It’s no secret that Buddhism regionalizes as it spreads. Before Buddhism became Zen, it was Chan—which combined original Indian Mahāyāna practice with Taoism, the dominant Chinese culture at the time. Zen is a Japanese transliteration of the Chinese word “Chan”—which is why I’m allowed to talk about it. And as Buddhism spread Eastward to other countries, it changed to accommodate for each location, branching out to different schools like Taiwanese Buddhism, Seon Buddhism in Korean, and Vietnamese Thiền.
Eventually it reached California and blew the fuck up.
Even though it retains the “Zen” name, American Buddhism is its own religion and shouldn’t be confused with traditional Zen values. I’m not gatekeeping spirituality, but I’m saying Zen is not about how many self-help books you buy, what skin cream you’re using, or which yoga instructor you’re fucking.
The Western world has distilled Buddhist practice to its commercial allure—a bland vinegar of exotic self-improvement bottled under the ‘Zen’ label and placed in the hands of a perpetually high-strung, anxiety-prone working class. Cultural Anthropologist, Joshua Irizarry, explains “Zen” is the love child of global cosmopolitanism and traditional Buddhism—TLDR: late stage American capitalism created the ideal marketing term, “Zen.”
“Zen” and Zen mean different things: “Zen” is an American buzzword, and Zen is a religion.
“Zen” is not spirituality. It’s a white-owned Asian brand. “Zen and the Art of [insert vague noun here],” can range from “[Masturbation]” to “[The Pursuit of Happiness]”—nothing is out-of-bounds. Any lifestyle, diet, or workout can be and has been sold at a markup under this “Zen” umbrella term. But “Zen-ifying” these things only oversimplifies its Buddhist roots.
Dr. Inken Prohl, Professor of Religious Studies at Heidelberg University, says “Zen” is “Asian spirituality made in America.” She cites Gary R. McClain and Eve Adamson’s book, “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Zen Living,” and Inez Stein’s “The Magic of Zen,” as examples of the “Zen” appeal to American consumers.
“Zen” is an ethnic industry that capitalizes off Asian-ness. These titles are sold as tribal medicine for the ego—it’s easy to be proud of yourself for being spiritual just because you have a “Zen” cookbook sitting in your kitchen.
The Western world can only see Buddhism as a muse and not a mantra.
In managerial jargon, “Zen” is a status symbol. L’Oreal’s President of Consumer Products Division, Marc Menesguen, is regarded as a “Zen Master,” mostly due to his involvement in developing L’Oreal’s digital impact and expanding to emerging markets like Brazil, Dubai, China, and Japan—which is impressive, but not exactly Zen.
Apple founder Steve Jobs is perhaps the most famous example of this type of new age hero when his creative genius was portrayed in a posthumous graphic novel aptly titled, “The Zen of Steve Jobs,” published by Forbes.
Former coach of the LA Lakers, Phil Jackson, was known for his incorporation of Buddhist and New Age teachings on the court, so much so that the media nicknamed him a “Zen Master” for running alternative tactics like the triangle offense that worked so well for him with Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen in the 90s and later with Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O’Neal in the early 2000s—again, this is impressive, and Jackson is one of the all-time greats, but that doesn’t make him a ‘Zen Master.’
In a January 9, 2013 appearance on The Daily Show, actor Jeff Bridges ordained anchor Jon Stewart as a “Zen Master” through the act of putting a red clown nose on Stewart’s face, claiming “that’s all it takes.”
Even the Japanese skincare company Shiseido used to have a whole line of “Zen” products which included a body cream that “[exuded] the radiant fragrance of Zen.” Now they have a Zen-scented perfume that smells like “a breath of floral freshness layered with amber and wood, conveying sweetness and femininity in a new, modern language”—as if Zen is just another word for modern.
Irizarry reveals Zen-labeled items come with a markup of between 10 to 20 percent from the next tier of products in each company’s catalog and upwards of 30 percent from the company’s entry-level products. “Zen” is an aesthetic only the upper-middle and upper classes are willing to pay for.
The rhetoric around “Zen” is also anything but spiritual—in fact, it’s so vague it’s reductive. In English, “Zen” can be used as a general noun—i.e. “I’m having a moment of Zen,” or a descriptive noun—a person can be “Zen-like,” an adjective—“that’s so Zen!” And even as a verb—as in, “to Zen” or “Zenning out.”
What the fuck is “Zenning out.”
If “Zen” is all we see, then that’s what we’ll think Zen is—and it’s not. I’ve lived it.
My time in Taiwan was spent in monasteries. I lived out of Dharma Drum Headquarters in Jinshan where I performed countless prostrations to Guanyin Bodhisattva, chanted the Heart Sutra every morning, and sat in half lotus until my legs broke—it was immersive, but it also didn’t have to be. As grateful as I am for that experience, I don’t want to believe that true spirituality can only exist in an off grid monastic refuge. The answer isn’t always a cabin in the woods.
I don’t live an ascetic life—and most of us don’t, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be spiritual. I don’t have to buy “Zen” products to practice Chan—and even if I do struggle with work-life balance, not once did Fa Shi mention spending money. The spirit is already free, so why put a price on it?
Self-care is how much time you give yourself, not what you buy for yourself. It’s about breathing, silence, and reflection. But if you want to wake up at 4:30 a.m., shave your head, and go vegetarian, then be my guest.
