Cycling to Satori
Michael Cohen (The Fieldston High School)
In an attempt to discover America, I discovered Japan.

Last summer, I embarked on a cross-country bicycle trip from Savannah, Georgia to the Santa Monica
Pier. Although I had been captivated by a class I had recently taken about Japan, Japanese culture was just
about the last thing I expected to find in the 3100 miles from sea to shining sea. But this bicycle trip was
truly a life-changing experience, teaching me volumes about the connection between body and mind; the
fruits of discipline and sustained effort; the cleansing effect of an ascetic monastic lifestyle; the truth that
exists just below everyday fixations; the broad view of a fluid mind and the profound capabilities of mental
detachment. Thus, I discovered Zen Buddhism.

As the school year wound down and my trip approached, I bought a durable touring bike and started
to prepare. The training regimen that I received in the mail was as specific as it was intense: a minimum of
four 50-mile rides loaded with 35 pounds of gear. This proved to be an impossible task. On the Sunday
afternoons that I had designated for training, I set out determined, only to return feeling unsuccessful and
frustrated. The truth is that I drove myself crazy on the bike. My cadence was inconsistent, my restless
mind wandered anywhere from my last math test to my upcoming dinner. My eyes were glued to my
odometer, and I quickly grew tired and preoccupied. Thirty miles seemed daunting. My dad warned that if I
did not improve, he would need to pick me up somewhere in Alabama. He was probably right. Excuses
mounted, time flew, and the trip began.

After dipping our rear wheels in the Atlantic, we headed west through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi,
Arkansas, and found ourselves on the seemingly endless plains of Oklahoma. It was 4:30 a.m., not yet light,
and we were gliding through the monotony of the Oklahoma Panhandle. Then it hit me. I awoke from a sort
of meditative state that had become second nature to me, a profound rhythm in which my legs seemed to
move by themselves and my fluid mind floated through complete emptiness. I looked at the biker in front
of me, his wheel only six inches from mine; and the biker in front of him, equally close and compact. I
vividly recalled how the Zen monks walked around the Nanzenji Temple in Kyoto: marching in a tight line
to show discipline and concentration.

The similarities to Zen Buddhism did not end there. My biking rhythm lasted nearly all day;
the zazen (seated meditation) and kinhin (walking meditation) of practicing Zen monks occupy much of
their waking hours. When I first learned about zazen and kinhin, they seemed painfully pointless and
abstract. Suddenly I understood. When committed to a task so great that it requires complete focus and
dedication, there is simply no room for everyday concerns. Mundane thoughts pollute the mind and
undermine one's discipline. Only after achieving an empty mind can one devote one's complete self to a
given task. In the Zen Buddhists' case, that task is reaching satori (enlightenment); in my case that task was
reaching the Pacific Ocean.

I realized why I had been unsuccessful on my training rides. Like the zazen and kinhin of Zen monks,
the profound rhythm and detachment that propelled me across the country is not a state that is easily
accessible. It takes enormous discipline and practice to free the mind and approach one’s true potential.

Attempting to become a cyclist on Sunday afternoons is just as ludicrous as a Zen Buddhist trying to
achieve satori over the weekend. It simply cannot be done.

While cycling across the country, I awoke at four a.m. every day, peddled 80 to 100 miles (eight to ten
hours), climbed off the bicycle, ate, (and ached) and fell asleep. I reaped the benefits of drastic discipline
and depravation. I experienced the power in the simple, almost ascetic existence of the Zen monks and
warriors. Through extreme bicycling, I exalted in the beauty and truth of Zen.

According to legend, when Ikkyu (distinguished Japanese Zen monk) reached satori, his teacher awarded
him a certificate. Ikkyu burned the certificate, claiming that the value was not in reaching enlightenment,
but in what he will do with his enlightenment. I echo that sentiment. Reaching the Pacific was a triumph,
but it was only a momentary triumph. Finding power in the discipline and mental fluidity of Zen is a
lifelong gift.

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Japan and Me
Amita Jain (Syosset High School)
I was contentedly crunching away on my fourth piece of chocolate Pocky when suddenly the taste in
my mouth wasn’t so yummy anymore. It was all but nauseating. I had just entered the first exhibit in the
Nagasaki Peace Museum to be greeted with videos and pictures lining the walls of grotesque mutilated
bodies, each limb out struck at odd angles, each face twisted with agony.

After four hours of stomach-twisting and heart-wrenching episodes like those, I told my Okaasan that
I needed to leave. She understood and let me find the way out. While my stomach was settling, I sat in the
museum lobby and watched paper cranes flutter overhead. It was a Japanese belief that making a thousand
paper cranes would grant a wish. And what was above me, were not a thousand paper cranes, but tens and
tens of thousands of them.

It struck me then how absurd the whole idea was. Honestly, folding paper was going to grant peace in
the world? It was going to bring happiness to the wretched and miserable? I scoffed at the ridiculousness
naiveté of it all. My Okaasan softly sat down next to me and took my hand. It wasn’t really the act of
origami or the wish itself, she said. It was the hope that each wish was carried by.

It is appalling that a misfortune of any magnitude be ignored in the face of another. For me, and really
for everybody, no tragedy, no matter how small, should go unnoticed, whether it is one child going hungry,
or an entire country dying of AIDS. The only difference is the availability of people willing to help. That
void is where I want to step in. I want to be a person who can put a smile back on a tear-streaked face. I
want to be a person who can feel somebody else’s pain and make it go away. I want to be a person who can
make somebody else’s life a little more bearable. I want to be a person who cares.

Ideally, I would like to use my language skills, my science abilities, and my commitment to
participating in positive change as a physician. More importantly, however, I believe that exhibiting
compassion and simply being available to help can make the necessary difference in people’s lives. While I
may not change the world, and can’t reverse the horrors of Nagasaki, each patient that I effectively treat,
every conversation that allows a patient to feel respected, and every opportunity to give back to our global
community is, for me, a lovingly executed fold in my own peace crane. In that, I think I can hear a soft
flutter of hope.

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