By Ven. Kanji Argetsinger
October 22, 2023
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Good morning. My name is Kanji Argetsinger, and this is a Coming to the Path talk.
Most of this talk was originally put together about 13 years ago when I was training with my teacher, Amala-Roshi, in Auckland, New Zealand. I was asked then to reflect on the causes and conditions that led me to the Rochester Zen Center—a path that, for many of us, is unexpected.
I'm going to revisit much of that original material today. But I’ll also touch briefly on what happened after I first arrived, because staying on the path has turned out to be just as, if not more, challenging and remarkable than coming to it.
I'm 68 years old now. I first arrived at the Zen Center at age 45. So, there's a lot of life both before and after that moment. It’s been difficult to know which parts to choose to share today.
Family Roots: Two Fannies and Two Samuels
Let’s jump back—before my birth—to one of my favorite family stories.
On the Jewish side of my family, my grandmother and great-aunt grew up in a shtetl in what was then called Russia (likely Ukraine today). Their names were Fayga and Finkel Steinberg. Despite how it might sound to modern ears, "Fayga" means "little bird" and "Finkel" means "little star" in Yiddish—beautiful names.
They were extremely poor. Their parents arranged marriages to men who had already emigrated to America, hoping for better lives. When they arrived at Ellis Island, immigration officers changed their names—both were renamed Fannie Steinberg.
Both sisters married men named Isaac, and both named their first sons Samuel: my father, Samuel Waldfogel, and his cousin, Samuel Kaplan. Later, both Samuels became professors—one in psychology, one in mathematics—and both married non-Jewish women, a sign of how quickly assimilation can happen in America.
A funny moment: Sam Kaplan’s son, David, was ethnically Korean (adopted). In elementary school, while learning about the Mayflower, David—the Korean boy—was the only one in his class to raise his hand when asked whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower.
Growing Up in a Religious Patchwork
This story captures something quintessential about America—and about my early religious environment.
My father grew up Orthodox Jewish; my mother came from a tightly-knit Icelandic Lutheran community in Winnipeg. Both carried centuries-old traditions... but in America, everything was up for grabs. Most of my peers didn’t stick to their parents' faiths either.
I was raised in the Unitarian Church, a common choice for “mixed marriages” between Jews and non-Jews. Unitarians were ethical, socially aware, and deeply committed to justice, but I always knew I was also Jewish.
In public school, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance, the 23rd Psalm, and the Lord’s Prayer daily. Catholic kids stopped at “deliver us from evil”; Protestants said the whole prayer; Jewish kids skipped the Lord’s Prayer altogether. Early on, I knew religion wasn't “one-size-fits-all."
At the Unitarian Church, there was a program called The Church Across the Street, where we visited synagogues, churches, and temples. It sparked an early interest in exploring faiths outside my own.
At home, though, my parents were more "post-religious." Their true faith was psychology. They were left-wing intellectuals—Jewish socialists and Freudians. Behaviorism, to them, was the Antichrist.
A Life Changed by Death
When I was five, my father died of colon cancer. I remember the scratchiness of his tweed jacket, his voice, his smell—but few shared activities. His death wasn’t explained clearly to me at the time; children weren’t allowed on hospital wards. I still vividly recall our awkward, formal last meeting in a hospital lobby.
Losing him marked me profoundly. I felt like I carried a secret—knowledge of death—that other kids didn’t yet have.
Later, when President Kennedy was assassinated, it hit me like losing a father again. So many events of the 1960s mirrored my personal losses: war, violence, social upheaval.
At around ten years old, my mother showed a graphic anti-war film at our church. Images of napalmed children haunted me. It shattered my naive belief that America was inherently good.
Teenage Rebellion and Spiritual Restlessness
As a teenager, I lived near Harvard Square, selling alternative newspapers and soaking in the counterculture. I was drawn to the street kids, Hare Krishnas, and new religions appearing everywhere.
At 12, I rebelled against the Unitarians, declaring, "They don’t even believe in anything!" But I didn’t run away physically—I ran inwardly.
At 15, I stumbled into the medieval galleries at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Surrounded by crucifixes and Madonna paintings glowing with gold leaf, I was enchanted. This sparked a secret lifelong flirtation with Catholicism.
Journey Across America
After high school, I bought a $99 Greyhound bus pass and spent three months crisscrossing the U.S., often traveling alone.
In Santa Fe, I bought my first rosary. I prayed novenas with great earnestness until I realized: I didn't have the wisdom to know what to ask for. Some prayers were answered in ways I regretted.
I began to understand that prayer wasn’t about getting what you want. It was about transformation.
Marriage and New Encounters with Faith
At 24, unexpectedly, I married. My husband had once lived with the Trappist monks, briefly studied with the Carthusians, and deeply loved Gregorian chant. Though we both rejected the institutions of Catholicism, we loved its music and ritual. Our Easter traditions involved chanting together at home instead of going to church.
During graduate school at Princeton, I joined the chapel choir and traveled to Asia, including a transformative three-day stay at Ryoan-ji Zen temple in Kyoto.
At Ryoan-ji, one altar held only a rope tied in a special knot. When asked what it symbolized, the Sensei replied, “Nothing.” The Japanese students burst into laughter. I didn’t get it then—but it would come back to me years later when I began working with Mu.
Spiritual Choices and Delays
An old friend who became Hasidic once told me, "All religions may lead up the same mountain. But if you don't get on a path, you won't get there." That stuck with me, though at the time, I wasn't ready to choose.
Motherhood, financial struggles, and academic life kept me grounded in the material world. It wasn’t until the year 2000—when I seemingly had everything I thought I wanted—that I realized how deeply dissatisfied I still was.
One sleepless night, looking out over Mount Hope Cemetery, I finally admitted: The most important thing in life is spiritual practice.
Finding the Zen Center
Not long after, I called the Rochester Zen Center. My daughter had expressed interest in Buddhism, and—almost magically—a youth group was just starting.
I met Amala-Roshi, who was then leading the youth group, and instantly felt a connection.
When the student is ready, the teacher appears.
Staying on the Path
The years that followed were not easy.
I asked to ordain as a priest but had to step back after facing overwhelming logistical and spiritual obstacles. Yet even in that withdrawal, I found new ways to deepen practice: calm-abiding meditation (shamatha), Centering Prayer (Christian contemplation), and more.
Each supplemental practice taught me crucial lessons:
Shamatha: Calming rather than striving.
Centering Prayer: Surrender rather than control.
I still believe all paths lead up the same mountain. But we must find the right path for ourselves—and sometimes that means wandering a little.
Because ultimately, there is no path: we're already home.
Closing Reflection
(From Dogen):
"Treading along in this dreamlike, illusory realm,
Without looking for the traces I may have left,
A cuckoo's song beckons me to return home.
Hearing this, I tilt my head to see who has called me—
But do not ask me where I am going.
As I travel in this limitless world, every step I take is my home."
