RESOURCES

Imagine standing in a lake, trying to see beneath the surface. Each step stirs up sediment, making the water cloudier; the harder we try to see, the less clear it is. Only when we become still does the sediment begin to settle. 

Our minds work much the same way. News, social media, responsibilities, worries, judgments, and the stories we repeatedly tell ourselves can keep the mind in constant motion. 

Thich Nhat Hanh called this ceaseless inner broadcast “Radio NST”—Non-Stop Thinking. When we are caught in it, we may both mistake thoughts for facts and miss the beauty of life unfolding right in front of us.

The Buddhist bodhisattva Manjushri embodies the wisdom that sees clearly. He is traditionally depicted holding a sword—not a weapon of violence, but the sword of understanding that cuts through ignorance and delusion. The practice associated with Manjushri begins with stillness, which helps us stop before reacting, look with openness rather than prejudice, and allow understanding to arise. 

We often try to solve our difficulties while the water is still churning, but stopping creates the space in which we can see what is actually happening.

Stopping does not require us to prevent thoughts or create a blank mind. It begins by recognizing what has arisen without immediately following it. Following a practice taught by Joseph Goldstein, we [BEGIN READING HERE FROM MINDFULNESS MATTERS] can use less personal language: rather than “I am angry,” we might notice, “Anger has arisen.” Or “Thinking has arisen.” This small shift helps us experience thoughts and emotions as changing phenomena rather than as our identity, absolute truth, or commands we must obey. It opens a space between a thought and our decision to believe it or act upon it.

From that space, letting go becomes possible—but letting go does not always look the same.

• When our mind is relaxed and clear, we may be able to simply not grasp or pick up a thought. We can cultivate this clear mind with practices such as consuming less media and other information throughout the day, as well as doing brief “intervals” of open awareness, such as walking from one tree to another without drifting into thought (and returning to the breath or awareness of our environment when we do sometimes drift).
• A light, passing thought may simply be released as we return to the breath, the body, or the activity before us. This works well for the non-emotional thoughts that arise, but we must actually practice recognizing when thoughts are arising so that we can then release before we go down the rabbit hole.
• A thought carrying fear, grief, anger, or shame may need to be set down gently while we calm the body and make room for the emotion. When we stop fueling an emotion with additional thoughts and attend instead to its sensations in the body—perhaps a rapid heartbeat or constriction—it may move through us with less resistance.
• A long-established thought may need to be “unpacked” through careful inquiry. There are many effective ways to do the unpacking, including Byron Katie’s practice called “The Work,” available on her website, where she offers four questions and a “turnaround” to help us examine difficult thoughts. It can also be wise to seek support from a qualified professional when working with trauma or other deeply rooted patterns.

By CAROL GREEN

Using the insight meditation approach—the broad, all-encompassing view including the altar, birdsong and sounds of traffic on Nebraska Avenue—at the recent FCM Wisdom Retreat, I joined the constant flow of movement, the beauty of impermanence, the reality of being alive. Everything was as it was, and it was beautiful because it was all connected.

Awareness that there was a Watcher Within first surfaced when I was about 14. I didn’t know what it meant or what to do with her. As the decades passed, I allowed her to watch. In the absence of guidance, she turned into a tough judge, especially when she was watching Carol. The stakes were high because it was up to Carol to lead the family to a better way at an early age. Carol made it out and found the open doorway of FCM 13 years ago.

Today, at the Wisdom Retreat, the Watcher Within has received training, has received the name of “Host,” and knows her role is to protect the mind. She still judges and confuses perceptions with reality, but she catches herself and remembers causes and conditions and turns to compassion. 

The meditation period ends, and the incense chant reminds us that progress is “slowly ripening.” Here I am, still “ripening." I have made substantial progress, experiencing impermanence that 13 years ago triggered fear but today triggers open joy and freedom, like taking flight.

But I know there is more to be done. I have experienced a small taste of awakening, and I'm "all in"!

What's out there in the great unknown? Not knowing is an adventure. I feel ready to meet it, whatever “it” is. It could be the next big opening in awareness, the next doorway to coming home. It also could be the next overwhelming obstacle. If so, I will rest in the Three Jewels and meet it face to face. I have been there before and survived. I know I have always been there. 

We are reminded in a Dharma talk that “it” is not a thing. I see that, for me, it is a flow of experiences, evolving minute to minute, in brilliant colors and deep sounds, total life, a stream of awareness that is joyous, filled with wonder and awe. Like looking at a full moon, or a sky full of stars on a clear night. I am alive. Being alive is a miracle. 

Why am I here? I am a participant, but it’s not about me. I’m in this movie, but I’m not the star. Fred says it’s not personal. You can’t pin “me” down and fully describe me, for I am flowing, too. What is this? Is life constant motion? Is it unseen energy that “visits” something that appears to be solid, only to learn it is not solid, either? Where does energy come from? Where does it go? I don’t know, but I can feel it—and wonder. 

I realize, by the act of wondering, if I ask for an answer to my question, I am trying to convert an experience into a “thing.” I have to leave the question unanswered, not knowing, and experience the joy of “just wondering.” Ah, how we humans long for certainty!

The last two nights of the retreat, Fred played music while participants rested on their meditation cushions in silence. Freedom, flight, soaring, life flowing in and out on 38 breaths in an unbroken stream. Nothing to be said. One sangha, one Buddha, one Dharma. 

Carol Green of Naples is a retired newspaper reporter and editor and edits FCM’s newsletter, Mindfulness Matters.

By ANGIE PARRISH

In this week’s Sunday Dharma talk in Tampa, we explored Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching on Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of great compassion known as “the one who hears the cries of the world.” Avalokiteshvara is not simply a figure to admire from afar, but represents a capacity within each of us—the ability to meet suffering with mindful, openhearted presence. We also explored practical ways of practicing deep, compassionate listening, as summarized at the end of this article.

Thich Nhat Hanh taught that our minds contain many kinds of “seeds.” We all have seeds of anger, craving, jealousy and confusion, as well as seeds of mindfulness, understanding, generosity and compassion. What we repeatedly water grows stronger. The practice of deep listening waters wholesome seeds in both the listener and the person being heard.

In his verse “Invoking the Names of the Bodhisattvas,” Thầy gives us clear instructions for this practice. We listen to understand, with our full attention and openheartedness. We listen without prejudice, judgment or immediate reaction. We listen not only to another person’s words, but also for what may remain unspoken—perhaps fear beneath anger, grief beneath criticism or loneliness beneath the assurance that everything is fine.

Deep listening does not mean agreeing with everything we hear, abandoning discernment or tolerating harmful behavior. It means temporarily setting aside the impulse to correct, defend, persuade or fix so that we can first understand. Clarification and response can come later, when greater calm and trust are present.

Listening itself can relieve suffering. We may not be able to change another person’s circumstances or offer a solution, but the experience of being genuinely heard can loosen the burden of suffering carried alone. As Thich Nhat Hanh taught, understanding is the foundation of compassion.

Suggested practices for the coming week:

• Offer one deep-listening conversation. Choose someone who may need to be heard more than advised. Give that person your complete attention and listen with the single intention of understanding.
• Notice your listening habits. When judging, comparing, fixing, rehearsing or distraction arises, acknowledge it gently—“judging” or “rehearsing”—and return your attention to the speaker.
• Listen compassionately to yourself. Ask, “What is alive in me right now?” Allow fear, sadness or anger to be present without suppressing or condemning it. You might ask, “What are you trying to protect?” or “What do you need me to understand?”
• Pause before answering the phone. Thầy suggested allowing the phone to ring three times while breathing: “Breathing in, I calm my body. Breathing out, I smile.” By answering from presence rather than agitation, we begin embodying Avalokiteshvara before saying a word.

When we listen without defending ourselves, rehearsing our reply or trying to fix the other person, we create the conditions in which understanding and compassion can grow. In that moment, Avalokiteshvara is present.

[To view the video of this talk, click here.]

By TONY PASQUALE

During the recent Wisdom Retreat, I found myself reflecting on something Fred said to me about a year ago. I had asked Fred a simple question, and he responded, "Why are you asking?" I told him I was curious. Then he smiled and asked, "What happened to the cat when it was curious?" At the time, I didn't understand what he hinting at. I think I'm beginning to.

One of the things I noticed during the retreat was how there seemed to be more coughing and sneezing than usual. I found myself thinking, "I hope I don't get sick. If people are sick, maybe they shouldn't be here putting 'me' at risk." I needed to be honest with myself. Here I am holding an aspiration for all beings to be free of suffering, yet I was already placing conditions on my role in it. I was willing to help, on my terms.

I noticed the same thing at work. Sometimes I see people adopting Dharma-light ideas or language I've shared, and I can feel a little resistance arise. Part of me thinks, "Why are they stealing my mojo?" Yet if my aspiration is to be of benefit, why should I care how that benefit spreads? Again, I caught the mind making calculations.

Then I thought back to Fred's question. I realized the question itself is just words. It was the thought asking the question that needed deep looking. The same Tony wondering what happens to consciousness at death is the same Tony trying to optimize my 401(k) trajectory. There is no liberation in that strand, just reification in a new costume. 

The biggest thing I brought home from the retreat was honesty. Honest enough to see where I'm still making calculations and quietly negotiating with the teachings.

But here is the deep insight--none of it is personal.

These thoughts, habits, and pre-dispositions have been shaped by the entire cosmos, just like the dinner we ate together. Knowing the entire cosmos helped cultivate my moment to moment snickering at experiences lightens the load, it depersonalizes. 

For a while now, I've known that Tony is subtly at war with aspects of reality. This retreat helped me see that the real crux of the matter is Tony was at war with the Four Preliminaries. I could see how I've chosen my own middle way or negotiated with them.

All of this effort, all of the reading, listening, observing, and practicing, it's for one thing: freedom. Freedom from being pushed and pulled by experience, by every preference, by every calculation of mind. This calculating includes the Dharma itself. If I cling to the teachings, crave progress, or need even wholesome things to manifest a certain way, I've simply built a more respectable cage.

So I end where I started. Curiosity can free, and curiosity can trap. 

Oh, the paradoxes of Dharma! 

Perhaps that's why often times it's better to look deeply rather than think our way through the moment as it arises. 

Tony Pasquale of Palmetto has been a member of FCM for two years.

By MICHÈLE ALEXANDRE

The usual hustle and bustle of traveling and busy life preceded my family's trip from Chicago to Tampa to attend the recent Family Retreat with monastics from Blue Cliff Monastery. Although I had attended several retreats at FCM and had found them extremely beneficial, it was my first time attending a family retreat. I arrived in Florida somewhat preoccupied and with my mind pulled toward the external world.

We got to FCM during the opening session. The minute we set foot in the Meditation Hall, the wholesome energy there settled me. It was apparent from the first moment that everyone planning the retreat had created a space where children of various ages and their families could just be themselves, and where we could all commune and learn to be present with one another.

Over the course of the weekend, time with the adults, the monks and our FCM sangha lifted my prior preoccupation, and my mind returned to the enjoyment of the simple things: my breath, the sound of the bell, mindful cleaning and eating. Watching the monks and being part of the sangha gave me a practical model for enjoying the freedom of being enough just right where I was. I slowed down to be present in the moments spent in sangha, and during time with my co-parent Vicki and our daughter Eshe as a family.

The family weekend added depth and opportunities for presence that were different than with an individual retreat and brought us closer. The entire weekend, the three of us moved in sync, focused on the scheduled activities, with Vicki and I tending to Eshe during unscheduled time. It felt as if we were practicing on the cushion as well as off the cushion all in one retreat. 

And watching Eshe take to the retreat so easily was delightful. The children bonded with each other and

[Continued from Mindfulness Matters]

became synchronized quickly. Though Eshe had never been to FCM, she gravitated toward the schedule, learned the rules for noble silence and relished the friends she quickly made. Within hours the kids became inseparable, playing respectfully and enjoying everything to the fullest. It was powerful to see how easily they learned from the monks and how they reveled in being with each other.

For me, the most memorable moment came during the closing sangha when each monk shared their journey to the monastery and offered a few examples from their daily life. The universal nature of the challenges they shared were relatable and inspiring. Listening to the monks, the reminder was simple: peace is in every step. When things feel complex, we can bring our mind to our bodies. For example, if we are walking, we can bring our mind to our feet and say to ourselves: “Walking. Aware that I am walking.”

I had heard and read about this exercise many times before. It is reinforced often by our teacher Fred. Somehow, hearing the monks use it in their own daily life felt liberating. 

Michèle Alexandre (they/them) has been practicing for eight years. They joined FCM in 2021 when serving as dean and professor of aw at Stetson University Law School in Gulfport. A graduate of Harvard Law School, she now lives in Chicago where they serve as dean and a professor of law at Loyola University Chicago School of Law.

In the photo above, Michèle is at top, Esche at right, family pet Stella at the bottom, and Vicki at left.

By LYDIA ANDERSON

It is Saturday morning and I have my nose to the floor and my arms in front of me, prostrating to the Buddha.

Members and aspirants of the FCM Order of Interbeing (OI) are engaged in the Touching the Earth Chant at our recent OI Connection Retreat.

I am recalling the first time I did a prostration with this chant.  How odd!  But, then as now, I find the place within me.

I can feel a connection in the room to my fellow practitioners. I have arrived. I am home.

I have been a member of FCM since 2017.  Most of my involvement has involved working in the kitchen.  It’s been a rewarding and fruitful place for me. But, last year when this retreat came around I began to realize that my energies were ready for redirection. I was ready to move forward in my commitment to FCM. I saw the friendship and energy when this group of people came together and I wanted to be a part of it.

The theme for this year's retreat was "Fire-building".  How do we tend the fire that is the Dharma within FCM and outward, including the global Order of Interbeing with thousands of members around the world?

This year marks the 60th anniversary of the Order of Interbeing, and FCM OI members and aspirants were taking part in a local “fire-building session” to allow

friends on the path to enjoy community, build harmony and share their hopes and vision for the future of the Order and the global Plum Village community.

Thich Nhat Hanh started the Order of Interbeing in 1966 to provide a spiritual path for practitioners committed to mindfulness, social service and nonviolent activism to address the violence and division engulfing Vietnam and the world.

Fred many times has said our practice and commitment are part of what is making American Buddhism, but that it is still in its infancy in the United States.

With this in mind, we broke into small groups and pondered these questions:

How do we ensure that FCM and our OI group are robust and sustainable for the future?

How do we support our global OI brothers and sisters in their efforts?

We spent a good part of Saturday brainstorming these ideas in small groups through deep sharing and listening and then discussed them together with Fred.

All were in favor of sharing any benefits that FCM might have to offer to assist other OI members with less support or without a teacher to guide them. We expressed gratitude for the programs and strong Dharma teachings offered at FCM to aid in our spiritual development and discussed plans laid by Fred to prepare FCM members to be Dharma leaders and to preserve the future of our community and of OI as a "core" group serving and building our sangha.

We also spent a good deal of time getting to know each other or reconnecting. We were encouraged throughout the retreat to find members who we didn’t really know and connect.

I was able to spend quality time with someone that I have “known” for years. Yes, we know who each other are, but, we had not had an opportunity to share more personally.

What was is about our personal journey that brought us to FCM? The similarities were surprising! Now, I can look at him and feel that he truly is my FCM brother.

This strong sense of ease and connection permeated the entire retreat. Old friendships were renewed and new ones forged.

I think I can confidently say that our sangha is in good hands. We are so fortunate to have very talented and dedicated folks in our OI Order and in our wider community of members.

May any merit generated by our gathering be of benefit to all beings, now and in the future.

Lydia Anderson of Tampa became a member of FCM in 2017. She is a member of OI and the FCM Leadership Council and has served as kitchen manager at the Tampa Center.

By MARIA WINKLER

It is 6:00 a.m., and the sound of the gong wakes me for a full day of silent meditation. By 6:30, I am expected to be settled in the meditation hall. We begin the day with mindful movement to help loosen our bodies so that we can sit quietly, without fidgeting, for many hours of meditation and receive the valuable teachings.

The day is interspersed with healthy and flavorful meals eaten mindfully, conscious walks, 45 minutes of working meditation and periods of rest.

As we sit still, we are gently guided by Roshi Hogen Bays and Roshi Chozen Bays to become aware of the five senses—seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting and touching. I tune in to each sense consecutively.

Then we are introduced to the sixth sense: mind consciousness and thinking. This is a sense I was never taught to recognize during 18 years of formal education.

While the workings of the five senses feel familiar, it is the sixth sense that truly deserves attention.

How do I relate to my thoughts? I find that many of them are critical and not helpful. 

When I call my thinking “critical,” I am referring to a subtle but persistent habit of judging. I judge others for not meeting my expectations. I judge myself. I judge circumstances for not aligning with my preferences.

Much of it is not dramatic or loud. It is quiet, repetitive and relentless. 

Help comes from a guided meditation by Roshi Hogen who simply states, “It is just a thought. We do not have to believe it.”

When this insight lands, I feel it physically. My body relaxes. There is both relief and disbelief. Disbelief that I have unquestioningly believed every thought that crossed my mind for decades. Relief at the possibility of freedom.

Roshi Hogan continues by naming a particularly destructive thought pattern:

“I would be happier if…”

                 or

“I will be happier when…”

I could finish these sentences with at least a thousand variations:

I would be happier if my hair were fuller.

I would be happier if my husband did this and not that.

I would be happier if my children called me every single day.

I would be happier if the weather were warmer, colder, or less windy.

I would be happier if the governor did this and not that.

If the president did this and not that.

If the prime minister of another country did not do this.

If the European Union were less regulatory.

If China did this or that. 

And on the list goes.

I realized I can easily come up with a thousand reasons to make myself miserable. What a quagmire I have created. I, and only I, have constructed a destructive minefield of thoughts that prevents me from feeling happy, content and equanimous. 

Seeing this clearly feels like stepping out of fog. There are relief and a sense of spaciousness where there had been contraction. There is also curiosity: If I do not have to believe every thought, what becomes possible? 

This change feels potentially life-altering. I understand that insight alone is not enough. It will take practice, patience, perseverance, and above all, kindness toward myself.

After the retreat, when I notice the old critical voice returning, I practice recognizing it gently: “Ah, there is that thought again.”

Becoming aware of this mental process and actively cultivating healthier mind states through practice is a profound gift I have received once again during this retreat at FCM.

I am immensely grateful to be a member of this community, to have the opportunity to study under the guidance of Fred, the senior Dharma instructors and visiting teachers, and to attend these retreats.

Maria lives with her husband, Gunther, in Naples for six months of the year. The remaining months are divided between Boulder, Colorado, and Boston. She has been a member of FCM since 2015.

By JOAN GLACY

“Letting Go of Our Stories: Finding Freedom Outside the Narrative of Self

"The workshop will help participants to:

• Identify the stories that consume and bind.
  
• Begin living in real life without the distracting inner voice of the story-making self."
  

Reading this description, I think, “Perhaps.” After a year in the Intensive “Deconstructing the Myth of Self,” most of my story-making can be seen for what it is—an activity of mind that often has little to do with present reality. There is one story, however, that seems immutable. It torments me, and worse, impedes spiritual growth.

“Perhaps now is the time to take a closer look,” I thought, and decided to register.

We gather in the Meditation Hall and online. Under Teacher’s loving guidance, we become a Workshop Sangha. Grounded in presence, minds calming and bodies settling, we focus on what brings us together: The search for liberation from our tyrannical minds.

The teachings are comfortably familiar, but how seamlessly they land is surprisingly new.

Stories often spring from young minds trying to make sense of a complex, confusing world. These early stories may conflict with reality. With adulthood, the potential for more reality-based perspectives and understandings arises.

Story-making is a mind activity, just like contracting-relaxing is a diaphragm activity, and pumping is a heart activity. The stories created by this habitual mind-activity are unreliable! They tend to mix fact and fiction. Unconditional acceptance of the content of these stories is, therefore, folly.

Discernment is needed to separate the helpful part of a story (fact) from the unhelpful part (fiction).

How do I gain discernment? By learning from the story-making itself. Yep, it’s paradoxical: To let go, look closely. 

So that’s what we do. We dive in. Courage grows, and a safe, supportive space for investigative inquiry, creative questioning, and fresh consideration opens up. We hold deeply seated assumptions up to the light, and ask:

1. “Is this true?”

2. “How does believing this story affect me? Does it constrain, constrict and disturb me? Does believing this story support my aspiration?”

3. “What would it be like if I didn’t accept this story at face value? Who would I be without this story defining me?”

For me, Number 3 is the tough one, because the honest answer is, “I don’t know” (which is scary). Yet, I do know. Because of the ground that has been laid these past months, moments -- more and more -- of “dwelling happily in the present” teach me what it is like to live harmoniously with the mind’s stories, to not take them too seriously. This is a new skill that, like any new skill, requires practice and diligence. In time, such moments string together, one after the other, indefinitely.

Hmm, really? Sounds too good to be true.

And there it is again, the story-making mind, fretting about the future. Is there something in this fretting that needs my attention? Perhaps. For now, however, I’ll focus on what is most true in this present moment, which is gratitude.

Grounded in presence, Joan Glacy, who practices with the Naples Sangha, is aware of the suffering caused by living from her unexamined stories. She offers metta to all, and for the teachings, Teacher and sangha, inexpressible gratitude. 

By DAN TISCH

The year-long intensive, Deconstructing the Myth of Self, came to a close with a retreat that felt, at least conceptually, like the perfect ending. After nearly a year of earnestly looking for the self, thinking I had found it, losing it, refinding it, and then not finding it again, the retreat seemed designed to provide either clarity or exhaustion. Possibly both. 

During the retreat, we focused on analytical meditation: a practice that persistently turns the wheel of introspection, again and again asking, Where is the self? For someone like me, someone for whom thinking, analyzing and knowing are deeply entangled with identity, this was both intense and, after a while, brain-numbing. After about a day of learning and practicing this technique, my head hurt. I was very much looking forward to the daily work meditation assignment, imagining it would provide relief from all that thinking.

On that day, I was assigned a very Zen-like task: separating white shells from brown stones in the garden. I greeted this assignment with enthusiasm bordering on gratitude. Finally, something simple. Something concrete. Something that did not involve asking my thoughts where they thought they were coming from. 

Of course, as often happens, the work meditation turned out to be just another opportunity to practice exactly what I had been trying to avoid.

Sitting on the ground, looking at a messy mixture of stones and shells, I began to watch my mind engage the task. I noticed how quickly it set about discerning: shells versus rocks, white versus brown. I also noticed something else creeping in—an idea of doing a “good job,” of getting it right. Clearly formed shells went in one place, clearly formed rocks in another. So far, so good.

Then the easy pieces ran out.

What remained were fragments, ambiguous bits that resisted clean categorization. Where did shell become rock, and rock become shell? I began to see not two distinct categories, but a continuum. This, I realized, was interbeing quietly making its point without saying a word.

As I worked with smaller, broken pieces, the shells appeared less shell-like, the rocks less rock-like. What I was picking up were aggregates (parts of shells, parts of rocks) each in different stages of decomposition. The solidity I had initially assumed simply wasn’t there. What I thought were stable, independent objects revealed themselves as impermanent, conditioned and deeply entangled with the ground beneath them.

There I was, sorting shells and stones and inadvertently encountering impermanence, non-solidity, and interbeing, all without my head hurting.

It occurred to me that this hour of work meditation neatly summarized the yearlong intensive and the retreat itself. I had come looking for something solid called “self,” and instead found fragments, processes and continua. Just like the shells and rocks, the self seemed real enough at first glance, but much harder to locate once I looked closely. This lack of solidity and certainty was unnerving at first, but on reflection may be the source of freedom and aliveness.

Apparently, even when I think I’ve escaped thinking, thinking finds its way. Fortunately, the Dharma does too. 

Dan Tisch has been a member of FCM and practicing Buddhism since 2018 and is a retired health and science project manager. He lives part-time in St. Petersburg, Florida, and Bethesda, Maryland, with his wife, Robbie.

By RAJ GOYAL

Last year, I made the uncommon decision to step away from my professional life to study the Self.

It wasn’t because I was burned out or dissatisfied with my work. It came from something quieter and more personal. I wanted to become a better version of myself for the people I love most—my wife and my daughters. I wanted to understand why, in moments that mattered most, I could still get triggered, and why familiar patterns of reactivity and inner drama continued to surface even after years of personal and spiritual work.

In an earlier conversation, Fred said something that stayed with me: much of the drama we experience isn’t imposed on us—it’s something we participate in, often unconsciously. And if we participate in it, we can also learn to relate to it differently. Hearing this was both unsettling and oddly relieving. It suggested that a calmer, even more blissful way of living wasn’t dependent on circumstances changing, but on how clearly I could see my own mind. If I truly wanted to show up differently in my relationships, I realized I needed to slow down and look more deeply.

Throughout the year, one teaching Fred often quoted quietly accompanied me, from Zen Master Dōgen: “To study Buddhism is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be enlightened by all things.” At first, these words lived mostly in my head. Over time—and especially through a recent retreat—they moved from concept into lived experience.

The container for this year was a yearlong Intensive led by Fred called Deconstructing the Myth of Self. The structure itself asked for patience. The work unfolded in three phases, weaving together Western psychology, Buddhist psychology, and sustained meditative inquiry. Rather than offering techniques to fix ourselves, the Intensive asked something simpler and far more challenging: to observe honestly how the sense of self actually operates.

Part One focused on investigation and emotional alchemy. We learned to become detectives of our own experience—turning toward sensations, emotions and reactions with curiosity instead of judgment. Intellectually, I understood the approach right away. Practically, I found it much harder. In real-time interactions, especially with my family, I often noticed my reactions only after they had already taken over. Still, over time, something softened. I began to recognize patterns that had been running quietly in the background for years.

In Part Two, we were invited to choose a specific area of study. I chose to focus on several core schemas—mistrust and abuse, unrelenting standards and hypercriticalness, and entitlement and grandiosity—and to examine how they shaped my communication and relationships. Alongside continued observation of “I,” “me,” and “my,” I worked with these patterns through inquiry and study, including the book Emotional Alchemy.

Then, around the third week, something unexpected happened. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was unmistakable—things began to click. I started to see, in real time, how much of what I said and did was shaped not by the present moment, but by long-standing beliefs and protective strategies. Slowly, those patterns began to loosen. I noticed myself responding differently with my family—pausing where I once reacted, listening where I once defended.

In a previous retreat—Untangling the Knots of Self—which took place midway through Part Two of the Intensive, much of my work had centered on early wounding, especially around mistrust, and on developing a more compassionate relationship with younger parts of myself. That healing loosened knots I had carried for decades and, in subtle ways, weakened my attachment to a fixed sense of self. It created a foundation that allowed this year’s inquiry to go deeper.

Together, Parts One and Two emphasized seeing the self clearly. Using Western psychological frameworks, we explored conditioning, core beliefs and the ways we generate much of our own inner drama. The self began to feel less personal and more patterned—something to be understood rather than defended. My daughters even commented that they noticed how much more calmly I responded to them, something that touched me deeply.

As the Intensive moved into Part Three, the inquiry turned toward Buddhist psychology, particularly Yogācāra, and a more fundamental question: what is the structure of the self itself? Month by month, we explored awareness of self, the development and structure of self, and finally the compositeness of self—looking closely for something solid and enduring, and finding instead a process assembling itself moment by moment.

The retreat in December felt like a natural culmination of this yearlong inquiry. From the first morning, we engaged in self-investigative meditation using the Wheel of Analysis—a way of examining experience through sensation, feeling tone, perception, mental formations, and identity. Before the retreat, I understood the Wheel mostly as a conceptual map. Through sustained practice, it became something lived—a direct way of seeing how the sense of self comes together, again and again.

It was during a Friday morning self-investigative meditation, working explicitly with the Wheel of Analysis, that I experienced a moment of clarity. Without effort or seeking, a clear problem surfaced, followed by an equally clear solution and path forward. What struck me wasn’t the content of the insight, but its quality. It felt received rather than generated—quiet, grounded and aligned with my lived experience and values. I had stepped away from my work with a promise not to begin anything new unless it arose from genuine alignment and a sincere aspiration to benefit others. This insight felt like it honored that promise.

On Saturday evening, between 8:00 and 9:00 pm—the night before the retreat concluded—Fred guided us through a meditation focused on body and mind. What unfolded was one of the most powerful meditative experiences of my life. As attention rested with the body, I directly experienced its non-solidity. The body no longer felt bound by the skin, but open and continuous with what surrounded it. When attention turned toward the mind, a similar recognition arose—the mind felt expansive, without clear edges.

I had touched experiences like this before, but this time felt different. It wasn’t fleeting or overwhelming. It felt stable and accessible. Simply resting attention with the body allowed this openness to return. That evening, the following day, and in the days since, I’ve returned to this meditation and found it surprisingly easy to access. It feels less like a peak experience and more like a capacity that had been quietly cultivated over the year and revealed at the retreat.

As in past retreats, I felt deeply supported by the sangha, whose steadiness and sincerity made this level of inquiry possible. And as always, my family remains my deepest motivation. My wife and daughters continue to be the mirror in which these teachings come alive.

What I’m exploring now is how this practice lives beyond the cushion. The deconstruction of the myth of self doesn’t end in meditation—it shows up most clearly in relationship: in conversation, disagreement, collaboration and care. The Wheel of Analysis now accompanies me into daily life, helping me notice when schemas activate, when identity tightens, and when communication slips into habit.

Dōgen’s words feel closer now—not as a conclusion, but as an ongoing invitation: to study the self, to forget the self, to be enlightened by all things. I’m still amazed by how much my interactions have changed. I’m calmer, more centered, and better able to stay present even when things get heated. I still slip up—but now I can return in minutes rather than stewing for hours or days. The work continues, not as something to finish, but as a way of meeting life more honestly and gently, one moment at a time.

Raj Goyal began his practice in 2017, starting with yoga and moving toward longer meditations. He found FCM about two or three years ago and has embraced its community ever since. He live in Odessa, FL, with his wife and their three daughters (ages 5, 13 and 15). He has dedicated a year of deep self-work for his own growth and for his family.