Why Did the Buddha Declare That Life Is Suffering?
I am revisiting the teachings of the Buddha, not out of doubt, but from a deep urge to reflect, to re-examine if I have stayed true to the essence of what I had once taken as the guideposts of my life. This is a personal pilgrimage through memory and meaning, a quiet retracing of steps across the spiritual terrain that has shaped me. The Buddha’s words have long been my compass, ever since my father introduced me to the Triple Gems—the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha—and the sacred act of taking refuge in them. This may well be my final homage to the Great Teacher, a bow of gratitude and a whisper of farewell for the light he shed on my darkest paths.
I owe much to the path. It helped me weather countless storms, pulled me from the depths of delusion, and steered me away from my own self-destructive tendencies. Yes, I have stumbled—often hard—but the teachings gave me the strength to rise again.
My first intimate encounter with the Dharma came through the writings of D.T. Suzuki. From there, I moved through the philosophical meanderings of Alan Watts, the clarity of Shunryu Suzuki, the compassion of the Dalai Lama, the fierce brilliance of Trungpa Rinpoche, and the peaceful mindfulness of Thich Nhat Hanh. I read voraciously, meditated earnestly, and allowed the teachings to soak into the marrow of my being.
This devotion led me to the Green Gulch Zen Center—The Green Dragon Zen Temple—in Muir Beach, California. I lived and practiced there for over two years, learning among people who, like me, were lost and seeking answers. It was here that I encountered a turning point, an awakening to the nature of consciousness itself.
When I arrived, I was a wreck. A drug addict, an alcoholic, with broken relationships and a body wracked by pleurisy, I could hardly take three steps without gasping for air. Death, I believed, might have been a relief. But I was not to be granted such an easy escape. I stood at the gates of the Green Dragon Temple, desperate and broken, and there stood Paul Discoe.
A master builder of Japanese temples and a Zen teacher, Paul was my gatekeeper. I pleaded with him to let me in, and though he was hesitant—doubtful I could withstand the monastic discipline—he eventually relented. Thus began my life as a Zen student.
Paul became my teacher and taskmaster. I worked under him, transforming timber into sacred woodwork for Zen centers, including altars and rostrums for the City Zen Center and a memorial hall—Kaisando—at Tassajara.
Within a year, I was healed. My body grew strong from farm work and my spirit rooted deep in the practice. I worked alongside Peter Ruddnik and Wendy Johnson, pioneers of the organic farm at Green Gulch. They not only taught me how to cultivate the land, but how to heal through groundedness. They tended to my spirit as much as the soil, transforming me from a chaotic soul into one who could face any mountain or ocean.
I encountered the Buddha in many forms during my time there: in the wind that swept the valley, in an old Japanese Tea Master, Nakamura Sensei, who affectionately called me "Shampoo," and in a wise old white Labrador named Sierra, or Sea Dog, who helped me overcome my fear of dogs.
At Green Gulch, I learned why the Buddha declared that life is suffering—not as a pessimistic judgment, but as a deep truth born from compassion. To recognize suffering is the first noble truth; to see clearly what binds us, blinds us, and breaks us. Only then can we begin to free ourselves.
And so, this is where I return—to the breath, to the soil, to the teachings, to the suffering that births awakening. It is not a lament, but a song of gratitude.
And perhaps, this is my way of saying: Thank you, Buddha. Farewell, Teacher. May I walk the rest of this path with mindfulness, humility, and grace.
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