Everyday Zen · Wholehearted practice
You sit down to meditate, and almost immediately you start measuring yourself. Your mind is busy. Your posture needs adjusting. Surely someone who is good at this would find it easier.
The chapter Making Mistakes Again and Again Is Also Zen invites us to question that conclusion. What if the point of practice is not to become the person who learns fastest, sits most elegantly, or never gets distracted? What if the place to begin is the imperfect person already sitting here?
The four horses: which one do you want to be?
The chapter opens with a parable it attributes to volume 33 of the Samyukta Agama. Four horses respond differently to their trainer’s signals. The story uses the imagery of a whip to describe those differences:
Responds to the shadow of the whip, understanding the signal before it touches the body.
Responds when the whip touches its skin and can then run as well as the first.
Responds only when the lesson reaches the flesh.
Needs the lesson to reach the marrow, making it the most difficult to train in the story.
Most of us immediately prefer the first horse. If we cannot be that naturally responsive, perhaps we could at least be the second. We turn a teaching about practice into a ranking and begin worrying about our position.
That is the misunderstanding the chapter wants to interrupt. Practicing Zen in order to become the “best horse” can distract us from practicing at all. The useful question is how we meet this moment, whatever our apparent ability.
Why the slowest learner still belongs
The chapter imagines the Buddha’s compassion extending especially to the horse that struggles most. From that perspective, difficulty does not exclude anyone. Our imperfections can become the ground of a sincere wish to understand.
This does not mean that struggling automatically makes someone wiser, or that ease is a fault. It means that quick success and deep understanding are different things. Someone who finds sitting easy may still take a long time to understand its spirit. Someone who finds it difficult may discover meaning in the simple act of returning.
The invitation is to bring sincere attention to your own practice, without needing to be the best—or the worst.
The chapter illustrates this through calligraphy. A naturally quick learner may reach a point where talent alone no longer carries the work. Patient, repeated effort still matters. It is an illustration of practice, not a rule that gifted people must fail.
The same generosity applies to the body. Some people cannot cross their legs comfortably. Their aspiration is not less sincere because their posture looks different. A thicker cushion or a chair can make room for practice; forcing pain is not a measure of dedication.
Wholehearted effort includes mistakes
When we look honestly at our conduct, we often see a gap between our intentions and what we actually do. The chapter tells of a student who tried to follow uplifting calendar sayings and felt defeated before getting started. Recognizing an ideal is easier than living it.
In its discussion of Dogen, the chapter presents “mistake after mistake” as a way of understanding a lifetime of wholehearted practice. It is not permission to dismiss harm or repeat a careless habit. There is still something to notice, correct, and learn.
Think of its example of family life. A person who decides, “I am already a good parent” or “I am already a good partner” may stop paying attention. Someone aware of their shortcomings may keep listening and trying. The point is not to label yourself inadequate forever. It is to leave room for a more attentive response.
Wholehearted effort might mean apologizing after an impatient answer, changing an unhelpful habit, or returning to the breath after discovering that you have spent several minutes planning tomorrow. Each is a concrete act. None requires a perfect record.
Sitting with a heavy heart
The chapter then turns to a much harder situation: a parent distressed by a child’s serious illness. Lying down does not settle the mind; pacing does not remove the anguish. Through this example, the teacher invites the reader to sit with what is happening.
This is a spiritual invitation to meet distress, not a claim that meditation cures illness or replaces care and support. The value of the passage is its willingness to include painful circumstances in practice. You do not have to wait for life to become pleasant before making room for a quiet moment.
Its closing inquiry asks us to look at the person sitting and the troubles being carried. Rather than treating those troubles as imaginary or unimportant, we can hear a question: can I notice my experience without reducing my whole identity to it?
Good horse or poor horse, graceful posture or an adapted seat: these comparisons become less urgent. Practice continues through changing circumstances. For today, that may simply mean finding a suitable seat, noticing the next breath, and allowing yourself to begin again.
A personal reminder to return
Featured piece
The Divine Radiance: Liuli Medicine Buddha Bhaisajyaguru Pendant
If Buddhist imagery carries meaning for you, this pendant can be a personal reminder to pause and return with compassion. Wearing it is optional; the attention you bring to everyday life remains your own practice.
Explore the Medicine Buddha PendantFrequently asked questions
1. Am I bad at meditation if my mind keeps wandering?
A wandering mind does not make you a failed practitioner. In this Zen teaching, the willingness to notice distraction and return matters more than appearing naturally calm. Difficulty is something to meet with patience, not a ranking of your worth.
2. Can I practice Zen meditation if I cannot sit cross-legged?
Yes. The chapter allows for a thicker cushion or a chair. Choose a stable position that suits your body; do not force yourself through pain to prove your dedication. Sincere attention matters more than reproducing someone else’s posture.
3. Do I need a Buddhist pendant to meditate?
No. A pendant is optional. If it carries personal meaning, it can serve as a reminder to pause and return to your intention. It does not replace practice or guarantee peace, protection, or health outcomes.
Adapted from the supplied Chinese chapter 一错再错也是禅. The four-horses account and teaching examples follow that chapter. Illustrations supplied by FengShuiGallary.
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