Next Monday I will take a train from London to Reading, where I will have an interview with the members of a faculty search committee from the University of Reading. Bovis Construction Limited, one of the largest construction management firms in the United Kingdom and the world, has endowed a professorship in the Construction Management Department—perhaps the best place in its field. I was asked to apply, which I did a month ago or so, and was subsequently short-listed. Last week I received a phone call from the Vice Chancellor of the University, and I told him that I would come for the interview. If everything goes well, I may move back to Europe, where things seem to be moving again.

When I started preparing for this trip, I decided to travel light. As I will spend only three days and two nights over there, all I will need is a grey suit, a few white shirts, and some underwear. The very anticipation of a trip involving so little baggage always gives me a thrill; in this case the sensation of adventure is heightened because of the interview.

Thinking about the choice of a book, without which a trip like this would be simply unimaginable, yesterday evening I decided for a Penguin Books collection of Zen poetry. Moreover, I decided to take my Walkman, too, and selected several tapes that had become essential to me since the last spring: two recordings of Buddhist chants from Tibet and a collection of classical songs from Southern India. Now I am ready for that train ride from London to Reading, as well as for the interview or any other awkward situation.

My choices of travel paraphernalia started me thinking. Besides my love for a few people, there is less and less in this world that I can connect to—less and less that I feel has anything to do with me as an individual. The world in which I live gives me little warmth and spiritual sustenance. Every single anchor to the world that I am aware of comes from the East. Although I do not believe that these thoughts can be meaningfully shared with others—for our deepest experiences cannot be transmitted without an essential remainder to those who have not gone through them themselves—I feel that they are an interesting commentary on our civilization. To wit, the West offers next to nothing that can satisfy spiritual needs without the religious baggage, which tends to be unpalatable to those of us who like to travel light.

Addendum I (November 23, 1989)

The idea that the spirit of Zen resides exclusively in the East is un-Zenlike and is precisely the kind of dualistic thinking that Zen rejects. In reality, the wisdom of Zen resonates with countless expressions of Western culture, with its theology and philosophy, even with the “New Physics”—especially the New Physics, which has replaced the classical view of a clockwork cosmos with the conception of an indivisible whole in which no part is more important than another.

From Jon Winokur’s Introduction to Zen to Go, compiled and edited by Jon Winokur, New York: New American Library, 1989, p. 16.

Addendum II (January 3, 1991)

There was a lady in Dr. Suzuki’s class who said once, “I have a great difficulty reading the sermons of Meister Eckhart, because of all the Christian imagery.” Dr. Suzuki said, “That difficulty will disappear.”

From John Cage’s Silence: Lectures and Writings, Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1961, p. 266.

Addendum III (January 4, 2000)

When I walked out of our London home today, I wore my mountain clothing, which I wear almost all the time since last summer, and my knapsack, which contained, as it always does, only the bare essentials. Knowing that I would be going to Reading after a few chores in London, I felt free, free. My stride lengthened. As if to reward me for my elation, the sun came out. Drunk with possibilities ahead of me, I started daydreaming about the day when everything I had, including my computer, would fit into my knapsack. And I would just walk and walk.