One cold midwinter day, I went through my old notebooks—my collections of creative ideas, sketches, and scribbles. As I turned the pages, I was struck by the sheer volume of thoughts, half-formed concepts, and expressions.

Each time I struck the bell, for an instant, there was a contact of form meeting form. The striker meets the metal, a precise point in time, already gone the moment it happens. The sound arises, full and clear, filling the space. But even as we hear it, it is vanishing.

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.