Andy Seizan Robins Roshi is a certified instructor of Zen Leadership, yoga instructor, and priest for Chosei Zen's newly founded Wandering Ox Dojo. While enlisted in the United Kingdom's Royal Navy he was part of the elite Portsmouth Command Field Gun Crew. From there he led project teams in the construction industry and began teaching leadership skills to entrepreneurs. Today, he plays a pivotal role in expanding Chosei Zen's presence and Zen Leadership training in Europe and the UK where he lives with his family.

Zen is not a constant; it is a flow of continuous change. For me, it has been profound realization after profound realization; everything is shifting with no destination in sight. So a question asking 'my path to Zen' throws me deep into contemplation, whilst a broad smile spreads across my face, and laughter erupts from somewhere in my abdomen. It's a question that I thought I knew the answer to; my path into Zen started on a set date when Amazon diverted me to the newly published book 'The Zen Leader' by Whitelaw Roshi. And if I had written this article five years ago, I would have told that story today. But on a cold morning, sitting in the garden amongst the rotting autumn leaves with the sunshine warming cold hands, it seems so trivial, although it's not—no more insignificant than the first brush stroke on a canvas of a great work of art. I gaze at the thousands of brush strokes making up the colorful and vivid picture of life. Where did the image start? 

It takes me back to some of my earliest memories of a Christian upbringing in the Church of England. From age six, Sundays meant attending two daily services in the Village Church, an intimidating 11th-century building with thick stone walls and pillars supporting a high vaulted ceiling. The church was austere, with upright and uncomfortable wooden pews and choir stalls in which I sat for hours motionless, feeling the awkwardness of a choir boy's robe, cassock and ruffle. Sitting here writing this, I can feel the deep sense of silence and stillness the church provided through its architecture and spiritual practices, praying, lighting candles, and chanting psalms in a language I did not understand. 

Leaping forward 15 years, I am engaged in one of the most brutal team sports ever developed. In my mind, but maybe not my bones, Christianity is long forgotten, and a desire to explore the world and its trappings has taken over. The Royal Naval Field Gun and Christianity seem to be cultures of opposites. The only thing holding them together is life itself. Replacing the stillness with the precision and togetherness of eighteen groaning men heaving one and a half tons of gun and limber, the Latin chants replaced with shouts o­f four-letter swear words, the communion wine replaced by copious amounts of Guinness on Saturday evenings. 

Leap forward another 15 years, and I sit on a cushion at Spring Green for the first time. In all its bareness, everything is so familiar. Coming home, the great opposites of life merging, no gaps. Something is washing through me; whatever is happening is fundamental to who I am, whoever that is. 

That life-changing visit to Spring Green set in motion a series of daily practices which have gripped me and become the foundation of my Zen training for a decade. How and why something takes hold of us is unclear. Like the seed breaking the ground, the conditions surrounding the earth where it sits are what set it spiraling towards the heavens. I have developed them, built on them, and added a few that most people would deem crazy, but they are a thread that holds my life in place. 

During a trip to India several years before visiting Spring Green, I met a Gandhi-like figure sitting on a street in the northern city of Udaipur; he looked me up and down and, in a quiet voice, told me much of my life history. He was an Ayurvedic masseur taught through his family's lineage and offered to help me, to which I found myself lying on an old tie and dye sheet in a dirty room whilst he prescribed his bodywork. I am unsure what he did during the massage; he seemed to gently run his fingers along some lines running down the length of my back body, creating immense pain as he did so. I left feeling lighter but unsure of myself. I returned two days later at his request, and no pain was evident. I left India knowing my body needed some help, but it would remain a tight coil until my life imploded several years later. 

On completing Zen Leader, I returned to the UK intending to sort out my body. The thirty-minute sits were excruciating on my back and knees. And I thought that my body condition made it unlikely that I would drop into any meaningful meditation. There was no Virtual Dojo then, and training was solo until my next visit to Spring Green. Every morning without fail, I would get up and practice 45 minutes of Zazen and an hour of the Zen Ten which quickly merged into a more extensive yoga practice. The universe converged, and a yoga studio opened within 50 yards of my front door. Yoga became an essential part of my training and still is. The practice has deepened since those early days, and I have worked through the yang phase and patiently moved to a more yin practice, utilizing the breath to achieve the release and opening of my body. I remember one of my earliest conversations with Greene Roshi and him saying it's all Breath and Posture, and today this is where my training focus lies. Greene Roshi also brought gravity to my attention. I smile as I write that, not that I didn't know it existed before, but the relationship with our breathe, and posture allows the gravitational force to shape us; once again, we only have to look at nature to see this. One force driving up and one force pulling down.

In the last couple of years, research has become available looking at various breathing techniques and the impact of breathing on health and healing. In this research, I find nothing new; it is a confirmation of my teachers' teachings referencing the research with Omori Sogen's book Zen Training. One piece of research that interested me was that regulating our breath between three and seven breaths/minute not only calms us but physically opens up blood vessels and increases the amount of oxygen released to tissues and organs. The discovery created greater awareness, reiterating the importance of taking training off the mat and remaining present and connected to what I can name as my biochemistry, biomechanics and breathing cadence. From here, I can witness the ever-changing trio and the experiences they generate without allowing them to land, instead watching the flow as they pass.

“Kiai first” seems such an obvious statement, nothing radical here, but it has been an important realization and direction to guide myself and others. As I turn on the light switch, I ask people what is happening. Energy in the form of electricity flows to the bulb, which manifests as a bright light. The same is true for us. In my coaching work, I have sat through many conversations with budding entrepreneurs telling me of business ideas they want to create, driven by needs and desires rather than Kiai. When you poke them a few times and ask awkward questions, they eventually land on what is important to them, and at this moment, there is no doubt as their eyes illuminate from the decisive charge. A powerful physical connection and emotional experience take hold. “Kiai first” is the realization that you must follow the light.

So there seems to be no particular time when my path into Zen began; the threads go back too far, but somewhere deep inside, they leave their mark. Is the beginning important? Does it help to feel into my Grandfathers suicide carrying his jealousy, anger and mental illness? The heaviness of these burdens is enough to drown anyone in a vast ocean. As kids, we would read the handwritten letter in the drawer of the family sideboard telling us our great uncle died at age 15, lost in action in the trenches of WW1 — his young courage ending his brief life. We need to know the past to help us heal. But the past is with us here now, kicking ass and causing suffering, and our challenge is to face it right now and begin the healing not only for us but for the ancestors who are here with us in this very moment. And there it is, the start of my path into Zen. I knew I would find it.