Practice Encouragement Archives

Dear Friends,

This past week, I attended an international trauma conference. Not surprisingly, being in a room full of colleagues activated a very familiar part of my brain, and I found myself regularly pulled into "comparing mind."

Witnessing a friend facilitate multiple sessions across the conference activated feelings of inadequacy. I caught myself questioning whether I should be striving toward such opportunities, doubting whether I could, and wondering if the impact I am making in my own life is sufficient.

In other moments, my mind shifted. I found myself watching the actions of others, asking questions in somewhat unskillful ways, or judging the conversations around me. Then, the comparing mind swung to the opposite pole: superiority. I felt a flash of self-righteousness that I wasn't taking the microphone to ask questions that pertained only to my own situation.

In another moment, listening to someone else's writing, I thought, Oh, I could write at that level. The mind swinging to comparison of being equal to.

How fascinating to watch the mind shift so rapidly into places of self-disparagement, then pride, and then a sense of equivalence.

Needless to say, my mind was busy! I felt deeply grateful for our practice, which allowed me to witness these tendencies to measure and compare without getting too hooked by them.

Coincidentally, during the week I listened to a podcast that referenced the Buddhist concept of mana. Mana refers to the unwholesome mental state of the comparing mind. (I thought to myself, Oh, even the Buddha knew this struggle!)

Doing a little modern student-of-Buddhism internet searching, I rediscovered that the Buddha identified this threefold pattern of comparison as a major mental obstacle. He noted that we get caught in three traps:

• Thinking I am better than them (superiority)

• Thinking I am just as good as them (equality)

• Thinking I am worse off than them (inferiority)

Interestingly, the Buddha acknowledged that this pattern of spiritual pride can happen even around our practice—such as feeling superior toward those who "are not yet awakened."

This barrier is particularly problematic because it reinforces the illusion of a solid, independent self, directly opposing the teaching of non-self. The presence of spiritual superiority actually reveals the hollowness of that very spirituality. As we explored in our recent precept study, the illusion of separateness is, in and of itself, a form of suffering.

In my last Dharma offering, I shared reflections on getting so caught up in particular ideas about the self that it interferes with being fully present to our authentic expression in the moment. That was the exact trap I was stuck in at the conference.

Yet, what I found so compelling about watching my friend was the way she offered herself in an authentic, embodied, true-to-who-she-is manner. Witnessing her helped shift my thinking. It reminded me that there is no single, "correct" way to offer ourselves in service of the healing needed in the world.

The true call for any of us is simply to be ourselves, offering our unique shape in service of the freedom of others.

The Buddhist antidote to mana is soracca (humility), which expresses itself in a few beautiful ways:

1. A return to interdependence: Realizing our essential connectedness.

2. Gratitude: Appreciating other people and the unique form they are taking in the world.

3. Release: Recognizing the comparing mind, letting it go, 

4. Return: Bringing your attention back to the present moment, to this body, in this moment in time.

I might add a fifth - Remember: Remembering your truth, the way that love moves uniquely through who you

That is the invitation of this path: to recognize the human tendency to compare, to gently release those thoughts, and to trust that the unique shape we are taking in the world is worthy. May we acknowledge, appreciate, and express gratitude for all the unique shapes around us as we all try to be fully ourselves.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

1. Navigating the Three Strands of Mana: During your formal sit this week, notice when your mind begins to engage in the busy activity of measurement or comparison. Can you catch the subtle shift into thinking you are better than, equal to, or inferior to another? Rather than criticizing yourself for these evaluations, can you simply observe them as the natural movement of Small Mind and gently return your attention to just this breath, just as it is?

2. The Mirror of Professional Pride: In your daily life or professional environment this week, notice the impulse to look at the achievements or actions of colleagues and calculate your own worth or impact. When thoughts of inadequacy or superiority arise, what happens if you bring the simple phrase, "Oh, this is here," to the experience? How does creating this small pocket of spaciousness change your need to measure your own baseline against someone else's script?

3. Resting in Sufficient Impact: Reflect on a moment this week when you felt entirely content with the quiet, immediate impact you are making right where you are. How can dropping the "getting somewhere" energy of comparing mind allow you to appreciate the unrepeatable, once-in-a-lifetime configuration of your current life and practice?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice free us from the exhaustion of constant measurement and comparison. May we find the humility to drop our scripts of superiority and inferiority, recognizing that our true nature is already whole and entirely sufficient. Together, may we step off the scales of judgment and stand upright in the middle of our lives, extending a boundless mind of love to ourselves and to all beings exactly as we are.

Hello friends,

Over the past four days, I had the opportunity to attend the 37th Annual International Trauma Conference. The opportunity to learn from the world’s leading researchers, theorists, and advocates for preventing traumatic stress and supporting recovery is equal parts inspiring and grounding. Yet, it also leaves me with a heavy truth: there is so much pain being carried in bodies all around the world. It can almost feel as though humanity is collectively committed to the perpetuation of traumatic conditions, despite carrying the painful imprint of those very conditions within our own nervous systems.

During a workshop on the Outer Work Project, a statement by Staci Haines deeply struck me:

“We embody the cultural and social norms whether we agree with them or not.”

This directly illuminated my recent explorations of repentance and a poignant line from our traditional chant: “All our ancient, tangled karma, borne through body, speech, and mind.”

We embody these cultural and social norms—the injustices, the hierarchies, and the persistent imbalances along lines of race, gender, and orientation—largely unconsciously. We carry them until we commit to an intimate investigation of these internalized dynamics, allowing us to release them (what we might refer to as repentance) and discover the freedom that becomes available through that release.

To be sure, this is difficult work. As a privileged beneficiary of many of those societal norms, I can feel the powerful pull to stay asleep in these areas—to avoid looking closely at how I carry the imprint of my own identities and how they position me socially. And yet, our practice vow is oriented toward the freedom of all beings, including ourselves. In this way, our vow is a commitment to embodying freedom and helping others find their way to that same liberation.

The ceremony of Zazen thus becomes a direct path toward the embodiment of freedom. By taking our seats, we open the lens of our attention to everything moving within us. We engage in a form of inquiry that allows us to see not just the imprints of our personal histories, but the deep sociocultural conditioning we carry.

The activist Prentis Hemphill noted that we must develop our capacity for discomfort, inconvenience, and uncertainty if we want to grow and change. Simultaneously, we must expand our capacity for joy, playfulness, and connection so we can find each other in shared experiences that sustain us across time. There is no transformation or true freedom without moving beyond our comfort zones. Yet, to reach the edge of habituated embodiment and step beyond, we require a scaffolding of stability.

For me, Zazen—as a practice of just sitting with a dignified posture of uprightness and a stance of open curiosity—is that exact scaffolding. Because the flow of sociocultural conditioning is unending, we must continuously return to our cushions to meet the latest residue reflected in our body, speech, and mind. In doing so, we create the real possibility of finding a new, embodied shape in the world—one of freedom, curiosity, and love.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• Observing the Scaffolding: As you sit in Zazen this week, bring your awareness to your physical posture of uprightness and dignity. How does this physical framework feel like a protective scaffolding? Does it allow you to stay present with internal discomfort or socio-political conditioning without needing to fix, judge, or run away from it?

• Investigating the Imprint: In your interactions or quiet reflection this week, notice when a habituated cultural script or social hierarchy arises in your mind (e.g., a flash of judgment, a pull toward privilege, or an urge to shut down). Can you bring the simple phrase "Oh, this is here" to the experience? What shifts when you observe this as a piece of "tangled karma" rather than a permanent definition of who you are?

• Expanding Capacity for Joy: Hemphill emphasizes balancing our capacity for discomfort with our capacity for joy and connection. Where on the cushion—or in your daily life—can you deliberately practice joy, playfulness, and connection as acts of resilience? How do these lighter states help sustain you when meeting the world's pain?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice loosen the grip of ancient, tangled karma borne through our bodies, speech, and minds. May our shared sitting serve as a sturdy scaffolding, giving us the courage to step beyond our comfort zones and look honestly at the conditioning we carry. We dedicate our presence to the collective dismantling of delusion and oppression—may we all discover a new, embodied shape in the world, and may all beings find their way to freedom.

Hello friends,

This past Friday, I found myself in the unexpected position of visiting an urgent care center to address some intensifying back pain. While navigating the vulnerability of physical discomfort and the inevitable waiting room delay is always a rich practice opportunity, it was the interpersonal landscape across three different medical encounters that offered a beautiful, real-time mirror for the Dharma.

When I was finally called back from the waiting room, the medical assistant began her intake screening. Her demeanor was clipped, abrupt, and dry. On a couple of occasions, as I attempted to provide a more nuanced answer to explain my symptoms, her questioning remained rigidly linear. She brought the focus back to her checklist without acknowledging what I was trying to communicate.

This stood in stark contrast to the physician who arrived 10 to 15 minutes later. He was noticeably unhurried. He leaned into my responses, asked for additional details, and took his time explaining things. I could feel the immediate physical effect of his spacious care and expressed gratitude more than once. Because he slowed down to truly explore the nuances of my experience, he was able to offer a well-informed hypothesis and collaborate with me on a clear path forward.

Then came the third encounter—a consultation with a physical therapist. Initially, the rhythm mirrored the first encounter. From the moment he called my name, I felt the rough edges of his approach. He seemed impatient, disinterested, and hurried as he directed me where to place my belongings. Taken aback by his sharp demeanor, I hesitated when he asked his initial questions, responding instead with a question of my own to clarify what he was actually looking for.

And this is when something fascinating happened.

I watched, in real time, as something in his posture shifted. He seemingly registered that his current approach was a mismatch for what I needed in that moment. Within just a few breaths, his demeanor softened, his pacing slowed, and his genuine receptivity and curiosity came online. In response to his shift, my own body began to relax. I opened up, sharing the sequence of events that had contributed to the pain. What followed was a highly collaborative 40-minute appointment where he responsively attended to my discomfort and provided practical movements to help me heal.

This third encounter has stayed with me because it beautifully illustrates a profound truth of our practice: we can wake up in the middle of anything. The physical therapist didn’t need a fresh start or a new day to alter the dynamic; he caught himself midstream. He paid attention to the impact of his actions, noticed that what he was doing wasn't working or aligned with his role, and made an intentional pivot.

In our daily lives, we so easily get swept up in the momentum of habit, role expectations, or the quiet undertow of our own stress and reactivity. This reactivity frequently overrides our capacity to choicefully engage. Yet, the invitation of our practice is to cultivate a contingent responsiveness—the willingness to pay attention to how we are showing up, notice how our presence is being received by the person across from us, and make moment-by-moment micro-adjustments.

Sometimes, this adjustment requires us to explicitly articulate it—to say out loud, "Let me pause and start over." At other times, it is a silent, internal softening. But whatever the case, waking up is a continuous, dynamic process of stepping out of the script of our habits so we can intimately attune to what reality is asking of us next.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• Catching the Momentum on the Cushion: During your sitting this week, notice when your mind gets caught in a strong current of thought, planning, or reactivity. What happens if you practice making a silent micro-adjustment midstream—softening your shoulders, relaxing your jaw, and gently stepping back onto the steady ground of the next breath?

• The Relational Mirror: In your interactions this week, notice the impact your tone, pacing, and presence are having on the person across from you. If you detect a friction or a mismatch, can you pause long enough to ask yourself: Am I operating from a rigid habit or a script? What subtle adjustment in your listening or posture might create a more spacious clearing for you both?

• The Power to Pivot: Reflect on a recent moment where you realized halfway through a conversation or a task that you were acting out of frustration or impatience. Did you ride the momentum of that state to the end, or did you find the gap to shift? What is required in your body and mind to feel safe enough to drop your defensiveness and change course midstream?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice give us the sensitivity to feel when we have drifted from our deepest intentions, and the humility to change course midstream. May we remember that wakefulness does not require perfection, but rather the courageous willingness to adjust, soften, and attune to the world right in front of us. In our shared practice, may we step out of habit and into a love that is choicefully present, meeting every being exactly where they are.

Hello friends,

I was delivering a presentation this morning—new PowerPoint deck, a new presenting platform, and a brand-new consulting company for which I was presenting. Over the previous couple of days, I meticulously reviewed the content, conducting several trial runs of the platform and recording software to ensure that everything would work smoothly.

And everything did, at the start. I logged in on time, introduced myself, and began. Everything was going perfectly… until it wasn't.

About fifteen minutes in, my web browser froze. Along with it went my ability to advance the slides. Instantly, my stress level spiked. I could feel embarrassment settling heavily into my body, accompanied by a sudden, anticipatory story about how I was completely screwing up my first gig with this new company. Turning to the only fail-safe solution I could think of, I rebooted the browser. After several minutes of agonizing reloading, I resumed the presentation. It was not the experience I was hoping for, and certainly not the flawless execution I had planned and prepared to deliver.

As the day went on, I found myself reflecting on the experience with lingering frustration. I was stuck in the gap between my expectations and reality. But then I remembered a quote from Joseph Campbell that I recently came across:

“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”

The quote instantly shifted the way I was holding the experience. It speaks to a broader, more profound approach to reality: holding our rigid plans loosely so that we can actually meet the life available to us in the present moment.

We often think of "letting go" as something reserved for major life transitions—loss of employment, the passing of a loved one, or sudden changes to our health. And to be sure, those require an immense, courageous turning toward reality. But holding our plans loosely is equally a moment-by-moment, daily practice.

Almost every day, something deviates from our script. We go to bed hoping for a full night of sleep, only to lie awake for hours. We wake up with a strict task list, but find our energy and focus lacking. We plan to arrive somewhere on time, only to encounter unexpected delays and arrive late.

We are reminded, again and again, that the circumstances of our lives are only partially within our control. The illusion of continuity and control is fragile. When it breaks, our practice invitation is not to bypass the discomfort, but to turn toward the way things actually are as calmly and thoughtfully as possible.

Over the years, Zazen has helped me do this. Practice hasn’t eliminated the initial surge of heat or anxiety when a browser freezes or a plan fails. But hopefully, it allows me to recognize the "anticipatory story" for what it is, recover a little bit more quickly, and respond to the unfolding moment with just a bit more skillfulness.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

1. The Frozen Screen of the Mind: During your formal sit this week, notice when a plan or expectation arises regarding how your meditation "should" be going (e.g., “I should be calmer right now” or “This shouldn't be so loud”). Can you notice the physical sensation of that internal resistance? What happens if you reboot the browser of your mind by simply dropping the story and returning to the next breath?

2. The Recovery Time: Reflect on a recent moment where a small or large plan fell apart. How long did you linger in the frustration gap between the plan you made and the reality that arrived? Without judging yourself, consider what would support your body and mind to shorten that recovery time and step into the life that is waiting for you.

3. Holding the Script Loosely: Choose one routine activity tomorrow where you have a specific expectation of efficiency or outcome (your morning commute, making a meal, or a brief check-in with a colleague). Before you begin, mentally whisper the reminder to hold the plan loosely. If an interruption or detour occurs, practice treating that detour not as an obstacle, but as the actual meditation practice itself.

Dedication

May the merit of our practice give us the flexibility of mind to meet life outside of our scripts. May we have the courage to plan with care, but the wisdom to surrender those plans when reality asks something else of us. In our shared wakefulness, may we find the stability to stand upright in the midst of unexpected turns, meeting the life that is waiting for us with an open heart and a warm bow.

On a podcast this last week, I heard this captivating statement:

“The difference between the sense of hearing and the skill of listening is attention.”

I found the source in The New York Times, in a 2012 article by Seth S. Horowitz—The Science and Art of Listening. The author describes hearing as a background process—a biological constant that lowers or elevates the volume of what we take in based on its salience.

When attention engages, however, it allows us to actively focus on the input that is most pressing or of greatest interest. This engagement allows us to process information in a way that actually enriches our experience, deepening our connection to others and to the world.

This distinction has been a great prompt for reflection this past week. The phrase that has emerged for me is this:

Attention is the bridge between simply moving through the world and living more fully in the world.

We can look at each of our senses through this lens:

• The difference between vision and the skill of seeing.

• The difference between touch and the skill of feeling.

• The difference between taste and the skill of savoring.

And moving into our internal and relational lives:

• The difference between thinking and the skill of reflecting.

• The difference between reacting and the skill of responding.

• The difference between being with and the skill of being present.

In our practice of Zazen, we aren't just sitting; we are actively tending to this bridge. We ensure it is wide enough and strong enough to carry us from the current of a wandering mind back to the solidity of the present moment. Attention creates the possibility of engaging with intention and skillfulness—allowing us to take in the landscape within and around us and determine what we do next.

Ultimately, attention serves as the bridge between passively taking in information and choosing a way of being or an action that is consistent with our values and our true nature.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• On the Cushion: As you sit, notice the moment "hearing" becomes "listening." When a distant sound arises, can you observe the bridge of attention as it reaches out to meet the sound, without needing to label or judge it?

• In the World: Choose one routine activity today—drinking a cup of tea, walking to your car, or washing your hands. Practice moving from the "sense" of the experience to the "skill" of it. What changes when the bridge of attention is fully crossed?

• Interpersonal: In your next conversation, notice the urge to react. Can you pause on the bridge of attention for just one breath, moving from the reflex of reacting to the intention of responding?

Dedication

May the clarity we find on the cushion strengthen the bridges we walk in the world. May our attention be a gift of presence to ourselves and to all beings we encounter, transforming the passive into the purposeful and the ordinary into the sacred.

This past week, we had a meaningful Wednesday Night Sangha gathering, our Community CARE night, where we shared Celebrations, Appreciations and opportunities for Repair and Enhancement. I was caught off guard and deeply moved by the kind words that were shared about my contributions to the community as head student, through the Practice Encouragement emails and Shuso Dharma talks.

The conversation moved in a different direction before I could share a recognition that emerged for me within the tears that flowed. I have slowly, over the past several years, been finding my voice—not my professional voice as a therapist and leader, but the truth of who I am that flows from the deepest places within. That voice comes out in poetry and Dharma talks and in the writings that I put down into words but then hesitate to share with the world.  One of the ways that I find refuge in this Sangha is through the experience of feeling safe enough to show up as I am—a self that is itself a moving target—and then share what is currently alive within me. This community is a powerful invitation to that way of being in the world—towards being awake to what is moving and then sharing it.

Showing up this way and being met with kindness, receptivity, and encouragement is such a gift. 

I have been thinking about how significant it is to be within a community based upon the recognition that each of us is always in process, we are never static, we are always in the process of change. We embody impermanence every moment of our lives.  And recognizing that changes the way that we create community - we invite and extend permission to one another to keep growing and learning and evolving. We chant in the Four Practice Principles—being just this moment, compassion’s way——and then we attempt the harder work of embodying this: encouraging one another to slow down, check in, and share what is most alive. In this way, we collectively embrace impermanence. We don’t anticipate that someone will be exactly how they have always been. Instead, we offer a more radical hospitality: we invite each person to express the truth of who they are, here and now, even if that truth is different than it was yesterday. 

I think this is the relational gift of waking up—we become a refuge for the evolution of others.  We become an invitational presence that holds space for other people to continue evolving and becoming and realizing more and more the truth of who they are. And then we support them as this realization and expression becomes more easily their every day, embodied, lived existence.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

1. The Emerging Voice: In your sit this week, can you notice any truths that you usually hesitate to share with the world? Without needing to take action, what does it feel like to simply allow that inner voice to be heard by your own heart?

2. A Refuge for Others: Think of a relationship in your life. Can you practice not anticipating that they will be exactly who they have always been? What changes in your presence when you invite them to be who they are, here and now?

3. Embodying the Principles: As we chant being just this moment, compassion’s way, where do you feel that invitation in your body right now? Is there a place where you can slow down, check in, and share what is most alive with yourself?

4. Celebrating the Process: When you catch yourself or others changing—perhaps in a way that feels uncertain or new—can you meet that movement with celebration rather than criticism? How does this support our collective refuge for evolution?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice create a wide and welcoming clearing for all that is in process. May we have the courage to show up as we are, and the grace to hold space for others to do the same. In shared wakefulness, may we become a true refuge for the beauty of impermanence.

In gratitude for the ways you help me be more myself, 

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

“Trees do not preach learning and precepts. They preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.” — Herman Hesse

I came across this quote on an information board while walking the trails this past week at the Whidbey Institute. When I turned my attention back to the cedar and fir trees standing in their quiet, resolute dignity, I was struck by how little they require in the way of instruction. They do not consult a manual on how to grow; they simply unfold according to the law written within the seed.  And they most often do so in a vibrant range of diverse community.  

In our human life, we often find ourselves entangled in the "particulars"—the anxieties of the day, the comparisons we make with others, or the pursuit of a version of ourselves that doesn't yet exist. We treat our lives as a project to be managed rather than a life to be lived. Over these last 18 months of vocational discernment, it has been striking how often I find myself reflecting on the question of who I am and how I should best direct my energy and attention. So much time and energy can be expended in the process of trying to figure out how to most authentically show up in life. Hesse suggests that the trees are our greatest teachers because they exist in a state of total self-actualization. A birch tree never exhausts itself trying to be an oak; it is simply, and perfectly, a birch.

When we sit in Zazen, we are invited to practice this same ancient law. We drop the "precepts and learning" for a moment and allow ourselves to be undeterred by the particulars of our wandering thoughts. Perhaps said differently—we embody the precepts and learning for a moment, without having conscious efforting, and allow ourselves to be with all that is within us and around us. We realize that there is no separation between the breath, the body, and the air around us. Like the tree, we find that we are not a separate entity struggling against the world, but a part of the singular, moving process of life itself. To sit is to stop fleeing from ourselves and to return to the root.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• The Seed’s Destiny: During your sit, can you notice any internal "preaching"—the voices telling you that you should be calmer, different, or “better” than you are in this moment? What happens if you treat those thoughts as passing wind and return to the simple "ancient law" of your own breathing?

• Root and Branch: Trees remain firmly rooted in the dark earth while reaching for the light. In your life right now, what are the "roots" (the difficult or grounded realities) and what are the "branches" (your aspirations or spiritual reaching)? Can you find a sense of equanimity that holds both without preference?

• The Law of Non-Separation: Next time you are outdoors, choose a single tree and observe it. Can you feel the way the earth supports it and the sky feeds it? How might your day change if you viewed your own existence as equally supported and inseparable from the world around you?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice help us to stand tall in our own skin, undeterred by the storms of the mind. May we have the courage to stop fleeing from our true nature, learning from the silent wisdom of the trees how to be fully and authentically ourselves, exactly as we are.

“Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except who he is. That is home. That is happiness.” — Herman Hesse

With a warm bow,

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

Today, I will be bringing to a close my participation in Invitas—The Conversational Model of Leadership program with David Whyte. A process that began seven months ago is coming to a resolution, and with it, the shared journey of our cohort of thirty individuals. While there will likely be some continuity of relationships in the future, there is a clear sense that this particular configuration of people, engaged in the exploration of artistry at this specific point in our lives, will end.

As we prepare for that ending, a friend shared a concept that feels both invitational and transformational:

“Ichi-go ichi-e (いちごいちえ) is a Japanese phrase that means 'one time, one meeting.' It can also be translated as 'for this time only,' 'once in a lifetime,' or 'never again.' This proverb is rooted in Buddhist philosophy and dates back to the 16th century. It's often associated with the Japanese tea ceremony, where participants would meet to have tea together with the understanding that this ceremony would not reoccur in their lifetime. Because of this, they would approach the experience with respect, sincerity, and attention.”

I am reminded by this description of Ichi-go ichi-e of the ways in which ceremony—including our everyday ceremony of Zazen—is a reminder to pay attention, to wake up. This particular concept is a wake-up call to the impermanence of every moment. It reminds me of the saying that we never step foot into the same river twice; the foot with which we step is changed by the passage of time, and the flow of the river means that the molecules of water that receive that foot are also different.

The invitation of Ichi-go ichi-e is to pay attention and to savor—to recognize that every conversation, every interaction, and every shared moment of vitality is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Acknowledging this, I want to slow down in the middle of my experiences and appreciate what is happening. I want to intentionally register that this beautiful opportunity emerged because of all of the causes and conditions that made it possible. It is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, never to reoccur. I wonder what would change within my life if I approached every experience in this manner. I want to find out.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• The Unrepeatable Moment: During your sit, can you notice the specific quality of this breath—knowing that this exact physical and mental configuration has never existed before and will never return? What changes in your level of "respect, sincerity, and attention" when you treat the next five minutes as a once-in-a-lifetime ceremony?

• The Flow of the River: Think of a relationship or a project that is currently transitioning or ending. Can you name the "molecules of water" (the specific conditions) that made that experience unique? How does acknowledging the impermanence of that "configuration of people" help you to savor what remains?

• Slowing Down to Register: Outside of formal practice, find one mundane interaction today. Can you pause long enough to recognize the "millions of things" that came together to make this one meeting possible?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice remind us that every meeting is a threshold. May we have the courage to treat our ordinary days with the reverence of a tea ceremony, and may we find the presence to savor the life that is moving through us, exactly as it is, right now.

With a warm bow,

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

Hello Friends, 

I have been thinking this past week about Heaven and Hell. Not as the eternal destinations I grew up aspiring to or fearing, but as conditions of our everyday experience—the karmic unfolding of our actions in the present moment.

I recently recalled an old story that feels particularly meaningful in our current climate of rage and reactivity.

The story begins with a large, imposing Samurai who approaches a small, elderly Zen monk. The Samurai, accustomed to gaining answers through strength and authority, demands: "Tell me the nature of Heaven and Hell!"

The monk looks up at the massive warrior and sneers. "Why should I tell a thick-headed, clumsy brute like you anything? You’re a disgrace to your rank. Your sword is probably as blunt as your wits."

Blinded by a flash of white-hot rage, the Samurai draws his katana and raises it over his head, ready to strike the monk down. Just as the blade begins its descent, the monk says quietly, "That is Hell."

The Samurai freezes. In an instant, he realizes the monk risked his life to show him the reality of his own anger. He sees how his ego and rage had utterly consumed him, creating a private hell of his own making. Overwhelmed by gratitude and humility, he sheathes his sword, bows deeply, and weeps.

The monk looks at him kindly and says, "And that is Heaven."

While I grew up viewing these concepts through an eternal lens, I find myself more and more witnessing people caught in this same kind of private hell—consumed by rage and unable to see a path toward connection. When we are caught in such a state, we lose sight of "heaven" as a state we can access, live from, and share with those around us.

In this light, Hell is not a destination of damnation, but a state of mind characterized by reactive ego and a loss of self-control. Heaven is the presence of mind, the humility, and the peace that follows the release of that ego. Gratitude flows naturally when we inhabit this kind of heaven.

What I love about this story is the reminder that we carry the gates to both within us at all times; our reactions determine which one we walk through. Even when we are caught in the white-hot intensity of reactivity, we can find our way to that space where causes and conditions do not dictate our next move. Perhaps the gate between heaven and hell is found in that pause—the gap between reactivity and action where we can choose something different.

Prompts for Reflection and Practice

• Locating the Gates: During your sit this week, notice when a flash of "hell" (irritation, judgment, or reactivity) arises. Instead of being consumed by it, can you simply observe, “This is hell,” and choose to return to the breath—the "heaven" of present-moment awareness?

• The Risk of Vulnerability: The monk risked everything to show the Samurai the truth of his own heart. In your daily life, where are you holding back from connection out of a desire for protection? What might happen if you lowered the threshold of your heart by just an inch today, meeting a difficult situation with humility rather than authority?

• Recognizing the State: Throughout the day, when you feel caught in a private struggle, try offering yourself the phrase: "Right now, it’s like this." Does acknowledging the state of "hell" without judgment help create the spaciousness needed to walk through the gate toward peace?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice give us the courage to look clearly into the fires of our own reactivity. May we realize that the gates to heaven and hell are always open, and may we find the presence of mind to choose the path of connection and peace for ourselves and all beings.

The world feels on edge this week, perhaps a continuation of the tilted state we have been existing in for the past 15 months, but the very public threat of genocide feels dark and ominous. When I slow down, I notice the ways in which my body feels pulled into survival energy, alternating between wanting to shut down and feeling pulled into the activated energy of fight or flight. It sometimes feels present even when I am sitting. And then there are the moments of despair when I think of the suffering happening around the globe.

I was reminded of a passage from Norman Fischer that speaks to moments such as these:

“There are times when life becomes so stark, so absolutely real in and of itself, that there is nothing to do but bear witness to what is. Meditation practice is not going to take care of violence or make us feel better about it. Meditation is so precious, too precious, all its sensitivities and refinements and developments that can get so artistic sometimes. Stark and tough reality blows all that out of the water. Meditation practice seems foolish when the world is on fire. Screams drown out the silence.

But bearing witness is itself the essential meditation practice–stepping back, being quiet, listening to ourselves, to the world, with an accurate ear, allowing, opening to what we hear– this practice, the fruit of our time on the cushion, is more relevant in times like these than ever. There are, in a crisis, a million ways to help, and we should help in whatever way we can. But beyond help, we need to bear witness to what is happening. To take it in, imagine it, feel it, grieve over it, accept it, not accept it, understand it, fail to understand it, and comfort each other in that. To do that we need the expansiveness of our sitting, of our chanting, and of our prayers.”

— Norman Fischer, When You Greet Me I Bow

It can be so easy to feel hopeless against such forces as nationalism and racism and hatred. Norman’s words remind me that our practice is vital, sacred, capacity-enlarging activity. And one of those essential capacities is expressed as we steadily “bear witness to what is,” seeing reality clearly. Our practice supports us doing just that, as we sit and bear witness to the flow of experience moving within us and around us; in our chanting, in which we steady our gaze and set our orientation for compassionate activity in the world; and in our prayers, as we extend loving-kindness to every being.

I find comfort, encouragement, and a challenge in this recognition. Each time we sit, we are meeting the world as it is and expanding our ability to stay with it. And this staying with it is exactly the last line of the Four Practice Principles: Being just this moment, compassion’s way. When we are just this moment, we open ourselves to the flow of love that is always moving, allowing it to move through us out to the world on fire.

I imagine as I am sitting right now, the flow of love moving toward and through me like water, seeing it move out to reach those places that are parched for affection and perhaps still smoldering from the heat of the world’s anger and suffering. Perhaps this image might be an encouragement during your Zazen practice this week, especially in those moments when it feels like there is nothing to do and meditation practice feels futile.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

1. The Somatic Witness: During your Zazen this week, when thoughts of the world’s suffering arise, notice where that "fire" lives in your body. Is there a tightness in the chest, a heat in the face, or a bracing in the shoulders? Without trying to extinguish it, can you simply sit and bear witness to that sensation as a direct expression of your connection to the world?

2. Beyond the "Artistic" Meditation: Fischer mentions that our "sensitivities and refinements" can sometimes feel foolish when the world is in crisis. Reflect on your own practice: Where are you trying to make your meditation "peaceful" or "pretty," and where can you allow it to be stark and tough enough to hold the actual reality of the present moment?

3. The Direction of the Flow: As you practice with the image of love moving through you like water, identify one specific "parched place" in the world or your community that feels particularly smoldering right now. As you breathe, imagine the cooling flow of your attention reaching that area. What does it feel like to remain steady in your seat while mentally extending this presence?

Dedication

May the merit of our sitting today serve as a steadying hand for a world in fever. May our willingness to bear witness create a clearing where grief can be held and compassion can take root. We dedicate this practice to all those caught in the paths of violence, nationalism, and hatred—may they find refuge, and may we find the courage to remain awake for them.

In shared practice,

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

Dear Community,

I have been mulling over a quote from Yasutani Roshi this week that, at first glance, feels almost clinical in its brevity:

“The entire teaching of Buddhism can be summed up in this way: nothing is worth holding on to.”

The commentary attached to it suggests that letting go isn’t loss, but freedom—that when we loosen our grip, life can finally meet us as it is.

Admittedly, I have struggled with the word "worth" in this context. In a practice so deeply oriented toward compassion and connection, hearing that nothing is "worth" holding on to can feel like an invitation to indifference. But as I’ve sat with this, I’ve come to see it not as a statement of value, but as a statement of nature.

Perhaps a more accurate rendering is simply: Nothing can be held on to.

This shift in language moves us away from cold detachment and toward the "radical presence" found in the Fourth of the Five Remembrances: All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape from losing them.

When we realize that the nature of life is a constant flowing away, it doesn't mean we love less. It means we must love like crazy because the clock is ticking. It reminds me of the closing lines of Mary Oliver’s Blackwater Woods:

To live in this world 

you must be able 

to do three things: 

to love what is mortal; 

to hold it 

against your bones knowing 

your own life depends on it; 

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

In our meditation practice, we are training for this three-part process. We sit to become the kind of people who can love what is mortal, who can feel the weight of life against our bones, and who—when the moment inevitably shifts—can open our hands without bitterness.

This week, I invite you to notice where you are "clinching" to an outcome, an identity, or a moment. Can you loosen the grip just enough to see the "shooting star" for what it is? Not something to be captured, but something to be witnessed with wide-eyed intensity.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection:

• The Un-boxable Sunset: During your formal practice this week, can you identify a "moment of beauty"—a quiet breath, a settled heart, or a specific insight? Notice the subtle impulse to "box it up" or make it stay. What happens to your experience of that beauty when you instead "hold it against your bones" while explicitly acknowledging that it is already flowing away?

• The Nature of the Object: As you move through your daily life, look at something or someone you love "like crazy." Practice holding the Fourth Remembrance alongside that love: This is of the nature to change. Does this recognition of "nothing can be held on to" create a sense of distance, or does it sharpen your intensity and presence with them in the here and now?

• Mortal Thoughts: During your sit, as thoughts or sensations arise, try labeling them not as things to be kept or discarded, but as "mortal." Acknowledge their presence, hold them with kindness, and then watch them depart.

Dedication

May the merit of our practice give us the courage to love what is mortal with our whole hearts. May we find the freedom that comes from open hands, and may our shared wakefulness be a sanctuary for all beings in this changing world.

In shared practice,

Ryan (Kakuo Kishin)

Dear Friends, 

Spirituality is often conceptualized as looking up to a higher power, or looking in searching for a deeper sense of internal peace. We can find ourselves engaged in devoted practice across time, preparing our offering so that it is just right. Conversely, we may engage in solitary practices, like the ascetic Siddhartha, pushing against the limits of our own bodies and minds, believing that awakening is a solitary prize to be won through sheer force of will.

But the story of the encounter between Sujata and Siddhartha Gautama offers us a different orientation. It suggests that spirituality does not live within the individual as a private possession, nor does it exist "out there" as an abstract deity to be worshipped. Instead, as Martin Buber famously reflected, the spirit flows in the "between"—it arises in the sacred space created when we turn toward one another with clear-eyed attention.

When Sujata approached the riverbank, she had to drop her expectations of finding a deity in order to truly see the suffering human being in front of her. This is the "Sujata Turn": the moment we realize that our spiritual seeking can only be expressed to the human being who is in front of us. It is the moment we stop relating to others as "Its" (projections of our needs) and start meeting them as a "Thou" (beings worthy of our attention and care). By attending to the very real needs in front of her, Sujata provided the strength that potentiated Siddhartha’s awakening.

Our daily practice—the quiet work of refining our offering—is how we resource ourselves for these uncommon meetings. We don't sit on the cushion to become holy or to create distance from the world; we sit to become available. Through practice, we cultivate our capacity to remain steady and present so that when we encounter someone in the forest of their own struggle, we don't turn away. In turning toward and responding with compassion, we become the conditions that support one another’s awakening.

As we move through this week, let us remember that our spiritual friendship is not just a support for the path—it is the path itself.

Listen to the full Dharma Talk from March 18 here

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

• The Sujata Turn: Today, notice a moment where you are relating to someone based on an expectation of what should happen or some idea of who they are. Can you drop that projection and turn toward them as a breathing, human reality?

• Refining the Essence: Think of your formal practice this week as expanding your capacity to be present. How does your sitting change when you view it as increasing the likelihood that you will be able to support another’s awakening?

• The Between: In a difficult conversation or a routine encounter, try to shift your focus from yourself or the other to the space between you. What is moving there?

Dedication

May the merit of our practice today move beyond this community and into the quiet intersections of our daily lives. May we recognize that when we offer our steady presence to the world, we are the very nourishment that supports their awakening.

May we have the courage to turn toward one another with clear-eyed attention, trusting that in every attuned encounter, the spirit moves between us. In our shared wakefulness, may we be both the gift and the receiver, walking the Middle Way together until all beings are free.

In shared practice,

Ryan

Hello Friends,

​This past week, my attention landed on a sign outside of a church as I drove by; I actually found myself turning the car around to go back and snap a picture of it.

The Life We Live is the Lesson We Teach.

I have been reflecting on these words in the days since, noting the ways they resonate with our practice. It reminded me that we truly begin to internalize the Dharma when we let go of the idea that awakening is found in complex philosophy or abstract teaching. Instead, we realize that enlightenment is reflected in our full engagement with the immediate, practical activity before us. In engaging mindfully with what is right in front of us, we collapse the distance between our Zazen and our everyday life.

At the most straightforward level, our actions are always communicating our values to the people around us. When asked what message he would want to share, Gandhi famously responded, “My life is my message.” How we live every moment demonstrates to anyone within our orbit how a life can be lived. When we choose kindness, grace, and dignity, we confirm for others that these qualities are not just ideas—they are living possibilities. Conversely, when we move through the world with greed or delusion, we "teach" that these are valid ways of being. Even in the absence of words, our actions are pointing the way.

Part of what we wake up to is the reality that our life is a constant broadcast; we are always contributing to the collective curriculum of the world. If the Dharma is "life as it is," then our actions are the very flow of that Dharma, not separate from it. We are part of the "causes and conditions" of today that will shape the unfolding of tomorrow.

When I take that reality seriously, it makes me want to slow down and proceed with more caution and more love. Our actions today echo into tomorrow. I am reminded of the fifth of the list known as The Five Remembrances:

My actions are my only true belongings. 

I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. 

My actions are the ground on which I stand.

Waking up to the weight of our deeds—recognizing they are the ground on which we stand and the seeds of what is to come—I find myself wanting to hold the power of each choice with more reverence.

Prompts for Practice and Reflection

1. The Silent Message: Today, notice one moment where you are "teaching" through your actions (perhaps while waiting in line, driving, or listening to a colleague). What is the lesson you are offering in that moment?

2. The Ground Beneath You: When you feel overwhelmed or uncertain, return to the fifth remembrance. How does it feel to recognize that your simple, ethical actions are the only "belongings" you truly possess?

3. Causes and Conditions: Think of someone who "taught" you a lesson of grace simply by how they lived. How has their "broadcast" shaped the conditions of your own life today?

4. Mundane Dharma: Pick one routine task today—washing a dish, sending an email, or walking to your car. Practice it as if this single action were the only teaching the world would ever receive from you.

Dedication​

May our practice extend beyond the cushion and into the movements of our hands and the cadence of our speech. May we recognize ourselves as both the student and the lesson, moving through the world with a heart that is wide open and feet that are firmly planted in kindness.

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: Tatramajjhattatā. 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