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.

As the thaw of winter gives way to the vibrant emergence of spring, my senses are greeted with a renewed palette of sounds that act as reminders of the present moment.

In traditional Zen practice, the Enso—a hand-drawn circle using ink and brush—has long been revered not only as a form of artistic expression but as a profound teaching within itself.

In the early morning light, as the soft hues of dawn break, the world seems to pause momentarily, reminding me of the silent dance of time.