Each time I struck the bell, for an instant, there was a contact of form meeting form. The striker meets the metal, a precise point in time, already gone the moment it happens. The sound arises, full and clear, filling the space. But even as we hear it, it is vanishing.

…winter envelops the Temple in stillness, inviting me to contemplate the vastness of existence. The snow-covered landscape stretches silent as the world slows, inviting me to explore its serene simplicity. The grey sky, heavy and soft, dissolves the boundary between above and below.

The New Year opened gently during the first weekend as our sangha gathered for a three-day online meditation retreat. Together, we sat in the silence of shared presence, each turning inward while remaining connected through the digital thread of the virtual zendo.

The winter solstice arrived last Saturday, the longest night and the shortest day, marking the year’s quiet turning point. For me, it is not a time to dwell on what has been or might come but an invitation to rest in the turning itself—a subtle shift that is always happening.

In winter, the Temple garden pares itself down to its essence. The trees shed their leaves, leaving only bare, graceful forms against the sky —stark, quiet, and profoundly beautiful. The open spaces of winter are invitations to rest, reflect, and discover what is truly essential.

As I begin creating a piece of art, I often pause to consider that I'm not just making a mark or representing a form but opening the door to a moment. In this initiatory act of creation, I enter into a dialogue with the world as it is, the timeless ground of now.

The great Zen masters taught that everything has inherent perfection. So, despite how it may sound, my art is perfect from the moment I begin.