Bar Zen
There have been three times in my life when I can vividly recall experiencing what I have come to believe is a sense of "zen."
The first was when I was snowboarding in Angel Fire, New Mexico as a teen. I was alone on a run, and when I sat down for just a moment, I looked at the beautiful landscape before me and found that not only was I content with life, I was happy.
The second was during a yoga class early in my Naval career while in Norfolk, VA. As music played and my body moved through the stretches and poses, my mind and body aligned, and after years of anxiety and worry I found a balance and a sensation that it would all be okay.
The last, and most recent — and the one I found the most enlightening — happened recently. It was not on a mountain. It was not in a yoga studio. It was nothing out of the ordinary.
It was in an izakaya in Yokosuka, Japan called 'Pub Madison'; and it happened as I watched my wife sing karaoke while surrounded by friends and strangers.
Now you may be thinking, "That doesn't seem to fit the bill for what zen is," and perhaps you are correct. Zen is complicated to describe, and many great teachers and practitioners can explain it far better than I ever could. In fact, I do not claim to be an expert on the practice of Zen.
Zen is defined as "emphasizing direct, intuitive enlightenment through Zazen (sitting meditation) and mindfulness, rather than scripture study. It represents a state of calm, focused awareness, often applied to daily life as a minimalist, peaceful, and intuitive mindset" (Webster’s). To me, zen is the moment, or moments, in my life when I have experienced joy, satisfaction, mindfulness, and a sense of contentment despite everything I am going through.
And "despite everything I am going through" is the key.
The reason that last moment of zen truly overwhelmed me was that it took place during a time of great change for me. I had been living in Japan for nearly two years and was about to move back to America as my eleven-year career as a Naval officer and helicopter pilot was ending due to a medical decision by the Naval Aviation Medical Institute. The fact that I would no longer be eligible for promotion because the aviation community could no longer use me was a bitter pill to swallow.
I had spent years pushing myself through flight school, enduring sleepless nights and long hours of studying to earn my Wings of Gold. Even after flight school, I'd pushed for years to earn qualifications while deployed all over the world. I had grinded and struggled and given so much of myself and my life that when it was all taken away, I felt deeply lost and confused.
I was about to be separated due to something beyond my control, and it felt like all my efforts had amounted to nothing. The words from Ecclesiastes resonated deeply with me: "So I hated life, because the work that is done under the sun was grievous to me. All of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind." (Ecclesiastes 2:17)
After learning I would be separated, I became withdrawn and angry, and my wife and I fought often as I buried my emotions and tried to push through while planning some sort of life after the Navy.
Then, in January 2026, just a few days after New Year’s and about two months before I was due to leave Japan, I was sitting in my favorite izakaya, Pub Madison, with friends — Japanese and American alike. My wife got up to sing a Japanese song called "Dred Flower." She had sung it before, but as she started and I watched the entire bar start to sing and sway along with a singing teacher from Houston who loves the Japanese language — I was struck by a sensation I still have trouble defining.
I realized that what I was experiencing wasn't a mountainside revelation or a deep meditation breakthrough. What I was experiencing was a moment that was wonderful in its honesty and normalcy. Here was a group of people sharing laughter, singing, and drinks. Everyone had issues. Everyone had struggles. But all of us, in that small izakaya, were just there to have fun and be together.
I was struck by myself. For most of my life I had scoffed at the idea that something so simple could produce a result like that. I was always the one wanting to "go big or go home." I've surfed beaches, hiked mountains, snowboarded the freshest Hokkaido powder, and flown helicopters over naval warships. To me, zen had been a great concept that could only happen in extremes. Yet here I was, in a small bar filled with laughter, cigarette smoke, and multiple languages, having one of the most profound realizations of my life.
When I got home that night and took the obligatory shower to wash the smell of smoke off me (if you've been to Japan you know what I mean), the sensation lingered. Looking around at the awards on my walls and thinking of the future, I wasn't overcome with bitter disappointment or fear. I went to bed with a feeling of liberation — as Alan Watts often describes it. It wasn't that I was free of concerns or stresses. It was that I finally felt I could handle them, and that the small moments would make the struggles worth it when I look back on my life.
Since then, I've moved back to the US and left active duty. I still have have struggles, challenges, and stresses. But when those feelings threaten to overhwelm me, I recall that sensation from the izakaya and I know that what I am enduring is not all life is. I remember my three moments of zen— one on a mountainside, one in a yoga studio, and one in a noisy izakaya — and that they taught me the same lesson in different ways: peace doesn't always arrive in grand revelations. Sometimes it comes quietly, in ordinary human connection and shared joy, especially when life feels uncertain. Those simple, honest moments are the stitches that hold a life together; they remind us that meaning can be found in presence, resilience, and the company of others. I've come to embrace them and I hope you will too because if you do, you'll find you have more strength and contentment than you thought possible.
Thank you for reading this far if you have and I wish you all the best.