Who Untangle The Tangles - a Mono- Print, Printed in Sendai, Japan.

The Declaration: A Lifetime in Search of Truth

Consciousness, Surrender, and the Making of a Servant of Allah

“I stand to be corrected where I am wrong and pointed in the direction of the truth that I professed.”

There are declarations we make in passing, and there are those that accompany us throughout our lives, evolving as we grow in experience and understanding. This is one of mine.

I AM DIVINE CONSCIOUSNESS IN AN INFINITE FIELD OF CONSCIOUSNESS MANIFESTING IN THIS HUMAN FORM.

I AM WHOLE, COMPLETE AND PERFECT, STRONG AND POWERFUL, LOVING AND COMPASSIONATE, HARMONIOUS AND HAPPY, AND I CAN DO WHAT I WILL TO DO, INSHA'ALLAH!

I AM THAT I AM.

I surrender my Heart and Soul before the Lord of Mercy, the Lord of Creation, and the Lord of the Universe, Allah Azzawajal.

Salam and good morning!

I first encountered the original form of this declaration when I was in my twenties, after reading The Master Key by Charles F. Haanel. What began as an affirmation has accompanied me through the years, gradually evolving as I grew older and, I would like to think, wiser.

Life has introduced me to great minds in many forms and circumstances. Some lessons came through books, others through people, travel, solitude, suffering, meditation, and the unexpected encounters that have so often shaped my understanding of the world.

Yet, despite all that I have experienced and learned, I remain conscious of how far I may still be from the Truth I seek.

This morning, after sitting in meditation and reciting verses from the Quran in an attempt to quiet the incessant chatter of the mind, I found myself returning to this declaration. I wrote it down, not because I believe my search is complete, but because it continues to express the direction in which I aspire to travel.

My heart yearns to experience what my mind has learned, and I wish to purify my intentions and character so that I may become a more sincere servant of my Lord.

That, perhaps, is the real journey.

The Question of Divine Consciousness

When I declare that I am Divine Consciousness manifesting in human form, what exactly am I saying?

Is this an assertion about the ultimate nature of existence, or is it an attempt to express an experience in which the boundaries separating oneself from the rest of existence seem to dissolve?

The distinction is worth examining.

In Advaita Vedanta, we encounter the teaching Tat Tvam Asi — Thou art That — expressing the essential identity of Atman and Brahman.

Buddhism, through its teaching of Anatta, challenges the assumption that there exists a permanent, independent self at the heart of our experience.

In the mystical traditions of Islam, we encounter fana, commonly understood as the passing away of the ego's claim to independent existence, alongside the profound contemplation of divine nearness.

These traditions are not identical, and their differences deserve our respect. Nevertheless, each offers a way of questioning the assumptions we ordinarily make about ourselves and our place in existence.

But an experience, however profound, does not automatically settle the philosophical questions surrounding it.

Perhaps we must distinguish between experiencing the dissolution of the separate self and concluding that the individual self is identical with God.

In Islam, Allah is the Creator, and creation is dependent upon Him. The experience of divine nearness does not, in mainstream Islamic understanding, erase the distinction between the Creator and the created.

For me, this is not a reason to abandon inquiry. It is a reason to proceed with greater care.

I Am That I Am

The declaration I Am That I Am is associated with God's revelation to Moses in Exodus 3:14.

In contemplating such words, we must be careful not to assume that the same expression carries the same meaning in every religious or philosophical tradition.

As a Muslim, I surrender my heart and soul to Allah Subhanahu wa Ta'ala, the Lord of Mercy and the Lord of all Creation.

I may contemplate consciousness, explore the nature of the self, and seek to understand the mystery of existence. But I must also recognise the limits of my understanding.

There is a difference between declaring oneself to be God and acknowledging one's dependence upon God.

There is also a difference between intellectual knowledge of surrender and the actual practice of surrender in daily life.

The former can be expressed in a sentence. The latter may require a lifetime.

Whole, Complete and Perfect?

My declaration also states that I am whole, complete and perfect.

But what does perfection mean when applied to a human being?

I know that I am capable of making mistakes, misunderstanding others, and acting in ways that fall short of my own ideals. No amount of reading, meditation, or spiritual contemplation makes me immune to human limitations.

Perhaps wholeness does not mean being without imperfections.

Perhaps it means acknowledging our imperfections without denying our dignity, accepting responsibility for our mistakes, and remaining willing to learn.

We can aspire to be loving and compassionate without pretending that we are always so. We can cultivate strength without confusing strength with control over every circumstance. We can seek happiness without demanding that life unfold according to our wishes.

And when I say, "I can do what I will to do, Insha'Allah," those final words matter.

I can choose my intentions, make my efforts, and take responsibility for my actions. I cannot guarantee every outcome.

Insha'Allah reminds me that my will operates within circumstances beyond my control, and that humility has a rightful place alongside determination.

The Mind Learns, the Heart Recognises

Over the years, I have come to appreciate the distinction between knowing something intellectually and embodying it in one's life.

The mind can learn about compassion, but the heart must express it in our dealings with others.

The mind can study forgiveness, but life may confront us with experiences that reveal how difficult forgiveness can be.

The mind can read about surrender, but it is through the circumstances of our lives that we discover how deeply we remain attached to our expectations, our opinions, and our sense of self.

And the mind can study silence without necessarily becoming silent.

This morning, my recitation of the Quran was an attempt to quiet the chattering mind and return my attention to something greater than its endless stream of thoughts.

Perhaps the purpose is not to wage war against thought, but to learn how to return, patiently and sincerely, to remembrance.

The thoughts may come and go. What matters is the intention with which we return to our practice and the manner in which that practice informs our lives.

Nor should spiritual development become another ambition of the ego, forever measuring how far we have travelled and how much further we must go.

There may be wisdom in continuing the journey without constantly demanding evidence of our progress.

Fana, Anatta and the Search for Truth

In my continuing explorations of spiritual philosophy, I have found myself returning to questions concerning the witness, the witnessed, and the nature of the one who claims to be experiencing them.

Who is the one who observes the mind?

What happens when the distinction between the observer and the observed becomes less definite in experience?

And what happens when even the identity of the spiritual seeker becomes an object of examination?

Our earlier conversations about fana, anatta, and the mystic Al-Niffari brought these questions into focus.

Yet I must remain cautious. Similarities between spiritual experiences do not establish that different traditions ultimately teach the same doctrine.

Nor can I claim that an experience of selflessness proves any particular metaphysical conclusion.

Perhaps the value of these inquiries lies partly in their ability to loosen the certainty with which we cling to our assumptions.

There is a humility in acknowledging that an experience may be deeply meaningful without our fully understanding what it means.

And perhaps that humility is itself an important part of the search.

Becoming a Servant of the Lord

Ultimately, my aspiration is not merely to accumulate spiritual experiences or intellectual knowledge.

I wish to become a more sincere servant of Allah.

But what might that entail?

It may mean acknowledging a mistake without allowing pride to prevent me from admitting it.

It may mean treating another person with compassion even when I disagree with them.

It may mean accepting that I can be wrong, that my knowledge is incomplete, and that my intentions do not always produce the results I hope for.

It may mean learning to distinguish between defending an opinion and defending the truth.

And it may mean recognizing that the worth of a spiritual declaration cannot be measured by the grandeur of its words alone.

Whatever I claim to understand about consciousness, surrender, or the nature of existence, I must still return to the ordinary circumstances of daily life, where patience, honesty, humility, and compassion are tested.

I cannot claim spiritual attainment merely because I have contemplated spiritual truths.

I can only continue to examine myself, correct my errors, and strive to live according to what I sincerely believe to be right.

As for whether I have drawn closer to the Truth, I leave that question open.

I would not presume to declare that I have arrived, nor would I dismiss the journey simply because its destination remains uncertain.

Wallahu Alam — Allah knows best.

A Declaration Still Evolving

Perhaps this declaration has accompanied me for so many years because its meaning has never remained fixed.

The young man who first encountered its original form in The Master Key could not have understood it in precisely the same way as the older man who now sits in meditation, recites the Quran, and reflects upon the lessons of a lifetime.

The words remain, but the person contemplating them has changed.

And so the declaration continues to evolve.

I shall retain my conviction, but hold it with humility. I shall continue to explore the nature of consciousness, but distinguish my experiences from the conclusions I draw from them. I shall continue to seek knowledge, but remember that knowledge alone does not guarantee wisdom.

Above all, I shall continue striving to become a more sincere servant of my Lord.

Perhaps the next step is to hold the first declaration lightly while devoting myself wholeheartedly to the second.

Not because the question has been settled, but because the inquiry itself may help me live more faithfully.

And so I return to the words with which I began:

"I stand to be corrected where I am wrong and pointed in the direction of the truth that I professed."

For what is the value of professing the Truth if I am unwilling to examine my understanding of it?

What is the value of knowledge if it does not lead me towards greater humility?

And what is the value of a lifetime spent seeking wisdom if I cannot acknowledge how much remains unknown?

I do not offer these reflections as the final word on consciousness, God, or the human condition. They are simply a record of where my journey has brought me this morning.

The search continues.

Allah is Allah, and I am His servant.

Alhamdulillah.

Salam and Gasho.

---

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The Devil Is in the Details A Husband's Reflections on Love, Faith, Family, and the Choices We Cannot Undo

 

The Devil Is in the Details

A Husband's Reflections on Love, Faith, Family, and the Choices We Cannot Undo

Some decisions are made with the best of intentions, only for us to discover, years later, the price paid by those who shared our journey.

Looking back over the years, I have come to question one of the most consequential decisions I ever made: moving my family from Japan back to Malaysia, and eventually settling in Kuala Terengganu.

At the time, I believed I was doing what was best for all of us. Today, I am no longer quite so certain.

This is not an attempt to rewrite my past or find someone to blame. It is an attempt to understand the choices I made, the consequences we lived with, and the woman who shared that journey with me.

Perhaps it is time to call a spade a spade.

 

 

Japan: Nancy in Her Element

For Nancy, living in Japan was living in her element. She thrived as a language teacher and as a mother. She could communicate naturally with our children, participate fully in their lives, and function in a society whose language and customs she understood.

I, on the other hand, was struggling.

One night, while trying to put the children to bed, my daughter kept whining. I lost my temper and yelled at her, "Shut up!"

From the other side of the room, her brother said something to the effect of, "All she is asking for is some water."

I gave her the drink, and she fell asleep almost immediately.

I broke into tears.

It was not the incident itself that overwhelmed me. It was the realisation that I could not understand my own children when they communicated with me in Japanese.

Nancy was already carrying the responsibilities of motherhood. To have to raise children in a country where her husband could not understand their language was, I imagine, another burden she had to bear. But that night, I was confronted with my own helplessness.

Something had to change. I could not imagine continuing this way indefinitely.

I began thinking about our children's future, our future as a family, and the world in which they would grow up. I worried that they would become increasingly detached from their Malaysian roots, without the familiar company of aunts, uncles, cousins, and Muslim friends. I had always assumed that we would raise our children as Muslims, and I wondered how that part of their upbringing would unfold in Japan.

Perhaps my outlook was naive. Perhaps I was thinking more about my own difficulties than about what Nancy and the children stood to lose. At the time, however, I believed that returning to Malaysia would benefit us all.

I made up my mind.

                                                                       In Loving Memory
 

The Decision to Return

As chance would have it, my eldest brother visited us in Japan for a few days. He was then the Inspector of Schools in Terengganu and could recommend Nancy for a teaching position there.

I believe his presence and encouragement helped persuade Nancy to consider the move, perhaps even more than my own arguments had done.

I cannot remember Nancy openly protesting the decision. Returning to the United States was not an option we were considering, and with the prospect of employment in Terengganu, the move seemed practical.

There was, however, another consideration. Nancy's employer in Japan offered to almost double her salary if she agreed to stay.

That detail has remained with me.

She was valued in her profession. She had established herself in an environment where she could flourish. There was a real opportunity for her to continue the life she had built.

And yet we left.

I cannot honestly say how Nancy felt about the decision. I remember no open protest, but silence is not necessarily agreement, and the absence of an argument does not tell us everything about what a person is feeling.

What I know is that I was returning to my own country, while Nancy was leaving hers.

At the time, I did not fully appreciate the difference.

Terengganu: The Price We Paid

In retrospect, I believe moving to Kuala Terengganu was a serious mistake for our family.

Nancy continued teaching, doing the work she loved, but she also had to contend with envy and peer pressures in her workplace. The professional environment was not necessarily the welcoming place I had imagined it would be.

Our children faced their own difficulties. Having already adjusted to life in Japan, they now had to learn another language and adapt to another culture. At times, they were bullied severely by children whose attitudes, as I remember them, reflected the narrow-mindedness and insensitivity of a kampung mentality.

I watched these things unfold and often felt trapped and helpless.

I had brought my family back to a place I knew, believing that familiarity, culture, and extended family would offer us a more secure foundation. Instead, we encountered difficulties I had not adequately anticipated.

Then there was my own family.

Initially, my brothers and sisters were warm and responsive. But as the years passed, that warmth seemed to fade. When Nancy began to fall ill, none of them came forward in the way I had hoped they would to lend a helping hand.

I had imagined that being near family would mean having family to lean on when life became difficult.

That was not how things turned out.

I felt increasingly alone in carrying the responsibilities of my household, caring for my wife, and looking after our children.

Terengganu, which I had believed would be a place of belonging, became a place where I often felt powerless.

We paid dearly for the choice I had made.

                                                Mukaiyama YoChien - Kindergaten
 

The Penang State Religious Department

There is another episode from that period that hurt me deeply, and I cannot reflect on our family life without remembering it.

I wanted to convert my whole family to Islam. It was something deeply meaningful to me, and I believed we could make this transition together.

The process took us to the Penang State Religious Department.

For three days, we made repeated trips between our hotel and the religious department, trying to get everything done. What I had assured Nancy would be a straightforward process turned into an exhausting and discouraging experience.

One night, Nancy cried in bed.

"You told me that it was all going to be easy and that we will be well received!"

I had no comforting explanation to offer her. All I could say was:

"Allah is a Great Tester. He tests your faith."

That was my answer then.

Today, I look back on that moment with mixed feelings.

I believed in what I was saying. My faith taught me that difficulties could be tests of patience and conviction. Yet Nancy was the one lying there in tears, confronted with an experience very different from what I had promised her.

I had told her that we would be welcomed. I had assured her that things would be easy. The reality had proved otherwise.

Perhaps I was so caught up in the significance of what I wanted us to accomplish that I failed to appreciate how the experience was affecting her.

Faith can help us endure hardship, but it does not excuse us from recognising the hardship our decisions impose on others. Nor does every obstacle necessarily have to be interpreted as a test sent by God. Sometimes, we must also examine the shortcomings of the people and institutions involved, and our own expectations.

I cannot go back to that hotel room and give Nancy a different answer.

But I can acknowledge her disappointment now, without dismissing it or trying to explain it away.

The Devil Is in the Details

I have often reflected on the saying that the Devil is in the details.

We make grand plans. We imagine a better future. We tell ourselves that our intentions are good and that the sacrifices we ask of others will eventually prove worthwhile.

But life does not unfold according to our intentions alone.

The details are where our plans meet reality: the language we cannot understand, the child who is bullied, the wife who struggles to find her place in a new society, the professional opportunities left behind, the relatives who are absent when help is needed, and the tears of someone who trusted our assurances.

These are not minor details. They are the lives of the people we love.

I returned to Malaysia because I believed I was doing what was best for my family. I wanted my children to belong, to grow up connected to their roots, and to have a future shaped by the culture and faith that mattered to me.

But perhaps I underestimated what Nancy would lose by leaving Japan. Perhaps I overestimated what my homeland and extended family could offer us. Perhaps, in trying to solve the difficulties I was experiencing, I failed to see the difficulties my decision would create for those closest to me.

I cannot say with certainty what would have happened had we stayed in Japan. We might have faced other problems. Life there would not necessarily have been without hardship.

Nor can I claim to know exactly how Nancy understood the move, or what she would say about it today.

What I can say is that, looking back, I see the decision differently.

I see a man who believed he was making a good choice but who did not fully understand its consequences. I see a woman who had found her element in Japan and who had to establish herself again in a different world. I see children who were asked to make yet another adjustment. And I see a family that encountered hardships I had hoped to spare them.

My intentions were sincere. That does not mean my judgment was always sound.

Looking Back Without Whitewashing the Past

I am no longer interested in whitewashing my life or making every decision appear wise simply because I was the one who made it.

I would rather acknowledge my mistakes than spend the remainder of my days defending them.

But I must also be careful not to make myself responsible for everything that went wrong. I did not control the behaviour of Nancy's colleagues, the bullying our children experienced, or the choices my relatives made when we needed help.

Responsibility is not the same as omnipotence. I made the decision to move, but I could not foresee or control every consequence.

What pains me most is the possibility that, in trying to bring my family closer to the life I believed was right for us, I took Nancy away from a life in which she had been able to flourish.

I wish I had understood more at the time.

I wish I had been better able to see the situation through her eyes.

And I wish that, when the difficulties came, the family support I had counted on had been there for us.

But wishes cannot alter history.

Nancy passed away in 2008, following the rapid onset of dementia. I cannot know whether our decision to leave Japan had any bearing on the course of her life or whether things would have been different had we stayed. I will not pretend to know what cannot be known.

What remains is the memory of the woman I loved, the life we shared, the children we raised, and the choices we made along the way.

Perhaps the most honest thing I can do now is to tell our story without making myself its hero, without making Nancy a silent supporting character, and without pretending that good intentions guarantee good outcomes.

She had her own hopes, her own abilities, and her own struggles. Her experience deserves to be remembered alongside mine.

If there is a lesson in all this, perhaps it is that love requires more than wanting what we believe is best for another person. It requires listening, understanding, and recognising that the life we imagine for someone may not be the life in which that person can flourish.

And perhaps wisdom comes when we finally learn to distinguish between what we intended and what actually happened.

I cannot undo the past. I can only look at it honestly, learn what I can, and leave an account for those who may one day find themselves facing similar crossroads.

For better or worse, this was our life.

And the Devil is most assuredly in the details!

---

A Final Reflection

We make our choices with the understanding we possess at the time. Years later, experience may reveal what we could not see then.

The challenge is to acknowledge our mistakes without becoming prisoners of regret, to accept responsibility without claiming responsibility for everything, and to remember those we loved as whole human beings whose hopes and disappointments mattered as much as our own.

Perhaps this, too, is part of the practice: to see clearly, to speak honestly, and to let the past teach us without allowing it to consume us.

Gassho. Salam.

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Nancy, Fancy, Schmency! - My Wife.

  

Nancy, Fancy, Schmency!

The Woman I Grew to Love

I am through with whitewashing my life. At this stage of my journey, I see little point in dressing up the truth to make myself look better than I was. A spade is a spade, and if I am to tell my story, I might as well tell it as it happened.

I met Nancy at 191 Haight Street in San Francisco in 1989, through my friend and Dharma Brother, David Carlson. At the time, Nancy had no intention of marrying me. As for me, I was not exactly swept off my feet by her outward appearance when we first met. I have already confessed that much.

But life has a peculiar sense of humour. By the time I finally got around to marrying Nancy, our son arrived just ten days after the wedding date!

That was my Nancy, Fancy, Schmency!

Ours was not a fairy-tale romance, and we certainly had our share of difficult days. There were times when we struggled to understand one another and when our marriage needed help. We even sought the counsel of the late Blanche Hartman, who would later become Abbess of the San Francisco Zen Center. Blanche was a remarkable woman, and I remain grateful that we had someone of her understanding to turn to during those difficult times.

Looking back, I believe our move to Sendai, Japan, helped save our marriage and gave our two children a better chance to grow up within a family that was finding its way again.

Nancy was a workaholic, a woman of tremendous determination and intellectual ability. She held a master's degree in Linguistics, and while living in Japan, she went on to acquire a qualification to teach Japanese as well. She was never one to sit idle. There was always something to learn, something to accomplish, or someone who needed her attention.

 

Yet it was not her academic qualifications that made Nancy special.

She was soft-spoken and possessed one of the warmest demeanours I have ever encountered. Her gentleness was not a weakness. It was simply the way she moved through the world. Her students in the United States, Japan, and later Malaysia adored her. They saw something in her that went beyond the lessons she taught in the classroom.

And so did I, eventually.

                                             Nancy and Karim at Golden Gate Park,SF
 

I loved Nancy as I got to know her. That distinction matters to me. My love did not arise from some instantaneous enchantment with physical beauty. It grew through the years, through shared experiences, through our struggles and reconciliations, through the raising of our children, and through the gradual discovery of the person who lived beneath the surface.

I came to see a beauty in Nancy that I had not recognised when we first met.

Indeed, I might even say that I helped draw that beauty out, just as she undoubtedly brought out parts of me that might otherwise have remained undiscovered. Perhaps that is one of the things two people can do for each other when they are willing to stay, to learn, and to keep trying, even when the going gets rough.

I make no claim that I was an ideal husband, nor would I pretend that Nancy was an ideal wife. We were two human beings trying to make a life together, carrying our respective histories, shortcomings, expectations, and dreams.

We got things wrong. We had difficult days. But we also built a family, travelled across countries, raised two children, and shared a life that I would not exchange for a more polished story.

Nancy passed away in 2008, in Illinois, after the rapid onset of dementia. Her passing left a space in my life that no words can adequately describe.

She is no longer here to hear me call her Nancy, Fancy, Schmency, or to respond with whatever expression she might have given me on that particular day.

But I can still speak of her.

I can remember the woman her students adored, the determined scholar who continued learning, the gentle soul whose warmth touched the lives of so many people, and the wife whose beauty revealed itself to me over the years.

                                           Hanging out at Stinson Beach, Marin County, Ca.  
 

And I can say, without hesitation, that I loved her, that I will always love her, and that I remain grateful for the life we shared.

Perhaps the greatest lesson Nancy taught me was not through any deliberate instruction. It was through the experience of living together, with all its imperfections, until I learned to see her more clearly.

When we first met, I thought I was looking at a woman whose beauty was difficult to recognise.

I was wrong.

Her beauty was there all along. I simply had to learn how to see it.

And once I did, I never stopped loving her.

#NancyFancySchmency #NancyAndMe #LoveAndMarriage #LifeWithoutWhitewash #TheBeautyWithin #LessonsInLove #SanFranciscoMemories #191HaightStreet #BlancheHartman #SanFranciscoZenCenter #LifeJourney #LoveBeyondDeath #PersonalMemoir #CheeseburgerBuddha 

A Studio in San Francisco, an Earthquake, and a Sketchbook

                                     Where it all Happened.

3435 Army Street, San Francisco

The building was documented as an artist live/work complex with 36 live/work spaces. That supports your recollection of the location as an artists' studio building, although it doesn't establish your individual participation.

 

A Studio in San Francisco, an Earthquake, and a Sketchbook

October 1989 — A Memory Reawakened

Sometimes, all it takes is a photograph of an old building to open a door to the past.

Recently, I began looking into the history of the San Francisco Open Studios art exhibition of 1989. The reason was a forthcoming Penang Open Studio event, which prompted me to wonder whether my own experience in San Francisco might offer an interesting point of reference. Was the 1989 event among the first of its kind, and might there still be a record of my participation?

I was sharing a studio with an artist named Rory M. Mohr, who, as I recall, rented the premises in his name. Our studio was in the former Sears Roebuck building at the corner of Army Street and Mission Street, a building whose ground floor had been converted into an unemployment office.

I remember visitors coming through our studio, and I still have my sketchbook containing their names, addresses, and signatures, dated October 14 and 15, 1989. Unfortunately, the handwriting is often so tiny that deciphering it under poor lighting is quite a challenge. Nevertheless, the sketchbook remains a little time capsule of those two days.

San Francisco Open Studios had begun in 1975, so by 1989 the event was already an established part of the city's artistic life. My participation belonged to that continuing tradition, and now, thirty-seven years later, the prospect of an Open Studio event in Penang has brought those memories back to the surface.

But the building holds another memory, one far more dramatic than an art exhibition.

The Day the Earth Moved

At the time, I was working as a produce buyer for a company called Del Tomaso. My working hours were somewhat unusual. I would leave for work around midnight, drive my truck across the Bay, deliver and unload produce at a supermarket, and return home sometime in the late afternoon or evening.

On October 17, 1989, I had returned to the building and decided to lie down for a nap.

Then it happened.

The first thing I remember was a loud crack, like a gunshot. Another followed as the building began to shake. I later learned that the joints in the drywall had split under the strain.

Then came the incident with the hook.

Water pipes were suspended from the ceiling by metal hooks. As the building moved violently, the pipes began to undulate, and the hooks were shooting out of the ceiling.

One of them struck the concrete floor about a foot from where I stood, leaving a small crater.

I had paused beneath a doorway when the shaking began. At the time, it seemed a natural place to take refuge. Only afterwards did I realise that the doorway was merely a makeshift frame, not the substantial structure I had imagined it to be.

Had I not paused there, the falling hook might have struck me.

Yikes!

I was fortunate, to say the least.

Then came a sound I shall never forget: a tremendous roar, like a locomotive racing wildly towards the building.

The lights went out.

Silence.

A woman from the neighbouring premises came and stood beside me beneath the doorway. We remained there together as the building settled around us.

Then the lights went out.

Silence.

And from somewhere in another room came the cry of a child.

That cry, breaking the silence in the darkness, added an eerie quality to an already unsettling experience. For those few moments, we were left with our own thoughts and whatever sounds might emerge from the darkness.

A telephone rang.

The woman hurried away to answer it, then returned with an extraordinary account from her friend in Tokyo, Japan, who had been watching the World Series between San Francisco and Oakland on television.

According to her friend, the television coverage, which included aerial images from the Goodyear blimp covering the game, showed the damage to the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, where a section of the upper deck had collapsed onto the deck below.

While my neighbor's friend watched events unfold from the other side of the Pacific, we had experienced the earthquake from inside that building in San Francisco.

Two people, separated by an ocean, connected by a telephone call and an event neither could have anticipated.

  

Damage of the Nimitz Freeway.  

Walking Through a Changed City

Eventually, I left the building and began walking towards Haight Street.

I remember making my way down Valencia Street towards Market Street. Car alarms were still screaming, and dogs were barking. The familiar city had become an unsettling place, its ordinary sounds transformed by the aftermath of the earthquake.

I was heading towards 191 Haight Street, where my late wife, Nancy, lived with my very close friend David Carlson and seven or eight other people.

Nancy is no longer with us, but memories of the life we shared continue to surface in the most unexpected ways.

At the time, I could not have imagined that, decades later, a photograph of my old studio building would bring the entire episode back to me.

I had originally been looking for a record of an art exhibition. Instead, I found myself remembering the work I did, the people I knew, the building in which I lived, and the day the earth moved beneath my feet.

And that is the curious nature of memory. We may set out looking for one thing and discover something else entirely.

The Sketchbook Remains

My old sketchbook still contains the names and signatures of people who visited the studio on October 14 and 15, 1989. Their handwriting may be difficult to decipher, and I may never identify every person who came through our door, but the record remains.

Perhaps that is enough.

An artist's sketchbook is more than a place for drawings. It can become an unintended archive of a life: a record of places visited, people encountered, and moments that might otherwise disappear.

Now, with a Penang Open Studio event on the horizon, I find myself looking back at San Francisco and the experience I had there in 1989.

I wonder what stories the participating artists in Penang will one day tell about their own beginnings, their studios, and the people who walked through their doors.

For my part, I have a building, a sketchbook, a falling hook, a woman answering a telephone, and a city full of car alarms and barking dogs.

And I have another story waiting to be told.

For after leaving the studio, I walked towards Haight Street, where Nancy and David were living.

But that, as they say, is another episode.

To be continued…

---

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#SanFrancisco #SanFranciscoOpenStudios #OpenStudios #LomaPrietaEarthquake #October1989 #ArtistsLife #ArtistSketchbook #LifeMemories #VisualMemoir #NancyAndMe #DavidCarlson #PenangArt #PenangOpenStudio #ArtAndMemory #TheWanderingArtist

The Imperturbable Mind - Fudōshin, the Empty Mirror, and the Circle of Life

 

The Imperturbable Mind

Fudōshin, the Empty Mirror, and the Circle of Life

Salam and Gasho.

This morning, while contemplating the Japanese concept of Fudōshin — the “immovable” or “imperturbable mind” — I suddenly remembered a question once asked of me by my first Zen teacher, Junpo Dennis Kelly:

“What is the Imperturbable Mind?”

I never felt that I had adequately answered him.

Perhaps I wasn't supposed to.

The question remained with me for years, like a kōan carried quietly somewhere inside.

And now, after all these years, the word Fudōshin seems to have brought that old question back to the surface.

So what is Fudōshin?

The literal meaning is something like “unmoving mind” or “immovable heart-mind.” But it does not mean becoming emotionally frozen, insensitive, or incapable of being disturbed.

Rather, it suggests a mind that does not become possessed by whatever arises within it.

Fear may arise.

Anger may arise.

Desire may arise.

Confusion may arise.

But the mind does not have to become their servant.

Perhaps the simplest image is that of an empty mirror.

The mirror reflects whatever appears before it.

A beautiful face appears — it reflects.

An ugly face appears — it reflects.

Sunrise appears — it reflects.

A storm appears — it reflects.

The mirror does not cling to the beautiful image or reject the ugly one. And when the image disappears, it does not try to hold onto it.

It simply reflects what is.

But there is an important subtlety here.

The mirror does not have to try to be empty.

It doesn't say:

“I must now become an imperturbable mirror.”

That would already be another disturbance.

It simply reflects.

And perhaps that is where Fudōshin and the “Imperturbable Mind” begin to meet.

 

 

---

Musashi and the Mind in the Face of Death

This becomes especially interesting when we consider Miyamoto Musashi, the legendary Japanese swordsman.

Imagine standing opposite an opponent, katana in hand, both knowing that the next movement may determine everything.

What happens to the mind?

Suddenly it begins its endless commentary:

What is he going to do?

Will I be fast enough?

What if I lose?

I must win.

I must not be afraid.

What if he attacks from the left?

And now there are two opponents:

the person standing before you, and the turbulence taking place inside your own mind.

Perhaps this is what makes Fudōshin so important to the warrior.

The enemy is not necessarily the mind itself.

The enemy is becoming entangled in the movements of the mind.

Fear appears — see it.

Thought appears — see it.

The opponent moves — see it.

There is no need for an internal committee meeting before responding!

The trained swordsman has cultivated a mind capable of seeing and responding without being trapped by excessive thought.

The sword may move.

The feet may move.

The opponent may move.

Everything may move.

Yet something remains still.

That is the paradox of Fudōshin.

The mind is not still because nothing is happening.

It is still because it is not grasping, resisting, or becoming lost in what is happening.

 

 

---

Then My Teacher's Question Returned

And this brought me back to Junpo's question:

“What is the Imperturbable Mind?”

Perhaps, when I was younger, I thought I had to discover an answer.

Maybe I needed to become calm enough, disciplined enough, spiritual enough to finally understand it.

But perhaps that was already the misunderstanding.

If I say:

“I must become imperturbable,”

I have created another “I” whose job is to defend itself from disturbance.

And then something rather absurd happens.

I become disturbed by the possibility of being disturbed!

Perhaps the kōan was never asking me for a philosophical definition.

Perhaps it was asking me to look directly.

What happens when fear arises?

What happens when desire arises?

What happens when anger arises?

What happens when the mind becomes confused?

Can I see these things without immediately becoming them?

And then another question appears:

Who is the one who is watching?

There it is again.

The kōan.

---

The Empty Mirror

Perhaps the answer is not to become a mind that can never be disturbed.

Perhaps it is to become like an empty mirror.

The mirror doesn't suppress what appears.

It doesn't argue with it.

It doesn't cling to it.

It doesn't say:

“This image is good; I want to keep it.”

or

“This image is bad; I must get rid of it.”

It simply reflects.

And when the image is gone, the mirror does not mourn its absence.

Perhaps this is what Fudōshin points toward:

not the absence of movement, but the absence of unnecessary attachment to movement.

And perhaps the deepest form of this realization is when there is no longer a separate “me” standing behind the mirror saying:

“Look how well I am reflecting.”

There is simply seeing.

There is simply what is.

 

---

And Then We Come Home

But there is another lesson here that I find strangely comforting.

Fudōshin does not mean escaping ordinary life.

It does not mean becoming some solemn spiritual statue sitting permanently beneath a Bodhi tree.

The mirror reflects the sunrise.

It also reflects the rain.

It reflects the beautiful.

It reflects the ridiculous.

It reflects the sacred and the mundane.

And suddenly, after all this discussion about Musashi, Zen, Fudōshin, the witness, consciousness and the empty mirror...

I have to go to the toilet.

Such is life.

😂

Perhaps that is the final lesson.

Back home in the Circle of Life, dancing in the wind and wondering if there is a toilet nearby.

No problem.

No grand spiritual conclusion required.

The wind blows.

The body moves.

The mind thinks.

The mirror reflects.

Life happens.

Such Is.

And perhaps that is enough.

Gasho.

The Japan That Was Already Waiting

 

                                                                      Kinkasan Island.

 It is strange how life sometimes brings us back to places we had already visited in our imagination.

Japan had fascinated me since childhood, beginning with Zatoichi, the blind swordsman. At that age, I knew very little about Japan, let alone Zen Buddhism, or the philosophy hidden beneath some of its traditions like Shintoism. I simply knew that something about that mysterious world had captured my imagination.

Much later, while working as a librarian at the University of Wisconsin–Green Bay, I stumbled upon the work of Katsushika Hokusai in the form of Hokusai's Manga or comic books.

Hokusai opened another door.

Then came Miyamoto Musashi.

And eventually, through Alan Watts, I discovered Zen.

By then, these Japanese figures were no longer simply characters from a distant culture. They became companions of sorts—opening deeper questions about art, discipline, consciousness, nature, and the mind.

Then life did something rather remarkable.

I actually went to Japan.

My family lived in Sendai for three years. During that time I travelled around northern Japan, visiting places in Yamagata, Iwate and Aomori, as well as Matsushima, Kinkasan Island and Mount Haguro.

Only later did I fully appreciate how closely some of my journeys followed the footsteps of another person who had fascinated me long before I ever reached Japan:

Matsuo Bashō.

Bashō had travelled through this northern landscape centuries before me, long before trains, buses and modern roads made such journeys comparatively easy. He travelled with his companion Sora, encountering mountains, temples, villages, weather, loneliness and the changing seasons—and turning those encounters into poetry.

                                          A Haiku by Reichiro san written on my mono - print.
 

I found that astonishing.

I had been inspired by Bashō while still living in America, before ever setting foot in Japan. Then, years later, I found myself travelling through landscapes that he had also walked.

It was one of those strange synchronisms in life that makes one pause and wonder.

And then there was Reichiro-san.

My closest friend in Sendai happened to be the owner of a laundromat.

He was also an artist and a master of haiku.

A laundromat owner, an artist and a haiku poet.

                                                   The Immovable Mind in action.
 

Of all the people I could have encountered in Sendai, somehow this was the man who became my friend.

We even had an exhibition together.

Looking back now, I wonder whether the Japan I had imagined as a boy was somehow preparing me for the Japan I would eventually experience as an adult.

Zatoichi had opened the door.

Hokusai had awakened the artist.

Musashi had awakened the seeker.

Bashō had given the traveller a voice.

And Japan itself became the landscape in which all these influences could finally meet.

Perhaps that is how some journeys work.

We think we are discovering something for the first time.

Then, much later, we look back and realize that it had been quietly waiting for us all along.

#Japan #Basho #Zen #Hokusai #LifeJourney

Zatoichi - The Blind Swordsman -Wisdom from the Far East

 

                                                               An Imitation of Hokusai

The Blind Swordsman

Long before I ever set foot in Japan, Japan had already entered my life.

I must have been twelve or thirteen years old when a Japanese film came to the little town of Kuala Terengganu. Its central character was Zatoichi, the blind swordsman.

I knew nothing about Zen. I knew very little about Japanese culture. Miyamoto Musashi, Hokusai, Bashō and all the other names that would eventually become familiar to me were still somewhere beyond the horizon.

But I fell in love with Zatoichi.

There was something about this blind wandering swordsman that captured my imagination. He appeared almost ordinary, even vulnerable, yet beneath that appearance was an extraordinary sensitivity and mastery. He listened. He waited. He seemed to know when to move and, perhaps more importantly, when not to move.

Looking back from where I am now, I can see that perhaps the fascination wasn't really with the sword.

It was with the mystery behind the sword.

What kind of mind could remain so still?

What does a person see when ordinary sight is no longer enough?

What is strength when it doesn't need to announce itself?

I had no words for these questions when I was thirteen. I simply watched the films and was fascinated.

Years later, I would encounter Hokusai, Miyamoto Musashi and eventually Zen through Alan Watts. Later still, I would discover the great masters of Zen, Taoism and Buddhism.

 

                                                             A Haiku written by Reichiro san
 

But the first door had already opened.

It opened in a small cinema in Kuala Terengganu, through the exploits of a fictional blind swordsman.

I could never have imagined then that one day I would actually live in Japan.

Perhaps the seeds of our lives are planted long before we understand what they are.

Some lie dormant for decades.

Then, one day, something happens and we suddenly realize:

Ah... I have been walking toward this for a very long time

Long before I ever set foot in Japan, Japan had already entered my life.

I must have been twelve or thirteen years old when a Japanese film came to the little town of Kuala Terengganu. Its central character was Zatoichi, the blind swordsman.

I knew nothing about Zen. I knew very little about Japanese culture. Miyamoto Musashi, Hokusai, Bashō and all the other names that would eventually become familiar to me were still somewhere beyond the horizon.

 

 

But I fell in love with Zatoichi.

There was something about this blind wandering swordsman that captured my imagination. He appeared almost ordinary, even vulnerable, yet beneath that appearance was an extraordinary sensitivity and mastery. He listened. He waited. He seemed to know when to move and, perhaps more importantly, when not to move.

Looking back from where I am now, I can see that perhaps the fascination wasn't really with the sword.

It was with the mystery behind the sword.

What kind of mind could remain so still?

What does a person see when ordinary sight is no longer enough?

What is strength when it doesn't need to announce itself?

I had no words for these questions when I was thirteen. I simply watched the films and was fascinated.

Years later, I would encounter Hokusai, Miyamoto Musashi and eventually Zen through Alan Watts. Later still, I would discover the great masters of Zen, Taoism and Buddhism.

But the first door had already opened.

It opened in a small cinema in Kuala Terengganu, through the exploits of a fictional blind swordsman.

I could never have imagined then that one day I would actually live in Japan.

Perhaps the seeds of our lives are planted long before we understand what they are.

Some lie dormant for decades.

Then, one day, something happens and we suddenly realize:

Ah... I have been walking toward this for a very long time.

#Japan #Zen #Zatoichi #Hokusai #Basho #TheWay 

Post Three — Fanā: When God Is God

Fanā — When God Is God

We have arrived at the edge of the conversation.

First there was the waqfah — the stopping.

Then came the questioning of the witness.

Now we encounter the Sufi idea of fanā.

The word is often translated as "annihilation" or "passing away," but the word can easily be misunderstood.

It is not a celebration of physical death.

It is the disappearance of the separate self as the centre of experience.

The "I" that says:

"I am seeking God."

"I am witnessing God."

"I am experiencing God."

"I am becoming enlightened."

That "I" begins to lose its authority.

And perhaps this is the great paradox.

The seeker wants to reach God, but the final obstacle may be the seeker himself.

The witness wants to witness Reality, but the final separation may be the witness.

The ego wants to become desireless, but even the desire to become desireless is still a movement of the ego.

And so the circle closes.

Or perhaps it opens.

I once described this in our conversation as "the death of the witness."

Not the death of a person.

The death of the distance between the one who sees and what is seen.

In that sense, fanā is not about becoming something extraordinary.

It may be precisely the opposite.

The extraordinary identity we have constructed around ourselves simply falls away.

There is no longer a spiritual superhero standing outside existence saying, "I have arrived."

There is only what is.

And here I find myself returning to the phrase that emerged naturally from our conversation:

God is God.

And there is only that.

No additional achievement.

No spiritual trophy.

No final identity.

No witness standing apart and claiming ownership of the experience.

Just God.

Of course, the moment I write those words, the mind wants to explain them.

What does "God" mean?

What is "only"?

What happened to the self?

What about consciousness?

What about anatta?

What about Vedanta?

What about Zen?

And there we go again.

The mind begins building another house around the mystery.

Perhaps the wisest response is simply to stop.

The waqfah again.

Stop.

No conclusion.

No possession.

No final answer.

Perhaps fanā is not something we can successfully describe because the one who would describe it is precisely what is being relinquished.

And perhaps, at the very edge of all our explanations, there is nothing left to say.

God is God.

And that is enough.

WallahuAlam.

 

Post Two — When the Witness Disappears

 

                                                              As Above, So Below.

When the Witness Disappears — Anatta, Berkeley and the Vanishing Self

In the previous post, we entered the strange territory of Al-Niffari's waqfah — the stopping place.

Now we come to an even stranger question:

What happens to the witness?

Much of spiritual practice seems to place us in the position of the observer.

I observe my thoughts.

I observe my desires.

I observe my emotions.

I observe my body.

I observe the world.

Eventually I may even say:

"I am the witness."

But who is this witness?

Buddhism gives us the teaching of anatta, or anatman: there is no permanent, independent self hiding somewhere behind experience.

This does not mean that nothing exists.

Rather, it challenges our assumption that there is a fixed "I" possessing experience.

The thought appears.

The sensation appears.

The emotion appears.

The world appears.

But where is the permanent owner of all this appearing?

Then there is George Berkeley's famous philosophical proposition, usually summarized as:

"To exist is to be perceived."

Whether or not Berkeley's idealism can be placed neatly beside Buddhist anatta is another question. Their philosophies are certainly not identical.

And yet the juxtaposition is fascinating.

If the world we experience is inseparable from perception, and if the supposed perceiver cannot itself be found as a permanent entity, what exactly is left?

This brings us back to Al-Niffari.

Perhaps the spiritual witness is not the final destination.

Perhaps the witness itself must eventually disappear.

Not physically.

Not through destruction.

But through seeing.

The distinction between "I am here witnessing that" and "that is happening" begins to lose its solidity.

The witness and the witnessed begin to dissolve into one another.

And then comes the frighteningly simple possibility:

There is no separate observer standing outside the experience.

There is simply experience.

There is simply this.

This is where my thinking about anatta, Berkeley, Zen and Al-Niffari began to converge — not as a claim that these traditions are saying exactly the same thing, but as a doorway into the same unsettling question:

What happens when the one who is looking can no longer be found?

Perhaps that is where witnessing ends.

And perhaps that is where something else begins.

Or perhaps "something else" is already too much to say.

For once the witness disappears, who is left to describe what remains?

Perhaps this is the threshold of fanā.

Post One — The Stopping Place - Entering the World of Al-Niffari

                                                     A Journey into the Heart of Darkness.
 

                                                               As Above, So Below

The Stopping Place — Entering the World of Al-Niffari

There are moments in the spiritual journey when the seeker discovers that the journey itself has become the obstacle.

We read. We meditate. We contemplate. We seek God, truth, enlightenment, awakening. We gather teachings and compare one tradition with another. We build bridges between Zen, Vedanta, Buddhism, Sufism and all the other languages humanity has invented in its attempt to speak about the Unspeakable.

And then, perhaps, something happens.

We are told to stop.

This is where I have found myself lately, wandering into the strange and beautiful world of the tenth-century Sufi mystic Muhammad ibn al-Niffari.

One of the central words associated with his writings is waqfah — the stopping, the standing still, the moment in which the seeker is no longer simply moving toward something.

It is not merely physical stillness.

It is the stopping of the one who is constantly seeking.

And that is a very different matter.

Because who is it that is seeking?

The seeker.

And who wants to arrive?

The seeker.

Who wants enlightenment?

The seeker.

Who wants to become desireless?

Again, the seeker.

And suddenly we discover the strange circularity of the spiritual quest: the very "I" that wants to disappear may be the one perpetually keeping itself alive by wanting to disappear.

Perhaps this is why the stopping place is so important.

There is nothing to achieve in the waqfah.

There is nowhere to go.

For a moment, the machinery of seeking becomes quiet.

And in that quietness, we may begin to notice something uncomfortable:

Perhaps the witness we have been relying upon is also part of the story.

Perhaps even the one who says, "I am witnessing reality," is still standing apart from reality.

I find this strangely familiar.

Zen has its own way of approaching this territory. Buddhism speaks of anatta, the absence of a permanent, independent self. Vedanta speaks of the witness and asks us to discover that which remains when everything observed is removed.

And Sufism gives us another language.

Waqfah.

Stop.

Stand.

Look.

But do not immediately make another theory out of what you see.

Perhaps the deepest instruction is simply:

Stop seeking for a moment.

And see what remains when the seeker becomes still.

That is where our conversation with Al-Niffari begins.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that is where the real conversation begins as well.