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    The Good Fit Paid Member

    On the final day of my first sesshin—a seven-day Zen meditation retreat—at the conclusion of a six-week training period, I asked the presiding teacher, Taizan Maezumi Roshi, if he would accept me as a student. Formal interactions have never come naturally to me, but I felt it important to do this with as much formality as I could muster. I went into my last dokusan—a private, highly ritualized interview with a Zen teacher—with that mix of excitement and anxiety that comes with sensing one might be about to turn a new page in one’s life. More »
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    Memo to the Sangha Paid Member

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    Beneath the Eyes of the Buddha Paid Member

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    The Body as Battleground Paid Member

    1 I dream I am descending in an old oak-paneled elevator. Suddenly I am aware of someone behind me. Tensing, I turn. A wild elfin man in a tweed suit with unkempt orange hair and a face like Mr. Punch is leering at me. I am terrified, powerless to move or cry out. My heart stops. I panic. Suddenly I wake, very weak, covered in sweat, still unable to move. Bright sunlight blurs on the edges of the window. Warm white sheets are absorbing me. More »
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    Then Events Unfold Paid Member

    Lee Mingwei is not a Buddhist. More »
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    My Father's True Nature Paid Member

    Dad’s on the left. My father was in the army of occupation in Japan from 1946 to 1947. The only reason I knew this was because he kept his green fatigue jacket hanging in the closet with its 8th Cavalry insignia and private’s stripe. I’d take it down from time to time and put it on, but it was like trying to wear a tent (still would be; he was a half-foot taller than me). He never said anything about those years. It felt to me like a forbidden topic, as if something shameful had happened there, as it had for so many veterans. But he was not a combat soldier, and he spent most of his time in Japan on one base or another (first in Tokyo, then near Mount Fuji) lying in his “sack.” So it wasn’t silence due to PTSD. More »