Transcription
So, the answer you've been searching for might just be a rusty, wobbly folding chair and shutting up for a few minutes. Not Iawasa or Subpar Therapy, and not the latest self-help podcast hosted by a 26-year-old life coach named Quentyn who tells you his spirit animal is a direwolf while charging you $1,200 for a breath-work intensive. Just sit down in silence and watch your thoughts melt like a popsicle in the sun. That's pretty much Zen. It doesn't actually promise enlightenment; it just quietly hands you a broom and says, "Sweep."
Okay, so I tried Zen Buddhism in the mid-1990s, because of course I did. I was in my 20s, emotionally raw and spiritually curious, and not to mention financially useless. Basically, I was a walking identity crisis in ripped jeans. And I'd read just enough Alan Watts by that time to be dangerous. You know that stage where you understand maybe half of what he was saying and then assume that means you've transcended the system? That was pretty much me. I was, uh, at that time listening to bootleg cassette tapes of Alan Watts, listening to him talk about the illusion of the ego while I microwaved generic macaroni and cheese in a kitchen with an uneven floor. So I didn't have money for workshops or retreats. And I discovered that sitting cross-legged for more than 15 minutes while trying to meditate was unbearable for me.
So, I did what any spiritually bankrupt suburban mystic would do. I found this old broken folding chair in the basement, probably leftover from a graduation party in 1984. And it was rusty, and the seat was torn. The hinges squeaked, of course, and one of the legs would slowly collapse if you so much as breathed wrong. So I taped it and retaped it and wedged cardboard under one side of it, and it was, you know, less a piece of furniture and more like a metaphor held together with existential duct tape. And so, being the stubborn sob that I was at that time, it would have to be a cold day in hell for me to go out and spend $10 or whatever on a new folding chair. That was just not going to happen.
So, I'd set up in the corner of my room, surrounded by stacks of used books and, uh, unwashed laundry, and I would try to meditate. Emphasis on try. I thought that Zen was supposed to make you calm and peaceful and all that, but all it really did for me was shine a giant unblinking spotlight on the inside of my skull. And guess what? It was mostly static and old reruns of emotional trauma. So every time I sat in that chair, it would wobble and it had issues. And every time it wobbled, I'd try to fix it—you know, tighten a bolt or something, add more duct tape, curse in a hush tone as if offending the chair would make it collapse on purpose. And through all of this, nonetheless, I kept coming back because something about that stupid, unreliable chair started to feel familiar to me. I wasn't just maintaining the chair; I was maintaining my whole identity. I was trying to hold it together and just patch the damage every time. And I wanted to make it look like I was okay from a distance, even if it was falling apart underneath.
So eventually, naturally, I realized the chair was me: wobbly, frustrated, full of tension, um, duct-taped together with unresolved childhood issues and, you know, delusional dreams of enlightenment. And just like me, it wanted so badly to be still, to just be. But alas, it couldn't, because ultimately stillness requires surrender. And the mule-headed that I was wasn't surrendering. Okay. So after about a year or so, I would say I gave up—and not in some dramatic fashion, no fire ritual or spiritual breakup letter to the Buddha. I just stopped sitting. And I think it was mostly because the silence got too loud, and the thoughts got too cruel, and the discipline became too much for someone who hadn't done the shadow work—you know, that deep, dirty excavation of everything I'd shoved into my psychic basement. You know, stuff like repressed rage, ego, old wounds, weird urges, uh, you know, all the greatest hits. So every time I sat down, all that stuff crawled up to the surface like, "Hey buddy, you thought this was going to be peaceful?" And you know, my life was like an ongoing long dark night of the soul without an end.
So, Zen didn't really offer me comfort, but it did offer me a mirror, and I just wasn't ready to take a cold, hard look. So, I folded the chair and put it back in the closet, literally and metaphorically. But here's the thing: I never really stopped respecting Zen or Buddhism in general. Even after I walked away, it kind of haunted me, but in the best way—like, um, you know, if you have a quiet old friend who doesn't say much but always shows up when things fall apart, which is a lot when you think about it.
So unlike most belief systems, Zen doesn't try to sell you anything. It doesn't need your faith, your tithe, tithes, or your constant social media validation. For instance, Zen is perfectly fine being ignored, and it doesn't wrap itself in flowery language or offer a 10-step plan to inner peace. It just says sit down, shut up, and just notice what's happening. Don't flinch. Just breathe. No dogma, uh, you know, no story or reward. Just reality right here in the present moment. And reality, as it turns out, it doesn't care if you're spiritually aligned or if Mercury is in Gatorade. Sorry, I mean retrograde. Retrograde. Um, okay.
So, let's go way, way back for a minute. So, Zen historically is a school of Mahayana Buddhism that traces its roots back to China, where it was known as Chan before it made its way to Japan, where it became Zen. It was influenced by Daoism, and it shows because there's, um, it's an—there's an irreverence in Zen. I'd say it's like a refusal to play by the rules, even its own. And Zen isn't interested in metaphysics. It's not about heaven or reincarnation or magical karma points. It's more about, uh, direct experience, being in this moment. I mean, you're probably going to hear me say that a lot: being in the moment and being present, like being in this current breath right now, this dysfunctional chair. So in Zen, even the most profound truths are just fingers pointing at the moon. And you know, once you've seen the moon, you can stop licking the damn finger.
So there were a few voices that helped shape my early understanding of this. There was, um, I'm not sure I'm pronouncing this first name correctly, um, Shunryu Suzuki, who said, "Zen mind is beginner's mind." Which sounds kind of adorable until you realize beginner's mind means dropping every opinion, identity, and illusion that you've ever clung to like a security blanket soaked in gasoline. Then there was, um, Thich Nhat Hanh, gentle and profound, who said, "Smile, breathe, and go slowly." And meanwhile, I was screaming internally, hyperventilating, and tripping over myself emotionally. And of course, Alan Watts, the, uh, I'd say the unofficial spokesperson for, uh, Western spiritual seekers who want enlightenment without giving up sarcasm. So Watts said there is no self to realize, and that's the realization, which feels like both a breakthrough and a cosmic prank. Um, Watts had this way of, uh, dismantling your ego while making it sound like jazz. He made you feel okay about being a confused pile of, uh, stardust wearing pants.
Okay. So, there's a special kind of disappointment you feel when you realize the thing you thought would save you has no interest in saving you at all. That was me with Zen. I came to it with all the usual Western baggage. I thought it would fix me, make me calm, help me finally silence the voices in my head that sound suspiciously like my junior high gym teacher and every ex that I never deserved. Instead, Zen just stared at me like, um, an unimpressed cat and said, "Why are you talking so much?"
So, Zen and nihilism actually agree on a lot of things: You know, nothing is permanent. Nothing has fixed meaning. The self is an illusion, and your ego is basically the universe's spam folder. The difference is nihilism feels bad about it. Nihilism stares into the void and it says, "Oh no." And Zen stares into the void and says, "Oh, nice of you." It's like the difference between a breakup album and a guy peacefully raking leaves while his house burns down behind him. One spirals, and the other makes tea. That's the weird magic of Zen. It doesn't resist the void; it just sits with it. It gives it a name, pets it, it asks it if it's eaten. So where nihilism sees a collapsed building, Zen just dusts off the bricks and, um, it builds a meditation cushion.
Now, in regards to Stoicism, um, you know, Stoicism is like your responsible older brother who journals every morning and only eats complex carbs. But Zen is like the quiet uncle who shows up unannounced, uh, eats nothing but rice, and disappears before the cops arrive. So both emphasize acceptance. Both say you are not your emotions. But Stoicism wants you to analyze them and wrestle them into submission like you're trying to emotionally optimize your LinkedIn profile. Zen just says, "Let it pass," like gas or your—your last relationship. Stoicism still wants us to win the inner war. And Zen says, "What war?"
So, all right, in—in regards to, um, Absurdism—you know, Camus's awkward love child of logic and despair. This tells us the universe is meaningless, and our search for meaning is, of course, itself absurd, but still we should rebel, and Sisyphus must be imagined happy, right? So, Zen reads all that and nods politely and then goes back to sweeping the floor. So, Zen doesn't even really try to imagine Sisyphus happy; it just wonders why he's pushing the damn rock in the first place. Then it does something like—it'll ask if he's considered maybe just watching the rock, you know, noticing its shape, its texture, and just letting it be a rock. So Zen doesn't demand you rebel. It doesn't ask for your resistance; it just asks you to stop performing your identity long enough to notice it was never really real to begin with.
So Existentialism is where you end up after the philosophy degree and three failed relationships. You realize life has no inherent meaning, so now it's up to you to invent it. Zen sees this and says, "Oh, that's cute," because while Existentialism is out there trying to DIY its own purpose like a sad, lonely Etsy account for metaphysical meaning, Zen is just sitting there quietly dissolving the entire concept of meaning altogether. So Existentialism says life is meaningless, but you must give it meaning. And Zen says, "You're not supposed to be happy; you're just supposed to be." And somehow that seems less depressing. Zen doesn't care about your personality or your Myers-Briggs type. Zen is probably the only philosophy that would delete your Instagram mid-scroll and say, "There, now you're free."
Now back to Alan Watts for a second. Uh, you know, he was basically the gateway drug for thousands of, um, Western pseudo-monks. Uh, Alan, I think, explained it best. He said the self is like a flame. It appears to be a thing, but it's really just a process. It's constantly changing. There's no solid core; it's just emotion and illusion, like a relationship—like a relationship that lasted too long. And there is no you to fix, no permanent ego to polish, which I think is both horrifying and, you know, once you get over the ego death, kind of a relief, in my humble opinion. So no self means no performance and no pressure, you know, or grand narrative to fulfill. You can finally stop pretending you're the main character in some, I don't know, cosmic drama and just exist. Exist in all your weird, unbranded folding-chair glory.
So that old folding chair wasn't just a metaphor; it was a practice. And every time I tried to fix it, I was really just reenacting my lifelong habit of trying to fix myself: you know, tape the cracks, quiet the squeak, uh, you know, balance the imbalance, and so forth. And you know, I did all this as if stillness was something I could earn with enough duct tape and emotional suppression. But Zen doesn't ask you to fix anything; it just asks you to notice it. Notice the breath, the noise, you know. Notice the fact that you've been at war with yourself for decades, and you haven't even really stopped to ask why.
Okay. So, at this point, what now? If you're seeking meaning, Zen won't give you any. And if you're looking for salvation, Zen will point you at a break and just tell you to tend the garden. But if you're tired of the performance, if you're worn out from endless cycles of trying to be better and do more and heal faster or find a point in all the chaos, Zen says, "Good. Sit down. Shut up. Let it fall apart." That's the practice. That's basically the broken chair.
All right. So, let's be honest: You're not becoming a monk, and you know, you're not moving to a mountaintop or shaving your head unless it's already falling out. You're not going to sit in perfect silence every morning at 5:00 a.m., facing east while your thoughts dissolve into divine emptiness. No, you've got a job and bills, and you've got an existential crisis playing on repeat in the background like—like elevator music in hell. So how do you live Zen when your life is more the office than the Dhammapada? How do you practice the art of, uh, folding-chair maintenance in a world that's constantly on fire? Good questions.
I would say number one, stop trying to fix everything. That's really the first thing. Just, you know, let the chair wobble. It may be annoying, but let the chair do its thing. You know, you don't have to optimize every emotion or align every chakra while you're trying to win a, you know, cosmic internship or something. And Zen doesn't want your productivity; it just wants your presence, which sounds like the kind of thing someone says on a yogurt retreat before charging you 400 bucks for artisanal silence, but it's true. Not a broken appliance that needs troubleshooting. You're just here. You're slightly cracked and confused but fully alive. So just let that be enough. Okay.
Um, number two, create a ritual, not a religion. And what I mean by this is you don't need to buy a statue or burn incense or, you know, chant Sanskrit unless you want to. Just find a spot and sit down and set a timer and shut up. You know, even 5 minutes is fine. And don't try to, um, meditate, as in the way of—you know, don't—don't chase stillness. Just kind of watch your mind do back flips and just observe the thoughts. Don't dwell on them, and then let them go. And just repeat this. Notice that you're not in control, and somehow that's okay. You know, it's just a process of, um, learning how to be an observer of your thoughts, the awareness of your thoughts. You're not chasing peace; you're just trying to make space for it. And, um, you know, maybe that space opens up something quieter under all the noise—not necessarily a revelation or a breakthrough, just a breath, a moment that doesn't demand anything of you. All right.
Number three, do one thing slowly. You know, Zen is the art of doing one thing at a time, which is great because you've barely, you know, you're—we're barely doing one thing, you know, competently. So when you do the dishes, just do the dishes. Fold the laundry, drink tea, brush your teeth, but try to do it like it matters, like it's the only thing you'll ever do, because in that moment it is. So this basically means no multitasking, no podcast, scrolling videos, etc., etc. Just this thing, one thing, you know, this one small boring act done with your full attention can be more spiritual than a thousand hours of forced positivity. And you know, it costs nothing. Okay.
Number four, learn to sit with it. And you know, this is the hard one, and I think it's the one that matters most. Zen asks you to stop running from your sadness and your boredom and, you know, stop running from the voice in your head that says you're not enough, you should be somewhere else or someone else. So just sit with it. Don't try to solve anything or transcend anything; just try to be with it as it is. It's not glamorous or inspiring, but it is real. And I think, you know, in that reality you might just find the thing you've been trying to manufacture through all the other stuff—something like peace—you know, the kind that doesn't sparkle or try to sell you anything, the kind that, um, it just sits with you like a quiet old friend who doesn't care if you're interesting or not. All right.
Number five, let meaning come and go. So, Zen doesn't ask you to find meaning; it just asks you to stop strangling it. Meaning isn't a possession; it's—it's not—it's not a treasure chest buried under years of therapy and overpriced wellness retreats. You know, I think meaning shows up when you're not really looking for it, like when you're making coffee or just walking nowhere in particular. And it might show up when you're sitting in a busted folding chair with nothing left to prove. So just let it come and let it go. Zen doesn't chase meaning; it watches meaning float by like a cloud and it says, "Huh, nice shape." Then it goes back to sweeping.
Okay, I've got a few final thoughts. And you know, I never did find a perfect meditation chair, because there isn't one. And you know, some days my mind is—is loud and crazy, and some days it's tired. And you know, if you've watched any of my other videos, you can see why. Some days it's like a cynical, overcaffeinated bastard that won't shut up about the futility of the modern world. And that's fine. Zen isn't about silencing your mind; it's about not needing it to shut up in the first place. And I think Zen is really about being okay with the wobble and imperfection and the unfinished business of being alive. That old folding chair really taught me more than any guru ever did, because every time I patched it up and sat down and failed to find peace, I was learning how to stop chasing the idea of peace altogether. And that, somehow paradoxically, is where the peace was hiding all along.
So yeah, you know, maybe enlightenment isn't a glowing light or a mountaintop revelation or any of that business. Maybe it's just sitting down in a shitty folding chair held together with tape and just a little bit of faith and letting it be exactly what it is—no more and no less. You know, sweep, breathe, repeat. Thanks for watching.