Julian Daizan Skinner
On midsummer dawn, June 21, 2007, I started walking northwards up the centreline of Britain. I’d just completed my training in a Japanese Zen monastery, a journey that had begun at the end of the eighties with me selling my house and giving the money away and jumping into full-time monastery practice. I was wearing the robes of a monk. I carried no money and planned to travel in the traditional way, relying on alms. At about 9.30am a car pulled up beside me. The window rolled down, “Are you Daizan Roshi?” “Yes.” “I hear d about you on the radio. Will you teach me to meditate?” “Yes.” The lady sat on my rucksack on the grass verge and we shared a beautiful, peaceful 20 minutes.