Many Paths, One Invitation — Returning to Dōgen Zenji
Why Dōgen, Why Now?
I picked Dōgen up again today.
I’ve been deep in yoga philosophy for my teaching diploma and at times it has felt like wading through mud. And while that study has immense value, I noticed something missing. It felt like I’d become so busy learning that I’d stopped feeling it.
Dōgen has a way of bringing me back to that feeling — that quiet, undeniable sense of recognition that doesn’t come from logic or theory. His words vibrate with something beyond sense, as if they point not to the truth but cut through it.
““To study the Way is to study the self.
To study the self is to forget the self.
To forget the self is to be enlightened by all things of the universe.
To be enlightened by all things of the universe is to cast off the body and mind of the self as well as those of others.
Even the traces of enlightenment are wiped out, and life with traceless enlightenment goes on forever and ever.””
I can’t claim to fully grasp this — but maybe that’s the point. As the Dao De Jing reminds us, “The Way that can be spoken of is not the eternal Way.” Dōgen seems to be pointing toward the same thing: a truth that refuses to be pinned down by thought, a freedom that can only be lived, not described.
Studying the Self
In both yoga and Zen, study begins with the self — not in the narcissistic sense of constant self-analysis, but as an honest seeing, a peeling back of the layers of conditioning towards the core of our being. Svadhyaya in the yoga tradition asks us to look closely: to notice patterns, reactions, attachments. It can be uncomfortable work.
I see it most clearly when I’m on the mat. The voice that tells me I “should” be able to do something by now. The quiet flicker of pride when I can. The subtle comparison to others. All of this — Dōgen would say — is the self studying itself.
But there’s a trap here too. If I’m not careful, self-study becomes self-fixation. I can turn awareness into performance, as if observing my mind somehow makes me superior. Dōgen’s next line cuts right through that illusion: “To study the self is to forget the self.”
Forgetting the Self
If studying the self is like holding up a mirror, then forgetting the self is the moment the mirror dissolves.
It isn’t about erasing who we are or pretending the ego doesn’t exist — it’s about loosening the constant narration that keeps us separate.
In practice, this often happens by accident.
During movement or breathwork, there’s sometimes a fleeting moment where the boundary between “me doing yoga” and the doing itself disappears.
The breath is just breathing.
The pose is just unfolding.
For a second, I’m not observing the experience — I am it.
And then the mind comes rushing back with commentary:
That felt amazing, how do I get that again?
That’s the funny thing about forgetting the self — the moment you notice it, it’s already gone.
Zen and yoga both point to this paradox. Patanjali calls it nirodha: the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind.
Dōgen calls it forgetting the self.
Daoism calls it wu wei — effortless action.
Different languages for the same quiet dissolution, where control softens into participation.
Falling Into All Things
To “be enlightened by all things” is such a beautiful phrase. It suggests that awakening isn’t something achieved apart from the world but through complete immersion in it.
When I’m walking outside, there are rare days where I feel that. The sound of wind through trees, the uneven rhythm of my steps, a bird cutting across the sky — it’s as if everything is part of one movement, and I’m just another thread in it.
In yogic language, this might be the union implied in yuj — the root of “yoga” itself.
In Daoism, it’s the natural harmony of being aligned with the Dao.
In Zen, it’s simply life experienced before thought divides it up.
Dōgen doesn’t tell us to transcend the world but to fall into it — to be enlightened by it.
That subtle shift changes everything: awakening is not a private event but a relationship with everything that exists.
Letting Go of Body and Mind
To “cast off the body and mind of the self and others” — can sound dramatic, even nihilistic, but I think Dōgen was pointing towards something liberating, not annihilating.
It’s not about rejecting the body or denying thought; it’s about no longer being owned by them.
The body moves, the mind thinks — that’s their nature.
Letting go is trusting both to do what they do without turning every sensation or idea into a story about me.
This is where the practice becomes very ordinary.
When I’m teaching, there are moments when the lesson flows — my attention expands, and “my” teaching becomes “the” teaching.
Then someone drops a block on their toe, the spell breaks, and there I am again — laughing, human, humbled.
Perhaps Dōgen’s “traceless enlightenment” is exactly that: the capacity to move between these states lightly, without clinging to either.
To live with awareness, but without leaving fingerprints on every moment.
Traceless Enlightenment
“Even the traces of enlightenment are wiped out, and life with traceless enlightenment goes on forever and ever.”
This line always stops me.
We can study the self, forget the self, fall into all things — but even that awakening, even that moment of clarity, can become something we grasp. Another story of “me becoming enlightened.”
Dōgen’s reminder is radical in its simplicity: let go, even of awakening.
Wipe out the traces.
In a world obsessed with documenting progress — steps counted, habits tracked, goals ticked off — this is an act of quiet rebellion.
No achievement, no certificate, no need to prove spiritual growth. Just living — aware, responsive, open.
Maybe this is what he means by “traceless enlightenment”: a way of being that leaves no residue. No performance, no claiming, no ownership of insight.
Practice simply continues, like the breath.
I think of it as walking across wet sand and realising the tide has already washed your footprints away.
The path remains — but there’s nothing left to show you walked it.
Many Paths, One Invitation
Dōgen was a 13th-century Zen Buddhist monk. Patanjali wrote in India a thousand years earlier. Lao Tzu’s words reach even further back.
Different centuries, cultures, languages — yet the same current runs through them all.
The yoga sutras speak of stilling the mind to see our true nature.
The Dao De Jing speaks of the nameless Way that gives birth to all things.
Dōgen speaks of studying, forgetting, and falling.
All of them, in their own ways, point to the same invitation: to wake up.
Not to some grand revelation, but to this — the breath, the moment, the ordinary miracle of being alive.
The Way isn’t hidden; it’s just quiet.
It can’t be captured in a sentence or sutra, but it can be lived — in the soft, imperfect act of paying attention.
Closing Reflection – Walking Without Traces
Last week, this idea felt very far away.
I was pulled deep into the world of primary education and SEND — a world that often feels like walking into a storm of unmet needs, conflicting systems, and endless emotional labour.
There are days when it’s impossible to feel like what I do makes any difference. The weight of injustice sits heavy, and my nervous system hums with frustration and helplessness.
And yet, a few days later, I found myself standing in a quiet corporate studio, guiding staff through a 30-minute yoga session.
The contrast was almost surreal.
Instead of battling policy, I was sharing presence. Instead of fire-fighting, I was inviting stillness.
Two worlds — both human, both real — and somewhere between them, I remembered Dōgen’s words.
To study the self is to notice the overwhelm.
To forget the self is to stop taking it so personally.
To fall into all things is to recognise that the system, the suffering, the joy, and the body on the mat are all part of the same unfolding.
And traceless enlightenment?
Maybe it’s doing the work anyway — not for recognition, not even for results — but because responding with awareness is the Way.
So I keep walking.
Some days through spreadsheets, some days through stillness.
Both, in their own way, teaching me to let go of what I can’t hold and return to what’s already here.
I’ve started keeping Dōgen close again — not as something to “study,” but as a quiet companion for the days when I lose sight of the point of it all.
He reminds me that awakening isn’t a finish line. It’s this moment, and the next. The breath, the pause between words, the willingness to begin again.
Some days I move through the world with purpose and ease. Other days, it feels like walking through fog.
But maybe that’s what traceless enlightenment looks like — simply continuing, without needing to call it progress.
So I bow to Dōgen, to the teachers and texts that keep pointing me back to what I already know but keep forgetting:
that the Way is not somewhere else, or something to earn.
It’s right here, quietly unfolding, even when I can’t see it.
