The Mirrorless Moon

No One Can Take Your Seat

Nobody’s coming to save you.

Not your friends, not your family, not your therapist, not your teacher. No one can take the inward step for you.

We wait for permission. We wait for certainty. We wait for our mind and body to agree. We wait for the anxiety to settle, for the story to make sense, for a sign—a spark, a burning bush—before we move. Outwardly or inwardly.

In Fukanzazengi, Dōgen points us away from chasing explanations and back toward practice itself: the backward step that turns attention toward what is already here. If you want to realize suchness, don’t postpone it.

Not “I’ll do it once I understand.”
Not “I’ll do it once someone approves.”
Not “I’ll do it once the conditions are right.”
Not “I’ll do it once my gut finally guarantees it.”
Not “I’ll do it when someone takes my hand and applauds.”

The way forward is the step itself: returning to this moment, and acting—without waiting for life to become tidy first.

Because life is not tidy. Relationships are messy. We fear, we grieve, we worry about money, war, and injustice. We feel anger. We feel loss. And we tell ourselves we’ll begin and move once it all clears. But this is the field of practice—and life—exactly here, exactly amid the mess.

Nobody’s coming to save you.

And that doesn’t mean you do it alone. It means: don’t hand your life over to other people’s opinions. Don’t let praise drive you or blame steer you. Listen deeply—then don’t abdicate.

A teacher can guide, mirror, and challenge. Friends can love you, advise you, misunderstand you. Therapy can help you find steadiness and skillful means and listen to what you think your problems are. But none of them can do the doing: the call you’ve avoided, the apology you owe, the boundary you need, the hard conversation, the next sober day, the opening yourself to vulnerability, the next return to the cushion when you least want it. No one can live your karma. No one can repent for you. No one can take your vows.

Dōgen tells the tenzo not to hand off even the plainest work of the kitchen—to instead use your own hands, your own eyes, your own sincerity. The point isn’t refusing help. The point is refusing to outsource responsibility.

So yes: it would be easier if someone else had the answers, if someone else could decide for us, if we could “Zen” our way around grief or use emptiness to dodge making amends. But practice is not an escape hatch. Practice is showing up.

This is your life. This is your responsibility. This is your practice.

No one is coming to save you.

And once we acknowledge this, then we can live life fully, right here, right now. With things as messy and as complicated and nasty and ugly and gorgeous and beautiful and perfect as they are.

So take your seat.

Gassho,
Koushi