Too Cool for Nine to Five : Dharma Journey of the Ordinary 10

Too Cool for Nine to Five : Dharma Journey of the Ordinary 10

The very first metro of the day is a different creature from the ones that come after it.

I was on it that Thursday, on my way to meet KC and George for the Virajpet trip. Almost empty coach. The kind of quiet Namma Metro never has once the city wakes up. A young man got in a few stations later and sat across from me, laptop bag between his feet, and his T-shirt said, in a careful embroidered hand — Too cool for nine to five.

I read it twice. Then I did the thing I do, which is to sit with it instead of reaching for my phone to type in my random non thoughts.

I have never been cool. But I have been a long way from nine to five, and I found myself, somewhere between Majestic and the Kengeri Metro station, in Kanzeon again.

The day there started at 3:45. Not 3:45 as an idea — 3:45 as a bell, in the dark, with the waterfall already going. On most days there would be a mail from Fr. AMA timed at around 3:10 am. Then it was time to get ready for Zazen. Bhim slept inside the room only when it was too cold, or when Perumalmalai came under a blanket of mist for two or three days after a storm. He never understood why humans would get up before the birds do. After the early morning Zazen, whatever the day had decided for me, which was never something I had decided for myself. Book editing, writing, answering email queries from visitors and sangha members, cleaning, cooking, sitting, the small endless jobs of keeping a Zendo alive, sitting again, Bhim watching all of it with his usual lack of interest. The day ended when I was dead tired, which was the only clock that mattered by then. And many a time a coaching client of mine would call in late. I could not say no to that, because that was pocket money for Manu and Rishi. Three and a half years of that. Full time student, and assistant to a master who did not consult my preferences.

Nobody would put that on a T-shirt.

And yet, sitting across from that boy, I wasn't feeling superior. I was feeling wistful. Which surprised me, because by any honest count Kanzeon was a much worse deal than nine to five. Longer hours. No pay. No weekend. And here I was, missing it.

There is a Korean-German philosopher, Byung-Chul Han, who wrote a small book called The Burnout Society. His argument is simple and it has stayed with me. Older societies ran on "you must." The boss, the church, the rules, the clock. Ours runs on "you can, you could." Anything is possible, your best life is still out there, unlived, so get on with it. Nobody is standing over you anymore. You are standing over yourself. Han calls it self-exploitation, and says it is more efficient than any master could ever be, because there is no one left to rebel against. The whip and the back it lands on belong to the same person.

That boy on the metro was free. Free of the boss, free of the clock, on the first train of the day with his work on his shoulder. He will be at it long after five, I suspect. Not because anyone told him to. Because he can. And because he is not free from himself.

Here is what I didn't understand when I was in Kanzeon and only understood on that train.

The 3:45 bell was a "you must." The schedule was a "you must." The master was, most definitely, a "you must." And somehow that rested me. When the han sounds you don't decide anything. You get up. When the bell rings you sit. When the food comes you eat it. There is nothing to optimise, nobody to impress, no better version of the morning you could have had if only you had tried harder. The form holds you, so you don't have to hold yourself. For three and a half years the boss inside me — the one that has run my life since school, the one that never once said well done — had nothing to do. He came along, of course. He sat behind me in the zendo for the first few months, telling me my posture was poor and my breath was wrong and everyone else was getting it faster. And then one day, I couldn't tell you which, he went quiet. Not defeated. Just — unemployed.

Baizhang, the old Chinese master, had a rule for his monastery. A day without work is a day without food. People read that as harshness. I read it now as kindness. He was handing his monks a "you must" so that the "you can" could finally shut up.

I was tired at Kanzeon in a way I have not been tired since. It was the tiredness of a body that has done what the day asked and is now done. Han has a phrase for the other kind — the tiredness of the achievement society, which he says is a lonely tiredness, one that separates. And he has a phrase for the first kind too. A tiredness that trusts the world.

That is what I was missing on the metro. Not the Zendo. The trust.

The boy got off at the same station I did. Laptop bag, long stride, already somewhere else in his head. I hope he finds a bell one day. Something outside himself that says, this and not that, now and not later, enough and not more. It doesn't have to be a Zendo. It can be a dog who needs walking at seven, when the sun starts smiling at the birds. It can be a stream that has no name and no opinion about your quarterly targets.

Even Bhim, my Zendog master, had a bell. He never heard it as one. He got up when the birds did, ate when the bowl came, slept when the mist rolled in. He didn't need a bell. He was the bell. The highest form of spirituality is when one is the act itself. Bhim never knew that. That is how I know he had it.

I used to think form was the opposite of freedom. Three and a half years of a schedule I didn't write taught me the other way round. The boss inside treats everything as a means. Sit so you'll be calmer, work so you'll be free, and the end is always one more effort away. The bell doesn't work like that. It asks for the sitting, and the sitting is the whole of it. There is a difference between means and ends. When the means and the end are one, that is when the must starts working for you, instead of you working for it.

I still get up early. Old habits. But nobody rings a bell anymore, and I notice the difference.

Here is the thing under the thing. Most of us live with some end in mind. A better job, a calmer mind, a version of ourselves that hasn't arrived yet. Then we put our striving to work as the means of getting there. It doesn't matter much whether the striving says "you must" or "you can." Once it is a means to somewhere else, it has a boss, and the boss is us. That is how the oppressor and the oppressed end up being one person. Zen has only one thing to say about this, and it says it flatly. The means is the end. You do zazen for the sake of doing zazen. Not to become calm, not to become wise, not to become anything. Becoming always lives in the future. Keep your eyes on who you are becoming and you will never once be here, in any of the nows you actually get. The bell at Kanzeon never once asked what my sitting was for. That is why it rested me. There was nowhere the morning was trying to get to.

On those mornings I sit anyway. Not because I can.

Because I must. And that, it turns out, is the freer of the two.

The Distance They Built On Purpose — For the Silence in Our Minds…

The Distance They Built On Purpose — For the Silence in Our Minds…

One of my coaching clients is a high-flyer in the corporate world. He often calls me on his way to the airport, or while waiting for take-off, when there's something important he wants to discuss between our scheduled sessions. I've often sensed he doesn't want to let a single waking moment go unproductive. In many of our calls, we end up discussing strategies for doing less—so that he can carve out some stillness in his workday. But for him, it has been genuinely difficult to let go of his old ways of working.

That struggle came to mind recently when somebody shared the reason why arrival gates were moved so far from baggage claim in airports. It was based on research done at Houston's George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Passengers only took a minute to walk from the gate to baggage claim, then waited seven more minutes for their bags — and complaints kept pouring in even after wait times were reduced. So the airport moved the gates farther away and routed bags to the outermost carousel. The total time to get your bags stayed the same, but now most of it was spent walking instead of standing still. Complaints dropped to near zero. Now several airports design around that insight.

The essence: human beings attribute silence and waiting to being unproductive, of no value — and any action, any time-filler, to being productive, even when nothing has actually changed. The mind doesn't measure what happened. It measures what it was busy doing while it happened. That is the business of busy-ness. Especially in this attention economy.

This is, in some ways, exactly what Kokoro-Zen-Do in Action bets against. KZD is a year-long online circle of twelve — a small mandala of practice, not a retreat weekend — built around the Enso, the single unbroken brushstroke Zen uses to picture wholeness. Twelve people, twelve months, twelve Petals, each carrying its own Mirror Text and Practice Gate, moving through three Arcs: rooting the self, embodying the heart, and finally glimpsing what Zen calls the liberating view. Nothing about it is designed to feel like a workshop. It is designed to feel like a year — which is precisely where it runs headlong into the Houston problem.

I feel this reflects in the cohort members' responses to this long-drawn course as well. Everyone looks forward to jam-packed, wisdom-per-minute, high-energy sessions over a weekend or three-four days. But when the learning is spread over a year, with enough time in between for silence and reflection, people feel it isn't productive for them. Even if the whole journey is designed to unearth their own wisdom within themselves. Nothing is technically missing in those quiet stretches — the walk is happening either way — but because it isn't dressed up as motion, it doesn't register as progress. That's an indicator of how modern capitalism has conditioned human beings — we've learned to trust the walk and distrust the wait, even when the wait is where the actual work is being done. Most people don't realise this until they're inside a year long practice — the discomfort isn't from lack of progress, but from lack of visible motion.

When François, a French martial artist, who had spent some 2 decades in China and Japan to perfect his Taichi, took 3-4 weeks to teach us Wuji, the empty stance before our Taichi steps began. Whenever he noticed a frustrated face in our small Taichi class at the Zendo, he used to tell us, unless we learn to stand still, we won't learn to move in Taichi. And for those who are used to the busy-ness of life's business, it gets very tough to still body and mind. Once when I asked him, if this suited a slow motion exercise system like Taichi, he spoke about Taiki-Ken, which is similarly foundational for Kung fu practitioners. That entire system is built on the foundation of Ritsu-zen (立禅, "standing Zen"). And it is not a warm-up before the "real" training.

And it is not about standing still. Serious Zen practitioners move from active breath practices in Zazen, to Shikantaza (just sitting) to sit without doing anything particular. Not even with an intent to meditate within a Zendo. In fact, in Zen traditions, there's a word for this: boketto—the practice of gazing at nothing in particular, unfocused, with no goal attached to the looking. It cannot be optimised or performed for anyone watching. Which is precisely why it's so hard to sell to a mind trained to only trust what looks like effort. Boketto is what a yearlong mandala quietly trains — the ability to stay with the space where nothing seems to be happening.

Alan Watts made a similar point in Still the Mind — a mind that never stops thinking has nothing left to think about except itself. There is no room left for anything else to land, not even the world as it actually is. François was training the body to make that room. Boketto trains the eyes to do the same. The mind has always been the last student in that class.

Lao Tzu saw this before airports existed. Thirty spokes meet at a hub, he wrote in the Tao Te Ching's eleventh verse, but it's the hollow center — the part with nothing in it — that lets the wheel actually turn. A vessel is shaped from clay, yet its usefulness lives in the emptiness it holds. A room is cut out of walls with doors and windows, and the room becomes liveable only because of the space that isn't wall. Being gives us the form, he says, but non-being is what we use.

It's the same grammar as silence between notes making the music, the space between bars holding up the song, the window being nothing but a hole that lets the house breathe. We keep admiring the spokes, the clay, the wall — the visible, countable, fundable parts — and forget that none of it works without the hollow at the centre.

Most transformation programs are like 2-minute instant noodles — a packaged, guided tour for those who want instant nirvana. But does it work like that? There are no quick fixes to integrate our shadow and steady the inner life thru stilling the mind. It takes a consistent practice in building our awareness and presence. In fact, after the great success of Stephen Covey's 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, one habit that got conditioned, is to have a number of steps/processes for anything and everything in life. Life does not work that way. While there are great similarities and commonalities across all human lives, there is a uniqueness too. The first step in our own transformational journey is to be aware of that uniqueness within ourselves. Where Buddha differentiated himself from others is his realisation about this. Appo Deepo Bhava seems to be his greatest teaching. His own way of saluting his students, Kalyana Mitra has modern resonance in the Irish word of Anamcara pal.

A year-long practice runs on exactly that natural principle. The Petals are the spokes. The time of unscheduled quiet between them is the hub. You cannot wipe blood clean with more blood. And there's no way to find that inner silence and stillness in our minds by adding more thoughts — however sacred they sound, however ancient they are.

Cohort 2 of Kokoro-Zen-Do in Action opens later this year, beginning late November — for anyone ready to walk a year built around the hub instead of the spokes. Write to me at vishy.sankara@kokorozendo.life — start with one thing you're trying to slow down.

Dharma Journey of the OrdinaryPassage 2 : The Fortune Seller at Kalpathy.

Dharma Journey of the OrdinaryPassage 2 : The Fortune Seller at Kalpathy.

Naseer was hungry. I offered him Kovai Annapoorna. He declined, gently, and said he knew a better place. Drivers usually do.
We found it in Kalpathy. No signboard. No name I could see. Just a small eatery that, I will say plainly, beat TRC and Annapoorna hands down. Sometimes the best food in a town hides behind nothing at all.
As we walked out, a man stopped me. Selvaraj. A lottery seller. He had sold nothing that morning, and a man needs to sell something before he can eat.
I asked for the bumper. He looked almost apologetic. No one buys a Kerala bumper from a roadside eatery, he said. He carries only the smaller ones — Karunya Plus, fifty rupees each.
I gave him a hundred. Took one ticket. He had no change, so I took the second too.
As he handed it over, I told him — almost without thinking — that if I won, ten percent would be his.
His face changed. He said no one had told him that before. Then he wished me luck, and we drove on to Mannarkkad.
Today I checked the result. Karunya Plus draws every Thursday. One ticket — PN445673 — has won five hundred rupees.
Fifty of it is his.
And now the koan of it: how does one find a man met once, on a roadside, in a town one does not live in?
The giving was already complete the moment I said it. That is the old teaching, and I know it to be true. Dana does not wait on results. It does not need a winning ticket to justify itself. It was finished the moment his face lightened.
And yet — I find myself wanting to close the loop anyway. Not because the gift needs it. But because a promise kept, to a man who did not expect anyone to keep one, is its own small practice. Both things are true. I am not going to resolve the tension. I am just going to sit with it, the way I sit with most things now.
I think of Vishal Sikka's appointment as CEO of Infosys, and NRN's remark that Sikka means money — that he might bring a lot of it to the company. Selvam means gold, in Tamil. Selvaraj, then, is something like lord of wealth. A man who sells fortune for fifty rupees a ticket, and could not afford his own breakfast until a stranger bought two.
So perhaps I will return to Kalpathy on my way back, unannounced, and check at the nameless eatery for the fortune seller Selvaraj. I think I will find him — the taste of that dosa is my google map.
And I will hand him his fifty rupees.
Not for the money. For the rarer thing — that someone remembered.

Dharma Journey of the Ordinary Passage 7: Nale Kanam…

Dharma Journey of the Ordinary Passage 7: Nale Kanam…

Just another monsoon in God's own country. Spinoza said, slice it thin as you like, there are two sides to a story. Kerala's monsoon story is no different.

I love the monsoon rains. Still do. The good vibes of it, you feel in the body. Some stray tears too.

Monsoon times are also times of death and disaster. I remember an elderly boy from our street, Ubhayamargham in Mannarkkad. One rainy day he told his mother he was going to swim with his friends. Said he'd be back for breakfast. He never came back. My grandmother used to tell us, that poor mother went insane. Every day, she made dosas and waited for her son. There are many such stories in Mannarkkad. Lived ones.

All this came to mind when a road in Alappuzha showed up in the news. Water on both sides. A bus down the middle, going somewhere. Not a photograph staged for effect. Just another day for whoever was on that road.

There are two kinds of adventure. One is chosen. It has a return flight. It comes with a caption. It ends, and you go home, and the ordinary resumes.

The other is not chosen. It is getting to school, to work, to the hospital, on a day the monsoon has decided otherwise. No metaphor to retreat into. Just the next necessary thing, and the water in the way of it.

I studied in a government village primary school, Thenkara. During the rains, our teacher would arrive early and send some classmates home early. They had a small river to cross before their house. Water does not wait for the bell.

They left first. On the way out, they called back — Nale kanam. See you tomorrow.

I did not know it then. That was the lesson. Not the one on the blackboard. The curriculum yields to the monsoon. To nature. The monsoon does not yield to the curriculum. Nobody called it defeat. It was just nale kanam. Try again tomorrow.

Nale kanam was never a promise that tomorrow would be easier. Only that we'd show up for it, if we survive today. Not hope. Hope wants a good outcome. Nale kanam doesn't ask for one. It just gets on the bus.

The bus driver turns the ignition, not because the water will recede, but because the hospital shift starts at eight. The child holds her school bag above the current, not because the river will be gentle, but because tomorrow's lesson is waiting.

Because nale kanam is spoken by the living. It's the survivor's word. What about those for whom tomorrow never comes? The boy who said he'd be back for breakfast, and wasn't. His mother had no nale kanam left. Only innu thanne — today, right now — repeated in the steam of the dosa batter and the empty chair.

That bus on the thin black line, water on both sides. Nothing dramatic. No applause. It doesn't know it's resilience. It only knows it has somewhere to be. That's why nobody notices. The remarkable, done every day, stops looking remarkable to anyone but the one still doing it.

Dharma. We translate it as religion, or moral duty. The root is dhri — to hold, to sustain, to uphold. That bus upholds the passenger. The road upholds the bus. None of it asks for a blessing. That's the journey of the ordinary. Not a search for transcendence. Just the plain structural fact of showing up, so the world doesn't come apart.

We don't applaud the heart for beating, or the lungs for breathing. Only when they stop do we know what they were worth. Same with that ribbon of tarmac. The day it disappears under water, the day the bus can't pass, the day nale kanam becomes nale illa — no tomorrow — that's the day we'll see the ordinary was never ordinary at all.

Let the tourists keep their return flights. Their captions. Their photographs. That bus driver, those children, that teacher — they know something else. Nale kanam is not a story to tell. It's a rhythm to keep. And keeping it, in the rain and the mud and the rising water, is the only adventure with no exit. Because it is the exit, the entrance, and the road, all at once.

Dharma Journey of the OrdinaryPassage 6: What the Mind Edits, Mindlessly…

Dharma Journey of the OrdinaryPassage 6: What the Mind Edits, Mindlessly…

Blink, and the world does not go dark. It should. For that fraction of a second, the eye sends nothing. But you never see the gap. The brain hides it from you before you can ask.

The eyes do this even without blinking. They jump, several times a second, all day. Each jump should smear the world like a hand dragged across a wet painting. You have never once seen the smear.

There is a hole in each eye too. A small blind spot, off to the side, where the optic nerve leaves the retina. No light lands there, ever. But you do not see a hole. You see wall, or sky, or your dog’s (or cat’s)  face, unbroken. The brain does not just hide this gap. It invents what should be there and hands it to you as seen.

A room full of talk, and you hear one voice clearly. The other conversations did not fade. They were never let in. Something was listening on your behalf, choosing, before you had a vote.

And the mind wanders. You do not notice yourself leaving. You notice, later, that you were gone. The going and the return arrive as one seamless moment. There was no seam to catch.

I have been hearing since I was born. I did not start listening until I was blessed with tinnitus.

I have tinnitus. Bad enough most days. A sound in my ears that never actually stops.

There are hours I do not hear it at all.

Not because it went quiet. It did not. My own nervous system decided, without asking me, that the sound was not worth my attention, and stopped forwarding it. Then something shifts, some hour, for no reason I can name, and it is back — screaming, as it turns out, the entire time.

The silence was never real. Only the report of silence was real. And it lied to me, for hours, out of what — mercy, laziness, indifference — I do not know.

But that scream, when it came back, was the first honest thing my own body ever handed me. Silence had been the lie. The tinnitus was the one telling the truth. I had to fall sick to find out I had never really listened.

Somewhere in my depression days, I read too much. How humans actually hear. What the medicine Dr. Raja Hiremani gave me was doing, underneath. I read enough to have written a thesis, if a thesis had been what I needed.

The first time I noticed my own breath, I was in the ninth standard, in a canal near Malappuram, at an NCC camp, going under. Almost drowning. Nobody teaches you to notice breath. You notice it when it is about to be taken from you. That was not peace. That was panic.

Vipassana came later. Ten days of sitting with nothing else to do but notice it on purpose, instead of being nearly drowned into it.

At the Zendo, it moved from breath to sight. Tavutau — sitting, doing nothing, looking. Bhim, the Zendog, and I in front of K4, Perumalmalai across from us, forest, cloud, sky, that Malabar squirrel, monkeys, birds. No agenda. Some days tavutau. Some days just a dog and a man in front of the Zendo, looking at a mountain — which, with Bhim, was always the teaching, whether he called it one or not.

Sleep is a stranger kind of gap. You do not experience falling asleep. During the depression days, sleep would not come. Dr. Hiremani once told me and Thara, I might need intravenous medicine for it, that is how bad it had gotten.

At the Zendo, practicing full time, sleep became easy. Too easy. I built a routine around it. I boasted I could sleep anywhere — even a railway platform. In fact I could. Slept soundly for some six months listening to the roar of the Zendo waterfall.

But I could never witness myself falling asleep. Not once. Every morning, waking early for zazen, the same thought arrived — I missed it again. Maybe tonight. After all, I thought Zen is about being aware.

I never was.

This is Ma. Not the pause between the notes. The one who would have heard the pause, switched off for the length of the pause itself. Not smoothed over — gone, for that instant, and back before anyone could notice the absence. The brain does not just hide the gap. It hides the part of you that would have objected to the gap.

How much of a day is like this. How much of a life.

But the moment I notice the lie — that moment is not edited. That much gets through.

So here is the practice, if there is one. Stop trying to catch the gap. Sit with Bhim, look at Perumalmalai. When the tinnitus screams, let it scream. When it goes quiet, let it go quiet. Notice only the one who noticed.

Gasshō.

Sunlight Through the Gate: Bringing Emptiness to a Metric-Obsessed World…

Sunlight Through the Gate: Bringing Emptiness to a Metric-Obsessed World…

Achievement, metrics and make it count are the buzzwords of our world.

Sometime back, as a Six sigma lead black belt, when I had put in a quote which said “Everything that can be measured is of not value and everything that is of value cannot be measured”, I was met with ridicule and scorn across the room.  That was a long time back.. 20 years or so. Now as a Zen practitioner when I think about it I feel it was kind of prescient. May be I was into Zen in. my previous births too.

The Japanese art of doing nothing is best represented by concepts like Tayutau and Ma.

It is the concept of less is more. and more is less.

These distinct concepts represent the "ways of doing nothing" in Japanese culture in general and in Zen in particular.

 Tayutau (たゆたう). This term describes the act of drifting, swaying, or trembling like a boat on water or clouds in the sky.  It is much subtler than the Zen meditation of Shikantaza.

But, unlike traditional meditation or mindfulness, which involves focusing your breath or controlling your thoughts, tayutau is about letting go completely. You simply gaze at something with an ever-changing flow (like light reflecting on a river or leaves blowing in the wind) without trying to fix, solve, or judge your thoughts.  It allows thoughts to surface and drift away without anchoring your brain to them, enabling your mind to process and sort itself naturally. [

Ma (間) is the space between.

It's one of the most beautiful and untranslatable words in Japanese aesthetics . One can roughly translate it as "the space between," this concept applies to physical gaps, pauses in conversation, or moments of stillness in a day

The character itself shows it: a gate (門) with the sun (日) shining through the opening. Light coming through a gap. That's the image at its root — not the gate, but the space the gate frames.

Ma is the pause between two notes that lets the music breathe. The silence after a teacher speaks, in which understanding arises. The empty space in a sumi-e painting that the viewer's own awareness completes. The gap between two pillars that gives a room its character. The unhurried moment between exhalation and the next in-breath. It isn't emptiness as lack — it's emptiness as the condition for meaning. Remove the ma and the music becomes noise, the painting suffocates, the room loses its proportion.

When  Dogen writing his texts with deliberate lacunae — that was ma. When  the teacher who fills every silence robbing the student of the space where understanding can land — ma. The breath directed to the hara, the pause before the next koan, the gap between the voice that says "skip zazen" and the rising — all ma.

The Tao Te Ching points at the same truth from another direction: the wheel is made useful by the empty hub, the vessel by its hollow, the room by the space within its walls.

The thing has value, but the emptiness makes it usable.

I work with people on a long drawn programs and not short high energy ones , which leaves high and dry..  In nature too everything has its own rhythms.. and takes its own time… 2 minutes noodles and 30 sec insta reels may be the fashion of the day. But I doubt whether it leaves any lasting change leave alone a transformation in the viewer and reader. They are like sugar spikes for the dopamine system. But they miss out the universal principle. The Highter the initial energy , the faster it dissipates in this world of entropy.

Some time back, I was asked to design a short and sweet program on  what else spirituality. I did give it a long thought , as I was in dire need of Money… $, INR , Euro.. or even Crypto.  The advice was in this world, no one has the time and energy ( and focus) for a long drawn out program. And if one is in the business of transformation, one should cater to the needs of customers.

After due consideration, I realised,  as a connoisseur of good beer — and I say this with full sincerity — am  in the business of fermentation—which takes time, darkness, and stillness. Fermentation cannot be rushed; it relies on the Ma between the stirrings to let the cultures grow. Kokoro-Zen-Do in Action, which is an year long long  program are the koji spores of  real transformation. They are invisible, untraceable by standard dashboards, yet they fundamentally change the flavour of the entire personhood.

In this society of spectacle and current modern digital culture, everything is an "Event"—a launch, a reel, a metric spike. But Zen knows that the event is merely the crest of the wave; the process is the entire ocean.

Those immortal  Tao Te Ching lines we invoked before talks about the empty hub making the wheel useful—is the ultimate rebuttal to the metric-obsessed world. Metrics measure the hub (the tangible output). They cannot measure the emptiness (the clarity, the psychological flexibility and the trust) that makes the Cart move.

The Six Sigma room wanted to measure everything. It had no real ma, though they try to sneak it at the very end. May be in the form of a token mindfulness app or a five-minute breathing exercise tacked onto an agenda—a commodified, hollowed-out version of the real thing.  Twenty years later, I am still in that room — but now I bring the emptiness with me.

There is an old Zen saying: Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. To paraphrase that
Before Zen, measure, optimize, present. After Zen, measure, optimize, present—but with the gate open, and the sunlight coming through.

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