We start by offending the purists right out of the gate, my apologies.
There is no wrong way to Zen. I can already hear the tightening in some people’s throats. The defense mechanisms. The endless rulebooks of lineage and form and protocol stacking up like bricks in a monastery wall. But here’s the thing: walls are for monasteries. Walls are not for reality. Zen is not fragile. Zen does not need you to protect it. Zen has survived centuries of human hands, both clumsy and wise, and it will survive us too. Every time we try to codify it, we misunderstand it. Every time we say, “This is how it must be done,” we subtly push it away. Because Zen isn’t something you do. It’s not a ritual you master. It’s not an aesthetic you curate. Zen is presence. And presence meets you where you are. When I first stumbled into Zen, I did it the wrong way. I read books. I argued with people on forums. I bought the wrong cushions. My posture was embarrassing. My breathing was chaotic. My mind was a hurricane. I thought the goal was to crush the hurricane. To finally arrive at some perfect stillness that would signal my entry into the spiritual club. But the storm wasn’t the problem. My expectation was. Zen wasn’t waiting for me to conquer my mind. It was waiting for me to sit inside it. The storm was my practice. The discomfort was my teacher. My flailing attempts weren’t failures, they were the door. People come to me now, years later, asking for advice. They ask: “How should I sit? How long should I sit? Should I use incense? Should I recite a koan? Am I breathing correctly? Am I doing it wrong?” And I always say the same thing: If you are here, you are doing it right. The forms can help. The rituals can anchor. The cushions, the bells, the incense, they’re beautiful tools. But they are not the Dharma. The Dharma is: this moment. This breath. This awkwardness. This resistance. This ache in your lower back. This flicker of doubt. You do not need to perfect it. You need to sit inside it. I used to be obsessed with getting it right. I wanted my practice to look like the photographs: candlelight flickering against polished wood, a perfectly centered zafu, my spine a proud column of Zen authority. I thought enlightenment was something I could construct like a bookshelf from IKEA, follow the instructions, tighten the bolts, admire my handiwork. But then grief arrived. And grief doesn’t care how straight your spine is. When Joel died, everything collapsed. The rituals felt hollow. The forms felt irrelevant. My mind was a raw nerve. And that’s when I met the real teacher. I sat in silence, not because I was virtuous, but because I was shattered. I couldn’t perform Zen anymore. I could only survive it. That was the turning point. Zen isn’t something you perform. It’s something you survive. It’s the art of staying conscious inside the breaking. Some people chant. Some people sit. Some people walk. Some people cry. Some people scream into the void and call it prayer. All of it belongs. You can find Zen in a monastery. You can find Zen in a hospital waiting room. You can find Zen in the grocery store. You can find Zen while washing dishes. You can find Zen at 3am when grief knocks on your chest like a drunk neighbor who won’t leave. Zen shows up whenever you are fully here. The moment we start arguing over methods, we miss it. There’s a certain type of person who wants Zen to be neat. They want robes and ranks and credentials. They want certifications. They want a box to put it in. Because boxes feel safe. They give us the illusion of mastery. But Zen laughs at our boxes. The mountain doesn’t care if you call yourself a monk. The river doesn’t care if your lineage is authentic. The breath doesn’t care if you’re “ready.” Zen is not interested in your credentials. Zen is interested in your presence. There is no wrong way to Zen because Zen is not a way. It is the absence of way. It is not something you enter. It’s something you notice was already here. Even now, reading these words, you’re already in it. The tightness in your stomach? The slight pressure behind your eyes? The way your mind just drifted off mid-sentence? That’s all Zen. That’s the koan you’re living right now. Are you here? That’s the question. That’s always the question. I still sit on my cushion most mornings. Not because I’m earning merit. Not because I’m climbing some ladder of awakening. I sit because it’s where I meet myself. I sit to listen for that hum beneath the hum. Sometimes I pray the Rosary afterward. Sometimes I walk these Colorado mountains and let the silence wrap around me. Sometimes I fall apart. Sometimes I don’t. It’s all practice. When people come to me now, I don’t give them instructions. I give them permission. Permission to be awkward. Permission to be inconsistent. Permission to fail beautifully. Because there is no wrong way to Zen. If you’re breathing, you’re practicing. If you’re hurting, you’re practicing. If you’re doubting, you’re practicing. If you’re clinging, you’re practicing. If you’re letting go, you’re practicing. The mountain doesn’t care if you bow correctly. The mountain cares if you show up. And if you do? That’s enough. Always enough.