Chapter 15: Ordinary Life Is the Practice

Lunch, a Year Later

Tomasz, whom we met at the very beginning of this book eating a sandwich he could not taste, is sitting at his desk again. It is a year later. Many things are the same. He still coordinates building projects. His work is still busy, and there are still many windows open on his screen. His phone still lights up with messages.

But at half past twelve, he does something different. He closes the windows on his screen, puts his phone in a drawer and takes his lunch to a small table by the office window. Before he eats, he takes three breaths. He looks at his food. Then he eats, slowly, tasting it. Outside, the wind is moving the tops of the trees, and a few clouds are passing. For fifteen minutes, he is simply a man eating lunch by a window.

Tomasz has not become a monk. He has not had any dramatic experience of enlightenment. He still worries, still gets impatient and still lies awake some nights thinking about work. But most mornings, he sits for ten minutes before his children wake up. He walks part of the way to work with his phone in his pocket. He washes the dishes in the evening without the radio. When his daughter tells him about her day, he puts down what he is doing and listens. These small practices have not changed his circumstances. They have changed how he lives inside them.

"I used to think that calm was something I would find when my life became less busy," Tomasz tells a friend. "Now I think it is something I find in the middle of the busy life, one breath at a time." His friend asks whether that means he has found Zen. Tomasz laughs. "I do not know," he says. "But my lunch tastes better."

"Ordinary Mind Is the Way"

Throughout this book, we have seen again and again that Zen points to ordinary life as the place of practice: breathing, sitting, washing a bowl, walking, eating, listening, resting. This idea is expressed most clearly in a famous case from the Gateless Gate, case nineteen. It is a conversation between the young Zhaozhou, whom we met in the sixth chapter, and his teacher, Nanquan.

In my own retelling: Zhaozhou asked Nanquan, "What is the Way?" Nanquan answered, "Ordinary mind is the Way." Zhaozhou asked, "Should I try to direct myself toward it?" Nanquan said, "If you try to direct yourself toward it, you turn away from it." Zhaozhou asked, "But if I do not try, how will I know that it is the Way?" Nanquan said, "The Way is not a matter of knowing or not knowing. Knowing is a kind of illusion, and not knowing is mere blankness. If you truly reach the Way, beyond all doubt, it is as wide and open as the sky. How could it be forced into ideas of right and wrong?" In the traditional telling, Zhaozhou awakened at these words.

"Ordinary mind is the Way." This short sentence contains the heart of what this book has tried to say. The Way, the path of practice and awakening, is not found in some special, extraordinary state of mind. It is found in the ordinary mind, the mind that eats, walks, works, talks and rests. Not a different mind from the one we already have, but the same mind, fully present.

Nanquan's next words are equally important. If we try too hard to reach the Way, as if it were a goal far away, we turn away from it. This is like the muddy water that stays cloudy when we keep stirring it, or the sleep that will not come when we try to force it. The ordinary mind is not something to be grasped. It is something to be lived, here, now, without striving.

And Nanquan's final words point beyond both knowing and not knowing. We do not need to understand the Way intellectually to live it, and we do not need to be confused about it either. When we live fully in the present, the questions of knowing and not knowing fall away, and life is simply as it is: open, vast and immediate.

The Best Season

After each case in the Gateless Gate, the compiler, Wumen, added a short verse. His verse for case nineteen has become one of the most loved poems in Zen. Here it is in my own plain paraphrase.

In spring, there are a hundred flowers. In autumn, there is the moon. In summer, there is a cool breeze. In winter, there is snow. If no useless things are weighing on your mind, then every season is the best season of your life.

This verse is a beautiful expression of ordinary mind. It does not say that we must go somewhere special or achieve something rare. It says that each season, each moment, already has its own beauty. The flowers of spring, the moon of autumn, the breeze of summer and the snow of winter are always offering themselves to us. What prevents us from receiving them is the clutter in our minds: worries, regrets, plans and judgments that we carry with us everywhere.

When the mind is not weighed down by these useless things, every season, and every day, is the best one. This does not mean that life is always pleasant. Winter is cold, and summer can be too hot. Difficult things happen. But a mind that is present can find something of value even in hard seasons, because it is meeting life as it is, not as it wishes life to be.

Many of the practices in this book can be understood as ways of setting down the useless things in the mind, so that we can see the flowers, the moon, the breeze and the snow. Returning to the breath, letting thoughts pass like clouds, doing one thing at a time, meeting feelings like waves and resting when tired are all ways of lightening the load, so that the ordinary beauty of life can reach us.

The Ten Ox-Herding Pictures

There is a famous series of pictures in the Zen tradition that shows the path of practice as a story. It is called the Ten Ox-Herding Pictures, and its best known version comes from a twelfth-century Chinese teacher named Kuoan Shiyuan, who wrote verses and comments for each picture. The pictures have been redrawn many times by artists over the centuries.

In the pictures, a young herdsman searches for a lost ox. The ox can be understood as a symbol of our true nature, or of the awakened mind. In the first picture, the herdsman is searching, lost and confused. In the second, he finds the ox's footprints. In the third, he catches a glimpse of the ox. In the fourth, he catches it, but it struggles wildly. In the fifth, he tames it, and it begins to follow him. In the sixth, he rides it home, playing a flute.

Then the pictures change. In the seventh, the herdsman is at home, and the ox has been forgotten; he simply sits in peace. In the eighth, both the herdsman and the ox have disappeared, and the picture shows only an empty circle. In the ninth, there is a picture of nature: a tree, a river, flowers, simply as they are. And in the tenth and final picture, the herdsman, now an old man with a big belly and a cheerful face, walks into the marketplace with open hands, mixing with ordinary people, bringing happiness wherever he goes.

Different teachers explain the pictures in different ways, and we should not take them as a fixed map that every person must follow. But they offer a beautiful image of practice. The search, the struggle and the taming of the mind are part of it. So is the peace of the empty circle. But the journey does not end in a quiet hut or in emptiness. It ends in the marketplace, in the middle of ordinary life, among other people.

It is worth noticing, too, that the herdsman in the early pictures struggles. The ox pulls away, and he must hold the rope tightly. Many people who begin to practise recognize this stage. The mind runs off again and again, and keeping it in one place feels like hard work. The pictures suggest that this struggle is normal, and that it gradually gives way to a more natural, easy relationship, in which the ox follows without being pulled. That change does not happen through force. It happens through patience and repetition, through returning, again and again.

Returning to the Market With Open Hands

The tenth picture is especially meaningful for a book about Zen for a busy mind. The old herdsman does not stay on the mountain. He comes back to the noisy, crowded, ordinary world: the market, with its sellers and buyers, its noise and its bustle. And he comes with open hands, not grasping anything, simply present and generous.

This image suggests that the purpose of practice is not to escape from busy life, but to return to it in a different way. The calm that we find in sitting, walking and breathing is not meant to be kept for ourselves in a quiet room. It is meant to be brought into our families, our work and our communities, where it can benefit others.

"Open hands" can mean many things. It can mean not grasping, not clinging to things, ideas or outcomes. It can mean generosity, being ready to give and to help. It can mean openness to whatever comes. And it can mean a simple friendliness, a way of meeting others without defensiveness or judgment.

In daily life, returning to the market with open hands might look like Tomasz listening fully to his daughter, Abebe in the thirteenth chapter listening to his lonely customers, Marcus in the twelfth chapter choosing not to shout at Ella or Nkosi in the sixth chapter caring for the hospital rooms where patients heal. None of these is dramatic. Each is an ordinary act, done with presence. That is the tenth picture.

A Day of Practice

How might the practices in this book fit together into an ordinary day? There is no single right way, and you will find your own rhythm. But here is one possible shape, to show how naturally they can be woven into life.

On waking, before reaching for your phone, you might take three breaths and feel your body lying in bed. You might then sit for five or ten minutes, as in the third chapter, counting breaths or simply sitting. While making breakfast, you might do one thing at a time, as in the fifth chapter, and eat at least the first few bites with attention, as in the ninth.

On the way to work or school, you might walk part of the way with attention, feeling your feet and noticing the world, as in the eighth chapter. During the day, you might take three breaths before important tasks, give your full attention to one person in conversation, as in the thirteenth chapter, and notice your thoughts as clouds when your mind starts to race, as in the fourth.

When strong feelings arise, you might notice the wave, feel it in your body and wait before acting, as in the twelfth chapter. When you do not know what will happen, you might practise saying "I do not know", as in the eleventh. In the evening, you might wash the dishes with attention, as in the sixth chapter, clear one surface, as in the tenth, and rest when tired, as in the fourteenth.

You will not do all of these every day, and you do not need to. Even one or two, done regularly, will bring a little more presence into your life. The point is not to fill your day with practices, which would only make it busier. The point is to discover that the day itself, as it already is, is full of chances to be present.

When Practice Fades

Almost everyone who begins a practice like this goes through times when it fades. For a few weeks, you sit every morning, and then, after a busy period or an illness or a holiday, you stop. Months pass. You remember that you used to practise, and you feel a little guilty.

This is completely normal, and it is not a failure. In fact, it is the same pattern as the mind wandering during sitting, only on a larger scale. You were present, you wandered off and now you have noticed. The practice, as always, is simply to return. Not with scolding, but gently, as you would bring your attention back to the breath.

You can always begin again. You can begin again today, with three breaths. You can begin again tomorrow, with five minutes of sitting. In the record of Dōgen's informal talks kept by his student Ejō, there is an image of walking through a mist: you do not notice that you are getting wet, but after a while your clothes are soaked. Dōgen used it for the quiet influence of good company, and small, regular practice seems to work in a similar way, changing us even when we do not notice. And if we stop for a while, what we have learned does not disappear. It is still there, waiting for us to return.

It can help to keep the practice small enough that it fits into your life even during busy times. Five minutes of sitting is easier to keep up than thirty. Three breaths before meals are easier than a full meal in silence. When life is calmer, you can expand. When it is busy, you can keep a small thread of practice alive.

It can also help to remember why you began. Perhaps it was a racing mind at night, a feeling of living slightly to one side of your own life or a wish to be more present with someone you love. When practice fades, recalling that reason can bring it back to life. You might even write your reason on a small card and keep it where you sit.

Practice and Kindness

As this book draws to a close, it is worth noticing that the practices in it are not only about our own calm. They are also about how we treat others.

A mind that is settled and present is often a kinder mind. When we are not lost in our own thoughts, we notice other people more. When we can meet our own feelings without being swept away, we are less likely to hurt others in anger. When we listen fully, people feel valued. When we do one thing at a time, the people we are with feel that we are really with them.

In the Zen tradition, as in Buddhism more broadly, practice is always connected with compassion, the wish for others to be free from suffering and to be well. The figure who hears the cries of the world, whom we met in the thirteenth chapter, is a reminder of this. Practice is not meant to make us calm and indifferent. It is meant to make us present and caring.

So if you continue with these practices, you may find that their effects reach beyond you: to your family, your friends, your colleagues and the strangers you meet. A calmer, more present person can be a quiet blessing to the people around them, without ever saying a word about Zen.

There is a simple way to test this for yourself. On a day when you have practised, notice how you speak to the first person you meet. On a day when you have not, notice the same thing. Many people find a small but real difference: a little more patience, a little more warmth, a little more willingness to listen. These small differences, repeated over many days and many meetings, may be one of the most important fruits of practice.

Three Lives, a Year Later

Adaeze, the sixteen-year-old student from the first chapter, has finished her exams. She still puts her phone in another room before studying and takes three breaths before beginning. She has also started sitting for five minutes in the morning. She says she is not sure whether it is Zen or just a good habit, but she has noticed that when she feels panic rising before a test, she knows how to come back to her breath. She has taught the three breaths to her younger brother.

Mei, the night nurse from the first chapter, still sits on the edge of her bed for five minutes after her shifts. On many mornings, it helps her sleep. She has also started taking one conscious breath before entering each patient's room at work. She says that these single breaths help her leave one patient's needs behind and arrive fully for the next. Her colleagues have noticed that she seems calmer on difficult nights.

Lorenzo, the retired bus mechanic from the first chapter, now walks slowly in his garden every morning. His worries about his wife's health and about money are still there. But he has learned that he can put them down for a while, at least during his morning walk. He has joined the community centre's weekly sitting group and now helps set up the chairs. He says the slow walking has given him back his garden, and the group has given him new friends.

None of these people has become an expert in Zen. They have simply taken a few practices into their ordinary lives and kept returning to them. In their small ways, each of them is walking into the market with open hands.

Practical Steps

First, choose your core practices. Look back over this book and choose two or three practices that speak to you most. Make them part of your daily life.

Second, keep it small and regular. Choose a form of each practice that you can keep up even on busy days. Five minutes is enough.

Third, return when practice fades. When you notice that you have stopped, begin again gently, without guilt.

Fourth, find the practice in ordinary moments. Look for chances to be present in the ordinary activities of your day: eating, walking, washing, listening.

Fifth, bring presence to others. Let the calm you find in practice reach the people around you, through attention, patience and kindness.

Sixth, consider finding a community or teacher. If you wish to go deeper, you might look for a group that sits together or a qualified teacher who can guide you.

A Short Practice: One Ordinary Day

This final practice is not a few minutes long. It lasts a whole day. Choose an ordinary day, not a special one, perhaps a working day or a day at home.

In the morning, before you get up, take three breaths and make a simple intention: "Today, I will try to be present in ordinary things." You do not need to do anything special. Just remember the intention.

As the day goes on, try to notice the ordinary moments: the taste of your breakfast, the feeling of water on your hands, the sound of a voice, the light through a window, the weight of your bag, the steps you take. Whenever you remember your intention, come back to the moment you are in.

You will forget, many times. That is fine. Each time you remember, return. You might use small reminders: a doorway, a cup of tea, a red traffic light or the sound of your phone can all be signals to take one breath and come back.

In the evening, before sleep, look back on the day. Notice the moments when you were present. Perhaps there were only a few, perhaps many. Notice how they felt. Do not judge yourself for the moments you missed. Simply remember the ones you lived.

Then, as you lie down, remember Dazhu's words: when tired, sleep. Let the day go, and rest. Tomorrow will be another ordinary day, and another chance to practise.

Questions People Often Ask

"How do I know if I am making progress?" Zen teachers often discourage measuring progress, because striving for progress can become another form of grasping. But many people notice small changes over time: they return to the present more quickly, they are less carried away by strong feelings, they enjoy ordinary things more or they listen better. These changes are often noticed by others before they are noticed by ourselves. The best measure may simply be whether you are living your ordinary days a little more fully.

"Should I find a teacher?" If you wish to deepen your practice, a qualified teacher and a community can be very valuable. A teacher can guide you, answer questions and help you avoid common difficulties, and practising with others can be supportive. Look for a teacher who is well trained, open about their background, respectful of your freedom and not demanding of money or obedience beyond what is reasonable. Take your time, and trust your own judgment.

"Can I practise Zen alongside my own religion or beliefs?" Many people do. The practices in this book, such as attention to the breath, sitting still, doing one thing at a time and listening fully, are found in some form in many traditions. People of many faiths and of none have found them helpful. If you have questions about how these practices fit with your own beliefs, you might talk with a respected person from your own tradition.

Chapter Summary and Farewell

In the Gateless Gate, case nineteen, Nanquan tells Zhaozhou that "ordinary mind is the Way", and that trying to reach it turns us away from it. Wumen's verse says that if no useless things weigh on the mind, every season is the best season. The Ten Ox-Herding Pictures end not on a mountain, but with an old man walking into the marketplace with open hands.

The practices of this book, breathing, sitting, watching thoughts, doing one thing at a time, chores, beginner's mind, walking, eating, a quieter room, not knowing, meeting feelings, listening and rest, can be woven into an ordinary day. When practice fades, we simply return. And a settled, present mind is often a kinder mind, whose calm reaches the people around it.

Thank you for walking with me through these pages. I hope that, when you close this book, you will not need to remember all of it. Remember only this: wherever you are, and however busy your mind, you can always come back. One breath at a time.