Here meet we again, at the end of another July, and I still haven't dropped the annual list of rock groups. (For the uninitiated, the meaning of that incoherent statement will be found here.)
So I'm going to let the embedded link above do the heavy lifting and dive right into this year's harvest.
Rock Groups Waiting to Happen, 2026
Hellbender
Arrow Stork
The Socks (nerd rock)
The Gorn
Hellschrieber
The Fulfillment Centre
Catflap
Zingibro
Die Schreibtischtäter
Knife
Aftermath
Rolling O
Fork
Medium Large
Little Tiffany and the Friend Zone
Shakuhachi
Stryx
Point No Point
Fox 3
The Shoals of Heaven
Widdershins
Yclept John and the Bystanders
Whackbat
Tigidou
Racer X
Mzungu
Roland
Letter Man
Spearcat
Pterry and the Pterydactyls
(I found this great horned owl [Bubo virginianus] tail feather on the trail a few weeks ago. Note its frayed tip in the close-up below. Flight feathers of all members of order Strigiformes – the owls – have this kind of tip, which softens their aerodynamic slip, resulting in their owners' famously silent flight.
Great horned owls are native to the Americas, where they are present through virtually all of subarctic North America and a great swath of South America. Here on the North Pacific coast, their classic call – "Who died today? Who? Who?" – is a common feature of the night.)
It's always illuminating to hear from Chinese teachers and students.
We tend to forget that Zen is a mispronunciation of Chàn, a practice model that originated in China. Over the centuries, given the vicissitudes of history, Chàn faded mostly away as an active denomination, but a 19th century restoration movement has steadily gained ground.
My own admiration for Chàn – historical and current – is a matter of record. Encounters with our rootstock have informed my practice from the first, providing depth and balance to an otherwise comparatively narrow Japanese schooling. It's worth noting that Dōgen himself was a Chinese-trained bilingual sinophile, and while he dedicated his life to founding a self-sufficient Japanese Chàn lineage, he had no intention of rejecting its Chinese heritage or principles.
So it's heartening to see disciples of modern Chàn show up in Zen circles.
The above teisho, delivered at San Francisco Zen Centre on 16 June 2026 by Chàn teacher Guo Gu, is an excellent example of the sort of guidance we lost when our ancestral tradition went 404, and the wealth we're regaining as it returns. (It may help that Guo Gu's path to enlightenment practice reflects those of many ancient Ancestors.) It's all here: the sardonic humour, the laconic common sense, the notion that we're our own worst obstacle.
All the stuff that makes Zen Zen, what.
Audio of this talk can also be accessed in SFZC's own online teisho archive, or downloaded to your desktop or mobile device wherever you get your podcasts.
Note particularly how Guo Gu clears the decks on the matter of shikantaza. Just that brief teaching advances my practice significantly.
(I think; Calystegia sepium ssp. angulata, if I'm right. It can be difficult to tell this from Calystegia x lucana, an invasive hybrid with a close European cousin.
I grew up calling these morning glories, but I see where county extension agents are now calling this hedge bindweed. Perhaps to reduce its charm(?). It's true the vines can blanket entire forest floors and become problematic in some locations, but the gleaming blossoms in the shadowy terrain it favours are striking and magical.)
"A man, he'll walk straight into Hell with both eyes open, but even the Devil can't fool a dog."
Earl Hamner, Jr.
(My favourite line from my favourite episode of Rod Serling's Twilight Zone. This notion of eternal reward is precisely mine as well, dogs intact. You can see the scene here; colourised, sadly, but the shifting tints do enhance the sense of bardo.
Incidentally, Hamner not only wrote all of Serling's "hillbilly" episodes, he was also the creator and narrator of another well-loved series from my youth, The Waltons. His is that voice that supplies the show's abiding soul.)
I’ve found it's important to call yourself something.
In the first years of my Zen practice I was still a Christian, simultaneously integrated into a Christian and a Zen Buddhist community. Both were visibly annoyed at my insistence that I was both. (There’s no reason you can’t be, and I’m far from the first person to do it; prominent founders of Western Zen were Christian clerics.)
I should add that it wasn’t just immediately-interested parties (i.e., Christians and Buddhists) who took exception to my labels, or lack thereof. Pretty much everyone did. You’d be surprised how fundamentalist the non-religious are about the religions of others.
So at length I chose a side to identify with. It’s interesting to note that in so-doing, I did in fact largely drop the other side. I still get tremendous value from my 40 years of Christian training — I never repudiated anything but the magic stuff, which I’d already deleted from my Christian practice long before — but I now walk a squarely Zen Buddhist path. So that’s a comment on the power of labels.
It’s also noteworthy that as a hermit monk, I still catch the same sort of blowback, but about my practice model this time. Some don’t like it; if you’re a monk, you better have a monastery address and a dictator bossing you around.
So if I’ve learned anything, it’s the importance of inviting others to mind their own karma.
(I believe this is Trachemys scripta elegans, the red-eared slider, shot near the same containment ponds I found overrun with turtles last spring. This puts a new spin on our chelonian population boom, since sliders are invasive. From the looks of things, this one's a female on the hunt for a nesting site. The sandy, sunny, well-drained slope she's painstakingly scaled, through heavy brush and across well-travelled trails, is perfect for that.)
It's the nothing-to-learn that loses beginner and master alike.
We start off being told to clear our minds. Seems straightforward: just don't think.
But you will.
Specifically, you'll think about thinking.
Then you'll become upset with yourself (or if you're a teacher, your student). Which is just thinking harder.
Some folks get stuck there, circling that holding pattern forever. It's one of the Buddhist definitions of hell, but since we're born into that hell on Day 1, I'd call it a lateral move at worst.
At some point I decided to forgive myself for thinking – leering at the priggish monk with a smart-ass teenaged grin on my face – and my sits improved noticeably.
Now when thinking happens, I speak to myself in friendly, collegial tones. Then I return to breathing and sitting.
Sometimes I ease into a deeper state. Sometimes I go back to designing a new workbench. Sometimes I return to fear or pain. Given enough time, I'll eventually do all of these, and a lot more. Maybe enter kensho. Maybe talk out loud with others who aren't there, but still distract me.
Sitting is always worthwhile. Useful. This is hard for some to grasp. You have to see it from the cushion. There is no alternative, and there is no shortcut. No-one can hand it to you, or verify or disqualify it.
It is not transmitted.
But these days, as I enter the last phase of my life, I'm coming to shikantaza. That's the particular notion of zazen that Dōgen handed down to Soto Zen. The word is said to mean "just sitting".
Dōgen's standards are higher than the basic breathing drill. Whereas I've mostly used the breathing method – assume lotus, count one to ten, follow the breath – now fellow Soto-trained monks are recommending shikantaza as sole practice.
Especially those my age.
I haven't done a lot of that. Some, when breathing practice led me there. But shikantaza is devilish difficult.
To do it, you sit.
What? Aren't I speaking English?
You just sit. You don't try. You don't want. You don't aspire. You don't flee. You don't punish. You don't fear, honour, cultivate, or avoid.
Things around you do.
You, not so much.
You don't breathe. Something breathes; you let that breathe. No inventory. No supervision. No observation.
Stuff goes on. You let it go on.
Thoughts think. You let them.
Everything continues. You neither allow nor forbid it.
You have no attitude.
It's exhausting.
Now I see why my brothers and sisters waited till I'd walked this far before they began – gently, confidently – plugging the founder's teaching.
Because you have to gather a lot of nothing before you put it down.
When I get up after these new sits, I have no idea if any of it was worthwhile.
And I'm OK with that.
(Mudra of Great Buddha statue in Kamakura, Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)
Red-letter day here at Rusty Ring: a new zabuton has been sworn in.
The old one, which has appeared on these pages numberless times (here, for example, with my zafu, or here, if you look closely at the upper righthand corner of the second photo), had been in service since I became a hermit monk 24 years ago, and I'm a bit heartbroken to set it aside. But the cover had become dirty and threadbare, and finally a dog tore a hole in it.
That last may sound a bit alarming if you've never seen the object in question, but I assure you: pets never missed the joke.
I got that zabuton for free from a person who no longer had a dog. And it worked great – ideal size and weight, highly durable, insulating in the winter and airy in summer. Together we travelled the continent, sitting indoors and out, keeping my physical plant in monastic trim without the least trouble or worry.
(My zafu, less than a year younger, also soldiers on, having as sole intervention been fortified about midway through by a tough, weatherproof cover. True to form, I usually protect that with a cloth shoulder bag, so that the whole looks like a bagful of laundry. Note to self: we need another bag to protect that bag with.)
Any road, just as my winter robe began life as an old fleece bathrobe, I sit zazen on a dog bed. The scepticism this raises in certain quarters is worth the paltry money such kit costs. Welcome to eremitical monasticism, bitches.
But it was time for a new meditation mat, and two decades of experience has taught me that the dogs are right: this-here is what you want. Still, you'd be amazed how broad is the canine mattress market, in every sense: colour, design, shape, expense, comfort… even dimensions vary remarkably.
You gotta know a lot about pet supplies to nail this one. Especially these days, when it often must be purchased sight-unseen.
In the end, after a mere six months' research, I got what I needed. The new pad is a little loftier and has a textured checkerboard cover (see photo) – ironic echo of certain so-designated zabutons meeting fewer criteria and costing four to twelve times more. (Set me back twenty-five dollars Yank, for those playing at home.)
One thing I do miss is the extra 4 inches; where my old zabuton is 28 inches by 35, this one is only 24. However, there are some good reasons for a shallower mat, chiefly that they're less obstructive in a multiuse room; fit more readily into many outdoor sites; and are easier to transport by car.
As for wear or ergonomic issues, only time will tell. But for the moment, it's holding lotus admirably.
So if you need a zabuton but can't afford spiritual materialism, come join me out here with the dogs.
(So the other day I look out my back window and see what appears to be a cloud of stars on the ground beside the highway. A field glass survey establishes it as alien technology, apparently blown down the road for a considerable distance before getting wrapped around a power pole near my house.
Cognisant of my civic duty, if somewhat nervous about radiation, I climbed the bank for a closer look. And that's how I came into possession of a perfectly intact 4X8 sheet of mylar.
I immediately brought this home and smoothed it out on the floor, during which time it sparkled ardently each time it came into contact with starlight. The substance is also ethereally light, sailing around the room on no more than the draught from a partially open window – fully consistent with its interplanetary itinerary. Finally, note that the entire film was once folded to geometrically exact measure, likely to save space in the flying saucer.
I have no idea what its creators use this stuff for, though intuition suggests a possible connection with small princesses. However, in the absence of frosting or other as-yet undetected residue, we must content ourselves with storing this curious if somewhat alarming find in a sterile environment until a use for it can be determined.)
(Foxglove [Digitalis purpurea] is a common weed of the North Pacific slope. While non-native, and virulently poisonous if eaten, it's generally escaped the "invasive" label. I'm not entirely sure why, but it probably has much to do with the fact that it has a pronounced tendency to colonise poor, erosion-prone soil snubbed by other plants. This landslide site in the bluffs above the beach is a good example.
That, and its singular beauty, may have earned Digitalis a measure of tacit support here.)
Despite its author's apparent lack of Buddhist background, this breezy tune from Julian Taylor, under a title seemingly made to trap Zenners like flypaper, has done exactly that to me.
You got the refrain,
I’m wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the heartache that I’ve had to face
And all the choices that I’ve had to make in my life
...a succinct summary of the Buddha's teaching on the origins of enlightenment practice.
Then there's that embedded haiku, twice recited:
There is an abundance of hope that lies between the oceans of time
There’s nothing singular about it
Yet it can be clearly defined
If someone told me these lines were extracted from one of the exhortations we chant in our zendos, he or she would probably escape with the lie.
Throw in that infectious country-western bounce, soaked in gentle pedal steel and Julian's own finger-picking, and you got a track that would hit on mainstream country radio if that genre (in which I write as well) were less narrowly and politically defined.
Spin it. Be prepared to spin it again.
Wide Awake
Julian Taylor
It’s a crazy world that we live in
The tide comes and goes so fast
Right now
While I’m trying to be present
I’m still chasing shadows of my past
My father was born in the islands
My mom was born on the great turtle’s back
They prayed for me when I’d go out in the evening
At least that’s one of the rumours I’d hear
‘Round Christmas time spent with our family
Over hot totty sorrel and ginger beer
They did their best and they did it for freedom
They did everything they ever could for mе
We went to church every single Sunday
We’d get dressed up and then go to Granny’s place
I’d run around that house with my cousins
We loved to race
There is an abundance of hope that lies between the oceans of time
There’s nothing singular about it
Yet it can be clearly defined
Yet, it can be clearly defined
And I’m wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the heartache that I’ve had to face
And all the choices that I’ve had to make in my life
The greatest pictures are never taken
They’re all stored in your memory
Me and my mom
We use to go to Good Bites and talk philosophy
We’d sit there just talking for hours
I once asked her
Why are good memories so heavy
She simply said
Aren’t we lucky
And I’m wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the heartache that I’ve had to face
And all the choices that I had to make in my life
Aren’t we lucky
Aren’t we lucky
There is an abundance of hope that lies between the oceans of time
There’s nothing singular about it
Yet it can be clearly defined
Yet it can be clearly defined
And I’m wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the choices that I’ve had to make
And all the heartache that I’ve had to face in this life
(Nice minus tide today, so I decided to have a good wade. I grabbed my sandals – the ones I took to the mountain, where I wore them all day, every day, under very demanding conditions. They never flinched.
Since then these Tevas have remained my mainstay… until I went to put them on this afternoon and found a sole about to fall off. Eager to catch the tide, I slapped on some duck tape and made off down the steep access to the beach.
Duck tape is a rescue product, enabling temporary fixes but not much more. Among other things, it's not impervious to water. So I didn't push it any further than my first intentions. As you can see, both tape and sandals delivered.
But I'll have to glue that sole back on. Which means it'll eventually come off again, and some time later, my prized sandals will have to be discarded. Sad it's come to this, but I can't complain about the performance. They've given undaunted service for 15 years.
Still poignant. Like the man said, all things made of parts.)
Shunryu Suzuki, on the relative value of religious teaching.
(Photo of the epilogue to an 18th century Guru Granth Sahib manuscript, wherein the scribe shares his ink recipe, courtesy of Sikhmuseum.com and Wikimedia Commons.)
(You find the Buddha in the strangest places here in the West. Exhibit A – this disembodied head. If that's not weird enough, figure this: it's intended to be placed at the bottom of an aquarium.
Indeed. You read that right.
I looked around the pet shop a bit more, but found no heads of Christ or Ganesh or Heile Selassie. In fact, no other religious imagery at all.
Just ours.
I'm not in the least offended; it's a chunk of concrete. But mystified? Yeah. Yet again.)
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