Zen is a way of seeing life clearly. At its core, it’s about being fully

present — whether you're watching the sunrise, eating a bowl of rice,

or listening to the wind. This philosophy comes from the Mahayana branch of Buddhism,

a path that values both wisdom and compassion — not just for ourselves, but for all living beings.

But Zen is more than a religion or philosophy. It’s a way of living. It teaches that truth is

right here, in this moment — in the simple act of being awake to life as it is. Zen asks us:

Can you sit still and simply be? Can you sweep the floor without needing it to mean more

than sweeping? Can you drink your tea without your mind wandering in a thousand directions?

Rather than chasing something better, Zen gently points us back to what’s already here. That’s

why everyday actions matter so much in Zen. In a Zen monastery, nothing is too ordinary to

be sacred. From how you walk to how you eat to how you clean your bowl — every movement is a mirror.

It reflects your attention, your care, your state of mind. Take the morning routine of a Zen monk.

It’s not just a to-do list. It’s a quiet way to reconnect — with the body, the breath,

and the world. Not by force, but by being fully here. From the moment the monks rise, each action

is performed with intention. And in this video, we’ll look at simple Zen morning rituals — small

practices that may seem ordinary, but can quietly change the way you move through your day.

1. Wake Up Before sunlight In Zen monasteries, the day

begins very early — often between 3:30 and 4:30 in the morning. The sky is still dark,

the stars still visible, and the world is quiet. Monks don’t wake up early to be more productive

or to get ahead. It’s not about doing more. It’s about showing up for life. Waking early is seen as

a quiet act of devotion — a way to honor each day by meeting it with full attention from the start.

A wooden board called the Han is struck in a slow, steady rhythm to wake the monks.

With it, a chant is often heard: “Life and death are of supreme importance.

Time swiftly passes by, and opportunity is lost. Let us awaken. Awaken! Take heed.

Do not squander your life.” These words are a reminder:

life moves quickly, and each moment matters. Before the world wakes, the early morning

offers a chance to remember this — to wake not just from sleep,

but into your own life. In everyday life, most of us hit snooze,

feel annoyed at the alarm, or reach for our phones before even getting out of bed… I know I do!

The day begins in a blur. But in Zen, mornings are sacred — a

space to start slowly, with care. And you don’t need to wake up

at 3:30 AM to experience that. What matters isn’t the specific time,

but the spirit in which you wake up. Even waking 15 or 20 minutes earlier

can create that moment of calm — that small space to breathe

before the rush begins. You can sit quietly, stretch,

or simply enjoy the stillness. But let that time be yours — simple and unhurried.

Instead of a jarring alarm, imagine waking to a soft sound or a gentle light.

As your eyes open, pause. Take a slow breath. You might even say, “This day is a

gift. Let me be present for it.” It helps to remember how quickly time

moves and see how precious each moment really is. When we understand that nothing lasts forever,

we begin to hold our days with more care. Even the little things — a warm cup of tea,

a quiet morning light — start to feel like treasures.

Zen simply invites you to start the day with awareness. To wake not just because you have to,

but because you choose to. To greet the day with presence and not with stress. So let waking up be

a gentle return — to yourself, to the quiet of the morning, and to the simple feeling of being alive.

2. Perform basic hygiene As soon as monks wake up,

they begin their routine — starting off with the basics like rinsing their face, brushing

their teeth, and using the toilet. But there’s something different about how they do it: they

do everything slowly, paying close attention to each movement. Washing your face becomes more than

a chore — it's a moment to become aware of your body, your breath, and the start of a new day.

After washing up, monks carefully put on their robes. The koromo is the outer robe,

worn with respect and care, but these aren’t just clothes — they’re symbols of

commitment to a simpler, more intentional life. humility and letting go of excess.

And besides, what’s truly powerful is how they dress. Every movement is calm and unhurried. Some

monks even recite quiet chants while putting on their robes, reminding themselves of their purpose

— to live with kindness, simplicity and presence. In Zen, there’s no split between “spiritual” and

“ordinary” life. Even getting dressed is seen as part of the path. The idea is:

how you do anything is how you do everything. We too can take a few silent minutes after waking

up. Just sit, breathe, and notice how you feel. As you brush your teeth or wash your face,

try slowing down. Notice the temperature of the water, the smell of the soap, the feel

of your body waking up. Be fully present. Instead of getting dressed on autopilot,

try slowing down. Notice your clothes — their feel, their shape, the way they’ve been folded.

Take a moment to fold them with care, or choose what to wear with a little more attention.

Even something as simple as picking an outfit can become a quiet act of self-respect.

Simple things — like washing your face or getting dressed — aren’t

just chores. They’re small chances to care for yourself with presence, one moment at a time.

You don’t need to move to a monastery to live like a monk. It’s not about changing

everything. It’s about changing how you move through the life you already have.

3. Practice Zazen Zazen — or seated meditation — is at the

very heart of Zen. Everything else, from rituals to teachings, points back to this one simple act:

sitting still and being fully present. In many monasteries, after washing and putting on their

robes, monks gather quietly in the meditation hall, called the zendo. They enter in silence,

bow, and take their seats on cushions. They sit cross-legged, usually in full or half lotus,

with their backs upright and their eyes soft and half open. The room is still. There’s no chanting,

no music, no instructions. Just people sitting. Breathing. Being.

Zazen is practiced a little differently depending on the tradition. In Soto Zen,

it’s known as shikantaza, which means “just sitting.” That’s exactly what it is — no

techniques, no mantras, no special breathing. You simply sit. You stay aware of your body,

your breath, the room around you, and whatever thoughts or feelings arise.

They come and go — like clouds moving across the sky. You don’t chase after them,

and you don’t push them away. You just return, again and again, to the simplicity of sitting.

It’s not about reaching a special state or becoming a better version of yourself. It’s about

being exactly where you are, just as you are. Rinzai Zen adds something unique to meditation:

the koan. A koan is a question or a phrase that seems impossible to figure out with logic. You’ve

probably heard ones like, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”and “If a tree falls down in

a forest and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?” At first, they sound like

riddles — strange and unanswerable. And that’s the point. In Zen, a koan isn’t meant to be solved

with clever thinking. It’s not about coming up with the right answer. The point is that it’s

something you sit with. You feel it. You let it sink in and stir something deeper than thought.

Take the deceptively simple question, “Who am I?” The mind rushes to answer:

“I’m a designer,” “I’m someone who loves books,” “I’m a son, a friend...” But Zen invites you to

look before all that. Before the name. Before the story. Before the labels. What’s left? Well,

the koan doesn’t actually ask you to explain. It asks you to experience — to notice what’s present

before the mind starts talking. And if you stay with it long enough, something curious happens.

Your thinking mind begins to tire out. It tries to find an answer… and fails. Again and again.

Until it stops trying. And in that moment — when thought lets go — something else shows

up. Not an answer. But a quiet presence. A kind of awareness that doesn’t need words.

That’s how a koan works. It isn’t there to teach you something new.

It’s there to peel away what’s false.It shows you all the identities you cling to.

All the beliefs you hide behind. All the noise you didn’t know you were caught in.

You don’t need to be in a monastery to begin. You can start right where you are. Even five or ten

minutes is enough. Find a quiet spot. Sit on a cushion, a folded blanket, or just a chair. Keep

your back straight but relaxed. Let your hands rest. Your eyes can be open or closed — whatever

feels natural. Let your breath come and go. No need to change it. You’re not trying to feel

peaceful or reach some special state. You’re just sitting. Just being with your breath, with your

body, with this moment. That’s the practice. So forget about doing it perfectly,

because Zazen isn’t about getting it right. It’s simply about showing up — just as you are. Again

and again. It’s learning how to sit still, even when your mind is busy. How to be here,

even when life around you is noisy or restless. And over time, something starts to shift.

Not all at once, and not in some big, dramatic way. But slowly. Quietly. Like remembering

something you’d forgotten. A kind of calm that was always there — just waiting for you to notice.

4. Chant After the morning meditation,

monks often gather for what's called the morning service — a quiet time of chanting. These chants

are usually drawn from ancient Buddhist texts, like the Heart Sutra or the Great Compassion

Dharani, and they're often spoken in old languages — Sanskrit, Sino-Japanese — that most people,

even the monks, don’t fully understand. But that’s not really the point.

The power of chanting doesn’t come from translating every word. It comes from being

with the sound. The steady rhythm, the flow of breath, the gentle vibration of the words

as they move through your body — all of it becomes part of the practice. And when voices

rise together in unison, something beautiful happens. A sense of connection. Not just with

the people around you, but with something older… something larger than any one person.

It’s a way of remembering: you’re not alone. You belong — to a tradition, a community, a thread of

life that stretches far beyond this single moment. At its heart, chanting is an act of devotion — not

necessarily to a god or a figure, but to life itself. It’s a way of speaking with care,

of breathing with awareness, of showing up fully, even in the repetition of a single phrase.

You can begin your own version of this. Just five minutes in the morning. Sit quietly,

and find a line or phrase that feels true to you. It could be something traditional,

or even something as simple as: “May I meet this day with openness.”

“All beings are connected.” or; “This breath, this moment, is enough.”

Say it slowly. Softly. A few times. Let the sound land in your chest. Feel it. And when you finish,

maybe bow your head — not to the words, but to the day ahead. To your

own willingness to meet it with presence. If you’re drawn to traditional chants,

you might listen to recordings of the Heart Sutra or other Zen chants. You don’t have to

understand them. Just let the sound carry you. And throughout your day, this practice can

continue. A quiet phrase whispered to yourself while washing dishes. A line spoken as you walk or

wait in line. A small reminder. A soft return. 5. Practice Samu

In some monasteries, after morning meditation, the monks ease into gentle movement. A few light

stretches… slow martial forms… sometimes a bit of Qi Gong or yoga. Not to push the

body — but to wake it up. To move with awareness. To let breath and motion meet.

In other places, the day moves straight into samu — the practice of work.

Samu is a Japanese word that means “work practice.” In Zen, it’s not just about

finishing a task. It’s about doing something — anything — with full attention. Folding a

blanket. Sweeping the floor. Pulling weeds from a garden. It becomes a kind of moving meditation.

You’re not just wiping a table. You’re feeling the cloth move in your hand. You’re noticing your

breath. Your posture. The pace of your movements. That’s samu.

It’s not separate from meditation — it is meditation, just in motion.

At a Zen monastery, this is part of daily life. Every morning, the temple grounds are cleaned

— not because they’re messy, but because caring for the space is a form of care for each other.

Sweeping becomes a way to sweep the mind. Wiping a window becomes a way to bring clarity inside.

There’s no music. No small talk. No rush. Just the sound of the broom, the rhythm of

breath, and the task at hand. There’s an old Zen saying:

“A day without work is a day without eating.” It means work isn’t something outside of

practice — it is the practice. You don’t stop being mindful when you get up from the cushion

after meditating. You carry it with you… into everything you do. Even scrubbing the toilet!

In the world outside the monastery, we tend to separate the spiritual from the ordinary.

Meditation goes here. Chores go there. Peace is something we look for once the work is done.

But Zen doesn’t separate like that. In samu, you train yourself to bring

presence into the small things. And when you do, you start to see — the small

things were never that small to begin with. Samu teaches you to slow down. To do all the

things with care not because they’re important, but because you’re fully present while doing them.

And in the end, this moment is all we truly have. You can try this for yourself.

In the morning, wake your body gently — some light stretching, maybe a few yoga poses,

or just mindful movement. Whatever helps you arrive in your body. Do it slowly. Feel each

breath. Let that be enough. Then pick one small task.

Make your bed. Wash a dish.

Wipe the table. No music. No phone. No distractions.

Just slow, simple movement. Feel the warmth of the water. Hear the sounds around you.

Notice the rhythm of your breath as you work. You’re not doing this to get it over with. You’re

doing it to be with it. That’s the shift. Even a few minutes a morning like this and

over time, you start to care less about how fast it’s done… and more about how

present you were while doing it. And in that… there’s peace.

6. Practice Oryoki Oryoki is an old way of

eating practiced in Zen monasteries. The word means “just enough.”

It’s a quiet, mindful way to share a meal — not just to fill the stomach, but to honour

the food as something sacred. In the early morning,

monks gather in silence for breakfast. Each person carries a special set of bowls

— nested inside each other, wrapped in cloth. From the moment the cloth is opened, to the final

wash — everything is done slowly, with care. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is wasted.

And just like Samu, there’s no talking, no phones, no music, no distractions.

Just the simple act of eating, done with full presence.

Before the meal begins, there’s a chant — not out of habit, but as a way to give thanks:

Thanks to the farmers. Thanks to the cooks.

Thanks to the life that gave itself, so we may eat.

The meal itself is simple — warm rice porridge, a bit of soup, some pickled vegetables.

It’s not about flavour or indulgence. It’s about nourishment.

Because the beauty of oryoki is not in what’s eaten — but in how it’s eaten.

Every movement matters. Every bite is noticed. Eating becomes a kind of meditation.

When the meal is done, it doesn’t just end. A small piece of pickled plum or radish is

placed in the bowl with warm water. The monk gently cleans the bowl

using their fingers. That water — now filled

with the taste of the meal — is sipped quietly. So nothing is wasted. Not even the rinse water.

It’s a small act — but a powerful one. A reminder: every drop matters.

Every part of this meal came from effort — from the earth it grew from, to the hands that cooked

it, nothing is taken for granted. When the bowls are clean and dry,

they’re wrapped and folded with care. No part of the process is hurried.

Even the clean-up is part of the practice. Now think about how we often eat —

While working. While watching something.

While rushing to the next thing. Food often becomes background noise.

We don’t even taste it. We keep eating even when we’re full.

And we forget how lucky we are to have food at all.

Oryoki asks us to slow down and turn mealtime into a

moment of gratitude, simplicity and presence. It teaches us not to take more than we need.

It teaches us to let go of strong likes and dislikes.

It teaches us to receive what’s in front of us — whether it’s delicious, or even just plain.

In a world that pushes for more, oryoki quietly asks:

What is enough? You don’t need monastery bowls or

ceremonies to bring this into your life. Instead, simply:

– Start with gratitude. Before your meal, pause. Take a breath.

Say thank you — in your own way. – Eat in silence.

Even for just a few minutes. No phone. No TV. Just be with the food.

– Use your hands with care. Notice how you hold your spoon. How you place

your cup. Move gently, respectfully. – Listen to your body.

Ask yourself: Is this enough? Oryoki is about “just enough.” Not

too little. Not too much. – Clean up slowly.

Washing your plate can be the final thank you. A quiet part of the ritual.

So hopefully, you can see that Oryoki isn’t about being strict or perfect.

It’s about remembering. Remembering that this meal… this

body… this life — none of it is guaranteed. And in this moment, we are fed.

We are here. And that… is enough.

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