Three Years in Sendai: The Road Home Began Here
It was no accident that I discovered The Way of Zen by Alan Watts during the bitter winter of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Outside, snow buried the world in silence, and inside, something ancient in me stirred to life. That book didn’t just teach me about Zen — it cracked something open. Through it, I met the paradox of surrender and clarity, of doing by not doing. From that quiet thaw emerged something unexpected — the Cheeseburger Buddha, my alter ego. A bridge between East and West, sacred and profane, absurd and profound.
The Zen spirit of Japan had already touched me long before I ever stepped foot there. As a teenager in Kuala Terengganu, I was mesmerized by Zatoichi, the blind swordsman — a wandering vagabond whose cane was a sword and whose silence spoke volumes. My eldest brother made sure I never missed the samurai epics of Akira Kurosawa. Even then, Japanese culture left a deep imprint on me — graceful, disciplined, mysterious.
Later, as a university student in the States, I watched In the Realm of the Senses at the UW Green Bay auditorium. It was raw and unsettling, but it revealed something of the Japanese mind — a world of extremes, restraint, and surrender. Or so I thought.
In 1995, my wife Nancy was offered a teaching post in Sendai through Pacific Reach, an agency placing educators in Japan. She had a master’s degree in Linguistics, read and wrote Japanese fluently, and even held a rare Japanese teaching license for a foreigner. She was already immersed in the culture, having been a founding member of the San Francisco Shintaido School. Japan was in her blood.
So we left San Francisco behind and moved eastward. That decision changed everything.
Looking back, I now see the move as a hidden blessing. It saved our marriage. It gave our children a foundation in one of Sendai’s best kindergartens — Mukaiyama Yōchien. And it gave me a second chance at fatherhood.
Nancy worked tirelessly, often commuting to Yokohama. I supported her the best way I could — by becoming the full-time caregiver once more. Each day, I walked our kids to and from school down a quiet one-lane road. We lived in DIA Palace, a modest apartment perched on a small hill, with sweeping views — the city of Sendai on one side, and the Pacific coast of Fukushima on the other. Just a short walk away was Ya-sōen, the Wildflower Garden near the Sendai Hōsō TV Station, whose colorful towers lit up the sky at night, silently reporting the weather.
Living in Japan taught me what Zen really meant. Not in words, but in small rituals. In walking. In waiting. In listening. Zen became presence.
One of my most revered masters in art is Katsushika Hokusai. His woodblock prints — from Ghosts and Goblins to The Great Wave off Kanagawa — still inspire me. He reminds me of my grandfather, also an artist. Who hasn't heard of Hokusai’s Manga? His sketchbooks captured everything — the humble, the fantastic, the sacred, the absurd. Like life itself. Like Japan.
Sendai was not just a chapter in our lives. It was the turning point. It was where the Bahari family began the long journey eastward, back toward home.
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