26/04/2026
I practiced in the Soto Zen tradition for over a decade, and was given a bodhisattva name when I was ordained in 2010.
It’s not something I tend to share. I’m no longer a formal Zen practitioner, and I’m very aware how easily something like that can become an identity, rather than something I can simply return to in my own way.
But those years of meditation practice, and the name I was given, have stayed with me. It’s something I’ve found myself returning to lately, especially as I’ve been stepping into a new name in my work.
I turned to Zen because I wanted to learn to meditate simply, but I also came to love the ceremony of it. The bells, struck at just the right moment. The chanting, voices coming together in rhythm. The incense, the precise movements around the dojo.
That sense of being in a shared field of attention- aware of my own body, everyone else in the room, and a quiet, shared presence that seemed to emerge when we were all paying attention together.
It was very mindful and intentional. And also, if I’m honest, quite easy to get caught up in. The form is so compelling that it can start to feel like the thing itself, rather than an expression of something deeper.
After my son was born in August 2013, I felt myself being drawn somewhere else - to something more earthy, more relational. I was searching for a way of being that felt rooted in the body, in land, and in the aliveness of everything around me.
For a while, that felt like a big shift. But looking back, it doesn’t really feel like I left anything behind at all. If anything, I feel like I understand my Zen practice far more now than I did back then, when there was a lot of trying.
I was often focused on getting my posture right, staying concentrated, working with a wandering mind, enduring the ache in my knees. And meeting, again and again, my own resistance!
Restlessness, discomfort, irritation, tiredness, the urge to get up, to distract myself, to be somewhere else. There isn’t really anywhere to go on the cushion - you have to meet it all. I don’t think I realised at the time how valuable that was.
Now, what I recognise in my Zen practice is something much simpler. At the time, it felt like something that happened on the cushion, in a room, facing the wall. But looking back, I can see it was never really limited to that.
That same quality of attention is still here. It’s there when I stop in the middle of a walk and arrive exactly where I am, when I sit down on the ground and feel part of what’s here rather than separate from it, and when I notice that attention itself is a kind of relationship.
The Zen training is still very much there, especially the simplicity, the willingness to just sit and be, not aiming to achieve anything. And the animistic path has opened that out for me into connection, reciprocity, and being in dialogue with a living world. They are not two different practices in the end, just two ways of meeting the same reality.
The name I was given during my ordination is Myoshin, translated by my teacher as ‘clear heart-mind.’
Bodhisattva names aren’t something you take on as an identity, more a direction you keep returning to, beyond ‘me and mine'. They carry a sense of responsibility too, a reminder to meet life with clarity and compassion, not just for myself, but for everything around me.
These days I don’t experience Myoshin as something to aim for or create. It feels more like something I remember, something that’s already here when I stop trying to be anywhere other than where I am.
This is how I practice that remembering in ordinary life:
• Pausing, even briefly, and noticing what’s actually here, rather than where my mind is trying to go
• Sitting without needing to change anything, letting things be as they are, including myself
• Tuning into my body, not as something separate, but as part of the same living field as everything around me
• Allowing attention to widen, so I’m not just focused inward, but also in relationship with sound, with place, with the more-than-human - whatever is present
The key for me is letting it be simple. There is nothing to achieve, nothing to improve. Just a small returning, again and again, to what’s already here.
For me, that’s what ‘clear heart-mind’ has come to mean. Not something to become - just something to remember, again and again.