousness, on our human birth and being. We are able to have this awakening experience without reliance on a savior, without reliance on a god. Buddha never positioned himself as a savior, never claimed a mandate from an outside force or God. To that degree Zen is a secular religion, so to say.   Second, Dharma is do-it-yourself. An attitude of absolute respect, honoring the innate buddha-nature of ourselves and others. We all have the capability of doing exactly what Buddha did, waking up completely. This is one meaning of the buddhist bow. When we bow to each other palm-to-palm, it expresses a recognition of our innate spirituality: “I recognize your Buddha-nature, same as mine.”   Third, Dharma has nothing hidden in it. It is openly available and accessible to everybody. These teachings are not for the “inner circle.” There is no “us and them” in

From time to time over the nearly 50 years since the establishment of the Atlanta Soto Zen Center, a significant number of its members and its affiliates in the Silent Thunder Order have complained of burning out in terms of their participation in the Zen community. Some have faded into obscurity and were never heard from again. Others have come back after years. The record for the longest hiatus is about three decades.   This cohort would amount to a small percentage of the total attendance, or course, but it has been noted that more people come and go than stay. Matsuoka-roshi used to say, of some disciple that was no longer showing up, "Come-and-go type" or, "Wishy-washy type." I assume that these lost souls continue to practice in some form or other, hopefully maintaining their practice of meditation at least. And they probably retain an interest in reading about Zen and Buddhism. And I think it fair to say that if they had stayed, instead of moving on, we would have no place for most of them to sit.   This is why I refer to the Zen sangha — and it is probably true of all communities — that it is like a cloud, constantly evaporating and recondensing, with new molecules of water, over time. People have real lives, other demands on their time and energy, and they always have. Master Dogen pointed out that the famous places in China were not typically comprised of large groups, but a small core of a half-dozen monks or so, with others coming and going from time to time. A cursory reading of the history of the formal transmission in Soto Zen makes this clear. Many of these encounters were short-term.     So I don't worry too much about the many former members who are no longer in attendance. I do reach out from time to time if someone has suddenly disappeared who was diligently engaging on a frequent basis for some time, out of curiosity if nothing else. But I have enough to worry about, dealing with those who are presently practicing, as well as the constant flow of newcomers knocking at our doors.   Most newcomers report that their first exposure to Zen is through reading — or, nowadays, listening — to a well-known teacher online, such as Thich Nhat Hahn, or Ram Dass. I had the pleasure of meeting Ram Dass in person in the 1960s, when I was teaching at the School of the Art Institute and the University of Illinois at Chicago Circle campus. Some friends of mine who knew him told me he was travelling through the area, so I asked them to connect us, and invited him to speak to one of my classes at the U of I. I still have the 1/4-inch reel-to-reel audiotape somewhere of his talk, which was his classic trip to India, giving LSD to the guru tale. I plan to have it digitized so that those who are interested can listen to it.   Not to be too much of a name-dropper — near to greatness, and all that — but he came to our apartment for dinner that evening and cooked chipatis and beans for us. My friends told me later that he had told them he thought I was one of the most spiritual people he had ever met. That may have been because my apartment was full of student work, models of geometric structure studies they had done in one of my design classes. Another factoid of interest, and one of those coincidences that we say are not in Zen — he was driving a Chrysler Airstream at that time, and several years earlier, before I had graduated from the Institute of Design, my best friend at that time and I attended a talk by Claes Oldenburg, the famous Swedish-American sculptor, at the University of Chicago, at which presentation, amongst other things, we saw his life-size soft sculpture of — you guessed it — a Chrysler Airstream. But I digress.   I have never heard of anyone burning out from too much study of the dharma, or too much sitting in meditation, although some naturally grow tired of too much group discussion, especially when it slides down the slippery slope of intellectualism and erudition, as has been seen many times in the history of Zen. Ch'an Master Huineng famously made a public show of burning scrolls of sutras to make this point. Dogen held that both things can be true at the same time — that the written record also contains the dharma, even though subject to the limitations of language.   No, usually, problems with burnout arise in the context of serving the Zen community.   Community, or sangha, is the third leg of the stool of Buddhism, joining that of dharma, the study of the teachings of Buddhism and Zen; and most centrally, buddha, the practice of zazen, or the meditation of Buddha. This is what Zen claims to transmit.   Where the rubber hits the road in terms of burnout is usually in an individual's efforts to serve the sangha in ways that demand what seems to them to be a lot of time, effort, and energy, with all the opportunity costs associated with any form of contributions of one's precious time to any cause. The third rail for most or all not-for-profit enterprises such as ASZC seems to consist in serving on the board of directors.   What I refer to as the "substitution effect" begins to set in — one finds oneself sitting less and less over time, the limited  bandwidth available for Zen being consumed more and more by the ever-evolving demands of raising money and paying the bills; upkeep, repair and maintenance of the facility; producing and publishing online communications, newsletters, bulletins and podcasts; and, finally, the sheer pressure of administrating a robust schedule of programs of dharma study and meditation, serving a shape-shifting and ever-growing community of practitioners.    As one who has been immersed in this process for going on 50 years -— ASZC was incorporated in 1977 — I am very familiar with this syndrome of overcommitting, on a personal level. But I think it may be that we are getting it backward if and when we do burn out in service to the sangha. It is easy to lose track of the central focus of Zen.   The three legs of the stool are not equal in importance or effectiveness in supporting our personal practice. Buddha practice, Zen meditation, or zazen, is definitely first and foremost. Dharma, or study of the teachings, comes second and is subordinate to zazen. Without zazen there is little hope of ever comprehending buddha-dharma. Sangha, community participation and service, is a distant third, and is not really necessary, or conducive to personal practice, absent meditation and study. When we get this backward is when we tend to burn out.   If I had not been continuing my meditation practice over the 60 years I have been engaged in all three dimensions, from the mid-1960s at the Zen Buddhist Temple of Chicago, through the years of establishing ASZC in Atlanta, I would have burnt out long ago. Attending most of the public sessions of meditation and witnessing the evolution of the Zen lives of hundreds of individuals have reinvigorated my zeal for Zen again and again, especially during the difficult times we have endured. The evidence of my senses has convinced me ever more undoubtedly of the value and effectiveness of Zen as the Upaya, or skillful means, for our times, as Matsuoka-roshi believed.   If you have found yourself experiencing burnout, please consider whether or not you see yourself in this picture. If you do your best to attend a reasonable number of our scheduled meditation programs including daily, weekly, monthly and annual opportunities, such as day sits (zazenkai), longer retreats (sesshin), classes and workshops, you will rediscover the renewable resource that is genuine Zen practice.   If you have gotten entangled in the ASZC or STO administration or other demanding roles of service to the sangha, please understand that your efforts are very much appreciated, but that you may be inadvertently developing the substitution effect syndrome, which ultimately does not bode well either for your practice, or the wellbeing of the community. If you relinquish your position and function, no worries, someone else will step up. I have witnessed this again and again. There is no way to plan for, or to design around, human nature, so please do not blame the corporate entity that is the Zen community for your unhappiness.   If instead you renew and reinvigorate your practice of meditation, both at home and at the Zen center, you may begin to see that the burden you are or were carrying on behalf of your fellow travelers on the Zen raft was not so onerous, after all. And that somehow, willy-nilly, what you may have seen as your vital function within the Zen community will be taken up by others. If you do not claim your place on the cushion, you may miss the point of practice altogether. Which would be a "cry and shame" as Albert the Alligator would say. And I know that dates me. Look up "Pogo the Possum" by Walt Kelly.   Let me propose in closing that you apply a tried-and-true time management approach to your Zen practice. There are only 24 hours in a day, as we say, so unless we chuck it all and go join a monastery, or become a hermit, only a small fraction of those hours can be devoted specifically to our practice, as we conceive it.  So let's say you create the visual of a classic clock face representing your 24-hour day. After filling in all the many other things you do to get you through the night, such as sleeping, and through the demands of your day, such as paying the rent, take a look at how much time is left over. For the sake of argument, let's say you can free up an hour a day, or maybe two.   In that time, maybe an hour in the morning, and an hour in the evening, maybe more of a weekend, you commit 50% to Buddha Practice: time on the cushion; 30% to Dharma Study: reading up on the literature and joining online dialogs; that leaves 20% for Sangha Service: helping out at the center, or attending admin meetings.   The very exercise of visualizing — and tracking — your time may reveal that you are not

In this third installment of my "DharmaByte" column and "UnMind" podcast, exploring the general subject of Zen in our Times, we turn to the last of three suggested topics from Hokai Jeff Harper, Halifax-based publisher of the STO newsletter:   • To everything there is a season • The wax and wane of householder zazen practice • What we are feeling right now IS impermanence manifesting itself   Hokai somehow managed, perhaps unintentionally, to progressively home in on the central experience of Zen on three levels. Starting with the most universal sphere of our experience on Earth, the seasonality that is an effect of orbiting the sun for approximately 365 rotations of the planet; then down to the social sphere of our practice as householders; and finally into the realm of the intimate, up-close-and-personal sphere of consciousness itself. What I call the "singularity of Zen."   As I mentioned in the last segment, we often seem to labor under a misconception that because we follow the lifestyle of householders, we cannot hope to penetrate to the fundamental meaning of the teachings of Buddhism. But Hokai's assertion puts the lie to this assumption.   If the Dharma is simply pointing at the present reality that we are experiencing, lifestyle choices cannot possibly have a determinative or dispositive, causal relationship in terms of coming to realization of our buddha mind. What we are feeling now is impermanence manifesting itself, to quote the above quote. Not only what we are feeling now, but what we are seeing and hearing, smelling and tasting, as well as what we are thinking. Or reading, if you are reading this rather than listening to the podcast version.   You might quibble with Hokai's construction - "impermanence manifesting itself" - as it suggests that "impermanence" is some sort of independent force capable of manifesting itself, rather than an attribute of the changing nature of the universe. But let's not let mere semantics distract from the message. We are witnessing the "endless, unremitting, unnamable, unthinkable buddha-dharma," as Master Dogen expressed it; and we bear witness to IT mainly through the dynamic of change, or impermanence. Otherwise, we would not register seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching, or even thinking, at all. If nothing were changing, there could be no awareness of it.   As I mentioned in the segment on householder practice, renunciation in Zen is a matter of seeing through the delusional aspect of living, not a matter of lifestyle. Discernment in Zen is like Sri Ramakrishna's analogy that, like a swan, we need to be able to drink milk mixed with water, and drink only the milk. Or as Master Tozan analogized:   A silver bowl filled with snow  A heron hidden in the moon Taken as similar, they are not the same Not distinguished, their places are known   So this refined awareness of the nondual nature of reality, termed "emptiness," as opposed to "form" or appearance, is so close to ordinary reality, or perceptual duality, that it is nearly indistinguishable — like white snow in a silver bowl, or a white heron and the full moon — white on white.   Buddha taught that the discriminating mind imposes a "false stillness" on reality, tamping down the uninhibited flow of sensory data to a dull roar. This enables us to maintain our balance and negotiate a dynamic, 4-dimensional spacetime environment. This is part of the natural process of "individuation" that sets in once we are born, and culminates in the conception of the independent self, which is a fundamental category error, according to Buddhism. The original alienation that is our fall from grace.   It is not that Buddhism claims there is no self whatever. There is a constructed self, and there is a true self, according to this model. The prevalent perception of separation as an incarnated being is not entirely delusional. But it is incomplete — reification of a separate self ignores the rest of the story, the fact that all beings are interconnected, co-arisen and co-dependent. The Twelvefold Chain of Interdependent Arising, attributed to Shakyamuni, parses this coming-of-age story, slicing and dicing stages of development finely, like an Italian chef shaving garlic with a razorblade.   This is similar to Master Dogen's fine discernment of reality — from a perspective uniting space, or existence, and time — as articulated in Uji—Being-Time, explored in some detail in a prior podcast. What he referred to as the "fine mind of Nirvana," or the "subtle mind of Nirvana." Master Sengcan, third Chinese patriarch after Bodhidharma and his successor Huike, points to something similar in Hsinhsinming—Trust in Mind:   In this world of Suchness there is neither self nor other-than-self To come into harmony with this reality Just simply say when doubt arises: "not two" In this "not two" nothing is separate nothing is excluded No matter when or where Enlightenment means entering this truth And this truth is beyond extension or diminution in time or space In it a single thought is ten thousand years   Believing in the fundamental bifurcation of consciousness into self-and-other, body versus mind — the "Cartesian error" — is resolved in realizing that "you can't have one without the other," or as the more contemporary trope would have it, "both things can be true at the same time."  "Neither-self-nor-other-than-self" indicates the True Self of Buddhism, undivided from the very beginning. "Not-two" is the mantra we conjure whenever any doubt about this arises. At the risk of repeating myself — with the caveat that these teachings bear repetition, especially in changing contexts — the last stanza returns us to the singularity of Zen:   No matter when or where Enlightenment means entering this truth And this truth is beyond extension or diminution in time or space In it a single thought is ten thousand years   The last line of which Matsuoka-roshi would encapsulate as "The eternal moment."   So it all comes down to this. Like a fish-trap, reality ensnares us in its wide reach, and as we pursue our own realization — which, after all, is, or should be, our birthright — we find the trap narrowing again and again, until there is no escape, no turning back; like the exhausted swimmer at the halfway point, it is just as far, and equally risky, to try to make it back safely to shore as it is to continue swimming to the island.   If we persevere, finally finding ourselves on the "other shore," we can see clearly that we have been seeing things all wrong, all along. There never has been a separate self to embody, let alone to defend against all comers, let alone any existential annihilation. In the not-two nonduality of Zen's reality, it was all like a bad dream, one that we essentially made up — with a little help from our friends and family, of course, not to mention the entire world of benighted people who fear death and, consequently, life.   This is not to insist that everyone else is wrong about everything, and that only I and my like-minded friends from the enchanted land of Zen have the inside track. In one sense, it must be true that everyone has a hunch about this — an inkling that something is missing — and that that something is worth knowing. Otherwise we would probably all commit mass suicide, in despair. Which is exactly what it looks like we are doing, with an assist from the stewards, elected or not, of our commonweal. Can anyone say "lemmings"?   But Buddhism never seemed to show much concern about the survival of the species. Celibacy is the quickest way to bring down the curtain on humanity - simply not giving birth to the next generation. Of course, the coterie of those who abjure bearing children is not likely to ever encompass a majority of the population, so that kind of extinction is not going to happen.   No, it is more likely that Mother Nature's balancing act will bring about the demise of humanity owing to our disruption of her sphere of influence, so carefully nurtured to bring the miracle of life to the planet in the first place, as the goddess Gaia:   In Greek mythology, Gaia is the personification of the Earth and a primordial goddess, one of the first deities to emerge from Chaos. She is often referred to as Mother Earth and is considered the mother of all life.    And life itself is "fleeting as an arrow" according to Buddha. What we are feeling in the present is this fleeting moment, our life passing before our very eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body and mind in a vast network of frequencies in polyrhythmic synchrony. Our heartbeat is our metronome, the rise and fall of the breathing our connection to the thin atmospheric blanket embracing the earth. On a personal basis, there is no time to waste in foolish pursuits, as the sage Jianzhi Sengcan reminds us in Hsinhsinming:   Waste no time in doubts and arguments that have nothing to do with this   A century later, Master Sekito Kisen says it another way, in Sandokai:   I respectfully urge you who study the Mystery do not pass your days and nights in vain     So Hokai does us a great service to remind us of the evanescence of spacetime in the personal realm, embedded in our social context as householders, surrounded by the world of Nature both nurturing and threatening us, finally floating in the constancy of the universal. Let Tozan Ryokai have the last word on it, after yet another century, from his Hokyo Zammai:   Within causes and conditions time and season it is serene and illuminating
 So minute it enters where there is no gap so vast it transcends dimension A hairsbreadth deviation and you are out of tune   It seems that all three of the great Ch'an masters are speaking with one voice, urging us to pay attention. There is not so much to their Buddhism after all, as one sage commented upon the occasion of his insight.   So Hokai's assertion that what we are feeling right now IS impe

As I mentioned in the last installment, when thinking about content for the next Dharma Byte or UnMind podcast, I turn to my collaborators for inspiration: Hokai Jeff Harper, publisher of the newsletter, and Shinjin Larry Little, producer of the podcast. Jeff responded to a recent call for suggested topics with:   • To everything there is a season • The wax and wane of householder zazen practice • What we are feeling right now IS impermanence manifesting itself   In the last episode I delved into the first of these three, the seeming seasonality of everything as a universal principle. We might take a moment to remind ourselves that seasonality is also considered natural, as the waxing and waning of the four seasons. And, while somewhat arbitrary as a concept, is considered causal in terms of the natural sciences of biology, botany, and even psychology — as in "seasonal affective disorder." Arbitrary in the sense that, as Master Dogen says, "You do not call winter the beginning of spring, nor summer the end of spring."  Now that we have gotten off the planet, any middle-schooler knows that the root causes of the seasons is a universal phenomenon. Unless they are being home-schooled by a flat-earther, that is.     In this segment we will take up the second, the waxing and waning of householder practice, moving the discussion to the social level. Which, of course, is part and parcel of our personal sphere of activity and influence.   Whether Hokai meant to point out the usual periodic waxing and waning of our personal commitment to meditation in the context of the many distractions assailing your average householder; or a more societal angle on how householder engagement has grown and diminished over time through the various Eastern countries of origin, compared to its prevalence and intensity in the West modern times, I am not sure. I think it may be more instructive to consider the alternative — monastic practice — and how it colors our perspective on our own, personal options for pursuing the dharma in the midst of life.   Zen householders often harbor a misconception that because we are householders — and not monastics — that we cannot hope to penetrate to the fundamental meaning of the teachings of Buddhism. This seems to be a widely shared meme in the Western culture, perhaps particularly in America. And it is based on a fundamental misconception — namely that the social sphere of Zen trumps the personal sphere —that you can tell a book by its cover, when it comes to Zen practice. But you can't.   Because we interpret the history of Zen Buddhism as primarily monastic, from its inception in India and its transmission through China, Korea, Japan and the Far East, we presume that the approach of material renunciation — leaving the householder life for that of the mendicant monk, nun, or hermit, or wandering on pilgrimage — is the most effective way, the only way, of recovering our Original Nature, or Buddha Mind.   While traditional prescriptions for practice definitely include divesting ourselves of our dependency upon, and predilection for, the pleasures and problems of our times, the renunciation recommended in Zen is not limited to merely rejecting and replacing one lifestyle for another. It is more a matter of seeing through the delusional aspect of any way of living. Including monasticism. This is true spiritual poverty.   Master Dogen articulated four levels of renunciation that members of his monastic community were either able or unable to embrace, which I have discussed in more detail elsewhere. They range from the ability or inability to relinquish attachment to family, home, inheritance, et cetera, to the inability or ability to relinquish our own opinions and biases regarding our own reality, regardless of outer appearances. The latter — Dogen's highest level of renunciation — would apply equally to monastic or householder. So apparently the main difference between the two lifestyle choices is that the former is relatively simpler compared to the complexities of the latter. In terms of the ability to realize the truth of Buddhism, lifestyle is just another form of pomp and circumstance.   If you find your practice — by which we usually mean meditation — is waxing and waning beyond your intentions and control, you might want to take a radical departure. Stop. Quit, with all the negative connotations that may have in our goal-oriented culture and society. Admit that you have failed, once again. Or rationalize that Zen may work for others, but it does not work for you.   In doing so — in "not doing Zen" — you will confirm your bias, and prove to yourself that, like everything else you have tried in life, it just didn't get the job done. Zen did not live up to your expectations. Now that you have resolved that untidy business you can get on with your life. Good luck with that.   It turns out that this kind of discernment, that Zen is something we started doing, so it is something we can stop doing, is a category error of the first degree. There actually is no such thing as "Zen." Zen is what we call this particular meditation sect of Buddhism, but like any other sect, it only exists as a construction of our societal mind. It is a learned thing that upon examination evaporates like a puff of smoke, or a cloud in the sky.   The etymology of "Zen" is one example of this misinterpretation. As I have pointed out elsewhere, the term Zen is actually a misnomer. It is phonetic Japanese for Ch'an, which is phonetic Chinese for Dhyana, which is a traditional form of contemplative meditation that the Chinese pundits assumed Bodhidharma was demonstrating when he would abruptly turn his back on them, facing the mountain wall instead. But the great sage was not doing dhyana. He was not contemplating anything in particular. He was demonstrating what is referred to in Japanese as shikantaza, which according to Master AI, means:   Shikantaza, often translated as "just sitting," is a foundational Zen practice that involves sitting in a quiet, meditative posture without focusing on any specific object or thought. It's about being present, aware, and simply experiencing the present moment.    If even this barebones definition does not capture the implications of the term, we have no one to blame but an artificial intelligence summarizing who knows how many verbal references on the large language model on which it has been trained. Defined as:   A large language model (LLM) is a type of artificial intelligence that can generate human-like text based on the context provided. LLMs are trained on vast amounts of text data and learn to predict the next word or sequence of words in a text, allowing them to perform tasks like natural language processing, machine translation, and content generation.    So it has come to this. We are using artificial intelligence to define artificial intelligence.   With such developments as AI adding to the present overload of distractions, threats, alternative career choices, endless learning curves, and entangling relationships at home, work and play that householders have on their plates today, we can be forgiven for developing some ambiguity around adding to the list, or continuing to follow, yet another demanding regimen: Zen. Again, category error.   We are already practicing Zen, from the moment we are born — and even before we are born, in the traditional Buddhist view — whether we know it or not. Everybody else is likewise. "Zen" is what we call that fact. Zen is a word that points at something that is not a thing, and in fact does not exist as an isolate or instantiation of anything. It is "the whole catastrophe" to quote Zorba the Greek. If Bodhidharma was contemplating anything, it was everything, which beggars the concept of "contemplation."   In closing, let me quote myself again, from my closing statement from the last segment:   Next month we will take up the second suggestion, the waxing and waning of householder zazen practice. Been there, done that.   "Been there, done that" is not exactly true. I never began Zen practice, it began me. And I will never quit, though it may appear to be so to the outside observer. Zen is not something we can do. It is not in the realm of doing. So we cannot stop doing it, either. We either do it poorly or do it relatively well, like most things in life. Zazen is not something we have to do; it is something we get to do. Zen cannot wax and wane; it only seems to in our imagination. Perversely, there is no choice in the matter. The worse it gets, the better it is. "The Great Way is not difficult for those who have no preferences." Including a preference for what we

"Zen in Our Time" and "Connecting the Dots" are themes that I have hit upon for 2025, forming the thread running through (one meaning of "sutra") all of my DharmaByte newsletter columns and online UnMind podcasts this year.   Contextualizing the teachings and legacy of Zen in modern times — without throwing the baby out with the bathwater — is key to transmitting Zen's legacy. Connecting the dots in the vast matrix of Dharma — while bridging the gap between 500 BC to 2025 CE in terms of the cultures, causes and conditions — is necessary to foster the evolution of Shakyamuni's Great Vow, from the closing verse of the Lotus Sutra's Lifespan Chapter:   I am always thinking: by what means can I cause sentient beings to be able to enter the highest path and quickly attain the Dharma?   As in so many aspects of our overloaded society, when contemplating the next column or podcast, the question always arises, "Where do I begin?" I turn to my collaborators — Hokai Jeff Harper, publisher of the newsletter, and Shinjin Larry Little, producer of the podcast — for clarity and inspiration. Jeff responded to my call for suggested topics with an intriguing trio:   • To everything there is a season • The wax and wane of householder zazen practice • What we are feeling right now IS impermanence manifesting itself   Instead of choosing one over the others, it occurred to me that all three are important. And they are interrelated, in a kind of fish-trap narrowing of focus, from the universal span of spacetime as a causal nexus for humankind; then homing in on the social level, considering the modern householder's vacillation in attempting to pursue what began long ago as a monastic lifestyle; and finally zeroing in on the personal: the intimacy of realization within the immediate flow of reality. I will attempt to treat them in succession over the next three installments, in the context of transmission of Zen's Original Mind.   TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON If you find the 1960s Pete Seeger song popularized by the Byrds running through your brain, you are not alone. If you recollect the poem from Ecclesiastes — which I studied in a unique, small-town high school literature course — you may be hearing echoes of:   To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.   Or from Tozan Ryokai:   Within causes and conditions, time and season, IT is serene and illuminating   And finally, from Dogen Zenji:   Firewood becomes ash and it does not become firewood again.Yet do not suppose that the ash is future and the firewood past. You should understand that firewood abides in the phenomenal expression of firewood, which fully includes past and future, and is independent of past and future. Ash abides in the phenomenal expression of ash, which fully includes future and past.
   Just as firewood does not become firewood again after it is ash, you do not return to birth after death...   Birth is an expression complete this moment; death is an expression complete this moment. They are like winter and spring; you do not call winter the "beginning" of spring, nor summer the "end" of spring.   There are many more such incisive and insightful references to time in the literature of Zen, as well as Western thinking, of course, most notably Master Dogen's fascicle titled "Uji," which translates as something like "Being-time," "Existence-time," or "Living time," as Uchiyama-roshi renders it. This 13th Century writing is said to have anticipated the theory of Relativity, Einsteins' prodigious accomplishment, perhaps the most important scientific breakthrough of the 20th Century.   But these few recollections from the rich legacy of Zen's written record will suffice for our purposes of connecting some of the dots in Indra's Net, or the modern components of the "Matrix of the Thus-Come One" as described in the Surangama Sutra.   Scanning the Biblical poem, it is striking to see so many various activities and reactions to the obligations and behaviors of daily human life listed in equally dispassionate terms, not implying false equivalencies, but for example to blithely assert that there is "a time to kill" and "a time to heal"; "a time of war" and "a time of peace" — in the same breath — is in itself breathtaking, considering the admonition against killing, or murder, found in the Ten Commandments as well as the first Five Grave Precepts of Buddhism.   Jumping to Master Tozan, or Dongshan, the founder of Soto Zen in 9th Century China, we find a hint of some resolution of the "whole catastrophe" in his reference to "IT" being "serene and illuminating," regardless of time and season, causes and conditions.   This "it" appears in various Buddhist sayings and teachings, as tathata in Sanskrit — the inexpressible; or inmo in Japanese — the ineffable, the essential. These all point to what I analogize as a "singularity of consciouness" that emerges in zazen, where we pass the event horizon of conventional perception — the mind collapsing inward of its own mass — returning to and revealing our Original Mind, merging subject and object, duality and nonduality, in mokurai — the resolution of all apparent dichotomies.   Earlier in Tozan's Precious Mirror Samadhi, or Hokyo Zammai, from which the above quote is taken, he magnifies the central place of this "it" in the experiential realm of Zen realization:   Although IT is not constructed, IT is not beyond wordsLike facing a precious mirror, form and reflection behold each otherYou are not IT but in truth IT is you   Master Dogen's coinage of "the backward step" captures this 180-degree attitude adjustment in the way we usually approach learning, self-improvement, and general development as human beings on the learning curve of reality. "From the very beginning all beings are buddhas," as Hakuin Zenji, 18th Century Rinzai Zen master, poet and artist states in the first line of his famous poem, "Song of Zazen."   For every thing there may be a season, but when it comes to the most important thing in Buddhism, there is fundamentally no change — from beginning to middle to end — of this "poor player," life, strutting and fretting his/her hour upon the stage. In another line from Chinese Zen, the third Ancestor in 6th Century China captures this succinctly:   Change appearing to occur in the empty world we call realonly because of our ignorance.   So, somehow, once again, we are getting it all wrong, backwards. Our recourse is, of course, to get our butts back to the cushion; trust the original mind; take the backward step; and embrace the revolutionary notion that WE are not IT, but in truth IT is US. I cannot resist the urge to close this segment with one of my favorite quotes from the great Master Pogo:   We have met the enemy and he is us.   It may be a comfort to realize that "mine enemy grows older" as we age. We just have to outlive our enemies, including our own ignorance.   Next month we will take up the second suggestion, the waxing and waning of householder zazen practice. Been there, done that.

ZEN IN OUR TIME “Connecting the Dots” Some of you A few may have undergone formal training, in Zen or other meditative traditions, or you may be a relative newcomer to Zen.       The objective of this essay is Whatever your experience level, this course should help you sort the wheat from the chaff, to clarify for yourself which teachings of Buddhism are relevant to you, to provide some background on Zen Buddhism, how to integrate Zen practice into your daily life, and the importance of Zen’s unique style of meditation, and finally some approaches to integrating Zen practice into your daily life..           My approach to Zen may seem a bit different from others you may be familiar with. The reason for this is NOTE: Applying my professional training in design thinking, which influences how I see the world.       To augment more traditional text-based presentations of Zen and buddha-dharma, my training in graphic design, I have charted the basic teachings as 3D structures flattened into 2D charts, available upon request. This illustrates their interrelatedness, providing visual aids and mnemonics to help you visualize and remember them. The graphic models allow further analysis of overlapping and interconnected implications of what otherwise typically appear as linear constructs and literary outlines in the verbal formword. We are literally going to connect the dots to the degree possible. Basics of Buddhism Zen NOTE: Applying my training in graphic design, I have charted the basic teachings of Zen as semantic models, 3D structures flattened into 2D charts, for the sake of illustrating their interrelatedness, as well as providing visual aids and mnemonics for you to visualize and remember them. These will also allow you to do further analysis of the overlapping and interconnected implications of what otherwise appear as linear constructs in the written word. Buddhism is both very simple and complex at the same time. As we say in design circles, "simple in concept; difficult in execution." The amount of material available on Buddhism appears virtually endless. I am not a scholar, nor a historian, but it may be helpful to provide some background from the perspective of Zen practice, on the subject as I understand it The Four Noble Truths Buddha re-discovered  these truths in his meditation and articulatedmeditation  them in his "First Sermon.” He unfolds a model of "Four Noble Truths." This quartet constitutes a kind of take-it-or-leave-it description of reality, the causes and conditions of sentient existence, including the Eightfold Path, a thoroughgoing prescription for practice, covering the eight dimensions of leading a Zen life based on meditation. All of the teachings may be seen as corrective descriptions of enlightened realty and prescriptions for taking action based on the enlightened worldview.       Buddhism’s Four Noble Truths are traditionally translated as the existence of suffering, its origin in craving, the potential of cessation, and the path to follow in daily life, leading to cessation. This begs the question — WhatWhat, exactly, makes them so noble, after all? They can beare ennobling, but only if we embrace them. If we do, : they can enable us to live a life of compassion in the context of inexorable change, or "suffering." The Noble Truths do not change with circumstance. They do not interact with, nor react to, changes in circumstance.       The first of the four truths is that this existence — indeed any physical existence — is of the nature of suffering (Skt. dukkha). There is no existence without change, the universal dynamic. Galaxies colliding, the Big Bang — all is dukkha.  As human beings, we are caught up in this change, and we tend to take it personally. We suffer not only physically, but also emotionally, mentally, and even socially.       The second truth is that most of our suffering is finds its origin in our own attachment and aversion,, craving, or thirst: clinging to the pleasant, and avoiding the unpleasant. Suffering is both natural —, as in aging, sickness and death —, and unnatural or intentional —, as in self-inflicted and mutually-inflicted suffering between human beings, and imposed upon other beings, sentient and insentient. On a personal level, Buddhism embraces suffering, rather than trying to avoid it.       The third of the truths offers hopeis that suffering can cease, but only through our embrace of it. The natural processes of aging, sickness and death cannot be avoided no matter how hard we try. They are built into existence itself. UnnecessaryIntentional and unintended suffering can come to an end, however, through relinquishing  cessation, or at least lowering,the extent ofof our craving, modifying our craven behavior. The Noble Eightfold Path The fourth of the quartet posits that there is a way of living daily life as a path to cessation. Theusual interpretation of its eight points begins with worldview, or intention. In time our view evolves toward conformance to that taught by Buddha, through examining our thought, or understanding., "Right" view and thoughtwhich together comprise right wisdom.; Engaging in loving speech, kind action and a compassionate livelihood, add up toor right conduct. E; and engaging effort, mindfulness and meditation, we developas right discipline. The only real discipline in Zen is self-discipline, which applies to lay practice as well as monasticism.Wisdom, conduct and discipline constitute our tripartite path.       Fortunately, Zen offers a workaround. The primary focus of Zen is the practice of its highly focused method of meditation (J. zazen), integrating posture, breath and meditationattention, called “zazen” in Japanese. Zazen is like a magnifying glass, an indispensable and instrumental method for focusing attention awareness in an extremely tight awareness on our own direct experience. Which is where the origins of Buddhism arose, from the meditation of Buddha, Shakyamuni.       Visualizing the Eightfold Path as a 3-dimenional model of a cube illustrates that these eight components of the three primary divisions — the outer person, or conduct;, the inner person,or discipline;, and the fruit of the practice, the evolution of  true wisdom — are all interconnected in complex ways. For example, the intersection of right speech and right action: “You talk the talk, but you do not walk the walk.” Your words do not match your actions. Each pairing of any two of the eight dimensions can be analyzed in such a manner. But the important thing is to be aware of them, and observinge how they affect our lives, and how our manner of living affects them.   The Six Paramitas When we think of perfecting our practice of any activity, such as playing the piano, or high-performance athletics, naturally we form some sort of goal or expectation that we hope to realize. But the notion of perfection in Zen is not like that. There is an ancient Sanskrit term,from Sanskrit, “paramita,” that is sometimes translated as “perfection.”       There are six such, (sometimes expanded to ten,) such in traditional models.  — The basic six-pack usually translatessometimes condensed as: generosity or giving;, precepts or (ethics);, energy  or or effort;, patience or or forbearance;, meditation, contemplation or concentration;, and wisdom.       But in Zen, we instead look to discover their true meaning and application in our meditation. The founder of Soto Zen in 13th Century Japan, Master Eihei Dogen, was said to have commented, paraphrasing: asking In zazen, wwhat Precept (morality) is not fulfilled?       In Zen, the perfection of desirable personality traits, and the full comprehension of them, becomes possible only through diligent pursuit of wholehearted meditation practice. My Zen teacher, “sensei” in Japanperese, Soyu Matsuoka-roshi, would often say that we should always aim at the perfect posture in seated meditation, never imagining that we have achieved it. This amounts to “posture paramita.” We engage in a process of perfecting, in lieu of setting goals of perfection.       Eventually, with repetition, any endeavor such as practicing the piano, dance moves, sports, or martial arts forms, will reach a turning point, where it becomes truly musical, transcendent, and transformative. Your practice of meditation will likewise naturally go through several turning points in its evolution. Eventually, it will become what my teacher referred to as “the real zazen.”  This is when posture, breath and attention all come together in a unified way. Not-two. Zazen: Sitting Still Just Sitting; Still Enough, Straight Enough, For Long Enough The focus of Zen is on the present moment, but the activity that is occurring moment by moment is ceaseless, relentless in its changing dynamic. We sit still in order to recover our original mind, in which stillness is not separate from motion. This is one meaning of an ancient Sino-Japanese term, “mokurai”: stillness in motion, motion in stillness. Silence in Zen, to take another example of mokurai,, is not the absence of sound. The silence is in the sound. And vice-versa. Same for stillness and motion.       Nonetheless, we emphasize the stillness partsays. It is difficult to slow down, let alone come to a full stop, in today’s world. When we do — sitting still enough for long enough — a whole new dimension of reality opens up for us. We enter the original frontier of the mind, discovered by Buddha two-and-a-half millennia ago,  and passed on to us by the ancestors of Zen. Concluding the Inconclusive Like most things in life, Zen has to be experienced to be understood, from personal experience.       This is one instance of how the highly specialized training in Zen has a halo effect on daily life. If you have become accustomed to the extreme clarity

Speaking of watching your Ps and Qs, when taking up the way of Zen meditation, it may seem all too easy to get things backward. In fact, according to the great Zen ancestors, getting it wrong is a natural and necessary part of the process, expressed as "Fall down seven times, get up eight," apparently an old Chinese saying adopted by Master Dogen. He also said that hitting the bullseye depends upon the 100 prior misses. So we are inevitably immersed in trial and error.   In considering Buddha's original teaching in the First Sermon — outlining the Four Noble Truths, including the Eightfold Path — one aspect is often overlooked. Along with the fact that they consist of a description of reality and a prescription for practice, respectively, they also include four admonitions, or instructions for how to approach implementing them. I think of these as the four "charges," one accompanying each of the Noble Truths, namely:   4 CHARGES Existence of dukkha - (we are to fully) Understand Origin of dukkha - () Abandon Cessation of dukkha - () Realize Path to cessation of dukkha - () Follow   The translator's choice of "understand" in this context seems woefully inadequate, given that even Buddha himself pointed out that what he realized was beyond understanding, in any ordinary sense of the word. But setting aside the semantics, let's consider all four commands as outlining a process of assimilating and acting upon Buddha's teaching.    We are to fully understand, or comprehend, the existence of suffering in this world. We are to abandon its main source, or origin, namely our own craving. We are to realize the cessation of suffering, hopefully in this lifetime. And we are to follow the Path in our daily actions, so that everything we do becomes the path. And thus, as Buddha taught in the Lotus Sutra, widely regarded as his last teaching, there is actually no separate Path, if everything is the path. We are on this path whether we know it or not.   And, of course, we do not necessarily engage the process in the order implied by the sequencing of the sentence. In fact, we begin at the end, with the Eightfold Path. It, too, is usually laid out in reverse order of its implementation: Right wisdom: view and thought; right conduct: speech, action and livelihood; and right discipline: effort, mindfulness and meditation. Again, we begin at the end, with meditation, which leads to mindfulness and greater effort, which affect our conduct, and so on, leading eventually to right wisdom of understanding and worldview. Or so we hope.    But when we consider the difficulty of what Buddha did, and is asking us to do, it seems impossible on the surface — as do the Precepts, when considered as literal and absolute. So we are left with the prospect of figuring out what these directives actually mean, and how they might be accomplished, by contemplating them in meditation, which brings us full circle to where Buddha realized these truths, on the cushion.   In Zen meditation, we are encouraged to give up our reliance on the ability of the discriminating mind to analyze and understand, and instead to trust our intuition to come to an insight into reality that is not accessible to reason alone, what Master Dogen referred to as "non-thinking": neither thinking, as such, nor notthinking. So we are to find the sweet spot, the balance between these two aspects of our original mind. In light of this attitude adjustment to the way we ordinarily approach problem-solving, let me suggest another analogy to clarify the long and broad teachings of Buddha's tongue.     P's & Q's of Zen Keying off of this common trope, engage with me in an experiment in semantics that may hopefully shed some light on buddha-dharma. Setting aside the "Qs" for now, I propose that we can frame the basics of Buddhism in alliterative form, as a collection of words beginning with P, or more precisely, "Pr," which turns out to be a substantial set of considerations to be assimilated before ("pre-") setting a course of action:   • Premises & Principles • Predilections & Proclivities  • Prescriptions & Practices • Promises & Predictions     Premises & Principles Buddhism, and for that matter any body of teaching, is based on a set of premises, defined as:   ... a previous statement or proposition from which another is inferred or follows as a conclusion: if the premise is true, then the conclusion must be true.   Another pr word pops up in the definition: proposition, which has a less definitive connotation, being a mere proposal, than a premise, which indicates a more settled basis. Premises, when proven out by experimentation or sheer experience, may become principles, much as hypotheses become theories (and with enough evidence, laws, or precepts) of the profession under consideration, such as science; or, well, law.   Predilections & Proclivities However, Buddhism — dealing as it does with fallible human nature — also takes into account our predilections, proclivities, and predispositions, as well as any pertinent preconceptions we may be harboring. These words, too, have definitions and synonyms that often reflect each other, such as predisposition and predilection, i.e. sharing similar connotations of preference and propensity.    Prescriptions & Practices When it comes to taking action based on the premises and principles laid out in Zen's teachings, and in light of the weaknesses of our predilections and proclivities, semantic hair-splitting does not help much, except perhaps to illustrate the subtlety of the task of discerning which prescriptions and practices might prove to be most productive for following the Zen Way under the present predicament in which we find ourselves.    The default mode of action prescribed in Zen is meditation, of course, but many of the practices surrounding and supporting it raise issues of protocols in a starkly different social and cultural environment than that in which the ancestors found themselves. This is the key challenge of propagating Zen today, in a context of over-choice on every level of society.      Promises & Predictions  The promise of Zen, however, remains the same, no matter the situational causes and conditions surrounding our life and practice. Success in penetrating the koan of existence, while not predictable, may be predicated upon the simple formula of sitting still enough, upright enough, for long enough that the effects of zazen begin to manifest. Buddha predicted the future buddhahood of many of his followers, including his cousin Devadatta, who reputedly tried repeatedly to assassinate the great sage.      Afterword This familiar "Ps & Qs" phrase came to mind while mulling over the design of Buddha's initial teachings, and after reading Ben Connelly's excellent commentary on "Vasubandhu's Three Natures." The first page that comes up from an internet search on Ps and Qs tells us that the phrase can be traced back to the 1779 Oxford English Dictionary. The most plausible origin, of several possible provenances, is that it refers to early typography, where "p" and "q" were likely to be mistaken, one for the other, when setting lead type.   This factoid comes from a site hosted by The Guardian that you may want to check out if you are interested in the origin of words and phrases (etymology), semantic enigmas, and the evolution of language in general   In our next segment we will continue delving deeper into the design intent of Zen's teachings and their implications for living in times of increasing uncertainty. Other than death and taxes, the beneficial effects of Zen and zazen are one of the few things that are certain in life. But that does not mean that we should take them for granted. We have to put in the work, making "effort without aiming at it as Master Dogen prescribes.    Please plan to join our new online and onsite practice opportunities for 2025. My new Thursday evening Advanced Workshop, in particular, is designed to take a deep dive into the more subtle secrets of Zen and the details of zazen.

In the new Thursday Workshop I have initiated for 2025, I am attempting to lay out in great detail what I believe to be the most natural way to meditate: zazen before Zen, so to speak. It may not be your daddy's meditation, but it is that of our ancient forefathers.   Meditation, after all, was not the exclusive discovery of the historical Buddha, and his realization could not have been the first in the long presence of humankind on the planet, just the first recorded in history. What he discovered represents a return to something more primordial than Buddhism; Buddha was not a Buddhist, after all.   Traditional teachings emphasize the perfecting of the Six Paramitas, which enumerate both personal and social dimensions of the place of Zen philosophy and practice in the cultures of India, China, Korea, Japan, and the far East. They are variously translated as charity, ethics, patience, effort, meditation, and wisdom.   But in Zen practice, the perfecting of the paramitas in our daily lives is not merely a matter of remembering and agreeing with them in principle. It is, instead, recommended that we observe them in everything we do, within each dimension of the Eightfold Path; most especially including meditation, the eighth in the usual order, and the first place we begin to make effort. As Master Dogen is quoted as saying, In zazen what precept or ethical principle, is not fulfilled? The main method of Zen cannot be detached from the Eightfold Path, nor can it be left out of the process of perfecting the other five paramitas.   Posture Paramita In fact, in zazen we begin by taking up another process of perfecting — perfecting the posture. Matsuoka-roshi would often say that you have to work your way through every bone in your body, and suggested that we develop an attitude of continually aiming at the perfect posture, never imagining that we have achieved it. This amounts to a practical application of Dogen's cryptic phrase, "making effort without aiming at it."   This is what I refer to as "posture paramita": an exploratory search for the natural posture. Much like the proposition that we are already enlightened but we don’t yet know it, this approach suggests that our posture is already perfect, but we keep interfering with it. Much of our training in zazen method is about how to stop doing that.   The Natural Way to Meditate One of the misconceptions I would like to address up-front is that we can do zazen the "right" way — and its corollary, the "wrong" way. While the ancient teachings mention "right meditation" along with all the other "rights" in the Eightfold Path, this translators' choice is not meant to indicate that there is an absolutely right way to meditate, as opposed to wrong ways. The "right" in this construction is more like a verb than an adjective — as in righting a capsized boat, in order to continue sailing. Or righting a wheel that is out of round, so that it rolls smoothly. In Zen, we continually correct as we go, when we detect that we are off-course. The vacillation is built into our conscious mind, continually swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other.   For example, most practitioners interpret the instructions for zazen as strictly indicating that we are to sit stock still. Don't move. And empty the mind of thoughts. The former command to sit still may comprise a more pedantic obiter dictum in Rinzai praxis than in Soto Zen; the latter notion of the empty mind, a Western misconstruing of Master Dogen's "non-thinking." But most Americans, when first approaching Zen meditation, probably harbor these two ideas as a preconception. To which I say "good luck" with either of these notions, especially in combination.    Unless you give yourself permission to move, you will never discover why it is that we sit still.   Unless you give yourself permission to think, you may never realize what Dogen meant by "non-thinking."   This was Master Dogen's expression of the natural state of attention in zazen. It is neither thinking, nor not thinking, which are opposite sides of the same coin. We sit without relying on thinking, our default go-to in most other areas of endeavor.   Feeling Gravity Take an example from early childhood. Gravity is said to be the "constant teacher." As a toddler just beginning to transition from crawling to walking, we stand up, we fall down. We stand up again, we fall down again. This natural process may be the origin of the old saying that Dogen adapted, "Fall down seven times, get up eight." I always wonder why he didn't say "get up seven."   We don't learn to stand and walk by thinking it through. At that age it is not likely that there is much thinking going on at all, in the ordinary sense of the word. We might better regard it as a process of adaptation. We are learning to navigate and negotiate the causes and conditions of our world, in which gravity is a major player, by trial and error. Which involves intuition and observation rather than intellectual analysis.   Similarly, the very act of sitting and facing a blank wall for extended periods of time is a counter-intuitive and counter-cultural act. That is, its simplicity sets aside the usual resort to thinking and analysis, bringing forth the intuitive, instinctual side of awareness.   Taken for Granted Once we can successfully balance, standing and walking in the field of gravity, it becomes less and less of a concern, and eventually goes subliminal. We are less and less aware of its influence. Until we take up athletics, dancing, or some other activity that challenges our security in the face of gravitational attraction, such as mountain climbing or walking tightropes. Maybe bungie-jumping.   As Master Dogen was wont to say, after laying out an analogy to help us grasp the principles of Zen, "All things are like this." That is, we adapt to all sensations over time, becoming less acutely aware of all the multiple stimuli that are acting upon us at any given time. In doing so physically and sensorially, we take more and more of our world for granted, until some natural or manmade disaster comes along as a wakeup call.   Stepping Back Another natural way to de-condition ourselves and recover our awareness of the fundamentals of our existence — like gravity — is to practice zazen. Finding and engaging the most natural posture — upright seated meditation — combined with the most natural breathing pattern, we afford ourselves the best opportunity for discovering, or recovering, our most natural, original mind.   As our attention withdraws from our usual ruminations over the ongoing conditions of our lives that we find unsatisfactory (dukkha) — in what Master Dogen referred to as the "backward step" — we naturally return to a more primordial state of awareness, sometimes referred to as "bare awareness," becoming aware of, or remembering, what it is to exist as a sentient being. This "returning to" is the root meaning of "refuge" — refugo, refugare  from the Latin — rather than escaping or hiding out, we are returning to familiar territory, our true home.   I would say, remembering what it means to be a "fully conscious human being," but Zen's teachings caution us to accept that we are not necessarily fully conscious — in fact that we are largely asleep. The Zen Buddhist proposition regarding consciousness is relatively simple in concept, but difficult in execution, as we say of certain problems and processes in design thinking. That is, we were all asleep last night, and we all woke up this morning, and we all know the difference between the two. Although lucid dreaming sometimes calls the difference into question.   One key tenet of Buddhism, that I do not believe is characteristic of any other religious or spiritual practice, is that — as wide awake as we may seem to be at the moment — we are still asleep, to a certain degree. And that we can wake up — fully — as Buddha did. The honorific means, literally, the "fully awakened one." And that we will know the difference.   This suggests that we can do this on our own recognizance. We don't need no stinking teachers, as the threefold Lotus Sutra reminds us. Zen is pointing at something natural, primordial, that comes with the territory of being a human being. We look to teachings for guidance, but we cannot depend upon them, nor upon our teachers, for our own insight. In this matter, Zen is truly the ultimate in do-it-yourself, which helps to explain its appeal to the Western mindset of independent thinking, the cult of the individual.    As we turn our attention away from the pressing concerns of the social sphere, shining the bright light of Zen meditation upon the personal sphere, the natural process of sensory adaptation will set in. By stressing stillness and sameness over motion and change, we begin to experience motion in the stillness, on deeper and more subtle levels. As Matsuoka-roshi would often say, "Zen goes deeper." At bottom, we embrace the reality that these apparent differences are really not separate, that nothing has really changed from the beginning. It is what it is, what it has always been, and what it will always be: everchanging.   Please plan to join our new online and onsite practice opportunities for 2025. My new Thursday evening Advanced Workshop, in particular, is designed to take a deep dive into the more subtle secrets of zazen and Zen.

In the previous segment of UnMind, titled "the least important thing," I closed with a call for submissions; quoting myself:   If you have any topics or areas of interest in Zen that you would like me to explore in 2025, please let me know. You know where I live.   Having received little response, I can only assume that this podcast is not gaining much traction out there, in spite of near-weekly continuity for the past three or so years. Or that those of you who are following it don't have any topics of interest related to Zen, at least none that you would like me to take up. Or some combination of both.   In this segment, the last one of the year, let me start with the obvious: the fact that actually, you do not know where I live. That is, none of us really knows what the rest of us are going through, on a year-in-year-out, day-to-day, hour-by-hour, moment-to-moment, basis, except in the most general sense. And that's okay. But we have to wonder whether everyone else is dealing with the same kinds of issues, such as anxiety over aging, sickness, and death, those personal dimensions of dukkha that Buddha taught we all face. Anxiety stems from the unsatisfactory nature of living in the face of impermanence, imperfection, and insubstantiality, universal aspects of the koan of existence. Are you feeling the angst?   Can you remember when it first dawned on you that this life — which seems so substantial, so perfect in so many ways, and that we once took to be permanent — is insidiously deceptive in that regard? That the causes and conditions of it are not part of what you bargained for, opting into birth? Assuming you had any choice in the matter.   Few of us would credit a claim of any real intentionality on our part that preceded birth. But in fact Buddha does, explicitly — or at least implicitly — in his explication of the Twelvefold Chain of Interdependent Origination. It is his model of how things got to be the way they are — including, most crucially, our own presence in this world of sentient being. According to this cogent analysis, we come into being owing to our very desire to exist — the desire for knowing, or consciousness itself. Considered dispassionately, how could there be any simpler explanation for life?   Upholders of theism would have us believe that there is a separate intent to life, an intelligent "designer" operating behind the scenes, as author and director of its creation. The adherents of deism hold that the creator god is not directly involved, but simply got the ball rolling, perhaps by means of the Big Bang. Atheists deny outright any possibility of such disembodied intent, and agnostics try to walk the tightrope between belief and disbelief, according reality to the limitations of their senses and intellectual understanding. No woo-woo, in other words.   Most religious thinkers are resistant to the idea that we are simply a fluke of some kind, the result of a secular-reductionist chain of events beginning with material elements combining physically in a random process; yielding organic chemistry; leading to one-celled organisms; finally culminating in human beings, the absolute apex of evolution, or God's greatest creation. In our human opinion, anyway.   Most rationalist thinkers would probably push back on the equally simplistic notion that some creator god is to be given credit, or to be blamed, for our being here, and its corollary, that we have to pass the test of Her intent. On the one hand, this doctrine conveniently relieves us of the burden of accepting responsibility for our own existence; on the other, it tasks us with noodling out exactly what that intent might prescribe for the behaviors and attitude adjustments necessary to pass muster.   One logical consequence of this notion is that we assume that our reward will be in heaven, if anywhere, but certainly not on this earth. But we cannot escape or postpone the inevitable onset or aging, sickness and death, simply because we hold to a belief, however compelling. Unless you believe in a scientific possibility of eternal life as suggested by sci-fi speculations such as technologically-enhanced consciousness, uploaded to digital hardware and/or downloaded to new bodies, or the same old carcass rejiggered with endlessly replaceable parts, grown in tanks from genetic sources.   With apologies for that discursive ramble into weirder pastures, let us return to the focus of Zen on the present reality of the moment, devoid of any beliefs — religious, scientific or fantastical — that we may tend to turn to for comfort.    The Heart Sutra of Buddhist liturgy — a central, condensed summary of Buddha's teaching chanted on a frequent basis in Zen centers, temples and monasteries around the world — takes us through a long litany of what might appear to the uninitiated to be a thoroughgoing denial of reality as we know it.       Testimony as to what the iconic "Bodhisattva of Compassion" (Skt. Avalokiteshvara; Ch. Quanyin; J. Kannon) realized through meditation begins with the cryptic statement that s/he "clearly saw that all five aggregates are empty and thus relieved all suffering."   Remember that this model of the "five aggregates" (Skt. skandhas) represented the best science of the times as to what, precisely, sentient existence consists of, in its ultimate finality. Today we would paint a much more complex picture, but Buddha had to work with the sum total of information available at the time. Then he goes on to reduce all of reality to one fundamental dyad, which, like all dual pairs, cannot be separated:   Form does not differ from emptiness, emptiness does not differ from form; form itself is emptiness,emptiness itself form; sensations, perceptions, formations, and consciousness are also like this.   Form, or appearance (Skt. rupa), constitutes our normal cognizance of the material world, with its near-infinite variations — the "myriad things," or "ten-thousand things" — and the names we give to them (Skt. nama), taken together as "name and form" (Skt. namarupa), "the one and the many," for short. This would be roughly equivalent to current terms such as phenomena and noumenon: particular things, and unitary sameness as their essence. This is a thread running through Zen teachings, indicating the nonduality of duality, or the "Harmony of Difference and Equality," as the famous Ch'an poem, "Sandokai," would have it. In our modern idiom, we would speak of the interchangeability of matter and energy.   The other four skandhas — Sensation, Perception, Impulse, and Consciousness itself — are similarly subject to deconstruction, though their position on the spectrum of energy and the psychological plane makes for a more convoluted analysis. Suffice it to say that the prefatory phrase, "given Emptiness" (Skt. sunyatta) indicates that all five are not what they seem to be, just as solid, liquid or gaseous matter is permeated with space, as we know today.            The monolog then goes on to negate all of the familiar dimensions of consciousness, including the Six Senses or realms (Skt. dhatus) of the Buddhist model of awareness:   Therefore given emptiness there is no form; no sensation; no perception; no formation; no consciousness — no eyes; no ears; no nose; no tongue; no body; no mind — no sight; no sound; no smell; no taste; no touch; no object of mind; no realm of sight; no realm of mind-consciousness.   That last, the non-reality of "mind-consciousness" itself, indicates that the various findings, conclusions, and recommendations for practice, as well as all broader implications of insight into reality deriving from it, must also be set aside:   There is neither ignorance nor extinction of ignorance; neither old age and death nor extinction of old age and death; no suffering; no cause; no cessation; no Path; no knowledge; and no attainment.   So where, we might be forgiven for asking, does that leave us? According to Zen, right back where we started. Nothing has changed; nothing that is not already real and true can be revealed by our meditation. Sitting still enough, upright enough, and long enough will simply allow us to see the delusionary aspect of our own interpretation of our own consciousness. "Until we come to no consciousness also," as the first translation that we recited at the Zen Buddhist Temple of Chicago expressed it.   Let that percolate for a moment. If indeed Buddha, or Avalokiteshvara, or any one else, can come to a state of "no consciousness" — and come back from it, alive and well — what are we to make of that? This ultimate finality is what I like to call the "singularity of consciousness" —"That of which there is no whicher," as Alan Watts, my brother's favorite commentator on all things Zen, put it.   The AI summary leading off the search results (which may be the go-to virtual Zen master, or "buddha of the future," otherwise known as Maitreya) paraphrased:   to describe something beyond comparison, an ultimate reality or absolute that cannot be measured or ranked against anything else   Which is eerily similar to a concluding section of the longest Ch'an poem in Soto liturgy, the Hsinhsinming—Trust in Mind:   No comparisons or analogies are possible in this causeless, relation-less state; take motion in stillness and stillness in motion; both movement and stillness disappear; to this ultimate finality no law or description applies.      So there you have it. All things are like this, to cadge another repeat Dogenism.   Let me close with best wishes for a happy new year; a happy new month; week, and/or day; happy morning, afternoon and evening; a happy hour or half; a happy minute, second, or moment. They are all equally empty. As the same poem reminds us in closing:   The Way is beyond language for in it there is no yesterday no tomorrow no today.

In the last segment of UnMind, we looked at the implications of Master Dogen's expression, "the most important thing in Buddhism," from Fukanzazengi, the set of instructions for zazen he composed after returning from China. We speculated on what he could possibly have meant, by singling out one of the many points he made in the text.   I suggested that it may be more useful to consider the "don'ts," rather than the "do's," such as: not thinking, notinteracting, and not distinguishing between the absolute and relative, rather than speculate upon a single bumper-sticker summation of his broader points, as the singular, "main thing to do." In other words, maybe he is pointing at something holistic, in the visceral realm, rather than the intellectual. This is in keeping with Buddhism's major teachings — that their meaning will be found in our direct experience on the cushion and in daily life, rather than in words, which can point at the truth but fail to express it in any comprehensive sense.   So when we consider the least important thing in Buddhism, it may be helpful to turn to the written record of the spoken teachings of Buddha himself, beginning with the First Sermon, reputed to be what he had to say to the five ascetics he had been training and traveling with at that point in his spiritual quest. It starts out with come "don'ts."   In that original dharma talk, Buddha essentially dismisses the extreme lifestyles of the rich and famous on the one hand — self-gratification writ large; and that of the ascetics themselves on the other, who had turned away from Siddhartha after witnessing him drinking goat's milk, violating their high standard of discipline, including virtual starvation. Buddha had landed in the Middle Way, after a night of extreme introspection.      Here we have to reiterate that "extremism in the pursuit of moderation is no vice."   In articulating the Middle Way between the usual pursuits of the lay hoi polloi and the monastic minority, Buddha indicated the futility of both lines of endeavor — self-gratification versus self-mortification. The most balanced and natural approach is nether to deny the cravings born of body, mouth and mind, nor to overindulge them.    This suggests an innate trust in basic human nature — or we should say buddha-nature — our original nature, which is untrammeled by the limits and demands of biological needs and societal norms. Not exactly the noble savage, but the natural sage: a person who lives freely within the bounds of nature as well as those of society. Mr. Natural.   Amongst the least important things in Zen would be concerns about our social identity. As one contemporary author's mother told him, You would be a lot less concerned about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do. We all see ourselves as the marquee character in our own movie, with all others playing supporting roles. The trouble is, everyone else sees their reality the same way, with us as the bit players.   While the most important thing, or things, about Buddhism will necessarily lie within the personal sphere, the least important will be found in the social sphere. Those in the natural and universal spheres will fall in-between. For example, it is more likely that we can safely ignore developments in society that may indirectly threaten our livelihood, safety and security — such as which party is currently in power — than we can those from natural and universal sources — such as climate change, pandemics, and asteroids.   The most important things in Zen revolve around personal applications of the method — zazen — and the results of such training in terms of its effects directly upon the body-mind as well as attitude adjustments regarding our misconceptions of buddha-dharma, and some that tend to have a halo effect upon social life.   One major overlap is the practice of patience. Sitting upright, straight enough and still enough for long enough, we are forced to become much more patient with ourselves, our general ignorance and the monkey-business machinations of the discriminating  mind — citta in Sanskrit — which serendipitously sounds like Cheetah, Tarzan's famous chimpanzee companion, making it easy to remember. Wisdom, or enlightened, mind — bodhiin Sanskrit — comes to the fore. Citta and bodhi, foreground and background mind, or analytical and intuitive mind, gradually or instantaneously, come into better balance: the original, unified mind, in which the apparent dichotomy is "not-two."   Much like central and peripheral vision, which collaborate interdependently to make up the whole of the sense of vision, the two aspects of mind are not in opposition to each other. Not competitive, but complementary. The most important thing, then, would be to allow them to work in harmony. Vacillation from one to the other is the natural way that intelligence and consciousness work. The least important thing would be to worry about them as being antagonistic to each other. We do not have to "empty our mind of thoughts." In fact, if we try to, the monkey will turn into a 600-pound gorilla. We will lose that battle. Better to allow the monkey free range. It will wear itself out eventually.   When citta finally exhausts its frantic coping mechanisms, it will lie down and take a nap. Then bodhi can manifest as the balancing act. The posture becomes a comfortable stretch, the breath like a sigh of relief. By relinquishing control, we sink into equanimity.   The Buddhist jargon term that addresses centered balance, or settling into "calm abiding" (Skt. Shamata) — and is often defined as the platform for insight (Skt. Vipassana) — is Samadhi: usually capitalized to emphasize the veneration and importance it is accorded.   While I think that — as much as possible — we should endeavor to reduce or eliminate the jargonized nature of much of the written record, it may be clarifying to characterize the method of zazen and its effects in terms of different kinds of "samadhis."   The first, the traditional form of the upright seated posture of the body in zazen, we might call physical samadhi — less stress, more equipoise, or equilibrium — basically coming into alignment with gravity.   The second, we might term emotional samadhi — less anxiety, more calmness. Since mind and body cannot separate, the most direct path to the "mind" is through the body.   The third, mental samadhi — less confusion, more clarity — particularly regarding the true meaning of buddha-dharma, what the teachings are pointing to in reality, which  is only accessible within our direct experience. Experiential truth is the only truth in Zen. But we can misinterpret what we perceive. All perceived reality is virtual.   I propose that there is a fourth kind of samadhi, which I term social samadhi — less friction, more harmony — in relationships. This, of course, is what most people are looking for in the early stages of their meditative practice. But its manifestation is further down the road. It all begins with physical samadhi in zazen.       Amongst the least important things, one of the most important is to avoid creating expectations of your practice of zazen. Setting expectations is the way we approach most activities we associate with learning. We hope to learn something new, to find what is missing. But zazen, and its effects, is not really gaining something new, but remembering something long forgotten, and primordial: the natural posture, the natural breath, the natural state of mind. If we imagine that there is something fundamentally wrong with our mind, and that we have to "fix" it, then we are making a fundamental error, a categorical mistake, defined as "treating abstract concepts as though they had a physical location."   There is nothing fundamentally wrong with our mind, or for that matter with the entirety of existence. The only thing wrong is our interpretation of reality, our own ignorance and uninformed opinions. As Master Pogo said, "We have met the enemy and he is us."   The least important things are TBD - to be determined. In your practice and daily life. As we close out the winter season of the old year and anticipate the opening salvos of the new year, let us remember that there is no such thing as a year, and practice with an open mind. Open to possibilities that lie beyond our imagination, and are right before, and behind, our original face. Don't look in the mirror for it. It is the most important thing.   If you have any topics or areas of interest in Zen that you would like me to explore in 2025, please let me know. You know where I live.