Recently, I led a workshop on Zen and meditation at a local college. The students were open and inquisitive, but I could sense their apprehension about being beginners.

They spoke of meditation as a steep climb, wondering how to move from the frustrations of a novice to the calm of a master. I assured them that the mind of a beginner is the best place to be.

When we stand before a work of art, we might think we’re looking at something outside ourselves, be it a painting, a sculpture, or an image created by another. Yet what we see reflects the one who is seeing.

When we listen to music, we enter the flowing nature of time. A note sounds, fades, and is gone. Yet what we hear in each instant depends on what came before and what we anticipate will come next.

The work of opening the heart is at the root of Zen practice. This opening is inseparable from awareness itself.

It’s an invitation to loosen the carefully constructed image of who you think you are—an opportunity to dismantle the ego’s scaffolding, revealing the raw, flowing nature beneath.

Through Zen practice, I’ve come to see that the separation between myself and the world is merely a persistent thought.

The depth and vastness of life reveal themselves in the simplicity of everyday things. A cup on the table, light on a wall, a flower in a vase—each holds the entire universe if we look closely enough. Nothing is missing.

From the depths of my Zen practice, I often return to the question, “What is this?”

My Dharma name, Sōkei, means “vital joy,” and was given to me by my Zen teachers when I took the Buddhist precepts. It is both a gift and an aspiration. Vital joy is not something I can chase or create. It arises freely, without cause or condition.

In the Temple garden, the leaves are falling. Each one turning, gliding, and coming to the earth without resistance. Their descent is quiet, unhurried, and complete