The Ring of Spirit and Form: My Reflections on Sumo in Sendai

 

                                                          Sumo -The Clash of Titans!

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The Ring of Spirit and Form: My Reflections on Sumo in Sendai

Watching Sumo Wrestling was one of my favorite pastimes during my years in Sendai. I would eagerly follow the Ōzumō Honbasho—the official grand tournaments held throughout the year—watching from beginning to end, rooting for my champions Takanohana and Akebono-san. Their intense matches were not only gripping but stirred something deeper in me, beyond sport. I was inspired to sketch, study, and reflect.

                                                        Takenohan and Konishiki in Action.!

Sumo was more than just entertainment. It became a source of artistic and spiritual inquiry.

My sketchbooks from that period are filled with studies of Sumo wrestlers—their forms, movements, gestures. To me, they represented the ideal male figure studies for any serious art student. Their bodies, massive and grounded, moved with a grace and deliberateness that defied their size. Each movement seemed to come from a deep inner stillness.

But what struck me even more than their physicality was the ritual. The ring-entering ceremony, both group and individual, mirrored the Zen practice of entering a Zendo—deliberate, mindful, rooted in awareness. The throwing of salt before a bout, a seemingly simple gesture, resonated with me as a form of spiritual purification, akin to rituals across the East and other sacred traditions. Salt neutralizes the space, dispels negativity, and prepares the ground for clarity and presence.

Looking back, I now understand that Sumo is not just a sport—it is a living shrine ritual. Every element of it, from the foot stomping to the bowed exits, is imbued with Shinto spirituality and Zen consciousness. It is a dance between presence and force, mass and silence.

The figures of Takanohana and Akebono were iconic in the 1990s—a clash of tradition and change, both champions in their own right. Takanohana, the stoic and precise native son of Sumo lineage; Akebono, the Hawaiian-born powerhouse who entered this sacred tradition with humility and strength.
In the ring, they were a clash of two Mountains: East and West.
Their rivalry was mythic, yet full of mutual respect.

I also spent time reading up on the history of Sumo, its Shinto origins, and its transformation into Japan’s national sport. What started as an offering to the gods for a good harvest evolved into a cultural emblem, yet retained its spiritual depth and ceremonial power. This fusion of art, spirit, and culture inspired me endlessly.

Now, years later, as I revisit my Sendai sketchbooks, I will begin to post select works on this blog, as part of a visual and written homage to this beautiful practice. These drawings carry not just form, but memory, insight, and gratitude.

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#SumoWrestling #ŌzumōHonbasho #SendaiSketchbook #ZenAndArt #Takanohana #Akebono #JapaneseCulture #ShintoRituals #SumoArtStudies #LifeInJapan #TheAleutianBlues #SketchbookMemoirs #SumoInspiration #ArtAndSpirit #EastMeetsWest

Presence: The Dharma Position

 

                                                       When in doubt, take a walk.

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Presence: The Dharma Position

It is pouring rain out there—much needed. I just returned from dropping my daughter off at work and stopped at my regular breakfast stall in Taman Sardon. Two soft-boiled eggs with a roti benggali and a large cup of Nescafé. How exciting, in the quietest, most comforting way.

There really isn’t much to do today, and so I let the day unfold. But if anything is keeping my interest lately, it is the quiet but profound effort of maintaining the alignment of body, mind, and soul; to stop drifting without aim. At my age, time is of the essence, and every second wasted is a second lost for good.

The body speaks with its aches and tiredness. The mind is noisy, stirred by even the briefest encounters—stepping outside, meeting people, handling traffic. And so I return to the healing methods I have learned from many schools and paths—some formal, some wild, all sacred.

And at the center of it all: Presence.

Presence is the key to healing, the invisible thread that holds body, mind, and soul in quiet unity. Like an old oak tree that refuses to snap in the wind, presence is the Dharma position—the grounded stance—that a true disciple holds. From here, one delivers life in its infinite beauty and wisdom. From here, one awakens from the veils of Maya.

No striving, no chasing. Just the stillness of being fully here, now.

The Quiet Dojo

The rain continues to fall, and I am back in my home—all to myself, without distractions.

This space is no ordinary shelter. It is my Dojo, my Zendo. Within these walls, choices are made, shadows confronted, and silence embraced. Here, I engage in the deep, subtle art of aligning body, mind, and soul. Not as a performance, but as a quiet ritual of remembrance and healing.

This is the sacred space where I meet my silent spiritual guide. No robes, no incense, no chanting needed—just the clear mirror of presence and the honesty to face what arises.

From this center, I am now ready to return to Sendai—to continue my journal, to walk again through those sacred memories and write them into form.

#DharmaPosition #HealingThroughPresence #ZenBreakfast #RainyDayReflections #MindBodySoulAlignment #PenangMornings #LetTheDayUnfold #AwakeningFromMaya #TamanSardon

The Dojo That Shakes -

                                                         I have a Crow nesting on my head.

 The Dojo That Shakes

03 August 2025, 2:47 a.m.

It is 2:47 a.m., and the walls of my world are trembling again.

Not from bombs or earthquakes, not yet—but from the vibration of something subtler. A tension. A knowing. A return. I had once declared myself AnAtman—without self—after awakening to the deepest truths of the Dharma, the Divine Unification, the Pathless Path. I have touched that silence, that annihilation, that unspeakable clarity.

But now I’m here again, back at what feels like square one. Back at the altar of habit, where my hands still reach for the mouse, the keyboard, the portal to external noise. The moment I wake, I am drawn—as if by karmic gravity—to check the news, the interviews, the world’s possible endings. Nuclear threats. Collapsing empires. A civilization in decline.

When that overwhelms me, I swing to the other extreme—podcasts of spiritual content, hoping the Dharma will salve my anxious mind. And when that fails, I turn to action movies, pure adrenaline without the burden of thought.

                                                    The crow is still perched on my head.

Still, I know: none of it heals. Not fully.

I had long imagined a place—Kapas, or Lintang Farm, or somewhere equally simple and unspoiled—as the setting for my retreat. A quiet island, a sanctuary from the feed, a place to find my balance again. But now I see clearly: Kapas is also an illusion, another idea of escape. Even Eden can become a mind trap if the same ghosts follow me there.

And yet, I am not lost.

Because the truth is, I already live in my dojo.

My home is my temple. My driving, my cooking, my worrying for my children, my concern for the world's suffering—these are my practices. This is the daily training ground of a Bodhisattva who has nowhere else to go but deeper into the moment.

There is no final victory over ego. No once-and-for-all shedding of old patterns. Age has only made the clinging more clever, the patterns more refined. But awareness—the one light that never lies—still burns.

The question is no longer: How do I escape to refuge?
The question now is: How do I let refuge arise where I stand?

I realize this: the shaking of the dojo walls is not a failure. It is the sound of growth. The sound of awakening, not as a grand event, but as an ongoing confrontation with the self that never really was.

I write this not for comfort, but for clarity. Not for escape, but for service—that perhaps, some other wanderer at 2:47 a.m. might read this and feel less alone. That the vow of the Bodhisattva might echo across this small corner of the digital void.

                                                                     Get off me!

If you’re reading this: I walk beside you, quietly, in the same flickering light.

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#TheShakingDojo #AnAtman #LivingDharma #AwakeningInEverydayLife #BodhisattvaVow #DigitalRefuge #NoEscapeOnlyPractice #KapasIllusion #DailyDojo #ZenInChaos #ReturnToSquareOne

A Stone Buddha and the Hum of the Engine

 

                               When you ride the Ferry through its vibration you become a part of it.

                                              To become One with the Blade - The Last Samurai.

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A Stone Buddha and the Hum of the Engine

—by Shamsul Bahari

This sequence of actions was not planned but stumbled upon, call it synchronicity.

I am feeling like I’m sitting in the old Penang Ferry, crossing the channel from Georgetown to Butterworth. Or like I’m back in the wheelhouse of the fishing vessel Iceland, piloting that old tub through wind and fog toward Dutch Harbor, Alaska, or being in the belly of a Boeing 777 plane headed for Dubai. It’s the sound, the vibration of the engine, that permeates my entire being like the low hum of a mantra—an ancient frequency of motion and memory.

All this arose from a simple act of listening.

 Streamed live on January 7, 2024.#DMT #pinealgland #meditationmusic

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                                                         Creating from Within a Mindscape.

 And before that? I had just listened to "How To Use WEED Right – Thoth’s Forbidden Cannabis Ritual (Works Tonight)."

Yes. I smoked some weed tonight—perhaps. And yes, it does feel most centering. Most sacred. My consciousness feels more aligned than ever after lighting a reefer, not in abandon but with devotion. This wasn’t a casual high. I set the stage—silent meditation, grounding rituals, prayers whispered to the Almighty. I stepped into the ceremony with clean feet and a quiet mind.

And now, I write.

And it feels like being a stone Buddha—still, silent, yet brimming and vibrating with life.

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#psychedelicbuddhism #meditationmusic #pinealglandactivation #weedritual #enginehummeditation #dualthoughts #dmtfrequencies #mysticmechanics #oldpenangferry #fishingvesseliceland #stillnessmovement #shamsulbahariwriting

When Cooking and Eating Become an Art, We Learn Not to Waste By Shamsul Bahari

                                   "Let us keep on building till there is no more room up there... Cat Stevens."
 

When Cooking and Eating Become an Art, We Learn Not to Waste

By Shamsul Bahari

When you have to cook not only your own lunch and dinner but also your family's every single day, you begin to understand a great deal about what you're putting into your body and into your children’s. Cooking becomes a meditation in motion. Cutting vegetables and peeling ginger and garlic keeps your hands present and your mind calm. Eventually, you learn that nothing is truly difficult—it all simplifies with less thought and more rhythm. You know how much water to add to the rice just by the feel of it, not by any measuring cup. You clean as you go. You respect the space.

Yes, my friend, being the chef of your own kitchen is like being in the Zendo, counting your breath.

This was my responsibility: raising children in San Francisco, then Japan, and now Malaysia. Recipes change with cultures, but presence remains constant. Everyone loved my oxtail curry, a specialty I refined in the U.S. and later in Japan. Oxtail was once a cheaper cut, often overlooked by locals who didn’t know how to prepare it. But to me, it was gold.

In Sendai, Japan, food was something sacred. Even a birthday cake was sold like a rare item—gift-wrapped with care and detail, just like the fish at the morning market. There was a deep sense of reverence in the way the Japanese handled food and packaging. But I always felt uneasy about the waste. Sometimes I would rather eat three-day-old curry than throw it away—it tastes better anyway.

When cooking and eating become an art, waste becomes unnecessary.

   I was a Health and Safety Officer for Van Seumerren Romstar at the Gebeng Site in Kuantan.

I grew up eating out of newspaper, layered with a banana leaf—my takeaway nasi lemak or nasi kandar. Minimal and waste-free. Contrast that to the landfills in parts of Brazil—mountains of garbage that could cover the whole of this island. It’s not getting better. Humanity must awaken to the reality of our food systems and the waste we generate. But it’s never too late.

I am an environmentalist by practice. Most of my jobs over the years had to do with Health and Safety—on oil rigs, meat-packing plants, hazardous waste management facilities, and major construction sites in the U.S. and Malaysia. I developed a good sense when it comes to waste—its handling, its potential, and its dangers.

                                    Alright, let's make it happen! This Safety meeting is over!

There’s a principle I used to share with anyone curious about waste and garbage. I called it the Principle of the Shit-Pot Carrier, or more politely, the Nightsoil Carrier.

He was the man who came every morning to remove the contents of your toilet—two buckets slung across a yoke on his shoulders. He walked through the village, unconcerned by those holding their noses or turning away. He had a job, a calling even. He took your waste and returned it to the soil, where it grew fat, healthy bayam and kangkung. It was a cycle—closed, complete, and sacred.

In a way, we are all nightsoil carriers—recycling our waste, our pasts, our mistakes—into nourishment for the present and future.

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#ZenKitchen #MindfulLiving #CookingAsMeditation #SustainableEating #Environmentalism #NightsoilCarrier #NoFoodWaste #BananaLeafWisdom #FromSoilToSoul #SimpleLiving

“This Eel…” — Gobangai Gallery, Sendai - my first solo exhibition in Sendai.

                                          My supporters from the Miyagi Museum of Fine Arts.

 “This Eel…” — Gobangai Gallery, Sendai

Date:
Saturday, 2 August 2025

Intro:
In the spirit of quiet reflection this Saturday morning, I return to a vivid memory from my time in Sendai—my very first solo art exhibition at the Gobangai Gallery. What unfolded around one spontaneous ink painting became a lesson in surrender, intuition, and the strange grace of letting art make itself.

 

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“This Eel…” — Gobangai Gallery, Sendai

My first solo art exhibition was held at the newly minted Gobangai Art Gallery, right in the heart of downtown Sendai. The gallery faced the main railway station, and mine was the inaugural show—an honor I hadn't asked for, but somehow, life had handed me. It was nearly a sell-out, and to this day, I remember the painting that fetched the highest price.

It wasn’t planned, not really.
One morning, I noticed some discarded pine wood strips in a bin—not much, just remnants. I fished them out and took them to my studio in Miyagi. Cut them to size, enough to build simple frames for mounting handmade washi paper. I had three 12" x 10" sheets, delicate and breath-light.

I brought them home and placed them side by side atop a cabinet.
There was a small bowl of sumi ink and an old brush I’d picked up behind the ramen shop next to Reichiro-san’s laundromat—my favorite spot for spicy broth and solitude. The brush had once been a bamboo stir-fry tool, now worn down nearly to the handle. It was perfect.

At the time, my domestic life was unraveling in a flurry of sharp words and emotional undercurrents—what I now call a verbal samurai takedown with my wife. Amid this surreal tension, I found myself in a kind of trance. I picked up that battered brush and, with a single breath, dragged it across the rice paper—zigzagging black ink in a loose, untamed stroke.

And then I saw it.
In the movement, in the rhythm, in the sway of the ink:
An eel.

I added a head. A gill.
And I had my illness.

Early the next morning, I took the three boards to the museum and, using the leftover pine strips, nailed them together to form a single piece. On my way home, I stopped by Reichiro-san’s place and asked him to write a haiku to accompany it.

He paused, considered it briefly, then said:

"This eel—
no one knows where it came from,
nor where it is headed."

Perfect.

Later, as I was hanging the painting in the gallery, a Japanese artist hovered nearby, making polite suggestions. “You don’t know the art market here,” he said. “Let me help you price your works.”

When he came to the eel piece, he stopped.
Gasped.

“This one is 1000 U.S. dollars!”

I remember thinking, Yeah right. Whatever.
And then—
An elegant Japanese woman walked in. Quiet. Observant. She moved from one piece to another until she stood before the eel.

My new friend leapt forward and declared, “This one is 1000 U.S. dollars!”

Without a blink, she reached into her purse and pulled out crisp yen—exactly the amount.

Just like that.
Such is.

#SendaiChronicles #ArtInJapan #SumiInk #WabiSabi #ZenArtist #SoloExhibition #GobangaiGallery #JapanMemoir #FoundArt #HaikuLife #EelPainting #BrushAndBreath #MysticArtist #HandmadeArt #ArtistLifeJapan

3 Years in Sendai – 6: Echoes of Bashō at Yama-dera

 

                                                                     
Welcome to Yamadera.

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3 Years in Sendai – 6: Echoes of Bashō at Yama-dera

(Insert sketch or photo: View of temple rooftops clinging to the cliffside, Yama-dera)

High in the mountains of Yamagata Prefecture, where mist curls around pine-clad ridges and voices are swallowed by stone, sits the revered temple complex of Yama-dera—literally "Mountain Temple"—formally known as Risshaku-ji (立石寺), of the Hōshu-zan lineage.

Twice I made the journey to this sacred place during my time in Sendai. Each time, I was utterly mesmerized by its rugged verticality—temple halls perched on cliffsides, stone steps climbing through cedar forests, and the solemn stillness of age-old devotion hanging in the cool mountain air.

                                       Yamadera Zem Mountain Retreat - Ymamgata Prefecture.

It was here in 1689 that Matsuo Bashō, pausing in his journey through the Tōhoku region, composed one of his most famous haiku:

しずけさや 岩にしみ入る 蝉の声
Shizukesa ya / iwa ni shimiiru / semi no koe
Ah, this silence—
sinking into the rocks,
the voice of cicadas.

The verse, etched into the collective spirit of Japanese poetry, echoes through the cliffs to this day. I heard it not only with my ears, but in my bones. The cicadas’ steady drone, absorbed by mossy stone, seemed to ripple through the stillness like time itself folding.

Yama-dera is not just a scenic site. It is a place of pilgrimage, of spiritual resonance. Its main image, a hibutsu (hidden statue) of Yakushi Nyorai, is said to offer healing to those who come in earnest. The entire mountain breathes an ancient, disciplined silence.

(Insert photo: Stone steps ascending through tall trees, taken during your visit)

On the opposite side of the valley, not far from the foot of the mountain, lies the Yamadera Bashō Memorial Museum—a modest, quiet place housing calligraphy, paintings, and artifacts related to Bashō's life and journey. I spent a long afternoon there, drawing, reflecting, and listening to the hauntingly persistent chirp of cicadas—so distinct that in 1996, the Ministry of the Environment named them one of the 100 Soundscapes of Japan.

I left with sketches, photos, and a renewed commitment to silence—to walking softly and listening deeply. In the quiet of Yama-dera, I met Bashō not in words, but in the space between them.

#Yamadera #Risshakuji #MatsuoBasho #ZenPilgrimage #CicadaSoundscape #SendaiMemoirs #TohokuWanderings #SketchbookTravel #SoundscapesOfJapan #MountainTemples

3 Years in Sendai – 5: In the Footsteps of Basho at Matsushima

 

                                     

                                                   View of Matsushima from the train station.

3 Years in Sendai – 5: In the Footsteps of Basho at Matsushima

One of the most spectacular places I visited during my time in Sendai wasn’t far from the city at all. Just a short train ride carried me into the timeless beauty of Matsushima, a seaside town steeped in history, poetry, and spiritual resonance.

Even the great haiku master Matsuo Basho struggled to describe it. His famous verse says it all:

“Matsushima ya!
Ya Matsushima!
Matsushima ya!”

So stunned was he by the beauty of this place that all he could do was repeat its name like a mantra. And truly, Matsushima is worthy of that awe. The bay is dotted with more than 260 pine-clad islets, each rising gracefully from the sea like brushstrokes from a Zen painter’s hand.

                                       Islands littered with pine trees cropped up all over.

One of the most iconic landmarks is the Godaidō, a small temple dedicated to the legendary Samurai lord Date Masamune, perched on a tiny islet just off the shore. Said to be over 400 years old, it has weathered storms and centuries with quiet dignity.

                                                                       The Godaido

But perhaps the deepest impression was made by Seiryuzan Zuigan-ji, a Rinzai Zen Buddhist temple nestled in the heart of Matsushima. Founded in 828 AD, it belongs to the Myōshin-ji branch of Rinzai Zen, and stands as a living monument to the spiritual heritage of Japan. Originally established by Jikaku Daishi, the temple was later rebuilt by Date Masamune in the early 17th century as his family temple. Today, its corridors still echo with centuries of zazen, its wooden halls lined with fusuma paintings and its rock gardens bearing the stillness of practiced emptiness.

To walk through Zuigan-ji was to walk into stillness itself. I remember standing in front of the sando, the long approach path lined with ancient cedar trees, and feeling as though time had slowed to the rhythm of breath. The natural rock caves near the temple—used by monks for meditation centuries ago—seemed to whisper forgotten sutras into the breeze.

There, I felt Basho’s spirit once again. His words from Oku no Hosomichi returned:

"But as the year approached its end my wandering spirit violently asserted itself once more. It was as if I was pursued by a supernatural being whose temptation was more than I could resist... Peace left my heart. My leggings were hurriedly patched and my traveling hat had its strings renewed. My shin was treated with moxa burning. Finally giving my hut up to a friend, I started on the Northern trip, my heart filled with the moonlight that would greet me at—Matsushima!"

                                            It was like a Divine Kami had created this Seascape.

 

Matsushima is considered the third most-visited

tourist destination in Japan. 

This longing for journey—for sacred landscapes and moonlit solitude—is something I have always carried. At Matsushima, and particularly within the hush of Zuigan-ji, I found a kind of echo. A confirmation that the path I walk—between art, spirit, and wandering—is one shared by many before me.

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Hashtags:

#3YearsInSendai #MatsushimaBay #Zuiganji #RinzaiZen #MatsuoBasho #OkuNoHosomichi #ZenPilgrimage #SacredJapan #TohokuTravel #ZenAndTheWayfarer

3 Years in Sendai – 4: Reichiro-san and the Miyagi Museum of Fine Arts.

                               What can be more Japanese than a Ronin chewing a blade of grass?
 

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3 Years in Sendai – 4: Reichiro-san and the Miyagi Muse

My wife introduced me to the laundry man—Reichiro-san—and we instantly hit it off. Not only was he an artist, but also a poet and a true Haiku Master. He became my Japanese big brother. He spoke excellent English, and before long, we were collaborating. Our joint works were later exhibited in a gallery right here in Sendai.

                     A few of my Shows in Sendai were formatted as invitation cards in Japanese.

But what truly made me feel most alive in Sendai was discovering the Miyagi Museum of Fine Arts. More than just a museum, it had an open-studio policy that welcomed Sendai City residents to create art freely. Everything—from materials to equipment—was provided, along with instructors to guide you.

I spent most of my three years in Sendai immersed in those studios every chance I had. Nestled along the Hirose River, the museum was located near the Kokusai Center (the International Center), where many foreigners, especially international students, came to read newspapers, watch TV, or just feel a little less far from home.

                                                     A Few of the Regulars at the Open Studio.

                                     This tree, like most Japanese trees, has character and is old.

I donated two books to their library: The Malay Dilemma by Tun Dr. Mahathir and The Asian Renaissance by Anwar Ibrahim, who is now Malaysia’s Prime Minister.

Having found my niche in that creative and supportive environment, I went on to hold six solo art exhibitions during my time in Sendai. Each one was a celebration of this serendipitous journey of meeting kindred spirits, bridging cultures, and nurturing the artist within.

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Hashtags:

#3YearsInSendai #SendaiArtScene #HaikuAndHarmony #MiyagiMuseum #ArtWithoutBorders #GaijinInJapan #SoloExhibitions #CrossCulturalFriendships #ReichiroSan #MalaysianAbroad

3 Years in Sendai – Life begins with Ramen and Sushi.

 

                                                                    Welcome to Sendai - Your Shogun 

                                                                If there is any doubt.

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3 Years in Sendai – 2

My wife’s employer, Kawaijuku Bunri, a respected prep school, was meticulous and kind in handling our relocation. From the moment we arrived, we had no worries—they took care of everything. Just three days after stepping foot in Sendai, we were moved into our apartment on the fifth floor of the DIA Palace Yasoen.

                                                             The Koyo Grand Lobby!

The building sat on a gentle rise with only one single-lane road winding past it. In one direction, just a five-minute walk away, was the children’s Yōchien (kindergarten). In the other, the Yasoen Gardens, a quiet wildflower preserve next to the Sendai Hōsō TV station, its three tall antenna towers lighting up the night sky with soft colors as they reported the weather.

                         My first ride on the Shinkansen from Tokyo to Sendai- The Max Yamabiko

Winter in Yasoen was mesmerizing. Snow would blanket everything—rooftops, trees, the narrow road—and all we could see was white, peaceful, and still. It felt like a dreamscape; a hush had fallen over the world.

                                                                    Spring in Sendai.

                                           Rustic Japanese Gardens fed my creative energy.

The apartment itself came fully furnished—even the kitchen was stocked with pots and pans. Simply stepping into this new life felt like receiving a gift. Living in that environment, surrounded by such calm and order, was the first time in a long while I felt grounded.

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#SendaiLiving #JapanMemoirs #FamilyLifeAbroad #ZenAndSnow #YasoenGardens #KawaijukuBunri #CheeseburgerBuddha #DiasporaStories #ExpatsInJapan #MemoryLane

Three Years in Sendai: The Road Home Began Here

 

                                                      Welcome to the Koyo Grand - Sendai.

                                                       In Honor of Katsushika HOKUSAI.

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.

                                                                               The Japanese Inside Out.

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.

                                                              Yojimbo - Mifune, Toshiro - 

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.

                The Samurai will always evoke in me the Way of the Sword of Miyamoto, Musashi.

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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#Sendai #ZenLife #CheeseburgerBuddha #AlanWatts #Zatoichi #JapaneseCulture #MukaiyamaYochien #NancyBussBahari #Hokusai #ExpatLife #TerengganuToJapan #Fatherhood #ArtAndSpirit #Shintaido #TheWayOfZen #BahariFamilyJourney

Another Gateless Gate Opens: Sendai, Japan

 

                                               We Arrived in Sendai in the Early Spring.

🏯 Another Gateless Gate Opens: Sendai, Japan

There are gates made of wood and stone, and there are those you walk through with no sign, no sound, no ceremony.
Only a shift in the wind. A new weight in the soul.
That is how I entered Sendai, Japan.

My heart surrendered, my soul captured.

                                         The Yamdera Mountain Retreat. Yamagata Prefecture.

I didn’t arrive as a seeker or a tourist.
I came as a man carrying memory, walking alongside his family, looking for quiet ground.
After loss, after longing, after America had run its course.

What I found in Sendai was not just another city.
It was a place where grief slowly thawed.
Where the morning trains whispered sutras.
Where the seasons carried the discipline of monks.

The Japanese don’t talk much.
But they notice everything.
And in that silent noticing, I learned to listen again.

                                      A note from my close friend, Reichiro-san, the Haiku Master.

---

Another Gateless Gate.
No need to knock.
Just bow—and enter.

#SendaiMemoirs #AnotherGatelessGate #LifeInJapan #SilentBeginnings #ZenLiving #PostGriefHealing #EverydaySatori #JapanReflections #WabiSabiPath #ShikataGaNai #NewChaptersBegin

🌲 The Thousand Steps of Mount Haguro

 

                                            "Hoi!" Dame! No Belru, Ringo! Baka!

 The Mongols' invasion was thwarted by the prayers of the priests of Mt. Haguro, and as a sign of appreciation, the government sent a giant bell-sized present to be adorned at the summit of Haguro-san. Or, at least, somehow the bell appeared at the summit.

At 2.85m-tall, 1.67m in circumference and 21.5cm thickness, the 10t bell is the third biggest in Japan, yet no one knows precisely how it came to be there. Was it forged somewhere else and somehow carried up to the top of Haguro-san, some 350 or so years before the stone stairway even existed? Was a mould brought up to the summit, and the bell was forged there? Was the mould made up there?

---

🌲 The Thousand Steps of Mount Haguro

I climbed the Thousand Stone Steps of Mount Haguro, in the footsteps of the old wanderer-poet Matsuo Bashō.

The forest was deep—ancient pines rose like silent monks watching over the path. Every few turns, I passed small wooden rest houses, built in traditional Japanese carpentry, perched on the slopes like gentle shrines for the weary. They invited pause, sketching, and quiet breath.

                                          The Mountain Kami Lived Here, on Mount Haguro.

Each step was a step beyond time.
Each breeze through the trees whispered something I had once forgotten.

I was no longer a tourist. I was no longer searching.
I was home, and my soul knew it.

                             The Legendary Haiku Master, Matsuo Basho, walked these steps.

“Lost in space and time,
I found myself on old stone—
Bashō’s wind still speaks.”

 

---

Sometimes, the path is not only a climb—but a return to what has always been waiting for you.

#MountHaguro #ThousandSteps #DewaSanzanPilgrimage #MatsuoBashoTrail #ZenInNature #SpiritualJourney #ForestSanctuary #YamagataPrefecture #HaikuPilgrimage #SacredJapan #WalkingMeditation #AncientPaths #FoundInSilence

🏔️ The Yamabushi Met the Cheeseburger Buddha

 

                                I love the Japanese; I might have been one in my previous life.

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🏔️ The Yamabushi Met the Cheeseburger Buddha

Tsuyoshi Miyoshi came to Green Gulch Farm on his way back to Japan, fresh from summiting the Grand Tetons. A seasoned mountaineering guide—a kind of modern Yamabushi, one of those mountain ascetics of old Japan—he was calm, tough, and completely at home in silence.

He didn’t speak much English, and I only knew a few words of Japanese. Still, we worked side by side like two Asian brothers, bonded by the rhythm of weeding spinach, breathing, and watching clouds drift across the sky.

Sometimes we were invited to the Tea House of Nakamura Sensei, a seventy-something Japanese Tea Master who called me “Shampoo” instead of Shamsul. She’d feed us simple meals, pour some sake, and laugh freely. Those evenings were pure gift—no talk of enlightenment, just presence in good company.

One morning after three hours of non-stop weeding, I collapsed on my back in the spinach field, using the handle of my Japanese hoe as a neck rest. Gazing up at the sky, I saw clouds moving across endless blue. Then, to the side, I noticed baby weeds sprouting from the ground—as if in slow motion. Time slowed. Breath stilled. The world stopped just long enough for a tiny satori to slip in.

                                               I used to live in Sendai, Japan, for three years.

“BUTA!”
I was jolted back by Tsuyoshi's sudden shout.

There he was, looking down at me, his face perched over the top of his hoe, wearing the silliest grin I’d ever seen.

We didn’t say a word. We simply got up, walked straight to the Zendo, and sat. Breath. Stillness. Silence. Another wave of presence washed through us.

When he left Green Gulch, Tsuyoshi gifted me his mountaineering gear:

• A Gore-Tex two-man tent

• A red goose down jacket

• A waterproof shell
  All high-end gear, all given without ceremony.

• 
                                                        I Miss my Japanese Buddy.
  

  
  

For a man who arrived at the Green Dragon Temple empty-handed, I suddenly owned a few things worth bragging about.

But what Tsuyoshi really left behind was more than gear. It was the kind of friendship born without words, sealed in shared labor, laughter, and tea.
A Yamabushi met the Cheeseburger Buddha—and for a while, they weeded spinach together under the same sky.

---

Sometimes the mountain appears in the field. And sometimes, the most precious gift is a grin over a hoe handle and a bottle of sake.

#TheYamabushiAndTheCheeseburgerBuddha #GreenGulchTales #ZenBrotherhood #SpinachSatori #TsuyoshiMiyoshi #NakamuraSensei #ShampooInTheGulch #SilentFriendship #TeaSakeAndStillness #ZendoMoments #WeedingTheWay #GiftsWithoutWords

Healing the Heart Chakra: A Message in the Spirit of Thoth

 

                                             Let There Be Light! The Sky over Pulau Duyong.

🌿 Healing the Heart Chakra: A Message in the Spirit of Thoth

The Heart Chakra—Anahata, the unstruck sound—is the meeting place of heaven and earth within the human form. It is where the weight of life is either clutched tightly… or finally released.

To heal the heart is not to erase the pain, but to understand it.
To feel fully, and to let go—with compassion.

"Let the heart be light. Not because it has never broken, but because it has released the weight of what no longer belongs."

Thoth, keeper of wisdom, shows that truth is not only spoken—it is lived.
A balanced heart is truth in motion.

✨ A Simple Practice:

1. Sit silently. Place one hand over your heart.

2. Breathe in: “I receive love.”
   Breathe out: “I release pain.”

3. Visualize a soft green light expanding around your chest.

4. Say silently: “I allow my heart to open again—safely, wisely, and in truth.”

A healed heart is not hard.
A healed heart is clear.

---

Truth be told, if I keep posting such messages, I might start sounding like a guru.
But then again—why not, if these words arise from the soulless soul?

Who am I to doubt otherwise?

I share not to teach, but to remember.

To you, from the stillness between breaths.

#HeartChakraHealing #ThothWisdom #SoullessSoul #SpiritualBalance #EnergyHealing #OpenHeartPath #SelfHealingJourney #LettingGo #ConsciousBreath #AnahataAwakening #HealingInSilence