I could write about the war, I suppose. About greedy, evil thuggery and all things Epstein. I could write about the terribleness of how it is now and what it will become. Instead I’m writing about this. It has a more hopeful ending.

One day last month I got on the freeway to go to an appointment downtown. The drive made me anxious, anxious because of LA traffic, the time of day, the miles to go, and yes, because of my age. Even before you lose the ability to do the things you’ve always done, you lose your confidence, and that’s more or less like losing everything.

But I made it there. Not on my first pass, mind you. The glass buildings had flown by so fast—all shimmer and glare—that I wasn’t sure where I was. I passed blocks lined in the tarps and tents of an urban encampment. When I turned into a parking lot to check the directions on my phone, I found a photo, an actual photo, of the building I was supposed to be at. I made a U-turn and, thank God, I recognized it.

The woman on the phone had said they had a parking garage but they also had valet parking. I pulled up to the valet stop, happy to have help.

A long time ago, I used to tell a joke about myself: “I don’t go anywhere they don’t have valet parking.” It wasn’t entirely true but it was funny. All kinds of things used to be funny.

My appointment was quick. Downstairs, I claimed my car and got in. Closing the door for me, the valet looked at me and smiled.

“Get home safe,” he said.

What a remarkable thing to say, a truly remarkable thing I can’t recall any valet attendant ever saying to me in all my carefree years of parking. Maybe that’s what people in his family said to each other every day and for good reason. A lot of people, good people, weren’t getting home safe anymore, and not because they were bad drivers. Too many dads and moms, wives and husbands, sons and daughters, kindergartners and grandparents, young people, old people,  neighbors, shopkeepers, nurses, veterans, and soldiers weren’t getting home at all.

Everywhere, every day, everyone just wants to get home, and some won’t have a home to get home to, or a  street, or a city, or a country. Where will it end?

I can’t get his words out of my mind, so I’ll give them to you.

May all beings get home safe.

Photo by Marcus Bellamy on Unsplash

There is a long-held view that at this time of year we should take stock of where we are and where we’re headed.

I subscribe to that. It’s a good time to renew our intentions and redirect our actions.

In Buddhism, “intention” refers to that part of the Eightfold Path which is called “right intention.” Right intentions are the reason we practice.

Buddha identified three kinds of skillful, or right, intentions:

1. Letting go of desire and attachment
2. Cultivating kindness instead of hatred
3. Wishing no harm to any being

These are the reasons we suffer and how we cause suffering for others, so they are important. But I suggest we be far more direct than that, far more literal in our aims.

Our intention must be to be completely, totally, wholeheartedly present in every moment of our life. You don’t have to be a Buddhist to see the merit in that. Maybe you wish you lived in the present, and hope that someday you will be better at it.

To inhabit each moment completely sounds like a tall order. You might think, Maybe buddhas can do that, but give me a break, I’m only human.

But it’s really simple. It comes down to this. To inhabit this moment right here now, you have to stay away from two things. Just two things.

1. The how come—which is you, thinking about the past.
2.The what if—which is you, thinking about the future.

Notice how often you are dividing yourself by ruminating on the past—past hurts, past events, and past people—or on the future, trying to get ahead of a possible problem, by anticipating and overthinking it. Too many of us rely on that kind of forecasting. What do I need to prepare? What do I need to prevent? We spend a lot of time trying to avoid a reality that doesn’t yet exist.

Just by doing that we lose the power of our complete, undivided attention on the present moment: the now, which is the only place and time we ever are. The whole of your life, your only life, is right here now.

Until when are you waiting?

Listen to this full dharma talk by clicking on the player below or by following this link.

We cannot attain genuine enlightenment unless we practice under an authentic teacher; we will be led to a spurious experience if we practice under a false teacher.  ― Kōun Yamada, Zen: The Authentic Gate

When I started my practice I received a very specific imprint, a very specific instruction on working with a teacher.

At that time there was no internet, no Buddhist magazines (at least that I knew of), very few books, and even fewer books that a true Zen teacher would want you to read. There were no discussion groups. There was no clinical or workplace practice called mindfulness. There was not nearly as much psychology as there is now and I wasn’t yet aware of what came to be called Buddhist or Zen psychotherapy.

So all there was to go on was . . . my teacher.

His laugh, his sigh, his bare feet walking on the wooden floor.

And it was enough. I didn’t understand what I was doing or much of anything my teacher was saying, but it didn’t diminish the power of his presence. Later on I would come to realize that what I experienced was simply the manifestation of dharma. A true Zen teacher is the manifestation of the teaching.

So what constitutes a true teacher? A teacher is one who practices with a student, and practice is what constitutes a teacher.

Later on when I was a student of Nyogen Roshi, he would explain the student-teacher relationship like this: We all start out in a pitch black room. We’re blind and we’re lost. To find the Way, you want to practice with a teacher who has been in that room with a teacher, who has been in the room with a teacher, who has been in the room with a teacher, because that’s who will lead you out.

Zen is a living practice. Person-to-person. You won’t find the living teaching in a book or in a lecture, although books and lectures can lead you to it, the way your thirst can lead you to water, the sun can lead you to shade, and the wind can lead you to shore.

This post is based on a recent dharma talk about working with a teacher. Listen to it in full right here:

Photo by Takeshi Yu on Unsplash

Here we are, in the midst of this perfect way,
and our practice is to realize it. — Maezumi Roshi

Chapin Mill Retreat
October 9-12, 2025
Register here

Every year around this time, the people who practice with me come together at Chapin Mill Retreat Center in Batavia, NY. There are many reasons we keep returning. Designed in the manner of a centuries-old Japanese Zen monastery, it is the perfect place to broaden our practice beyond the cushion. Through daily activities such as cleaning, cooking, meditative meals, and service training, we naturally extend our practice to aspects of everyday life.

But underneath all that is a more powerful reason. We want to realize our lives as perfect, and by perfect, we don’t mean without difficulty or disappointment. We don’t mean without fear or worry, or without pain, sickness, and loss. By “perfect” we mean “complete.” It’s easy to feel that our lives are inadequate, lost or shattered. We come here to sit in silent stillness and see through the broken pieces.

The three-day program includes seated and walking meditation, chanting services, Dharma talks, and private encounters with a teacher—me. Beginners are welcome. Newcomers fit in. Sitting alone and yet sitting together, we practice as one. Perhaps it’s time. It’s always time. And always healing.

It started, as most things do, with me.

I was the one who needed encouragement. After that impossible November day, it no longer mattered what I believed. It sure as hell wasn’t true.

And then the fires from nowhere swept our homes. Everywhere, disasters exploded. Before long, we were broken by sickness, stress, and the colossal weight of immoral insanity.  Alone, with no voice, no choice, and no country. Was there any way forward? Would there ever be a brighter day?

Nearly every month I gather with my fellow practitioners, the Dewdrop Sangha, on the evening of a full moon, to affirm our practice. To remember that we train for this: to face everything, for the sake of everyone, and to keep going. To reclaim the power of our presence and the scope of our responsibility. I give a talk to others but I’m talking to myself.

We can do this, together. This is the hard part, the training it takes for us to survive. I wish I could do more but this is all I have. If you’ve listened before, listen again. Listening brings us close.

On my site, you’ll see embedded players below. If you receive my blog via email without the embedded players, the links to each talk are here:

Encourage Others, Nov. 13, 2024
“I am very discouraged. What should I do?” The teacher replied, “Encourage others.”
The Lotus Blooming in the Fire, Feb. 12, 2025
We are in this together with all beings throughout all space and time.
The Dharma of Loneliness, May 12, 2025
Loneliness is a profound teaching and an opening to our own wisdom.
Everything is Mutual, July 9, 2025
Here we are, in the midst of this perfect way, and our practice is to realize it.

Everything is always with oneself at any time. — Maezumi Roshi

A fellow Zen student recently told me that she no longer felt like she fit in with her community ­of friends, neighbors, and some of her relatives. This, in spite of being a community leader, volunteer, and close with her family — a person devoted to taking care of others. But in these divisive times, she had made a conscious decision not to get caught up in the anger, chaos and craziness that seems to infect social encounters. As a result, she feels lonely at times.

Yes, we are lonely at times. We don’t always feel guided or supported. We don’t always have good friends or kind company. We may feel unseen, unloved, misunderstood, and far from home.

We can learn a lot from our loneliness. It is a profound teaching, and an opening to wisdom.

Thich Nhat Hahn called loneliness “the ill-being of our time.” He called it that 15 years ago. Imagine how much worse our loneliness is today. You don’t even have to imagine because you know.

It’s obvious that digital technology has amplified our loneliness, sadness, anger and hopelessness. It has made us sick. (I’m still blaming Steve Jobs.) Technologies, which are by definition not human, will not fulfill our need for human connection! We cannot exile ourselves to our screens and expect that we will be seen, heard, or even still be breathing. The world of Xs and Os is dead, and it deadens us. We are like zombies, and we look like zombies, scrolling, scrolling, at all times and all places scrolling, and for what? What cannot be found because we already have it. We already have a home where we belong. We are standing in it, although we are unlikely to see it as such or treat it as such.

Why abandon a seat in your own home to wander in vain through dusty regions of another land?  — Dogen Zenji 

But there is one place, one rare and precious place, where I do not feel alone or afraid or unwelcome, and that is in the presence of other people who are sitting down in a room together. Silently breathing and perfectly still. Appearing to be separate, but totally in touch not only with themselves but with everything and everyone around them. Presence is like that. Presence is everything.

In Zen we call it just sitting.

I could go on, but I’d rather invite you into my home and tell you about it. Click on this link, find a seat and keep me company for a few short minutes. Sitting down together is how we come back home to ourselves.

I don’t want to deprive anyone of that one special day to remember and appreciate mothers. But I want to talk about the days after, the days before, and the days of mothering that go unnoticed. I want to talk about the regrets, the fear, the trust, the hope, the hard lessons and the wisdom that comes to us over time. I want to talk about the rich inheritance we can leave behind for our children and their children: the treasure instilled in us by our own mother’s love.

All this in a deep and personal conversation with Allison Evans in honor of Mother’s Day and especially all the days after. Take the time to listen and know that this comes from my heart to yours.

“I know. I understand. Me too.”

Watch it here or in the player below.

Photo by Anna Zakharova on Unsplash

Among all the things people have said about Pope Francis after his death, this one summed it up for me: “He was a very decent man in an age of indecency.”

To be sure, decency is a rare thing these days. It relies on commonness. Pope Francis was a common man among common men and women. Some say he showed his nature in his modest lifestyle, eschewing fancy quarters in the papal palace for an ordinary room in the Vatican guest house. So too, in refusing a customary gold signet ring worn by previous popes and choosing a cheaper gold-plated silver one instead. Or in simplifying his funeral ceremonies and opting for a plain wooden casket. But I see it best in his shoes—ordinary black shoes with orthopedic soles. Shoes like the pope would wear if he was your grandfather. I happened to have a very decent grandfather, so I know.

I loved Pope Francis for his grandfatherly ways, and by that I mean the way he treated children, all children, like Jesus did, as if they are far holier than the holier-than-thou.

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these. — Matthew 19:14

I remember the way he stopped his motorcade in Washington DC that day ten years ago so he could take the letter held out to him by a five-year-old girl whose immigrant dad was at risk of deportation. It didn’t matter how many letters like that had been held out to him by children like her. He smiled just for her and kissed her cheek. The way he greeted a small child with Down syndrome who walked onstage during a papal address.  A child is a child, he seemed to say to those tsk-tsking the disruption, and is never a disruption. He held her hand as she sat quietly beside him and he finished his speech.

And even on what was to be his last day, when approached by the decidedly indecent and immoral American vice president, he said little but had his secretary pass along gifts for the children, yes, the children come first, and then a souvenir tie to the two-faced Vance whom he had already roundly rebuked. This was utmost decency. No guest is ever turned away.

I am not Catholic, of course, and I suppose I wouldn’t agree with much of Catholic doctrine or dogma. But I didn’t see the pope as a man of the church. I saw him as a man of God. Anyone can call himself a man of the church, but only a decent man can be a man of God. Or you might say, a buddha.

Because, you see, none of this is much different from how or why I practice my own faith, which has been summed up in a similar, simple way by Dogen Zenji, the founder of my brand of Zen:

There is a simple way to become a buddha: When you refrain from unwholesome actions, are not attached to birth and death, and are compassionate toward all sentient beings, respectful to seniors and kind to juniors, not excluding or desiring anything, with no designing thoughts or worries, you will be called a buddha. Do not seek anything else.

These shoes are empty now.

Photo by Ahmad Faiz on Unsplash