03.d From Rebellious Zen Beginnings to Stoic Adulthood

When I arrived in Okinawa (沖縄), I already carried a strict internal framework. It did not come from philosophy. It came from three sources that shaped me long before I had words for any of it. Shotokan karate (松濤館空手) gave me discipline through repetition and clear rules. Growing up in Poland gave me toughness born of necessity, not theory. The Marine Corps added structure, hardship, and a demand for personal responsibility. This blend formed the backbone of how I looked at the world in my early twenties.

My first exposure to Zen (禅) came not from the dōjō (道場) but from my professor of ancient Chinese literature. He introduced me to books that opened a different kind of space in my mind. Zen did not resemble the discipline I knew. It did not demand worship or moral sorting. It did not divide life into categories or insist on correct answers. Instead, it quietly undermined the assumptions I brought with me.

We spent time discussing kōan (公案). They were not puzzles, and I quickly learned that trying to “solve” them missed the point. A kōan forces the mind to stop relying on familiar patterns. At twenty, I found this refreshing. Zen monks, primarily those described in older stories, felt like rebels. Their behavior did not match the image I had of a devoted Bukkyō (仏教) practitioner. They acted in ways that seemed contradictory, sometimes even wild. Instead of weakening Zen, this strengthened it for me. It showed me that clarity can appear in unexpected places. Back then, the idea of instant enlightenment seemed appealing.

In the Shotokan dōjō, we meditated in zazen (座禅) before class, but the practice never felt natural to me. The stillness was rigid and ceremonial. Later, I understood that walking meditation suited my temperament better. The monks of Mount Hiei or Hiei-san (比叡山), moving along forested paths year after year, represented a form of Zen that connected with my own rhythm. Simple movement, steady breathing, focused attention. No philosophy, just practice.

Wabi-sabi (侘寂) also became important, not as a decorative trend but as an attitude toward imperfection and time. Today, living in the Pacific Northwest, I see wabi-sabi in the landscape every day. Weathered wood, muted colors, fog, and the quiet acceptance of things as they are. This is how I approach daily improvement now. Fix what is broken, focus on one thing, simplify where possible.

I discovered Stoicism much later, around 2008, long after Okinawa. It helped me articulate ideas that Zen had introduced earlier, but through a different path. Zen gave me clarity in thinking, while Stoicism gave me language for discipline and steady self-improvement. People often compare the two systems; for me, they arrived in reverse order. Zen came first, through Okinawa and my professor. Stoicism came second, as an adult looking back.

The hardness that shaped me was already in place when I sat in the classrooms. Zen did not replace it. It sharpened it and gave it context. It taught me that strength can come from stepping outside rules, not only from following them. When I learned about wabi-sabi, Japanese arts, and poetry, I allowed myself compassion, though it took years to understand it. Both traditions matter to me now, but Zen entered my life first, at a moment when I was ready to hear it.