Rituals in Zen often wear two hats at once: they’re carefully choreographed forms—bowing, chanting, tea ceremony—that guide attention, yet they point directly toward emptiness, that boundless openness where thought and form dissolve. Think of a carefully arranged Ikebana bouquet: each branch placed with intention, yet the empty space around it defines its beauty just as much as the blossoms themselves.

Rather than treating ceremony as a rigid script, Zen sees it as a living gateway. In a recent virtual sesshin hosted by a Kyoto monastery, practitioners bowed before the screen just as deeply as they would in the zendo, discovering that the act wasn’t about perfect posture but about dropping into the present moment. In that space, form and emptiness aren’t adversaries but two sides of the same coin.

When emptiness is understood not as a void but as ungraspable potential, rituals become skillful means—like a parachute that isn’t the sky but lets one land there softly. Chanting sutras can feel like reciting an old password, unlocking the mind’s locked filing cabinets, revealing the open field behind. Washing the rice bowl at dawn isn’t about spotless porcelain; it’s a front-row seat to impermanence and interconnectedness.

Overthinking ceremonies risks turning them into hollow customs—flogging a dead horse, so to speak. On the flip side, dismissing all form as mere clutter throws the baby out with the bathwater. Zen keeps both feet planted firmly: gestures become the body’s language for emptiness, and emptiness gives life to every gesture.

Amid today’s whirlwind—global livestream retreats, climate angst, social media scrolls—the dance between form and emptiness offers a timeless compass. Ritual offers structure; emptiness offers freedom. Together, they weave a path that doesn’t demand belief, only full-hearted participation.