The New Year opened gently during the first weekend as our sangha gathered for a three-day online meditation retreat. Together, we sat in the silence of shared presence, each turning inward while remaining connected through the digital thread of the virtual zendo.

The winter solstice arrived last Saturday, the longest night and the shortest day, marking the year’s quiet turning point. For me, it is not a time to dwell on what has been or might come but an invitation to rest in the turning itself—a subtle shift that is always happening.

In winter, the Temple garden pares itself down to its essence. The trees shed their leaves, leaving only bare, graceful forms against the sky —stark, quiet, and profoundly beautiful. The open spaces of winter are invitations to rest, reflect, and discover what is truly essential.

The great Zen masters taught that everything has inherent perfection. So, despite how it may sound, my art is perfect from the moment I begin.

Over the past week, I've been reflecting on a recent three-week Zen retreat. Now, alone in the Temple, I still feel the presence of those who practiced with such devotion. But, like the faint decay of a meditation bell, the feeling is fading.

In the Temple Garden, nature invites me to leave behind the bustling world and immerse myself in the simplicity of just being. A walk in the garden is where my senses come alive, and the essence of life unfolds before me.

Living in the tranquility of a Zen Temple, enveloped by the vibrant life of the Temple garden, I am deeply moved by the perpetual cycles of the natural world. From the delicate emergence of a new leaf to the solemn decay of fallen wood, nature's symphony of birth and death, light and dark, is a constant source of inspiration for my art.

One morning at the Temple, I ventured out into the garden before dawn, drawn by something beyond sleep. Hovering near the horizon, the moon bathed the garden pond in a gentle glow.