“When at last I met the old man, he was in his eighties. He was slight, and clearly aged, but spry enough in his movements and his mind was clear and crisp and alive. Here, before me, was the man who brought Zen not only to thousands of Western people, but the one primarily responsible for its emergence into and effect on my own life, which, even then was profound.

After dinner, in a moment alone, I realized I had a brief opportunity to explain to him how grateful I was for all he had done. Somehow, I felt as if he had pulled me from a fire in every future moment of my life. I knew that he had carefully and generously taught my teachers.

I struggled to say something, and cannot recall what it was, but my voice was breaking and my heart woke up and began to resonate with a deep and powerful gratitude. It took effort not to begin weeping. I managed to say something to the effect that I was inexpressibly grateful for his teaching and work, and its impact on my life.

He smiled, a little formally, and said something that seemed perfunctory as he held out his hand in the gesture that invites a handshake.

I couldn’t do it. Even if it was appropriate.

I had to embrace him. It was awkward, perhaps even a faux pas of sorts. We were, effectively, strangers. But here’s the thing. I knew I would never see this man again in my lifetime, and if I did not embrace him then and there, I would never get another chance. I didn’t have time to think through the proprieties, and maybe he was a little surprised or even put off. Good. He’s a zen teacher, so he must be a student, too. When things get awkward and intimate, there’s something to explore there.”

— an anonymous home leaver