Dojin’s Journey

Rare Indeed

I ask myself: How rare is it to meet a Sensei who has studied the Dharma and lived the monastic life for so many years? And how rare is it that I met Shinzan in his first week in San Diego?

“Hello, nice to meet you. My name is Dojin. What’s yours?”

“My name is Shinzan—you know, like the shin bone in your leg.”

And so it began.

It began in a little two-story, loft-like space with a makeshift bedroom in the closet.

“What do you do here?” he asked.

“Well, I sort of teach Intro to Buddhism and Zen,” I replied.

Then I added, “But here you are—a Sensei—so I’m not sure what I do now.”

Shinzan replied, “Well… why don’t we figure this out together?”

If you really want to know what a teacher is, it is those first words Shinzan said to me:

“Why don’t we figure this out together.”

I had practiced Zen for many years with a few teachers, but at that time I was a student without a teacher. It just seemed obvious to me.

“So… I’d like to ask you if you’d be my teacher.”

A long pause.

“Well, it’s an honor that you asked me. I need you to know that I’m a new Sensei. I’m building something here, and I’m not sure what.”

I said, “My job will be to help you.”

Shinzan nodded and paused.

“You understand that this is all brand new. You are my first student here, and that means you’re going to have to be an experiment in many things as we go.”

I was struck by the honesty and vulnerability. I felt the rareness of the situation I had found myself in, and the profound opportunity to learn seemed obvious.

To have the good fortune to be part of the birth of a Sangha?

If I had been confused about what my practice was about over the previous months, I wasn’t anymore.

I replied, “My practice is to help you. That’s all.”

We got up, offered incense, did bows, and went to work.

So now, over ten years later, at the Zendo in Chula Vista, I see mats and cushions, Jikido and Jisha, altars and chanting, council and retreats and sesshin. I see a new Tenzo, and students going to dokusan. I see samu and potlucks.

I see joy and illness, tears and laughter.

I hear the stillness—and the struggle—of zazen.

I see the frustration of sewing the rakusu, followed by the celebration of Jukai.

I see the challenge and immersion of liturgy.

I see the fear and confusion of those entering the Zendo for the first time—followed, over time, by smiles, tears, hugs, and communion.

I find myself humbled.

Even more so when I was made Hoshi by Shinzan and the Sangha.

What does that mean?

The same thing it meant over ten years ago:

My practice is to help you.

That’s all.

Gregg Dojin Henning March 16, 2026