Where Is My Boy Now?

My awakening experience after the death of my greatest Zen teacher, Sgt. Pepper

My favorite photo of us together, taken by a friend in 2021. As you can clearly see, Sgt. Pepper was the goodest dog who ever lived.

On the eve of 2026, my beloved dog, Sgt. Pepper, died peacefully in his favorite bed, surrounded by his family. It was just days before his 16th birthday. I rescued him when he was about 4 months old, and he was my constant companion for the rest of his life, and through some of the worst moments of my own.

I mentioned in a social media post that I would be writing about what happened to me for years to come. This is the first of those writings. My apologies if it’s a bit long. I will get better at writing about this stuff.

Here is the summary: the extreme grief of losing Sgt. Pepper triggered an awakening experience—what the Japanese Zen tradition calls satori or kensho. When I say that Sgt. Pepper turned out to be the greatest Zen teacher I’ve ever had—I meant it without exaggeration.

The Liminal Space

First, an apology. Even before his death, I had withdrawn from Substack. Life got busy, but that’s a hollow excuse. Perhaps it was anticipatory grief. While I was never irresponsible in my care, I was certainly in denial about his gradual decline.

I must also acknowledge that I was already undergoing a transformation long before his death. In fact, in April 2025, I wrote about being in a “liminal space,” unsure of what was happening to me spiritually. Now, I am more sure.

But please allow me two caveats.

First, I am not claiming “enlightenment.” A satori is not that; it is a powerful awakening experience, not final liberation.

Second, I am wary of discussing this at all, but I have two strong reasons for doing so:

1. Due to my trauma from my ex-teacher, I’ve been unable to reopen myself to a formal teacher. Ergo, I desperately need my community to hold me accountable from here on out. More on this topic in a bit.

2. I have long believed that discussions about awakening are full of convoluted bullshit. I knew there had to be a way to explain it to the 21st-century Western mind. It looks like I was right.

What Is a Satori?

The word satori (悟り) is a Japanese noun that literally means “awakening” or “understanding.” It’s a pivotal concept in Japanese Zen Buddhism, but it probably traces back to the early Chan masters in China. These masters, sometimes called the Lanka Masters because of their devotion to the Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra, saw awakening as a direct, sudden insight. Legend has it that Bodhidharma gave this sutra to his successor, Huike, and told him that it contained everything needed for awakening.

Satori is not the same as the final enlightenment of the Buddha. Historically, it’s understood as a glimpse of truth that permanently alters one’s understanding, even if the intense peak experience subsides. It is, in many ways, the beginning of the path, not the end. That’s certainly how it feels to me.

In modern terms, a satori is a sudden, profound psychological shift where the sense of a separate “self” dissolves. This isn’t an intellectual event; it is a direct, intuitive perception. The ancient analogy of waking up from a dream feels accurate to me.

I need to be clear that this satori was a totally new experience for me. Years ago, my ex-teacher told me I’d experienced a satori after a powerful qigong session. It felt like getting a gold star, and my ego puffed up at his praise. In retrospect, I can say with confidence that he was not only wrong, but that his comment was irresponsible.

What Shifted In Me

What I experienced recently was a first. It was abrupt and disorienting—a sudden snap that occurred during one of the many, convulsive crying fits after Sgt. Pepper’s death. My sense of self and time became completely distorted—but at the same time, I felt inexplicably at ease. I told a friend that I felt like I was gently stoned on edibles. This lasted for days.

I’m still struggling to find the right words. I’m reminded of the first line of the Tao Te Ching. The Tao that can be named is not the real Tao, right? Nevertheless, Lao Tzu wrote an entire book after that line, so I’ll take a stab at naming it.

Here’s something. The existential dread that followed me for 53 years is almost entirely gone. Despite the lingering grief of losing Sgt. Pepper, I no longer view death the way I did. As I type this, I’m realizing how truly remarkable this is from a mental health perspective. The only time I can remember feeling this unafraid is when I did magic mushrooms back in college.

Here’s something else. I can stop at any moment and viscerally feel the interbeing of all things, to use Thich Nhat Hanh’s beautiful word. It’s no longer an intellectual exercise for me. All I can say is that I now feel it rather than think it.

I’ve also experienced a dramatic increase in my empathy. I was already pretty high on the empathy scale, but this is off the charts. It occurs to me—living in the current madness that is the United States—that if this feeling were the baseline human experience, then the psychological roots of war, racism, bigotry, xenophobia, homophobia, and transphobia simply couldn’t take hold.

And finally—kindness feels different now. It feels less like a moral suggestion and more of a logical imperative. A few years ago, I had a breakthrough in terms of self-compassion. Long story short, I finally grasped what it meant to be kind to oneself. This breakthrough feels the same—except that there is no self and there are no others.

The End of “Others”

Famously, a student once asked the great master Ramana Maharshi how we should treat others.

He replied simply: “There are no others.”

Perhaps you’ve heard this statement. Perhaps you understand it on an intellectual level. I was the same. And I’m telling you—a satori changes things.

This statement no longer feels like something I want to believe in; instead, it feels like something I cannot help but believe in. In Zen terms, now that I’ve seen my original face, I can’t help but see it in every other human. (Key word: every.)

My Schnauzer Koan

So what got me here? What actually triggered my little satori? It’s a beautiful, if ironic, story.

In Zen Buddhism, a koan is a tool used to shatter discursive thought and break the mind out of its lifelong loop. You’ve probably heard several of them in your life:

• “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”

• “Does a dog have Buddha-nature?”

• “What was your original face before your parents were born?”

I was not given a koan by a Zen master, at least not a human one. My koan was given to me by the limp, lifeless body of a 15-pound miniature schnauzer whom I still love more than I can express. The koan I repeated out loud for days, through violent fits of sobbing, was this:

“Where is my boy now?”

I wasn’t practicing qigong. I sure as shit wasn’t practicing sitting meditation. I was grieving at a depth I had not previously known. And for those who aren’t dog people: I lost my beloved grandmother in 2015 and did not grieve this hard. For me, there was something uniquely devastating about my bond with this creature of pure, wordless love. It broke a completely different part of my heart.

My grief was visceral, vocal, body-shaking, and completely out of my control. In fact, I stopped leaving the house for fear that the crying would overtake me in the car. I didn’t feel safe to drive. When Sgt. Pepper’s ashes were ready, my parents were kind enough to drive me to get them.

Over and over, my brain would not let go of the koan. Where is my boy now? Where is Sgt. Pepper? Honestly, my obsession was borderline pathological and definitely worrisome. It felt like my brain was broken.

And that’s exactly what a Zen Koan is supposed to do.

The Danger Zone

While I’m still in the early stages of my satori, I want to sound an alarm. I am officially in the danger zone now. I’m halfway up the mountain, and this is precisely where masters fall.

There is a seminal book on this subject by Mariana Caplan titled Halfway Up the Mountain: The Error of Premature Claims to Enlightenment.

Caplan’s thesis is sharp: the landscape of modern spirituality is littered with teachers who had a genuine glimpse of the divine, got intoxicated by it, and then prematurely claimed a state they hadn’t actually stabilized. They mistook a temporary breakthrough for the final destination, and in doing so, they fell right into the mouth of their own egos.

I left my ex-teacher in 2014, and I’ve spent the last 12 years fiercely committed to avoiding this trap. Because I saw it with my own eyes, because I was traumatized by watching my teacher stop halfway up the mountain—I vowed that I would never make the same mistake.

Am I making that mistake now by writing about my experience? I don’t think so, but I am open to being held accountable by my community—by you. In fact, you, my dear readers and students, are my secret weapon whether you realize it or not.

If anything, I feel that writing honestly and transparently will help me to better navigate the pitfalls. If I do fall—and it would be hubris of me to pretend that I’m immune—you’ll be there to lift me back up. And that’s precisely because, unlike my ex-teacher, I’m open to constructive criticism. I am not a guru and this is not a hierarchy. It’s a community project.

I feel a deep gratitude for the clarity I’ve been given. As Caplan warns, the mid-point of the mountain is the most treacherous, because that’s where you’re most likely to convince yourself you’ve already arrived. I don’t feel like I’ve arrived. The path ahead is as daunting as it is exciting. I’m just thrilled to actually SEE the path so clearly before me. It’s right there! Can you see it too?

What’s Next

As I said the day after Sgt. Pepper died—I am okay, and not okay. Nearly two weeks later, I’m still grieving, but I’m at peace with the grief. I still cry every single day, and the house feels impossibly empty. But for perhaps the first time in my life, I’m okay with emptiness. My boy is gone—and also not gone…but that is a topic for another time.

So what’s next for me? I honestly don’t know. I am changed, but unchanged. Chop wood, carry water, as the Zen saying goes.

I will continue to teach qigong and tai chi of course. Although grief was the catalyst for my satori, moving meditation was the foundation. Had I not done decades of deep mental-emotional work, I would not have been ready for this awakening. In retrospect, I don’t think it requires decades of cultivation for a satori, but it probably does require serious and courageous shadow work.

In my book, I wrote about the four main categories of the art: Medical, Scholar’s, Martial, and Spiritual. For 20 years, I focused primarily on Medical and Martial Qigong, especially for mental health. Will the next 20 years focus more on Spiritual Qigong? I honestly don’t know.

I’ve spent years running from the word "spiritual" because it felt so confusing, so full of ego and nonsense. Now, it feels simple and clear. So my promise to you is this: I’m going to keep documenting the messy and beautiful reality of my own spiritual journey, and I will keep teaching qigong and tai chi from the heart.

If this spiritual stuff isn't your cup of tea, I understand. On the other hand, maybe I’ll find a way to talk about spirituality that actually makes sense to you. I will certainly try. Or you can stick around purely for the qigong and tai chi knowledge. If anything, my satori will improve my practice of these arts.

And now, my dear community, I’d love to hear from you. How do you feel about this group project? Will you commit to calling me out if I start falling into the same pitfalls that have claimed so many other teachers? Can I rely on you to keep me honest? Let me know in the comments.

About me: I’m Sifu Anthony, a longtime teacher of qigong and tai chi, and the author of the bestselling book Flowing Zen. These arts helped me heal from depression, anxiety, chronic pain, and ADHD burnout—when nothing else did. I write for people who’ve been failed by the system but haven’t given up on healing. People who value science but also know what it’s like to be dismissed, misdiagnosed, or gaslit by it. I don’t teach mystical fixes—I teach practical tools for mental health, trauma recovery, nervous system regulation, ADHD, and pain relief. I live quietly in New Mexico with my dog, my garden, and a view of the Sandia Mountains. More about me →