I Almost Forgot I Was in New York

A Zen Experience in New York City

Enso

There are days when it feels like you’re out of sync with reality. That morning, I arrived at the bus stop five minutes early. The bus never came. A friend had recommended a Rinzai Zen temple called Shobo-Ji, and I needed that bus to make it to the evening zazen session. After thinking for a moment, I decided to take a taxi to Newark Penn Station instead. The weather had changed completely. Only a day before, New York had been unbearably hot. Now the air was cool, with rain and strong winds. Tiny raindrops landed softly on my face as I walked. Strangely, they felt comforting. Travel keeps teaching me the same lesson.

Nothing is guaranteed.

If I missed the session, that would be okay. If they welcomed me, I would simply sit. The bus didn’t come. The train was delayed. Traffic moved slowly. At some point, I realized that accepting everything exactly as it was had become my practice for the day, and I was enjoying that actually.

The Entrance to Shobo-Ji Temple

According to Google Maps, arriving on time seemed almost impossible. Yet somehow, I wasn’t worried. I stayed with my breath. And little by little, I found myself surrounded by stillness. Walking Toward Stillness I arrived at the temple at 7:01 p.m. The session had just begun. Two train transfers. A neighborhood I had never visited before. Yet somehow, I reached the temple without hesitation. A monk greeted me warmly and quietly guided me into the zendo. The worries I had only moments before— "Will they let me join?" "Am I too late?" —had already disappeared. Inside the Zendo A bell echoed through the hall. Gooooong. We sat. We walked. Then we sat again. To be honest, by the time I arrived, I desperately needed to use the restroom. I had been so focused on getting there that I hadn’t thought about anything else. Yet once I began sitting... Even that disappeared. Occasionally, I could hear people laughing outside. It was simply New York carrying on with its evening. Yet somehow... Even those sounds seemed to dissolve into the stillness of the zendo. Again and again, I returned. To my breath. To my posture. Back to my breath. Whenever thoughts appeared, I noticed that something had drifted. And each time, I gently came back. The deeper my breathing became, the deeper the stillness became as well. The Kindness of Stillness At 8:30 p.m. The bell rang once more. “Gooooong.” The session quietly came to an end. As I was leaving, one of the monks smiled and said, "Please come again on Thursday." "Thank you for coming." Those words stayed with me. But what remained even more deeply was the stillness itself. It followed me out of the temple. Onto the subway. Into the streets of Manhattan. It felt as if I were still sitting in the zendo. Only then did I realize something. The stillness I had felt throughout the day— in the rain, on the train, between transfers— had all been leading here. Quiet places are expected to be quiet. But this felt different. It wasn’t the silence of the building. It felt like something cultivated over many years by the monks and everyone who had quietly practiced there before me. The stillness wasn’t only deep. It was incredibly gentle. In one of the busiest cities in the world, I never imagined I could experience such profound peace. As I walked away, one thought quietly arose. One day, I hope I can become like this temple. Someone who can carry gentle stillness, even in the middle of a noisy city.

Stillness on the Brooklyn Bridge

“Epilogue”

On my way home, I decided to get off near the Brooklyn Bridge. Simply because it was right there. I walked slowly across it. The river flowed quietly beneath me. The lights of Manhattan shimmered on the water. The stillness I had found in the zendo hadn’t disappeared. It was walking with me. That night, I crossed more than a bridge between Brooklyn and Manhattan. I crossed a bridge between noise and stillness. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that walk.