Koans in Chan practice act less like brain teasers and more like a breath of fresh air for the mind. Rather than offering neat answers, they’re handed to practitioners as paradoxical stories or questions—“What was your original face before your parents were born?”—designed to knock habitual thinking off its rails. In seated meditation, a student might focus on a single koan, letting it simmer beneath the surface of awareness. As thoughts rise and fall, the koan becomes a kind of lodestar, pointing the mind toward direct experience instead of conceptual chatter.

In a typical Chan monastery, a teacher assigns a koan to a student based on individual temperament and readiness. Daily practice isn’t about logging hours or checking off a list; it’s about punctuating each breath with the koan’s tension. During one-to-one interviews—known as “face-to-face” or “sanzen”—the student presents a response, which isn’t judged on logic or correctness but on the vitality of the encounter. A sudden shout, a dramatic bow, or even a moment of stunned silence can signal genuine breakthrough.

This back-and-forth pushes beyond intellectual understanding into what the Chinese call “kenshō,” a glimpse of one’s true nature. Over time, koan work strips away layers of self-centered thinking. It’s no surprise that organizations craving mindfulness are borrowing the idea: some meditation apps now feature bite-sized “insight prompts” echoing the koan tradition.

Recent retreats in Hangzhou and online intensives hosted by the Tien-tai and Linji lineages have drawn newcomers intrigued by this old-new method. The charm lies in its simplicity: a single question, held in the gaze of a calm mind, can flip the whole picture upside down. Through patient sitting, guided interviews, and a willingness to let go of “right” answers, koans become living tools—teaching not by filling in blanks, but by lighting up the space where words fall silent.