When I was 12 years old, I often felt out of place. People seemed to like me, but I never truly felt like I fit into any particular group. Other kids at school had interests and seemed to know who they were and what they wanted. I wasn’t into sports or after-school activities—I felt like I was just floating around aimlessly.
That all changed a year later when my dad bought me a guitar. Suddenly, I had found something that felt like me. I was music, and music was me. Through it, I could express myself. I had finally discovered an identity. When I was playing music, I felt fulfilled; when I wasn’t, I felt empty.
A New City, A New Life
A few years after high school, I moved to Seattle with my high school sweetheart. Life seemed to be coming together. I studied sound engineering, got a job at a recording studio, and played music in a local band. My girlfriend and I got married. Everything felt on track.
But life, as it often does, shifted.
I lost my job. My relationship began to fall apart. My parents got divorced. I started experiencing severe pain in my hands and arms whenever I played guitar. The thing that once gave me life began to fade away.
I looked around and saw people constantly chasing after things—jobs, relationships, possessions—hoping those things would bring them happiness. But when those things changed or disappeared, they were left feeling lost and dissatisfied. I was no different. I spiraled into anxiety and depression.
“You Should See Someone”
A coworker and friend noticed something was off and suggested I see a therapist.
I responded, “No, no, no. Therapists are for crazy people.”
She looked at me and said, “Well, that’s not true. But if it were, you’re crazy right now.”
So I went.
An Unanswerable Question
The therapist my friend recommended was very unique. She blended Eastern and Western psychology. I saw her alone for a few sessions, and then my wife joined for a few more. It became clear that we needed to separate. It was painful and confusing, but it also felt like something was beginning to open up.
At what I thought would be our final session, I thanked the therapist and prepared to say goodbye. But before I left, she asked:
“You say you are music and music is you. What percent of you is music?”
Without thinking, I said, “Ninety percent.”
She paused and asked,
“If you’re not playing music, then what are you?”
I had no answer. I just sat there, completely stuck.
She continued,
“What is it that goes to the grocery store? What is it that eats? What is it that eats and goes to work? What is it?”
All I could say was, “Don’t know.”
Then she said,
“I think you should investigate that.”
The Question That Wouldn’t Let Go
Something about that moment stayed with me. When she said “investigate,” meditation came to mind—even though I didn’t really know what meditation was. Still, I felt relieved. Relieved that I didn’t have to pretend to be somebody or something anymore.
Later, the question began to burn inside me:
What... am... I?
My First Meditation Experience
A friend invited me to check out a group that practiced an Eastern style meditation. He never showed up, but I went anyway. The meditation instruction was brief, and then we sat—for one full hour. It was one of the most difficult things I had ever done. My body ached. My mind wouldn’t stop.
But afterward, something shifted. We sang songs, played music, and shared a meal. There was a sense of connection. I practiced with this group for a couple of months, but the question I carried still didn’t feel addressed.
I remember asking one of the teachers,
“You say that when we practice, our minds become clear. Then what?”
He didn’t have an answer.
In that moment, I knew I had to leave. So I kept searching.
Finding My Home
I stumbled upon an ad in a local magazine for a Zen center—Dharma Sound Zen Center (now Ocean Light Zen Center). The same friend who had recommended therapy drove me to their Beginner’s Night.
A kind monk named Chong Hae Sunim (now Tim Lerch JDPSN) welcomed us.
The first thing he said was,
“Zen means: What am I?”
Yes! When I heard that, I knew I had found home.
I didn’t care much about the practice forms—chanting, bowing—I just wanted to investigate that question. He went on to say that Zen helps us realize our true selves so we can help others.
I told him,
“I want to help people. How can I do that?”
He asked,
“What are you doing right now?”
I said, “Sitting and talking to you.”
He smiled and said,
“You are already helping this world.”
At first, it didn’t make any sense. How could simply being here help the world? But something inside me understood. And I trusted that.
Still Asking The Great Question
That was over 27 years ago. I’m still practicing with the same school and have been teaching since 2015.
And the question still burns everyday:
What am I? And how can I help this world?
