u/yamatofuji

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​It takes training to interrupt the tendency to always look elsewhere, and to remind yourself that the essence lies not so much in the circumstances alone, but primarily in how you relate to them.

This practice takes the form of remembrance and habituation or "un-learning," if you will.

​It is much like training my terrible tennis forehand because I originally learned it the wrong way.

Hearing and knowing how it should be done from a teacher is a good start, but it isn’t enough: I must constantly re-mind myself. I then have to practice it endlessly in the game 100, 1,000, 10,000 times, until it is so deeply embedded in the system that it happens almost automatically.

​The mind precedes the matter, but it must be trained.

Gassho,

All you have to do is: actually do it. That’s usually the biggest hurdle, because that’s when we "have" to get to work. And we’d much rather be chilling... Who doesn't know that feeling?

​But when even that stops working, sitting still and simply "not-doing" can be restorative. Because once you’re just sitting there on your backside, you can sometimes experience how pleasant it is to step out of the "I want, I must, I should" mode; to be free from the tyranny of the ego.

​Taking a vacation from ourselves, we call it. And you don’t even have to go to Amsterdam or anywhere else for that, because that place is exactly where you are right now.

​Give it a try. It helps, and it’s certainly recommended.

​The gold is within us, yet we’re always looking for it outside of ourselves.

Gassho,

If data is so accurate, why are we constantly 'surprised' by world events, elections, and economic shifts that the numbers supposedly predicted, is it possible to have 'raw data' if the very act of choosing what to measure is a biased decision?

www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(24)01867-1/fulltext

Dear reader,

Years ago, back when I was just a teenager and going to sesshins all the time, I had this experience that stayed with me forever.

​Growing up, it was all about the grades and the hard work at school.

My own needs or how I actually felt? That didn't really count.

I didn't really count.

For the longest time, no matter what I achieved, I carried this heavy weight, like I didn't actually have permission to just be...

But then, during one particular weeksesshin, everything suddenly flipped.

​By the third day, I was absolutely struggling. My teenage knees were screaming from the hours on the cushion, my back was a mess, and I was just exhausted with a splitting headache. I tried every trick in the book to handle the pain. I’d hear the Zen master’s voice in my head:

“Put your attention right in the pain.”

Then, when that failed: “Move your attention away, find a spot that doesn’t hurt.” I’d command myself to relax, check my posture, and count those breaths... one, two, three.

Sometimes the pain hit so many places at once I just couldn't keep up. I tried to "let it be," but nothing made the burden any lighter.

​I realized I was doing that thing again, trying way too hard.

Trying to control the whole experience. It was totally backfiring and getting in my way, but I had no idea how to just stop.

​I eventually brought it up during dokusan. The gang leader told me, “Trying not to do something is the hardest part. Just sit with a question instead.”

It helped for a minute, but then I’d just slide right back into the struggle. By the second question, I was losing heart. I kept thinking, “How much longer is this? Can I even do this?”

I just wanted to go home.

​Then came day five. I told myself: “Let it go. Stop trying to carry the suffering and just be there.”

I decided to get out of my head and just try to enjoy things. Suddenly, everything shifted. The morning sutras sounded incredible. I felt this weird, beautiful connection to everything, the energy in the room, a blackbird singing outside, even a butterfly that landed on my notebook while I was writing. I finally relaxed.

The pain actually started to fade.

​The theme that week was ‘Intimacy, seeing and being seen,’ and ja, it hit me(:

During zazen, out of nowhere, I was just flooded with this realization: “I’m allowed to be here! I’m allowed to be seen!”

I’d never felt anything like it it was in my very bones. I felt huge, light, like I could finally breathe. It felt like a tiny spark of enlightenment. I wanted to scream it out like Mt.Fuji: “Voilà, qui je suis!” Look, this is me! I’m here! I matter!

​But I was in a silent retreat, so I stayed still. I just sat there, crying quiet tears of pure joy. Everything felt different after that, the way I sat, the way I walked. I felt strong, full of life, and totally supported. Voilà.

Gassho,

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​The koan is a unique product of the various tradition.

Through koan study, we learn to switch between the everyday level and the spiritual level.

But what exactly are these levels?

Spirituality refers to the essential reality, what lies beneath the surface in the mind.

At both levels, life is essentially about one thing: being happy.

Koan study teaches you to distinguish between the daily pursuit of happiness and the spiritual pursuit of happiness.

Daily happiness usually represents short-term gratification, while spiritual happiness focuses on the long term.

A koan helps us gain an eye for the more essential aspects of our search, allowing us to detach from the mundane chase. While the daily search is often a hunt for pleasure, the spiritual search is about the capacity to enjoy.

Happiness is not the same as pleasure; it is the ability to enjoy all the challenges that life offers. Koan study teaches us to hear the melody of the spiritual within the everyday.

​To illustrate this, consider an example from a sesshin location I once visited in Okinawa, I had prepared a koan: "What do I hear, what do I smell, what do I feel?"

I had seen photos of the beautiful green surroundings, but I hadn't realized that a highway ran right past the site.

The sound of cars was constant. Initially, the question "What do I hear?" only drew the noise of the traffic deeper into the meditation room.

On the first day, everyone heard only the cars. By the second day, people began to notice the birds.

By the third day, they heard almost exclusively the birds.

This beautifully demonstrates the ability to switch levels.

It doesn't mean the participants could no longer hear the cars; rather, they became capable of hearing what they chose to hear. They developed the ability to focus on what contributed to their happiness, choosing birdsong over traffic, which left them feeling much calmer and more fulfilled.

​This ability to switch levels can be used to move toward whichever perspective is most functional for you at a given moment.

If one were in prison, for instance, it might not be functional to dwell on how wonderful life is on the outside. Instead, it is more functional to think about how to make the best of the situation, perhaps through deep meditation or writing a book. I have heard that a third of long-term prisoners develop a prison psychosis because they feel the walls closing in on them.

However, I believe that for someone with Zen and Chan training, the chance of such a psychosis is much smaller. Takes time to learn to think what you want to think.

While prison is an extreme example, many people encounter figurative walls in their social lives or careers and do not know how to escape them.

In any set of circumstances, it is highly functional to be able to direct your thoughts toward what is beneficial for you.

As Yamato Fuji, my direct experience is to see this mental flexibility not as a denial of reality, but as the ultimate mastery over one's own internal landscape.

Gassho,

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​In the traditions of the great 13th-century Japanese masters, we find two distinct but converging paths toward awakening: the Zen of Dogen Zenji and the Shin Buddhism of Shinran Shonin.

Though their methods differ in form, their spiritual essence remains a singular experience of non-duality.

​Master Dogen taught the principle of "Shusho-itto," the oneness of practice and enlightenment.

In Zen, sitting meditation (zazen) is not a means to an end; it is not a tool used to acquire a future state of grace. Instead, the act of sitting is itself the manifestation of Buddha-nature.

As Dogen expressed, "To practice is itself the whole of realization."

​Shinran Shonin, the founder of Shin Buddhism, proposed a parallel logic through "shinjin" (the entrusting heart). Just as Dogen saw sitting as enlightenment, Shinran viewed the "Nembutsu" the recitation of "Namu Amida Butsu" as identical to awakening.

It is the voice of the Infinite calling out within the finite human being.

​The primary distinction lies in the environment of the practitioner.

Zen traditionally flourished in the stillness of the monastery, requiring a dedicated withdrawal from the secular world. Shin, however, was designed for the "secular world," intended to be practiced in the midst of a common lifestyle.

​For path walker, these two paths offer the "best of both worlds."

The Pure Land of Shin is found to be the same as the Pure Mind of Zen.

Whether one is on the meditation cushion in silent inquiry or navigating the complexities of daily life with a heart of gratitude, the objective is the same: to dissolve the ego and flow with the Dharma-stream.

​By treating zazen and nembutsu as interchangeable vehicles, we find that the "narrow way" of discipline and the "broad way" of grace are two sides of the same coin.

In my direct experience, there is no longer a sharp line between the sacred and the ordinary.

All of life becomes the practice; all of life becomes the awakening.

Gassho,

"Religion is a Private Matter" ​I recently came across this 1908 piece by the Dutch Marxist Anton Pannekoek, and it feels incredibly relevant to the "culture wars" we see today.

Pannekoek basically argues that if we wait for everyone to become an atheist before we start the revolution, we’ve already lost. The struggle itself is what changes the mind.

The common misunderstanding of Zen suggests that inner freedom leads to withdrawal, as if one who needs nothing must naturally turn away from the world.

Partners often fear that meditation creates a distance or a lack of engagement, yet in the bone-deep reality of practice, the opposite is true.

Zen is not a training in closing oneself off, but a training in being sufficient unto oneself so that one may participate in the world without being consumed by it.

Most people are experts in the craft of dependency, having practiced since childhood how to sense expectations and hunt for external validation.

This is not a flaw of character but a skill learned for survival.

However, the person who anchors their entire happiness to these shifting tides remains as fragile as a child, where every silence or judgment from the outside world can collapse their internal peace.

Zen meditation intervenes exactly at this point of fragility.

It does not deny the world’s existence but trains a radical inner independence.

To sit without a goal is to realize that one is fundamentally whole without the need for applause or the constant urge to add something to justify one's existence.

This mental fortitude is an ancient realization that is perfected not in isolation but in the thick of life. Practice and daily life are one and the same, urging us to rest in the present moment exactly as it is, amidst all circumstances, rather than seeking enlightenment in some far-off forest.

You know, inner stability is the absolute requirement for being of true service to others. Without this rootedness, what we call compassion or involvement quickly degrades into exhaustion and resentment.

In the realm of uncertainty, those who depend on validation seek to control the uncontrollable.

They want life to behave predictably, yet the nature of existence is defined by what we might call chance or the uncontrollable. Inner independence allows one to live within this uncertainty without hardening the heart or vanishing in fear.

Zen teaches the skill of being at peace even when things do not cooperate. It is like learning to survive on what the forest provides; once you know you do not need the supermarket to survive, you do not burn the supermarket down, but you are no longer its slave.

When a person learns to carry themselves, they no longer need to avoid others to protect their peace. Interaction becomes lighter, less burdened by the heavy weight of expectation, and entirely voluntary.

Zen thus becomes a path of total availability rather than one of isolation.

You offer yourself to others not because you are starving for their company to feel complete, but because you have something overflowing to share.

Just as physical strength requires constant movement, this mental freedom demands perpetual practice.

If the training stops, the mind easily slides back into the old ruts of dependency. This is why even after six, seven years of practice, the sit continues twice daily, not to reach a finish line, but to maintain the clarity of an open door.

Gassho,

In the landscape of Zen and contemplative psychology, the "ego" is frequently misunderstood as an enemy to be vanquished. However, I describe the self-concept not as a fixed entity, but as a functional tool, a "skilful means" (upaya) required to navigate the relative world.

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​True insight does not require the literal destruction of the persona, but rather a clear-eyed understanding of its utility. In the Buddhist tradition, the Bodhisattva embodies this balance; they remain at the threshold of the "unconditioned" specifically to retain enough of a self-construct to interact with, and alleviate the suffering of, sentient beings. Unlike the radical detachment sometimes attributed to pop-culture icons or misinformed aesthetics, the Bodhisattva uses the "I" as a vehicle for compassion.

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​From a psychological standpoint, the ego is the internal map that directs our physical and mental energy. It is the engine of intentionality. Without this "steward of the self," there would be no motivation to maintain discipline, honor commitments, or even pursue the path of awakening. The danger lies not in the existence of the map, but in its accuracy.

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​The Buddhist "Middle Way" applies directly to our self-image. When the ego becomes inflated or deflated, the results are physically and spiritually destructive:

​The Inflated Self: When an individual’s internal narrative outpaces their actual capacity, they succumb to "spiritual or professional bypass." This leads to burnout, ethical compromises, or physical ruin, as seen when an entrepreneur or athlete ignores the reality of their limitations in favor of a delusion.

​The Deflated Self: Conversely, a fragile or negative self-concept acts as a tether. It prevents the realization of innate "Buddha-nature" by convincing the individual they are incapable of progress, effectively silencing their potential before it can manifest.

​can you distinguish between the Classic Ego (the totality of the person) and the Freudian Ego (the mental construct or self-image)?

Misunderstanding these definitions leads to "spiritual bypassing," where practitioners attempt to "kill" the ego without first healing the self-image.

​In Persimmon Zen Sangha practice, "egolessness" (anatta) is not the absence of a person, but the realization that the self-image is transparent and fluid.

Experience alone is a silent teacher; to truly integrate these insights and share them with a community (Sangha), we must move beyond intuition and develop a precise vocabulary for the mind.

Only by accurately labeling our internal states can we prevent the ego from becoming either a tyrant or a ghost.