Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind: Informal Talks on Zen Meditation and Practice

Suzuki explains how breath becomes an anchor for zazen practice without controlling it. He compares breathing to a “swinging door,” moving freely in both directions, connecting two spaces without belonging exclusively to either. By inhaling the “outer world and exhaling our “inner world,” we lose our sense of a separate self and become aware that we are part of “universal nature.” Practitioners should observe the swinging door of their breath without attempting to regulate it. This instruction underlines Suzuki’s argument that self-forgetting is key to Zen practice. Attempts to control one’s experience with the aim of self-improvement are ultimately counterproductive. This emphasis on the non-regulation of breath undermines the Western productivity narrative that equates reward with effort.

Suzuki suggests that the urge to control our lives and other people is futile. Suffering is an inevitable part of experience and should be accepted in the same way we accept happiness. Furthermore, we should allow other people to follow their own instincts and simply observe the outcomes. Suzuki introduces the concept of big mind: an awareness that is inclusive, non-attached, and boundless. Unlike “small mind,” this state is free of self-centeredness, judgments, and fears. Suzuki insists that big mind is a natural state, present once we stop narrowing awareness around the ego.

In this chapter, Suzuki articulates core Zen Buddhist concepts, such as those of Eihei Dōgen, the 13th-century founder of the Japanese Soto school of Zen. The notion of big mind echoes Dōgen’s description of Daishin: a great mind that is stable, impartial, and tolerant, and accepts everything encountered in life as the true self or Buddha-nature. However, Suzuki translates Dōgen’s philosophically dense and paradoxical insight into plain language that avoids metaphysics.

Suzuki uses the metaphor of “mind waves” to describe thoughts that inevitably arise while practicing zazen. He asserts that, like waves on the surface of the ocean, such thoughts are a natural phenomenon. Suzuki emphasizes that zazen does not aim to stop mind waves. Instead, practitioners should allow thoughts to come and go, while remaining grounded in posture and breath. Mind wives lose their dominance once the subject can observe them without attachment.

Suzuki’s focus on mental turbulence as a natural phenomenon rather than a sign of bad practice is reassuring for zazen novices, reducing anxiety around “doing Zen correctly.”

His advice is likely to be helpful to readers who may be prone to self-criticism and fear their practice is not progressing. Suzuki’s argument is philosophically credible while challenging the Western assumption that well-being comes from control. Suzuki’s emphasis on non-striving aims to reduce compulsive self-monitoring and counter perfectionism. However, Western readers, who view practice as a form of self-improvement, may struggle to identify with these ideas. Suzuki’s advice undermines the notion of the self-project, and the lack of measurable progress may feel impractical or disheartening to some.

Suzuki uses the metaphor of “mind weeds” to describe emotions and self-concerns that arise during Zen practice. He emphasizes that trying to eliminate mind weeds is counterproductive, as it only causes them to multiply. Instead, practitioners should allow them to occur while remaining grounded in zazen posture and breathing. Left undisturbed, they reduce in number.

By presenting mind weeds as a normal feature of human consciousness, Suzuki again encourages Western readers to fixate less on perfection in practice. The mistake is not their presence, but the impulse to fight, judge, or uproot them. Rather than striving for purity, practitioners should become comfortable with imperfection. This notion sharply contrasts with meditation models that equate spiritual progress with inner quiet or control. Suzuki’s warning against actively pursuing serenity counters suppression-oriented approaches to meditation that frame mental activity as noise to be reduced.

Suzuki uses the metaphor of four kinds of horses to explain how different people respond to practice and to clarify what he calls “the marrow of Zen.” Traditionally, the “best” horse responds to their rider’s instructions without the need for a whip. The second-best horse responds at the mere threat of a whip. The third-best horse responds only when the whip causes it pain. Meanwhile, the worst horse runs only when the whip “penetrates to the marrow of its bones” (19). Suzuki deliberately reverses this valuation, suggesting that the first horse responds quickly but its understanding may remain superficial, while the last horse responds slowly but feels the whip deeply. He argues that the fourth horse is the closest to the “marrow” or deepest level of Zen, as its lack of quick insight leads to its core assumptions being challenged.

Suzuki’s claim that people who struggle and experience discomfort or doubt may be closer to authentic Zen practice than those who grasp it easily seems counterintuitive. However, the notion reinforces his central argument that performance mentality and pride in one’s achievements undermine spirituality.

Suzuki instructs readers to avoid dualism: the conscious separation between the practitioner and Zen practice. No dualism means fully inhabiting practice without judging or attempting to control it. When practice is dualistic, enlightenment becomes an object to acquire, and the self is focused on improving itself. This creates what Suzuki calls “gaining ideas”: the belief that practice exists to benefit the ego. Ironically, dualistic practice reinforces the very self-centeredness that Zen practice is meant to dissolve. If enlightenment is treated as future attainment, the present moment is rejected. Suzuki suggests that enlightenment exists when practitioner and practice are undivided. This can only be achieved by sincerely performing zazen without expecting results.

Suzuki’s advice in this chapter is actionable, but not in the way Western readers often expect. Rejecting dualism requires a shift in stance toward simply doing (sitting and breathing) rather than thinking and assessing. The lack of tangible results may leave those motivated by feedback and progression feeling uncertain about whether they are applying non-duality correctly.

Suzuki emphasizes the importance of bowing to the floor nine times after zazen. He clarifies that bowing does not represent self-abasement or worship of a superior being. Instead, the gesture respects the Buddha nature in everything, including oneself, indicating devotion without objectification.

Suzuki’s explanation of bowing implicitly recognizes a conflict with the Western ideals of autonomy and equality. He argues that bowing undermines self-centeredness through action, establishing humility, ceding control, and preventing spiritual arrogance.