Zen, Grief, and Connection: What Do You Want to Do Before You Die?
Where did you come from before you were born? Where do you go after you're dead?
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The above is a kong-an — a riddle-like question used in Zen practice. Not for the purpose of creating dogma or rationalizing, but for inviting wordlessness.
A heightened awareness of our interconnectedness — beyond ego, beyond justifications, beyond lifetimes.
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My late father passed away five years ago this week.
He made lots of mistakes in his life, as I have, as we all do.
But despite all that, he succeeded in being born, living for a while, then dying.
As I will. As we all do.
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I became a Zen practitioner this year.
Perhaps because I wrote my senior thesis on Zen Buddhism without ever setting foot in a real temple, back when I was a college kid who thought I knew it all.
Maybe because, years later, I saw that all my favorite coaching mentors were, in one way or another, inspired by Zen.
Maybe because all the years I've lived in America as an immigrant, I've hungered for a community rooted in the traditions of my birth country, Korea.
Who cares.
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I just deeply care — and deeply appreciate — that on Sunday, I got to host a Buddhist memorial service for my late father.
The sangha (meditation) community at Chogyesa adopted my father as their own.
Priyanka brought a dozen white flowers from Trader Joe's and arranged them beautifully. Barbara photographed and recorded videos (something I hadn't even thought of).
(Watch the one-minute video and see the other photos Barbara took for me here on my personal Substack.)
We were blessed with the presence of both familiar and unfamiliar faces.
A traveling monk from LA attended and rang the bells next to our abbot, Ingoong Sunim, as each person in the hall took turns offering tea and respect to my dad and the community.
It was moving, meaningful, and mystical all at once.
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I didn't think I'd cry, but I sniffled through the whole ceremony because it was all so mind-shatteringly beautiful.
I don't know where I came from before I was born.
I don't know where I'll go when I die.
But thanks to my dad, I now know this: the illusion of being born alone and dying alone is a false one.
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Buddhism teaches that every sentient being has Buddha nature — an innate capacity and wholeness that exists regardless of past mistakes or current circumstances.
That rhymes with what I stand for as a coach: every person is resourceful, capable, and whole, even in the face of grief, loss, or perceived isolation.
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So here's a question I sometimes ask:
👉 What's something you want to do so that, on your deathbed, you can say, "I lived a life with no regrets"?
Reach out to me. Let’s talk about it.
