Who is Sitting? (Zazen)
9 April 2005
I discovered Zen practice while living in Green Bay, Wisconsin, attending UW–Green Bay as a Fine Arts student. The book that first drew me into Zen Buddhism was The Way of Zen by Alan Watts. Later, I was introduced to the works of Robert Aitken and Gary Zukav, among others. I have always considered myself a born Buddhist—though I formally embraced Islam at the age of twelve—and these books spoke to me with greater depth as I reflected on my early years in Penang, where I studied Buddhism at the Mahindrama Buddhist Temple, one of the oldest, if not the oldest, Theravāda Buddhist temples in Malaysia.
My adoptive uncle was a devout Buddhist, and he ensured I attended weekend Pāli classes, memorizing the chants and immersing myself in the Dhamma. At home in Sungai Pinang, however, I lived among my Malay Muslim relatives. It was awkward, even as a child, to slip off to the temple to study Buddhism and then on Fridays join my cousins at the mosque to read the Qur’an. I was often called kafir—infidel—by my Malay schoolmates, so I found solace among Chinese and Hindu friends. That early confrontation with religious prejudice shaped me. It no longer matters what others think of my faith.
Zen Buddhism—especially the Japanese expression of it—has always captivated me. Its down-to-earth quality, its simplicity, its disciplined approach to both daily life and deeper metaphysics—all without the baggage of ritualism—made sense to me. My fascination with Japanese culture began in secondary school, watching Samurai films. I never imagined then that I would one day live in Japan for three years.
But it was at the San Francisco Zen Center, specifically at Green Gulch Farm in Marin County, that I came to know Zen Buddhism in a more intimate and committed way. I lived and practiced within the Green Dragon Zen Community for nearly two years. That experience permanently shifted how I see life.
I’ve written in greater detail about my time at Green Gulch in the journal section of my art website—which, admittedly, has been in the making for the past two years. So I’ll only say this: being there opened new insights into my life. Ironically, life today feels more complex—more confused, in plain English. Now back in a predominantly Muslim environment, raising two children in the Islamic way, many of my personal beliefs are tested. Islam and Buddhism often appear to clash, but I’m learning to navigate this inner landscape with care, hoping not for conflict but for integration—a merging of differences. A reconciliation. A unifying psyche, rather than a split personality.
Some of us, somewhere along the way, took a detour—onto the road less traveled, as they say. We stumbled upon paths others never had to walk. For me, this has been a journey in search of my true nature, my collective consciousness, my soul. Along this road, I’ve faced questions and choices, guided always by an inner voice urging me onward—urging me not to settle, not to accept easy answers. I’ve learned to chew hard before I swallow, and more often than not, I spit out what doesn’t sit right. I’ve regurgitated many so-called “truths” passed down through the ages.
I once had a vivid dream in which someone was shouting at me: “You are an Eclectic!” I woke up and scribbled the word phonetically—“Ekletik”—so I wouldn’t forget it. At the time, I didn’t even know what it meant. I was in Central City, Colorado, staying with artist Angelo De Benedetto, on a solo journey through the Southwestern U.S. in 1980. The next morning, Angelo explained the term and showed me a passage from the Book of Secrets, describing how Eclecticism was once a philosophical school in ancient Greece.
“You collect the best of all possibilities,” he said. And that made sense. Even now—twenty-plus years later—I’m still wandering through life, collecting, choosing, sometimes making more mistakes than I’d like to admit. A Zen student might call this a “wrong view,” because in Zen there is no chooser, no choice, and no thing to choose. It simply is.
Zen mind, as I’ve come to understand, is like the breath: one breath, and then the next, and then the next. Whatever arises in the mind has no real impact on the breath—unless you cling to it. Thoughts come and go. If you merely observe them with bare attention, no change occurs. But the “Breather,” the ego, insists on absorbing everything, justifying its existence by reacting, by judging, by clinging to what it projects.
This is attachment. This is suffering. This is the craving to be someone, to identify with the collective projections of humanity. We admire, we criticize, we judge, we envy, we hoard, we segregate. We play roles—proud, defeated, superior, inferior. And yet, deep down, we are also capable of compassion more profound than words, of kindness that could rival saints. We are all this, and more.
Our minds are cluttered. Our souls buried. We've become so busy acquiring the world that we risk losing our souls in the process—thinking we'll find time for it later, once we’ve “made it.” But often, by then, it’s too late. We’ve lost our childlike awe, our sense of wonder, our empathy. We've become dog-eat-dog, replacing innocence with ignorance, replacing generosity with greed. And when our ambitions fail us, we’re left with bitterness, anger, and despair.
Who are we?
The ancients asked. The mystics asked. Writers, poets, and philosophers still ask. There is no greater quest than this—to rediscover the soul, the Original Face, the Divine Spark. Enlightenment isn’t a Buddhist idea alone. Every faith teaches it in some form. We are already enlightened—we’ve simply forgotten, distracted by greed, hatred, and delusion instead of cultivating generosity, compassion, and wisdom.
“What you intend is what you become. If you intend to take as much from life and others as you can, if your thoughts are of taking instead of giving, you create a reality that reflects your intentions... You draw to yourself souls of like frequency, and together you create a taking reality… You see the people around you as personalities who take, rather than personalities who give. You do not trust them, and they do not trust you.”
— The Seat of the Soul, Gary Zukav
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