The Simple Art of Zazen

This lesson is a practical guide to zazen, the foundational sitting meditation of Zen Buddhism. We will break down the essential components, from establishing a stable and comfortable posture to the subtle art of counting breaths. You'll learn how to approach thoughts not as enemies to be vanquished, but as clouds passing in the sky of your mind, allowing you to cultivate a state of alert, present awareness.

The Architecture of Stillness

Before we speak of mind, we must begin with the body. Zazen is not a battle to subdue the mind, but an invitation for it to settle, and the body is the vessel we prepare for this settling. The posture of zazen is a living architecture, a design perfected over centuries to cultivate a state of stable, relaxed wakefulness. Imagine you are building a mountain. You need a wide, firm base. For most, this means sitting on a cushion, or *zafu*, placed on a mat. The goal is to elevate your hips slightly so your knees can rest firmly on the floor, creating a stable three-pointed base: your two knees and your buttocks. This tripod is the foundation of your posture. There are several ways to arrange your legs. The simplest is the Burmese position, where your legs are crossed and both feet rest flat on the floor in front of you. Others might choose the half-lotus, with one foot resting on the opposite thigh, or the full-lotus, with each foot on the opposite thigh. The specific position is less important than the stability it provides. If sitting on the floor is difficult, a chair is a perfectly acceptable alternative. Sit on the edge of the chair, with your feet flat on the floor, maintaining the same upright posture. With your base established, turn your attention to your spine. It should be straight but not rigid. Picture a string gently pulling the crown of your head toward the sky, lengthening your neck and allowing your vertebrae to stack naturally. Your chin should be slightly tucked, your nose aligned with your navel, and your ears aligned with your shoulders. This alignment isn't about military stiffness; it is about creating an open channel for the breath and energy to flow. Your shoulders are relaxed, your hands resting in your lap in what is called the cosmic *mudra*: the left hand resting on the right, palms up, with the tips of your thumbs lightly touching to form an oval. This mudra itself is a study in balance—not too tight, not too loose. Finally, your eyes remain open, with your gaze lowered to rest softly on the ground about two to three feet in front of you. You are not staring, but simply allowing light to enter. This prevents you from drifting into a drowsy, internal state and keeps you present in the room, alert and aware. This physical structure—grounded, upright, and open—is the first and most crucial step. It is the silent instruction you give your mind: be still, be present.

The Architecture of Stillness

The Rhythm of the Gate

Now that the body is settled, we turn to the breath. In zazen, the breath is the anchor, the steady rhythm that holds our attention in the present moment. It is both an automatic, unconscious process and something we can consciously observe, making it the perfect gateway between the voluntary and involuntary aspects of our being. Breathe naturally through your nose. There is no need to force or manipulate the breath; the aim is not a special breathing technique, but a simple, intimate awareness of the breath as it already is. Let long breaths be long and short breaths be short. Your mouth is closed, with the tip of your tongue resting lightly against the upper palate, just behind your front teeth. This small detail helps to calm the production of saliva and quiet the body's subtle systems. To begin, it can be helpful to steady the mind by counting the breaths. This is a simple, ancient practice. There are a few common methods. One is to count each exhalation from one to ten. Inhale, then as you exhale, silently count "one." Inhale again, and on the next exhalation, "two." Continue this until you reach ten, and then simply return to one and begin again. Another method involves counting both the inhalation and exhalation, marking "one" at the end of the inhalation, "two" at the end of the exhalation, and so on up to ten. The count is not the goal. It is a tool, a raft to carry your awareness across the choppy waters of distraction. Sooner or later, you will discover that your mind has wandered. You might be halfway through planning your afternoon or replaying a conversation when you realize you've completely forgotten the count. You might find you've counted to twenty-three without even noticing. This is not a failure. This is the practice itself. The moment you notice your mind has wandered is a moment of mindfulness. When this happens, the instruction is simple: gently, without judgment or frustration, let go of the thought and return your attention to the breath, starting the count over again at one. This act of returning, again and again, is the core of the discipline. It is like training a puppy. You don't scold it for wandering off; you simply and kindly lead it back to where it needs to be. Each return is a strengthening of the muscle of attention.

The Open Sky of Mind

The most common question for a beginner is: what do I do with my thoughts? They bubble up uninvited—memories, plans, fragments of songs, worries, daydreams. The instinct is to fight them, to push them away, to try and force the mind into a state of perfect, silent emptiness. This is the surest path to frustration. Zen does not teach us to stop our thoughts. It teaches us to change our relationship with them. The goal is not to achieve a blank mind, but to cultivate a mind that is not disturbed by its own activity. In zazen, we learn to observe thoughts without getting entangled in them. Imagine you are sitting at the bottom of a clear lake, looking up. The thoughts are fish of all shapes and sizes swimming above you. You can see them clearly, but you don't need to grab onto any of them. You simply watch them swim into view and then swim away. Another common analogy is to see thoughts as clouds passing through the vast, open sky of your mind. You are the sky, not the clouds. The clouds arrive, they linger for a moment, and they drift on. The sky remains, unaffected. When a thought arises, the practice is to acknowledge it without judgment. You might even silently label it: "thinking." Then, you gently guide your attention back to the anchor of your breath. You don't follow the thought down its rabbit hole. You don't analyze it or get angry at yourself for having it. You simply notice it, and return. This practice reveals a profound truth: you are not your thoughts. Thoughts are events that happen within you, but they are not the totality of who you are. By observing them without attachment, you begin to create a space between your awareness and the content of your mind. In this space lies a sense of freedom and calm. It is a subtle art. There will be times the mind feels like a raging storm, and other times when it is calm and clear. Both are part of the practice. The instruction remains the same: sit in your stable posture, return to the rhythm of your breath, and allow the weather of your mind to pass through without resistance. This is the simple, radical act of just sitting.

Leaving the Cushion

The sound of a bell often marks the end of a period of zazen. But the practice doesn't truly end there. The purpose of zazen is not to create a temporary island of peace in an otherwise chaotic life, but to carry the qualities cultivated on the cushion—stability, presence, and non-judgmental awareness—into every moment. When you finish sitting, the transition should be gentle. Don't leap up abruptly. Bow in gratitude for the practice. Gently sway your body from side to side, first in small arcs, then in larger ones, allowing your muscles to awaken. Slowly and mindfully, uncross your legs. You might find they are stiff or have fallen asleep. Move with care. In many Zen centers, periods of sitting meditation are punctuated by periods of walking meditation, known as *kinhin*. In kinhin, the posture remains upright, the hands are held in a specific mudra, and the steps are slow, synchronized with the breath—often one step for each full breath cycle. This practice bridges the gap between the stillness of zazen and the movement of daily life. It teaches you to maintain awareness not just when you are sitting still on a cushion, but when you are walking, working, eating, and speaking. The essence of zazen is not something confined to a cushion or a meditation hall. It is a way of being present with your life as it unfolds. The stability you find in your posture can become the stability you bring to a difficult conversation. The gentle return to the breath can become the gentle return to the present moment when you are caught in anxiety or anger. The spacious awareness that watches thoughts come and go can become the wisdom that allows you to navigate life's challenges with greater clarity and compassion. Zazen is called the simple art, but simple does not mean easy. It is a practice of profound patience and quiet dedication. It asks for nothing more than for you to show up, to sit down, and to be with yourself, just as you are. And in that simple, repeated act, a space begins to open—a space of stillness, of clarity, and of profound connection to the heart of the present moment.