Practice Encouragement Archives

A few weeks ago, during one of our Wednesday night Sangha gatherings, Bill mentioned the 4 Immeasurables in our small group conversation. While I was vaguely familiar with the term, as I looked up this concept and have continued to reflect on them over the past several weeks, I have been intrigued about the ways in which these virtues are not just abstract spiritual concepts, but rather active practices to embody a particular way of being in the world.

Also known as the Brahmaviharas, though more commonly referred to as the Four Immeasurables or Four Divine Abodes, these are a set of Buddhist virtues and meditation practices designed to cultivate a selfless, liberated heart.

The term, Brahmaviharas, literally translates to dwelling places of Brahma. The term Brahma originally referred to a deity or celestial being who lived in a state of pure, selfless joy. In Buddhism, the term came to refer to the cultivation of this heavenly state within our own hearts. The idea is that by practicing these, you aren't just visiting a state of mind—you are building a home within yourself for these qualities to reside, for you to dwell in or embody these virtues in everyday life.

The historical Buddha taught that the Four Immeasurables were a counter-force to what became known as the Far Enemies: Hatred/ill-will, cruelty, envy, and greed/anxiety. As I look around the world today, these far enemy qualities seem abundant; they are all around us. It is helpful to me to remember here that the “enemy” is the quality itself—the greed or the ill-will—rather than the person currently caught in its grip.

The Four Immeasurables are seen to be a direct counter to those far enemy qualities:

• Metta (Loving-Kindness): The wish for all beings to be happy. It isn’t about romantic love or even liking everyone you meet; it’s a universal, non-discriminatory goodwill.

• Karuna (Compassion): A specific response to suffering. It is the trembling of the heart in the face of pain and the desire to alleviate it.

• Mudita (Empathetic Joy): The ability to take delight in the success and good fortune of others.

• Upekkha (Equanimity): The "anchor" of the four. It is a state of mental stability and composure that isn't shaken by the "Eight Worldly Winds" (pleasure and pain, gain and loss, praise and blame, fame and disrepute). These are called winds because they blow through our lives constantly, threatening to knock us off our center if we are not anchored.

The teaching of the Four Immeasurables felt particularly timely and spoke to me in two different ways:

The first is the idea that these virtues are immeasurable—like wakefulness, they are our true nature and indeed the nature of all of reality. They are always there and cannot be reduced, whether or not we are able to see it at any given moment. So when all we see are the far enemy qualities on display around us, or perhaps even rising up within us, we can take refuge and consolation that these far enemy qualities are not the end of the story or the true nature of reality; they are the result of being caught up in the self-centered dream. Because the Four Immeasurables are the nature of existence, we can take solace that the nature of existence can hold all of the pain that arises from the persistence of the Far Enemies.

The second realization is that the Brahmaviharas are not just destinations; they are skills to be practiced. In the traditional Metta practice, we start with ourselves, then move outward until every being is included in the flow of love and generosity. When we engage in the practice of remembering this nature of reality—when we take refuge in Metta, Karuna, Mudita, and Upekkha—those qualities become more visible within us. We participate in the world as it actually is: a flow of love. When we practice these qualities as a community, we become a source of sanctuary for the world.

So, how might we practice these qualities?

1. Upekkha (Equanimity) through Zazen: We start on the cushion. Zazen is our practice ground for finding steadiness and composure right where we are, finding the still point even when surrounded by chaos.

2. Metta (Loving-Kindness) through Aspiration: We can engage in the practice of extending Metta by offering simple phrases of well-being to ourselves, then slowly expanding that circle to include those we love, those we find difficult, and eventually, all beings in the ten directions.

3. Karuna (Compassion) through Presence: We practice leaning into the discomfort of the world rather than turning away. When we witness suffering, we practice staying present with the trembling of the heart, allowing that pain to soften us rather than harden us.

4. Mudita (Empathetic Joy) through Observation: In a world that often highlights what is broken, we make a practice of noticing where beauty, kindness, and success are flourishing for others. We intentionally celebrate these "wholesome seeds" and allow their joy to be our own.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• Locating the Abode: When you feel overwhelmed by the "Far Enemies" (Hatred/ill-will, cruelty, envy, and greed/anxiety) in the world today, where in your body do you feel the need for refuge? Can you breathe into that space and invite a "Divine Abode" to take up residence there?

• The Expanding Circle: Who is currently in your difficult circle? Without forcing a feeling of affection, can you offer them the basic wish of Metta: "May you be free from the suffering that leads you to cause suffering"?

• The Anchor of Equanimity: Amidst the "Eight Worldly Winds" (pleasure and pain, gain and loss, praise and blame, fame and disrepute), which wind is blowing most strongly for you right now? How does returning to your breath help you find the stability that is not shaken by these changes?

• Choosing the Room: If your heart were a house, which room/abode do you need to step into today? Do you need the room of Equanimity to find balance or the room of Compassion to meet the world’s pain?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice extend to all beings in all directions. May we find the courage to dwell in the heart’s natural warmth, and may our presence in the world be a sanctuary for those seeking refuge.

This past week, the flow of the Dharma has repeatedly directed my attention toward equanimity and how this practice supports our ability to meet life exactly as it is. There is so much "swirling" in the world right now—both locally and globally—and our practice is not a way to escape that movement, but a way to stay embodied and upright in the midst of it.

The Pali word typically translated as equanimity is upekkhā, which denotes a mental state of balance. However, I was introduced to another Pali word this week: Tatramajjhatt​atā. This is often translated as "standing in the middle of all this" (or "there-in-the-middle-ness") and denotes supreme equanimity, impartiality, and a profound steadiness amidst life’s inevitable ups and downs.

This concept reminded me of a story I heard in my youth:

A king once offered a prize to the artist who could paint the best depiction of peace. After much deliberation, he narrowed the choices to two final paintings. One depicted a perfectly calm lake, mirroring towering mountains under a serene blue sky. Everyone who saw it agreed it was the perfect image of peace.

The second painting also featured mountains, but these were rugged and bare. Above them was an angry, rain-swept sky where lightning flashed. Down the mountainside tumbled a foaming, turbulent waterfall. At first glance, it did not appear peaceful at all.

But when the king looked closely, he saw a tiny bush growing in a crack of the rock behind the waterfall. Inside that bush, a mother bird had built her nest. There, in the midst of the rush of angry water, she sat calmly on her nest. The king chose this as the winning painting.

“Peace,” the king explained, “is not only found in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. ​Peace is in the midst of things as they are, when there is calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace.”

Our practice is not going to stabilize the landscape of our lives or force the world into a state of perfect balance. The world, as it is, includes storms, ruggedness, and angry currents. Yet, our practice offers us a refuge​—a way to remain awake to those realities while focusing our attention on care—nurturing ourselves and the beings within our reach.

This is a beautiful invitation that brings to mind these lines from the Metta Sutta:

​Even as a mother at the risk of her life

watches over and protects her only child,

so with a boundless mind

should one cherish all living things.

Suffusing love over the entire world,

above, below, and all around, without limit,

so let one cultivate an infinite good will

toward the whole world.

What does it mean to cherish our own tender hearts, wandering minds, and aging bodies? What does it mean to extend that same good will to the entire world? How does showing up with the intention to cherish and care for life contribute to our own sense of equanimity? 

It is a powerful invitation to consider.

A second nudge toward equanimity came from Bhikkhu Analayo’s book, Satipatthana: The Direct Path to Awakening. In the conclusion of his 280-page thesis, he distills Buddhist meditation into just four words: Keep Calmly Knowing Change. Our practice of Zazen is exactly that—taking our seats in the midst of an impermanent reality, maintaining an upright posture, and discovering that we can keep our balance. This practice expands our capacity to remain "in the middle of all this," regardless of the particularities arising in our lives.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• Locating the "Middle": As you sit this week, notice the "swirling" of thoughts or external noises. Can you find the place of Tatramajjhattatā—the "there-in-the-middle-ness"—that is aware of the movement but not swept away by it?

• The Nest Behind the Waterfall: Identify a "stormy" area of your life right now. What would it look like to build a nest of care right in the middle of that difficulty, rather than waiting for the storm to pass?

• Calmly Knowing Change: Practice using Bhikkhu Analayo’s phrase, "Keep calmly knowing change," as a mental anchor. When a strong sensation or emotion arises, can you acknowledge its changing nature without needing to fix or stop it?

• Cherishing the "Tender Heart": In moments of self-criticism during practice, can you pivot to the invitation of the Metta Sutta? What changes when you meet your "wandering mind" with the same protection a mother offers an only child?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice offer us the steadiness to stand in the middle of all things with an open heart. May our capacity to "keep calmly knowing change" be a refuge for ourselves and a gift of peace to a swirling world.

Dear friends,

Yesterday was the first session of the Mahasangha study of the Five Remembrances. As I woke up in the morning—an inroads to understanding this teaching emerged for me that I thought I would share in this week's Practice Encouragement email.

The Backstory: The Historical Buddha and the Discovery of Reality Siddhartha Gautama was raised in extraordinary shelter, his father having engineered his entire environment to protect him from aging, illness, and death—motivated by a prophecy that his son, if he encountered suffering, would renounce the world. The young prince lived surrounded by youth, beauty, health, and pleasure. The old, the sick, the dying were simply removed from his world.

When he finally ventured beyond the palace walls and encountered these realities—an old man, a sick man, a corpse, and then a wandering ascetic—it was genuinely shattering. The tradition presents these not as mild surprises but as a complete collision with a reality he had no framework to receive. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing life as it actually is—perhaps he saw himself in each of those figures. In any case, this seeing changed the course of his life and set him on a path to determine how to respond.

This story gave birth to the Five Remembrances—the daily practice of consciously recalling what the palace walls had hidden:

1. I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.

2. I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape having ill health.

3. I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.

4. All that is dear to me and everything I have and everything I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape from losing them.

5. My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground on which I stand.

The practice is essentially a daily voluntary journey beyond the palace walls—before life forces us out.

The Challenge: Our Brain's Protective Nature The historical story is also a precise metaphor for how human consciousness operates. The brain functions much like Suddhodana—not out of malice, but out of a deep protective instinct. Contemporary neuroscience describes the brain as fundamentally a prediction machine, one that privileges stability, continuity, and constancy because these make navigation of life efficient and safe. Surprise, in neurological terms, is often registered as threat.

So the brain labors, often unconsciously, to maintain the palace. We don't have a clear internal sense of our own aging until the body insists on it. We are shocked by illness as though it were a betrayal rather than a natural reality. We relate to the people and things we love as though they will simply continue to be as they are. The brain prefers the curated world—familiar, predictable, permanent—to the actual one.

And like Suddhodana, perhaps the brain fears what will become of us if we see too clearly. There is a kind of logic to the sheltering. But the cost is that when life inevitably intrudes—when aging, illness, loss, and death arrive, as they always do—we can be shattered by the encounter, just as the young prince was, because we had no framework, no practiced relationship with these realities.

The Five Remembrances are an invitation to stop outsourcing that protection to the brain's preference for forgetting. Left to its own protective instincts, our brains will turn away from seeing the reality of the human condition—a form of going back to sleep. Revisiting the Five Remembrances each morning is a way of turning towards life as it is—staying awake through paying attention. It is a daily practice of going out beyond the palace walls voluntarily, with intention, in the relative safety of a quiet morning—rather than waiting to be forced out by crisis.

The Invitation: Taking Our Place Within Reality The crucial movement in the Buddha's story is not just that he saw aging, illness, and death. It's what he did next. He didn't retreat to the palace. He sat down in the middle of it all.

The Remembrances aren't designed to make us morbid or anxious. Practiced well, they work on what Buddhist teaching calls the second arrow. The first arrow is the pain itself—the loss, the illness, the aging body. The second arrow is what the mind adds: the resistance, the sense of betrayal, the feeling that existence has broken some implicit promise. Much of human suffering lives in the second arrow. The Remembrances, worked with over time, don't eliminate the first arrow—grief is still grief, loss is still loss—but they soften the second, because reality is no longer arriving as a complete surprise to a mind that expected permanence.

There is also something deeper. The practice, done with sincerity over time, begins to close the gap between knowing intellectually that impermanence is real and actually feeling it as personally true—that this "I" ages, gets ill, and dies, not some abstract future self at a safe psychological distance. And rather than this being purely devastating, something opens in that recognition: a tenderness toward existence, a heightened appreciation for the preciousness of each moment, precisely because it is not guaranteed.

The Japanese call this mono no aware—the bittersweet beauty of impermanence. The falling cherry blossom is not beautiful despite being brief. Its brevity is inseparable from its beauty.

To take our place within reality—no longer separated behind palace walls, no longer trying to manage impermanence from a safe distance, but present within it, arms open—is perhaps what wakefulness actually means. Not an extraordinary altered state, but the willingness to inhabit the world as it actually is, and to find that it can be borne, and more than borne, that it can be loved.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• Locating the Palace Walls: During your sit this week, can you notice where you are still trying to maintain a "palace" of predictability? What specific reality (aging, change, or a difficult emotion) feels like it is standing just outside those walls?

• The Second Arrow and the Action of Returning: When you encounter a moment of discomfort, can you pause long enough to distinguish the "first arrow" of the sensation from the "second arrow" of your mental resistance? What happens to the quality of the moment when you practice the "enactment of non-preference" by simply noticing the resistance and returning to your breath?

• The Beauty of the Brief: In your life off the cushion today, identify one thing that is "of the nature to change"—a blooming flower, a child's laughter, or the movement of light. How does acknowledging its brevity change your level of presence and appreciation for it?

• The Ground on Which I Stand: Reflect on the fifth remembrance: My actions are the ground on which I stand. How might your choices today be different if you viewed each action as a way of intimately attuning to what love looks like in this unique situation?

Dedication May the merit of our practice give us the courage to step beyond the walls of our own making. May we have the courage to stand in the center of the world's reality without turning away, recognizing that its pain and its beauty are our own. Together, may we inhabit the world exactly as it is, with tenderness, intimacy, and a love that does not turn away.

With a warm bow,

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

Emily and I recently finished watching the romantic comedy series Nobody Wants This on Netflix. In a Valentine’s Day episode, the main character, Noah, takes his girlfriend Joanne through an elaborate sequence of gifts and experiences. However, the romance quickly sours when Joanne discovers she is merely the recipient of a pattern; Noah is repeating the exact same "romantic" sequence he used with all his previous partners. Because a previous partner liked the gifts, he simply repeats what worked before.

Joanne’s response offered a profound lesson. She essentially tells him: I don’t want you to do the things you think a "good boyfriend" does. I want you to know me, and do the things that are important to me.

This exchange highlights how easy it is to get caught up in the idea that love always looks a particular way—that to be "good" or loving, we can simply repeat the same actions on loop. It reminded me of a story told by the parents of a friend at their wedding last fall. They recounted how, throughout decades of marriage, whenever one said "I love you," the other would playfully respond, "What even is love, anyways?" Their years of marriage were a continued exploration of that question, rather than a settled definition.

This feels like the core lesson: Love cannot be pinned down. We cannot prescriptively say what love looks like in any given situation. To say we know exactly what it means to be loving is often a delusion—or perhaps simply the repetition of what we thought love was in a previous moment. As Joanne highlights, love comes from intimately attuning to a situation and the people within it, doing what is needed to confirm that the other person is truly seen.

Love is a living, breathing, contingent response to paying attention long enough and closely enough that what is needed begins to emerge. We offer ourselves to that need not because it is preordained, but because we are seeing clearly how to care for the other.

This is the essence of the Precepts. They are not a prescriptive list of "dos and don'ts," but a commitment to paying attention, moment after moment, and asking: What does love look like in this situation? If we allow past experiences or rigid concepts of acceptable behavior to dictate our actions, the Precepts are dead; they are useless. But if we look carefully at the nuances of the moment and do our best to let love flow through us authentically—even if we miss the mark and must follow up with an apology—the Precepts are embodied. Love is not something that can be predetermined; it is what flows between us in the moment-to-moment exchange of attempting to care for one another.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• Identifying the "Script": During your sit today, can you notice when the mind begins to follow a "script"—perhaps performing what you think a "good" meditator or a "spiritual" person should feel? What happens to your level of presence when you rely on these patterns rather than the living reality of the moment?

• The Art of Attunement: In your relationships this week, notice the impulse to respond to others based on "what worked before." Can you pause long enough to ask: "What does love look like in this specific, unique moment?" How does it feel to let the response emerge from current attention rather than memory?

• The Living Precepts: Consider a situation where you feel a "rule" is dictating your behavior. What changes if you view this moment as an opportunity to let love flow through you authentically, even if it means risking a mistake and having to offer an apology?

• Confirming Importance: Reflect on a recent interaction. Did your response convey that the other person was truly seen? How can "paying attention long enough" change how you care for those around you today?

​Dedication:

​May the merit of our practice free us from the narrowness of our own expectations. May we have the courage to set aside the "scripts" of how we think we should be, so that we may encounter the living, breathing reality of one another. Together, may we realize the peace of a heart that is wide enough to meet every moment—and every person—exactly as they are.

Dear Friends,

I have been reflecting deeply this week on a quote by Joanna Macy from her book, Coming Back to Life:

"When the outside suffers, we will suffer also... The world is not a problem to be solved; it is a living being to which we belong.... Until we go to the root of our image of separateness, there can be no healing."

In light of ongoing events here in Minnesota and across the country, these words feel particularly urgent. As we witness the friction and pain moving through our neighborhoods, I find myself continually returning to the question of how we meet such profound suffering and how our practice supports us in staying awake, responsive, and compassionate.

Often, when we encounter collective pain, our "image of separateness" kicks in as a defense mechanism. We tend to view the world’s suffering as a "problem" located outside of ourselves—something to be managed, analyzed, or even avoided to protect our own peace. But Macy’s insight mirrors the heart of our practice: this illusion of being a discrete, isolated unit is the very root of the wound.

When we sit in Zazen, we are not just calming an individual mind; we are practicing the dissolution of the rigid boundaries we draw around ourselves. If we view the world not as an external object, but as a living being to which we belong, then the suffering we feel is not an intrusion—it is the world feeling itself through us. Healing begins not when we "fix" the outside, but when we realize there is no "outside."

By working at the root of this image of separateness, we move from being isolated observers to becoming active participants in a larger, living system. Our compassion then stops being an effort of the will and starts becoming a natural expression of our interconnectedness.

Prompts for Reflection

• The Myth of the Boundary: During your practice this week, notice the physical sensation of your breath. Can you sit with the awareness that you are being breathed by the very atmosphere that connects you to every other being? Where does the "world" end and "you" begin?

• Beyond "Problem Solving": When you feel the weight of current events, notice the urge to treat the world as a problem to be solved. What happens if you shift that perspective to seeing the world as a "living being in pain"? How does your heart-space change when you move from trying to fix to simply resting as the field in which it all occurs?

• The Choice to Love: Can you identify one moment today where you feel a sense of "otherness" toward another? What is one small, intimate, and empathetic act you can take from a place of connection rather than separation?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice dissolve the borders of our own making. May we have the courage to stand in the center of the world’s suffering without turning away, recognizing that its pain and its healing are our own. May our lives be an expression of the deep belonging that sustains all beings, and may we all realize the peace of our true, undivided nature.

Hello dear friends,

Today, Emily and I attended a memorial service for Alex Pretti; a vigil for nurses and other healthcare professionals for a colleague whose life was a testament to compassionate service. Through songs, embodied resilience practices, and shared messages of solidarity, the event was deeply moving and encouraging. During the service, a speaker referenced the concept of sympathetic resonance from physics—the way the vibration of one object can cause another to begin vibrating at the same frequency. He spoke of how Alex’s life of protection and kindness is currently having a reverberatory effect on people across the country, and how our participation in that energy transfer is a way of carrying his legacy forward. In a manner reflective of this very concept, this idea has continued to resonate in me, and I felt moved to share some reflections on how this physics of the heart applies to our shared practice.

When we consider sympathetic resonance, we realize that we are never truly still or silent. Like a tuning fork, every thought of kindness or act of presence sends out a subtle pulse into the shared field of our community. In physics, when one fork is struck, it emits a frequency that seeks out others tuned to the same pitch. Even without physical contact, the second fork begins to ring. In our practice, when we witness a life of service, it strikes a chord within our own hearts. We find ourselves vibrating in sympathy with that same goodness, carrying the sound forward long after the initial strike.

This resonance is not just a poetic metaphor; it is a biological and spiritual reality. Our nervous systems are open loops, and our shared wakefulness is marked by the ways we affect one another. This week, I encourage you to pay close attention to these subtle energetic transfers. When you sit in the Zendo, or even when you walk through a crowded market, notice the pulses of energy you encounter. Can you feel the resonance of someone’s quiet patience? Can you allow the vibration of a stranger's smile or a friend’s steady breath to reverberate within your own body, letting it steady your own rhythm?

Simultaneously, we must recognize our own role as the source of the sound. Each of us is a tuning fork for the world. Through our Zazen, we tune our instruments to the frequencies of equanimity and metta. The more settled our own nervous system is, the more stable of a frequency we provide, allowing the anxious or weary hearts around us to find their own resonance and begin to ring with a bit more clarity and peace. This is how we carry the legacy of the wise ones—not as a memory stored in the past, but as a living vibration.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• Identifying the Resonance: As you move through your day, can you pause to notice when you catch a vibration of kindness or calm from another person? How does it feel in your body to allow that energy to reverberate within you?

• Tuning the Instrument: When you find yourself in a space of emotional hijack or reactivity, can you use the phrase "Right now, it’s like this" to help settle your internal frequency? What happens to the vibration you send out when you offer yourself this moment of spaciousness?

• The Shared Field: In moments of unrest, we may feel our forks beginning to ring with fear. Can you intentionally seek out a tuning fork of peace—a friend, a passage of Dharma, or the steady earth—to help re-align your own heart's frequency?

Dedication of Merit

May the merit of our practice act as a clear and steady ring in a noisy world. May we have the sensitivity to hear the subtle vibrations of love already moving around us, and the courage to let our own lives become a resonance of compassion for all beings. Together, may we realize that we are both the instrument and the song, sounding the way toward collective peace and freedom.

Dear Community,

This past Wednesday, a small group of us gathered for our Sangha meeting and I offered a Dharma Talk—reflecting on some of the ways in which I have been striving to respond skillfully and appropriately to the ongoing circumstances in MN. This was before the murder of Alex Pretti over the weekend, which has only intensified the challenge of maintaining a stance of love in the midst of violence and hate. And I find myself returning to the thoughts that I shared last Wednesday as an exploration of what it means to live by vow in such troubling times.

You can listen to the recording of that talk here: Zen as Radical Hospitality

In recent weeks, the Twin Cities and surrounding areas have been marked by a climate of exclusion and the "othering" of our neighbors. When we see others being treated as less worthy or less than human, it is natural to feel our own hearts begin to constrict in fear or anger. I can feel the pull to dehumanize the dehumanizers, as well as the internal misalignment caused by following that lead.

However, our Zen practice offers a different way forward—a path of Radical Hospitality. By transforming the walls within ourselves, we can become a sanctuary for the world around us.

The Invitation: Welcome Everything The first step in our practice is to simply open the front door of our awareness. As Frank Ostaseski invites us, we "welcome everything, push away nothing." This is an invitation to shift from judgment to openness and acceptance—seeing life clearly. It is meeting reality as it is, rather than exhausting ourselves by insisting life be otherwise.

Welcoming everything does not mean condoning or approving of all that is happening, especially when we witness harm being inflicted on others; nor is it a call to bypass our own righteous anger or grief. Rather, we accept that this is the current reality within which we are living. Our vow then helps us determine what an appropriate, compassionate response looks like in the reality of our situation. When we stop resisting life's unwelcome events, that energy becomes available for healing and acting with love.

The Foundation of Practice: The Large Meadow How do we find the room to welcome so much? Norman Fischer speaks of Genjo, the "total manifestation of things in every moment as they truly are—beyond our human narrowness." Humans often live like fish unaware of the water, trapped in narrow categories of "good" vs. "bad" or "us" vs. "them." We are currently seeing the harm that results when people trade dehumanizing labels like "legal" or "illegal" for the actual, living reality of our neighbors. Genjo invites us to a practice of all-inclusivity of what is arising.

Suzuki Roshi suggests that the way to work with restless parts of ourselves and challenging people in the world is to provide a "large, spacious meadow." Rather than trying to cage or control what is difficult, we give it space. We do not provide this space because the "sheep" is well-behaved, but because caging the chaos only creates more violence. In this widening spaciousness, we discover that "love is not a gated community"—there is no part of ourselves or our state that is left out.

The Practice: Radical Kinship This internal spaciousness is exactly what kinship looks like on the inside. As Fr. Gregory Boyle teaches, the primary job of loving is to dismantle the barriers that exclude. The principles of Homeboy Industries state that everyone is inherently good and everyone belongs to each other—with no exceptions. These are truths that are hard to see when people are behaving in ways that are so harmful to the well-being of others (and ultimately themselves).

Our recognition of a person’s inherent goodness is not a dismissal of their harmful actions, but an acknowledgment of the tragic ignorance that fuels them. Our practice is in service of expanding the field of love so that no one is left out—even if the closest that we can safely get to some people is the extending of Metta from afar. Boundaries are a necessary expression of wisdom; we can refuse to hate a person while simultaneously refusing to allow them to cause further harm. By intimately exploring our inner landscape and finding beauty even in our own shadows, we develop the steady patience to meet what appears contemptible with a presence deep enough to discover the tender core hidden inside.

A Daily Encouragement As you move through your daily activities this week, I invite you to practice living with a Doorless Heart. Instead of following the instinct to close the door of your heart and lock people out, see it as the threshold where you meet the other exactly as they are—lowering the threshold to belonging and expanding the field of love.

The Bodhisattva doesn't just open the door; the Bodhisattva becomes the door.

I am including the poem Beauty in the Shadows below as a companion for your reflections. May it encourage you to meet the darkness within and without with open-hearted curiosity.

Practice Notes for the Week:

• The Boundless Meadow: When you find yourself declaring someone to be "other"—whether a person acting harmfully on the streets, a figure in the news, or even a difficult part of yourself—take a breath and ask: "Is my meadow large enough for this, too?" Simply noticing the fence is the first step in dismantling it.

• Beholding the Narrowness: When the pull to "dehumanize the dehumanizers" arises, can you touch into the tragedy of their narrowness? Can you offer Metta from afar, not to condone the harm, but to keep your own heart from becoming a small, locked room?

• Threshold Awareness: As you move through your home or the city, notice physical doors. Let them remind you: Am I a wall right now, or am I a threshold? What would it take to "lower the threshold" of my heart by just an inch today?

Dedication of Merit: May the merit of our practice create a sanctuary that knows no borders. May the spaciousness we cultivate here provide refuge for the fearful, rest for the grieving, and a mirror for those lost in the darkness of hate. May we all realize that we are the door, the threshold, and the home—belonging to one another, without exception.

It was a profound gift to find refuge in our Sangha during this past weekend’s Winter Intensive. I thought I would share some core reflections from Saturday’s Dharma talk. Drawing inspiration from the 12th-century poet-monk Saigyō, who lived through a time of immense social upheaval and violence, we explored how a life of spiritual practice is not an escape from the world, but a deeper, more courageous entry into it. Saigyō’s journey from elite palace guard to wandering monk was fueled by a desire for freedom from possessiveness and violence.

His poetry serves as a love letter to life exactly as it is, teaching us that attention is the most basic form of love. By paying clear-eyed attention to the world—including its suddenness, its barrenness, and its splendor—we begin to break free from the self-centered dream that leads only to suffering. This practice invites us to find pockets of peace not in the absence of the tumult around us, but by discovering that we are never truly separate from peace in the first place.

The path we discussed follows a vital arc: The unrest is our teacher, the heartbreak is our path, and the attention we offer is our love. When we open our eyes to see the world as it is, we cannot help but have our hearts broken by its transience and pain. Yet, this broken-heartedness is the very ground of awakening. Like the Japanese art of Kintsugi, where broken pottery is mended with gold, the cracks in our hearts are where luminous grace enters. Our practice is to stay awake and keep our hearts open, trusting that we are being made whole through the very act of loving what is passing.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection:

• Pockets of Peace: In the midst of the noise and unrest of this week, can you find a pocket of quiet that exists even amidst the commotion? What happens when you realize you are not separate from that stillness?

• Calling Things What They Are:  Perhaps practice the simple act of naming the specific things in your environment today—a particular bird, a type of tree, or the specific quality of the light? How does focusing on these distinct, vivid details help you move out of the self-centered dream of your own internal narrative?

• Kintsugi of the Heart: As you encounter the "cracks" of loss or change this week, can you meet them with the "gold" of steady attention? What shifts when you view your heartbreak as an opening for compassion’s way?

Dedication of Merit:

May the merit of our shared wakefulness flow out to the city of Minneapolis and beyond. May those in the grip of rage find their own pockets of peace, and may we all find the courage to keep our eyes and hearts open to the truth of our interconnectedness. May we realize that our freedom is inextricably bound to one another.

Hello friends,

These are challenging days for us in Minneapolis. As we witness the campaigns of hate and oppression taking place in our own neighborhoods, we see the ripple effects of amplified suffering.

I was struck this week by a realization: those engaged in these acts of terror are caught in a profound delusion. They often believe their behavior is justified, perhaps driven by leaders or by the mistaken belief that rageful destruction can resolve the pain pulsing within them.

As we read these stories of humans acting in all too inhumane ways, it is easy to fall into a deep pit of despair for our nation and our species. And while our practice acts as a steadying force—helping us witness the reactions stirred up within us—I still find myself struggling with the question: What can I do?

This quote from bell hooks has offered me encouragement in these moments:

“The moment we choose to love we begin to move against domination, against oppression. The moment we choose to love we begin to move towards freedom, to act in ways that liberate ourselves and others.” — bell hooks

This "choice to love" is not a soft sentiment; it is a fierce, radical act of zazen in motion. When we choose love, we refuse to let external destruction dictate the landscape of our hearts. We choose to stay awake when it would be easier to go numb.

We cannot always control the storms in our streets, but we can refuse to add to the wind. By meeting our despair with compassion rather than bitterness, we begin to dismantle the roots of oppression from the inside out. Every breath taken in awareness is a quiet rebellion against delusion and a step toward our collective liberation.

Prompts for Reflection

• Locating the Sensation: When you witness inhumane behavior in the news, where do you feel that impact in your body? Can you breathe into that space without trying to "fix" it immediately?

• The Seeds of Delusion: Can you look at the "mistaken beliefs" of others and find the trace of human confusion within yourself? How does acknowledging our shared fallibility change your impulse to react?

• The Choice to Love: What is one small, concrete action you can take today to move "against domination"—a gesture of kindness, a moment of deep listening, or simply returning to your seat when the mind wants to flee?

Dedication of Merit

May our intention equally permeate every being and place with the true merit of Buddha’s Way.

Specifically, we dedicate our presence today to the city of Minneapolis. May those consumed by rage find a drop of clarity; may those in despair find a sturdy hand to hold; and may we all realize that our freedom is inextricably bound to one another. May peace prevail in our hearts and in our streets.

This past summer, I attended a book launch that included a reading by the author followed by a discussion. I recently purchased and started reading the book, which is entitled Kinship Medicine: Cultivating Interdependence to Heal the Earth and Ourselves by Wendy Johnson, MD, MPH, and it brought me back to a couple of notes I made while attending the reading.

One thing she said has continued to float back to mind in the months since:

"Perhaps a different take on the adage: Think globally, but act locally—

Think systemically, but act intimately and empathetically."

She was speaking about the risk of getting overwhelmed in this current age of global unrest and so many troubling happenings ​a​round the country. How do we maintain our hopefulness in this time and not surrender to despair? ​Her encouragement - We​ work to see the causes and conditions of the entire interdependent system ​a​s clearly​ as we can; then we turn to meet what is right in front of us with intimacy, understanding, and care. This simple encouragement resonates deeply for me and connects me back to our practice.

In particular, her encouragement makes me think of the Four Practice Principles:

Caught in the self-centered dream, only suffering;

holding to self-centered thoughts, exactly the dream.

Each moment, life as it is, the only teacher;

being just this moment, compassion’s way.

The Four Practice Principles encourage us to see the ​self-centered dream clearly—to not get caught up in delusions of separateness. And then the turn is to turn towards this moment, life exactly as it is presenting in this moment—this emotion, this thought, this need, this person, this circumstance—and respond intimately and compassionately. When we realize that we are not separate from any aspect of this moment, we ​s​often our barriers to the flow of love​ moving through us.  

And ultimately, this is how change happens—through the dissolving of separateness through intimate and empathic meeting. Systems change because the hearts of the people within those systems change, and hearts are changed only through the experience of heartfelt connection and care (through the discovery that the flow of love in the world includes them).

Our practice is the clearest way that I have experienced to increase my ability to be with the moment and see it with something resembling clarity, and then connect with my vow or commitment to respond with love. This is what we point toward when we say that the practice of Zazen allows us to realize our true nature—which is love. When we can see that the posture of Zazen can be embodied whether we are on the cushion or moving through the world, we realize that love flowing through us is a possibility in any moment.

Prompts for Reflection

• Identifying the "Intimate": When you feel overwhelmed by global or national news, what is the "moment right in front of you" that is asking for your attention? How does turning toward it change your energy?

• The Self-Centered Dream: Can you notice a specific thought or "dream" of separateness that has been arising lately? What happens to that thought when you meet it with "life as it is, the only teacher"?

• The Flow of Love: Where in your daily life—outside of formal Zazen—do you find it easiest to embody the "posture" of love and connection? Where is it most difficult?

• Systemic Tenderness: If you view a "troubling system" as a collection of hearts, how does that shift your vow to respond with compassion?

Dedication

May the merit of this practice reach throughout every time and place, nourishing all beings in the flow of love. May we, together with all beings, realize the way of intimacy and peace.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about a phrase I first heard from Vinny Ferraro, who attributed it to the teacher Ajahn Sumedho: "Right now, it’s like this."

Simple as it is, this phrase carries several layers of meaning for me, each representing an important dimension of our practice.

To begin, there is an intimate turning towards what is. It is an acknowledgment that, in this moment, this is simply the state of things. This isn't resignation; it is an accurate, clear-eyed recognition of reality, even when the moment is painful or challenging. I appreciate how this phrase reminds me that our preferences don’t shape the world; they only shape our reaction to it. "Right now, it’s like this" helps soften the impulse to argue with reality or to demand that the moment be different from what it is.

The second layer reflects a deep trust in impermanence. There is a built-in temporality to the phrase. It acknowledges that things may have been different a moment ago and will likely be different a moment from now. When I remember that this moment is already changing, I can be more fully present with my current circumstances—knowing that I don’t have to cling to them if they are pleasant, or push them away if they are difficult.

The third aspect offers a vital shift in perspective. Vinny Ferraro notes a specific distinction: the phrase is "Right now, it’s like this," not "I am like this." This shifts the focus from "me" being a certain way to simply being with an experience in its particular form—even if that experience is occurring within my thoughts, emotions, or bodily sensations. It allows me to hold my experience with curiosity rather than as a definition of who I am. As Vinny encourages: “To know how something is is to become intimate with it.”

This phrase has been returning to me again and again lately. It is so common for my "thinking brain" to become forward-focused—planning future days or fixating on things I want to change. Similarly, I can get caught up ruminating on the past—missteps I’ve made, words I wish I could take back, or past grievances.

When this happens, “Right now, it’s like this” becomes a gentle call back to the immediacy of the moment.  It allows me to say: Yes, it was like that then. It may be like that later. But right now, it’s like this. And this is what I need to be present to.

Prompts for Reflection:

• Softening the Argument with Reality: Bring to mind a situation that feels difficult or “not how it should be.” Notice any part of you trying to control the moment or insist things be different. Then quietly offer the phrase: “Right now, it’s like this.” What shifts in your body or heart?

• From "Me" to "Experience": Think of a strong emotion or physical sensation you’ve had recently. Practice shifting your language from "I am [anxious/sore/bored]" to "Right now, it is like this."  How does the experience change when it becomes something arising within awareness rather than a statement about who you are?

• The Gateway of Impermanence: Reflect on a fleeting moment from today—a pleasant breeze, a brief flash of irritation, or a sip of tea. How does “Right now, it’s like this” help you meet the moment fully without trying to hold onto it or push it away?

Dedication:

As we move back into the flow of our daily lives, may we remember the doorway of "Right now, it’s like this." May this phrase be a refuge when we are lost in the past or future, and a bridge that brings us home to the only moment we truly have. May we and all beings be free.

In early November, Emily and I attended a wedding in the Bahamas. During the trip, we went snorkeling, and I encountered a teaching beneath the waves that has stayed with me ever since.

On several occasions, as I swam toward a destination on the surface, I would look down and see nothing. The watery landscape seemed empty, a stark contrast to the vibrant schools of fish I had seen just moments before. I felt a little baffled by the apparent absence of life.

However, when I paused—allowing my own movement to come to rest and simply floating on the surface—everything changed. I wasn't perfectly still, as the currents continued to rock me gently, but I was no longer trying to get anywhere. As I lingered, the space below me, which had seemed vacant only a moment ago, suddenly revealed itself to be teeming with life.

I began to wonder: how often do I move through the world this way, missing what is alive and flowing because I am not slowing down to truly see it?

In our practice, when we move with even subtle striving—toward calm, clarity, or some imagined endpoint—we often miss what is already here. How much more true is this in our life off the cushion, where our striving and "getting somewhere" energy can leave us unaware not only of the life around us, but also the vitality within us. This experience brought forward an acronym:

Pay Attention Until Something Emerges

Zazen is exactly this PAUSE. It is an invitation to let the goal-driven mind find some ease so we can become intimate with what is already here. As W.B. Yeats wrote:

"The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper."

Perhaps the "sharpening" Yeats speaks of isn't about working harder, but about pausing long enough for the "magic" to reveal itself.

Prompts for Reflection

• Identifying the "Destination" Mind: During your sit today, can you notice the moment your mind begins "propelling" itself toward a goal—whether it’s a desire for calm, a solution to a problem, or simply the end of the timer? What happens to your awareness of the present moment when that "getting somewhere" energy takes over?

• The Emergence of the Subtle: Outside of formal practice, find a mundane moment today (washing dishes, walking to the car, or sitting in traffic) to simply PAUSE. What quiet magic is present in that ordinary moment that you usually glide right over?

Dedication: May the merit of our practice flow out to all beings, and may we all find the stillness necessary to see the life that connects us. Together, may we wake up to the magic that is already here.

One of the readings during Morning Zazen caught my attention - Suzuki Roshi wrote in Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind - 

“Pleasure is not different from difficulty. They are two sides of one coin. So to find some pleasure in suffering is the only way to accept the truth of transiency.”

Several of us identified the koan quality of this observation.  What came to mind for me as I continued to reflect on it was the opening lines of Sengcan’s Hsin Hsin Ming, which read:

The Great Way isn’t difficult for those

who are unattached to their preferences.

Let go of longing and aversion

and everything will be perfectly clear;

when you cling to a hairsbreadth of distinction,

heaven and earth are set apart.

As I considered these words, the phrase that came to mind was:  Zazen is the enactment of non-preference.  One of the things that Flint has often emphasized is that we don’t sit Zazen in order to achieve anything; Zazen is a ceremony of the realization of our true nature.  Zazen is not goal directed activity, despite all of the ways in which we might hope that meditation may bring about some sort of change.  

Zazen is an embodied expression of acceptance of all that is - the entire field of moment-to-moment experience - allowing it to arise, abide, and pass away.  In our best moments of practice, we do this without intervention, judgment, or attachment.  These moment-to-moment experiences include external sensations, internal sensations, and mental activity. In sitting Zazen, we practice not prizing one type of experience over another, not falling into patterns of categorization - this is good, this is bad.  Over time, practice allows us to see all experience as transient phenomena - whether it is an itch, a startling spiritual insight, a flash of emotion, or a mental fixation.  

One of the ways that we do this is through our practice of noticing/observing and returning our attention to our breath or to our sitting.  This act of returning, of not clinging and not avoiding, is the enactment of non-preference.  It is the exact same gentle return whether we were caught in a pleasurable thought or a difficult emotion; in each case, we notice and bring our attention back.  

The most subtle form of preference is prizing the current moment over the next one, or even prizing the quality of the current moment.

"I want this feeling to last": This is the desire for continuity—a preference for the present state of ease or stillness. This is clinging.

"I want this feeling to end": This is aversion—a preference for a future state of relief. This is rejecting.

Enactment of Non-Preference: Zazen is training to be fully present with the current moment, but without attaching a value judgment or a wish for its duration or change. The moment is simply acknowledged as it is, already flowing into the next one. This freedom from the desire for the moment to be other than it is, is the practical demonstration of non-preference.

Practicing in this way, zazen is not a state of mind; it is an action. It is the continuous, moment-to-moment action of letting things be as they are, thereby enacting the non-dual truth that all experience—pleasant or unpleasant, internal or external—is equally empty of inherent, permanent substance.

Invitation to Reflection:

• What shifts in your Zazen experience when you consider it as an enactment of non-preference?  

• Knowing that the human mind is prone to both clinging and aversion, can you be gentle with yourself in bringing your attention back to just sitting?

• What happens when you focus on the act of returning (the non-preferential action) rather than the quality of the state you are returning to?

May your practice of Zazen this week offer a glimpse of the possibility of non-preferential activity and the moments of freedom made possible by this practice.  

With gratitude for this community and our shared practice, 

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

​Tomorrow, December 8, is Rohatsu (Bodhi Day), the day Buddhists worldwide commemorate Siddhartha Gautama’s final moments of awakening. On this day, often following an intensive practice period, Buddhists acknowledge his ultimate realization.

Siddhartha Gautama, who upon his realization, was known as the Buddha—the "Awakened One," did not come by awakening easily. His life began in the sheltered comforts of the palace, separated from the suffering occurring everyday outside the palace walls (and likely within the walls as well, just perhaps outside of his royal view).

When he ventured out from the palace, he was confronted by the Four Sights (the realities of suffering): aging, illness, and death, and the path of freedom shown by an ascetic monk. Inspired, he renounced his palace life and set out to find an end to suffering.

Over the coming years, he explored wisdom teachings, meditation, and extreme asceticism, not finding freedom in any of them, before a simple act of receiving the kindness of another (in the form of a bowl of rice milk from a young village girl named Sujata) led him to adopt the Middle Way and take his seat beneath the Bodhi tree, where he vowed to stay until he achieved enlightenment.

In taking that seat, he was confronted with a series of distractions (often personified as the figure Mara, representing attachment and fear, just as any of us experience in meditative practice) and discovered the deep grounding support of the earth as witness to his existence. As he meditated through the night, he encountered key insights that culminated in the completion of his enlightenment at dawn.

As I reviewed the history of Siddhartha’s spiritual journey, I was struck by the earnestness with which he set out on his journey of renunciation and practice engagement. He sought out the wisdom of the day, engaged in a variety of practices, deprived himself of sensory pleasures, and grappled with all varieties of distraction and temptation. And yet, his enlightenment occurred when he sat down right where he was, restored to health by an act of kindness from another, and opened his awareness to right here and right now.

This got me thinking about the lesson in this spiritual journey for all of us—I can get caught up in thinking that I need to have some specific set of conditions (either internal or external) for wakefulness to be available to me. Like Siddhartha, I think if I just do less of this or more of that, I can be more awake; I can experience greater freedom.

But I think the Buddha’s final act of sitting under the Bodhi tree conveys that it is exactly the conditions of our lives that are the ideal ground for awakening. Indeed, the conditions of our lives are the only ground for our awakening.

We have to begin where we are, as we are, with what we have, within the relationships that populate our network of connectivity. We cannot wait for the conditions of our life to become perfect or somehow other than they are—we have everything that we need to wake up and become ourselves, right here, right now. This is the invitation that I am encountering as I reflect on Siddhartha’s journey to Buddhahood—he did not realize that he was something other, he woke up to seeing life, the world, and himself clearly—in that exact moment.

Invitation to Reflection:

• Have you put your hope into specific changes tipping the scales towards wakefulness?

• What if you turn your full attention to this self, in this moment, in this place?

On this Rohatsu, may you see the circumstances of your life clearly, may the patterns and habits of your life loosen, and may you find freedom exactly where you are.

With gratitude for this community and our shared practice, 

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

I had hoped to keep up with the Sunday afternoon mailing, but didn't get to write with family in town. I hope you all had a wonderful weekend.

In a recent podcast interview, I heard developmental psychologist Dr. Aliza Pressman say something that really stuck with me—an idea that guides her approach to parenting:

All Feelings Are Welcome, All Behaviors Are Not

I was struck by the wisdom contained in this simple parenting advice, and it stood out how much it also resonated with our practice. She emphasizes the dual importance of emotional responsiveness (paying attention to the emotions that arise, acknowledging their presence without trying to question or dismiss their validity) and maintaining clear and appropriate boundaries.

And isn't this what a practice rooted in vow invites from us in our everyday life? To be present to our emotions, acknowledging their presence, while hopefully orienting towards the healthy expression of those emotions through values-consistent behavior.

In my life, there have been and are emotions that are challenging for me to welcome or make space for, and there are also emotions that historically leave me stuck in a state of reactivity or shutdown. Over the years, practice has helped reduce the frequency from which I act from a place of emotional hijack and to pause long enough to let the emotions settle so that I can actually choose what actions should follow.

One of the phrases that has been helpful in this process has been—Oh, this is here. This simple phrase functions for me as a way of noticing, acknowledging, and welcoming, while also creating a little space from the experience itself. This space then allows me to consider what actions I want to take that are consistent with my values (vow) and ultimately non-harmful to myself, others, and the world. I have attached a brief writing that flowed out of this form of meeting my own internal world.

Dr. Pressman distills her guidance for Raising Good Humans to 5 Rs, which I modified to reflect our own relationship with emotions and behavior:

Relationship: We engage intimately with our internal world, attune to our feelings, and hold space for what is moving within us.

Reflection: Practice enhances our capacity to pause and consider what we are feeling, what causes and conditions may have contributed to the emergence of that feeling, and what to do next.

Regulation: Developing strategies to regulate our survival system reactions enhances our ability to stay grounded and not get swept away into reactivity, increasing our access to our reflective capacities.

Rules: This is the Precepts—not a list of don’ts, but instead considering in each situation the unique shape of love that we want to embody in the world and then choosing the actions that reflect and express love.

Repair: The hallmark behavior that creates security in the attachment relationship—when we misstep or act in ways that are driven by our emotions or survival system reactions, we come back to the person to whom we caused harm, acknowledge our misstep, and take action to repair and reconnect.

Invitation for Reflection

What are the emotions in your life that you struggle to welcome? Conversely, what are the emotions that have a tendency to sweep into your world and hijack your sense of agency?

How might you open your relationship to these difficult feelings by incorporating the simple phrase, "Oh, this is here," and in doing so, create the space necessary to align your next action with your vow?

With gratitude for this community and our shared practice, 

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

As we approach the American holiday of Thanksgiving, I find myself reflecting on the session that focused on Generosity in the Maha Sangha Paramitas Study and the relationship between Generosity and Gratitude. At times I can get so caught up in the struggle of the moment, I have a difficult time seeing all the ways that generosity continues to flow all around me (and even within the life-sustaining activity that maintains my existence). What if a practice of gratitude is really about opening the lens of our attention to the world around us to take in the loving, the kind, and the generous that already and always exists? Maybe gratitude is not about finding something new to be grateful for, but about increasing our likelihood of noticing what is already there.

David Whyte writes in his essay on Gratitude from his collection, Consolations (I have attached an expanded excerpt to this email):

“Gratitude is not a passive response to something we have been given, gratitude arises from paying attention, from being awake in the presence of everything that lives within and without us. Gratitude is not necessarily something that is shown after the event, it is the deep, a priori state of attention that shows we understand and are equal to the gifted nature of life.

Gratitude is the understanding that many millions of things come together and live together and mesh together and breathe together in order for us to take even one more breath of air, that the underlying gift of life and incarnation as a living, participating human being is a privilege; that we are miraculously part of something, rather than nothing. Even if that something is temporarily pain or despair, we inhabit a living world, with real faces, real voices, laughter, the color blue, the green of the fields, the freshness of a cold wind, or the tawny hue of a winter landscape.”

In this way, gratitude practice is an act of faith—a belief that the steady flow of generosity and kindness continues to move within us and throughout the world, whether we are feeling like a recipient of it or not. The challenge, especially with mental health struggles like depression and anxiety, is that our attention often becomes attuned to a negativity bias. We become experts at spotting the details that confirm our depressive outlook or our anxious thought cycles, creating a feedback loop that reinforces our negative perspective. It is an act of courage to push against the powerful hold of confirmation bias, to look for and acknowledge the myriad things that support our existence and to appreciate them.

One practice that might increase the arising of gratitude within us comes from Plum Village, recounted by psychologist Diana Hill: a walking mantra meditation practice called "Yes, Yes, Thank You, Thank You."  She writes:

“These days, I am using the simple mantra as I walk: Yes, Yes, Thank you, Thank you. As I plant each foot, I use one word. Stepping I say yes to this moment, stepping again I say yes to the earth, stepping again I say thank you to this moment, and again, thank you to this earth.”

Perhaps we might adapt this practice to support our grateful noticing:

Taking one step, I say yes to this present moment 

Stepping again, I say yes to the conditions within me and around me 

Stepping again, I say thank you to exist in this moment

Stepping again, I say thank you to the generosity that supports my existence

Or if walking feels challenging this week, perhaps using this simple mantra in breathing…

Inhaling, I say yes to this present moment 

Exhaling, I say yes to the conditions within me and around me

Inhaling again, I say thank you to exist in this moment 

Exhaling again, I say thank you to the generosity that supports my existence

May the lens of our attention widen this week to take in some of the million things that come together to support each breath, enable each step, and sustain our existence.  May our seeing open the flow of gratitude in our lives.

Practice Encouragement Archives:

I have created a new page on our website to archive the Practice Encouragement Emails, you can find that here:  https://www.awakeningtogetherzen.org/resources/practice-encouragement-archives

With gratitude for this community and our shared practice, 

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

This past week, in a 10% Happier podcast interview with Dan Harris, I heard a lovely encouragement from the meditation teacher Dawn Mauricio, who reflected on the tendency within meditation for us to criticize or berate ourselves when we catch our mind wandering or our attention getting caught in some sensory experience or mental activity. Her encouragement was to use those moments as a prompt for celebration rather than criticism.

I loved this gentle reframe, and it has prompted me to reflect on the way that each moment holds the seed of wakefulness. Some moments pass by with the seed remaining in a state of suspended animation, caught in the self-centered dream of that moment's activity. In other moments, wakefulness bursts forth, flowering into a state of awareness of life as it is exactly now.

These moments - when we suddenly inhabit our experience more fully, realize just where our attention has been, and gently bring it back - are cause for celebration. Waking up in any moment is an uncommon activity - worth pausing and noting what is happening and - perhaps - greeting with wonder the discovery of where our attention has been caught.

Ah, thinking was happening... 

Ah, ruminating was happening... 

Ah, planning was happening... 

Ah, regret was happening... 

Ah, busy mind was happening... 

Ah, itchy sensations were happening... 

Ah, tiredness was happening... 

Ah, irritation was happening...

How wonderful to be awake to what is happening and no longer caught up in it!

In my practice, I notice a harshness at times when I suddenly discover that my attention has wandered and perhaps even been caught for several moments.  I can become judgmental about the quality of my practice.  And yet, this is the natural state of Small Mind; the human brain is apt to wander and consider and plan and prepare and review. Big Mind is seeing clearly the activity of Small Mind, observing it, and realizing that we have a choice to bring our attention back to just this breath, just this moment, just as it is.

May this be an encouragement the next time you engage in meditative practice:

• May you be gentle with yourself when you realize that your attention has drifted to some activity of your mind or sensory experience.

• May you release any judgment about yourself that you are doing something wrong or meditating incorrectly.

• May you find delight in these small moments of wakefulness, as you are present to what is/was happening.

With love, 

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

I have recently been reflecting on the nature of discipline and the energy that sustains our practice. Often, we think of discipline as merely adhering to a strict pattern of behavior or performing arduous tasks. Yet, the wisdom of our teachers invites us to see it differently—as something much more intimate and resonant.

The Invitation of Deep Desire

Two distinct yet harmonious voices offer a beautiful re-framing:

• Flint Sparks suggests that "discipline is keeping in mind the thing that you want."

• David Whyte adds that to have a deep desire is to "keep your star in sight."

Perhaps, then, hidden within the idea of discipline is an invitation to keep our deepest desires close at hand, to know the thing we truly want and to not lose sight of it, despite any forces that might push us off course. When we are clear about this desire—our why—it naturally guides our orientation and our external activity.

Attending to Our Inmost Request

This clarity leads us to the profound question posed by Suzuki Roshi: "What is your inmost request?"

This question is a powerful invitation to turn inwards, to attend to and acknowledge the deepest, truest yearning of our hearts. When we explore and articulate this inmost request, it creates a heading—a guiding star—to orient our lives in pursuit of something meaningful.

Imagine: If our practice flows from this place of clarity about what is most important, it is no longer about forcing ourselves into a pattern. Instead, discipline becomes a natural expression of our commitment to our own well-being and the well-being of all.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

Perhaps this week, you might explore this question in your meditation and daily life:

• What is your inmost request?

• What is the 'star' you are keeping in sight that informs your practice and your care for the world?

May this exploration bring a renewed sense of ease, clarity, and deep encouragement to your practice. Thank you for being the heart of this community.

With deep gratitude and encouragement,

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

One of the things that I shared in the Dharma offering during the ODZC Fall retreat was a reflection on something that Flint has often observed during previous retreats. I thought I would share my expanded reflection on Zazen here as an encouragement to you this coming week:

Our teacher, Flint Sparks, has often said during retreats that we gather and practice in this way to remember that it can be like this—that shared wakefulness is marked by kindness and care, where love flows easily.

Perhaps we might think of Zazen in the same way: we return to this practice so we can remember that we can be like this. Life expressing itself through us can be like this: contingently responsive, released from habits and conditioning. When we look at beings all around us and often even at the patterns within our own lives, we often see lives caught up in the repetition of old ways of being and doing, with selves bound to particular ways of "self-ing."

In Zazen, we sit, without moving, without speaking, and let go of our agendas, loosening the grip of conditioning & habit patterns, including habitual discomfort management. We open the field of our awareness to everything moving within and around us, yet we are not moved off our chair or cushion. By sitting in this way, we become more spacious. The causes and conditions don't stop; our thoughts don't stop arising; our emotions don't stop emerging; our bodies continue to sustain us with blood flow, breath, and myriad other processes, but we can remain upright.

Perhaps Zazen is a practice that allows us to remember that it could be this way as well. In the experience of slowing down, tuning in, and paying attention, we realize that all of the causes and conditions do not determine what we do. Who we are, as expressed through every moment's activity, is not simply at the mercy of what is arising within and around us. Rather, we are able to meet all of that and be intentional about how we respond—perhaps becoming more present to what is true and essential within us, and then allowing that to move us forward in action when we rise from the cushion/chair.  Perhaps Zazen is tuning into the ways that the flow of love moves through us and out into the world.  

Prompts for Your Practice This Week

Perhaps these reflection prompts might be useful in your practice this week:

• As you sit, notice where you experience a gap—even a momentary one—between the arising of a condition (a thought, a sound, a feeling) and your response to it? How did that moment of spaciousness change what was possible?

• As you sit, notice the impulse to manage, fix, or push away a feeling or sensation (i.e., 'habitual discomfort management'). Instead of following that impulse, can you simply let the feeling be without acting on it?

• Take a moment to recall the shared field of 'kindness and care' we may experience while in retreat. How might you intentionally carry that feeling of 'shared wakefulness' with you into the next action, conversation, or decision you make today?

May your practice this week be one of spaciousness and deep remembering.  Thank you for being part of this community.

With love, 

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

Emily and I wrapped up our time with the Open Door Zen Community for their Fall retreat today, which has been a rich opportunity for practice, Dharma, and connection with our lovely sister Sangha.  I had the opportunity to offer a Dharma talk as part of the retreat yesterday and offered a reflection on Zazen as the practice of remembering that love is our nature (the direct experience of Buddha nature).  If/when the recording is posted, I will pass it along to the community.  

During an afternoon Dharma activity, something crystallized for me, tying together some threads from my talk, Kim Neuschel's talk, and the source text for these two retreats, Becoming Yourself by Suzuki Roshi.  Perhaps one way in which love is expressed is through letting things be as they are.  Kim reflected in her Dharma talk on getting cut off on the freeway and how after the initial surge of reactive anger, she touched into the awareness of feeling disregarded and then spontaneously had the thought emerge, directed to the two drivers that cut her off - "oh, you get to be you."  

Suzuki Roshi's chapter entitled Buddha Nature begins with:

"The purpose of practice is to directly experience Buddha nature. Whatever you do, it should be the direct experience of Buddha nature.

When you sit, something may occur in your mind that you think is not so good. Some image may come, and you may think that it is covering your wisdom or Buddha nature. You think that you need to keep your mind clear from these images, and you wish that they were already cleared up.

But Dogen Zenji said that whether or not there are images in our mind, we should not even try to clear them up. We should not want our mind to be pure. When we want to be pure, we are attached to purity, which is not so good. Purity is good, but our practice is to be aware of our true nature, which is beyond pure or impure, so we should not be attached to purity or impurity.

If you understand this point, you will just sit without thinking and without being bothered by anything that comes. When an image comes into your mind, you won't try to escape from it. You will just sit. It will go, and you are beyond it."

Perhaps one way in which we express love within and between is by letting things be as they are, whether it is the aggressive driver on the freeway (or other beings in our life) or an unwanted thought, emotion, image, impulse, or sensation within.  Rather than trying to change it, clear it, or exile it away from our experience, we can acknowledge it and extend care in the form of letting it be what it is.  Zazen is a practice of learning to meet the world in such a way, extending love to what we meet.  

I hope that your Zazen practice is enlivening this week.  May you experience directly the love that is who you are and bring that love out into the world.  

With a warm bow, 

Ryan - Kakuo Kishin