There is a quiet wisdom in letting life move without interference.

Each attempt to fix or manage creates another complication. When you step back, a steadier rhythm becomes clear, one that does not rely on control.

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.

One cold midwinter day, I went through my old notebooks—my collections of creative ideas, sketches, and scribbles. As I turned the pages, I was struck by the sheer volume of thoughts, half-formed concepts, and expressions.

Whenever I take a moment to sit and enjoy the beautiful Temple garden, I'm reminded of an ever-present opportunity: the transformative power of silence and stillness.

In the Temple Garden, nature invites me to leave behind the bustling world and immerse myself in the simplicity of just being. A walk in the garden is where my senses come alive, and the essence of life unfolds before me.

Living in the tranquility of a Zen Temple, enveloped by the vibrant life of the Temple garden, I am deeply moved by the perpetual cycles of the natural world. From the delicate emergence of a new leaf to the solemn decay of fallen wood, nature's symphony of birth and death, light and dark, is a constant source of inspiration for my art.