David Christopher Lane, Ph.D, is a Professor of Philosophy at Mt. San Antonio College and Founder of the MSAC Philosophy Group. He is the author of several books, including The Sound Current Tradition (Cambridge University Press, 2022) and the graphic novel, The Cult of the Seven Sages, translated into Tamil (Kannadhasan Pathippagam, 2024). His website is neuralsurfer.com
A Carbonated Koan, A Zen Journey in a Cup, The Second "Perfect Coke," Updated
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I realize that Coca-Cola is not everyone's cup of tea—and yes, I'm aware that opening with a beverage pun is the rhetorical equivalent of slipping on a banana peel in front of Sam Harris. But unlike Harris, who would meditate the moment into detached observation, I say: let the fizz fly.
Despite its sugar content and the mild suspicion it might clean rust better than it quenches thirst, Coke is my all-time favorite drink. Not because I'm a brand loyalist, but because, somewhere in the carbonated chaos of cola, there's an emotional vortex I keep falling into. I even wrote a piece about this devotion, which was published on Integral World—so you know it's serious. Or at least, earnestly strange.
Anyway, let me tell you a tale I've retold so many times that I suspect some students now suffer flashbacks every time they see a red can. I call it The Day of the Perfect Coke, and it happened on August 20, 1971, at a now-extinct discount chain called Fedco, which was sort of like Costco's weird uncle who sold stereo equipment and pantsuits.
My brother Joseph and I were there, not looking for a religious experience—but we found one in a bottle. That Coke was cold, crisp, transcendent. Like it had been blessed by carbonation monks. We told everyone. I told my students—literally thousands of them. I'm sure at least a few now associate “metaphysical awakening” with vending machines.
The legend grew so large that, a decade later, at Chaminade College Preparatory, we hosted an international Coke contest. Students brought bottles from Asia, Europe, and those exotic hinterlands like New Jersey. I predicted San Diego's Coke would win, because, obviously, the water down there must be filtered by dolphins or something. And yes, it won. Take that, Paris.
Now here's where the tale gets legs—long, caffeinated legs.
Years later, my brother Joseph went to Sea World with his kids, preparing to fork over the GDP of a small nation for admission, when the ticket clerk paused, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Wait... did your brother teach high school and tell some crazy story about the Perfect Coke?”
Joseph, puffing on a cigarette with the kind of cool that only comes from knowing you've lived a moment of truth others doubt, replied, “Yes. August 20, 1971. Fedco. Van Nuys.”
The girl gasped, dropped the ticket scanner, and said, “Well, I'll be damned.” She then handed over free passes for the whole family. That's right—truth and Coke set you free.
So yes, the Perfect Coke exists. Not just in taste, but in its metaphysical power to save you a hundred bucks and humble a skeptical teenager at Sea World.
But of course, the story isn't really about Coke. It's about noticing how something completely ordinary—like a fizzy soda or a dusty memory—can open the trapdoor to the miraculous. The infinite. The unexpected.
Or, to quote Ramana Maharshi through my highly unauthorized paraphrasing: “Enlightenment already happened, we just haven't noticed because we were looking for it in a kale salad instead of aisle 7 at Fedco.”
1. Prelude: Fifty-Four Years Later
It was nearly dusk, the sky outside tinted with faint oranges and blues, when I realized that half a century had passed since I first tasted what I—and my beloved older brother Joseph—had come to describe as the Perfect Coke. Our father's old grandmother clock in the living room chimed softly, echoing through the narrow hallways of our home. My wife, Andrea, had fallen asleep on the couch, a thick volume of early Jain history resting on her lap, and my son Shaun was upstairs, engrossed in some digital universe on his laptop. I was seated at the dining room table, idly thumbing through an album of photographs from my younger days: pictures of my mother, father, siblings, and old surf buddies from the Valley, images of my time in college, and the occasional shot of me near Mussoorie in the foothills of the Himalayas, where I had ventured to study Hindi decades ago.
But then I came across that particular photograph: my brother Joseph and me, arms slung around each other, both wearing wide, beaming grins. The photo captured us just moments after we had found the Coke that would define, in our teenage minds, the pinnacle of flavor and transcendence. Fedco in Van Nuys, August 20, 1971. A date seared into my memory like an invisible brand. A day that—however mundane it might seem to others—had marked a point of mystical revelation for us. A hierophany in the guise of a soft drink.
Joseph had passed away only four years ago. With his departure, a profound sense of finality came over me regarding so many of the shared experiences that had bonded us. Or so I thought. Lately, I had started to wonder if that Perfect Coke was a once-in-a-lifetime event—a fleeting alignment of carbonation, sweetness, burn, temperature, and time. And although I had mostly resigned myself to the memory of that luminous, zinging sensation on the tongue, something in my heart suspected that life can still surprise us.
Ever since Joseph's passing, I had felt a subtle nudge to travel more like I used to in my younger more adventurous days. That call led to many discussions with Andrea about traveling, about bridging the chapters of my life so that everything felt connected—past, present, future. And so it it came as a pleasant surprised to learn about an A.I. Conference being held at the University of Fukui in Japan, a country whose Zen tradition had long fascinated me. We decided that before the conference we would visit Daihonzan Eiheiji, a temple deeply associated with the Soto Zen school, and a place well known for its tranquil setting, austere practice, and deep spiritual heritage. Andrea was excited to see the famed wooden halls and taste monastic cuisine, Shaun was eager to go back to Japan yet again (it is his favorite country) and practice some Japanese he'd picked up at college and from his many friends he knew, and I—somewhat more quietly—carried with me a sense of possible renewal, after a struggling with some health issues that had taken me away—temporarily—from my surf and meditative lifestyle.
If, at that moment, someone had told me I might find another Perfect Coke in some hidden corner of the world, I would have chuckled politely. But in the back of my mind, I remained open, in that Zen sense, to the unpredictability of life's grand tapestry. And so, with a carefully packed suitcase and an open heart, I boarded a plane with my wife and son, not knowing that our little journey would unexpectedly align us with the memory of Fedco from over half a century ago.
2. The Journey Begins
We arrived at Narita Airport on a bright morning. Even though it was early spring, a crispness to the air still lingered. We collected our luggage, made our way through customs, and hopped on a train bound for Tokyo Station. The city, sprawling and modern, rose around us in gleaming arcs of metal and glass. Towering skyscrapers, neon signs, and the hustle of thousands of people were a stark reminder that Japan seamlessly melds ancient traditions with cutting-edge modernity.
Shaun led the way, consulting the itinerary we had painstakingly researched together. Andrea, wearing a small backpack and a big smile, trailed close behind, occasionally reminding us that we needed to find a vegan restaurant along the way.
From Tokyo Station, we boarded the Hokuriku Shinkansen, known for its speed and comfort. Even inside the train, there was an atmosphere of respectful quiet; the hum of conversation was subdued, the interior impeccably clean. I found myself gazing through the window at the passing fields, rivers, and distant hills, remembering a time in my youth when travel seemed more complicated, slower, and less predictable. Now, everything was streamlined and efficient, but the sense of wonder was still there. Perhaps it was just me—my heart alive to the strangeness and beauty of being in a foreign land, though not so foreign as one might suspect.
Our destination for the day was Fukui City, from which we would travel to Eiheiji. As we disembarked and found a taxi, my mind drifted to my initial lessons in Zen at the age of 12—reading the works of D.T. Suzuki, Shunryu Suzuki, and Alan Watts. I recalled the countless times I'd engaged in half-hearted attempts at zazen, my legs falling asleep in that half-lotus position, while my thoughts continued to swirl. But after my initiation with Charan Singh in the practice of shabd yoga, I had grown to love and even relish long hours of meditation daily, even if I retained a highly skeptical mind how best to interpret mystical experiences.
3. Fukui Province and the Road to Eiheiji
Fukui Prefecture, located in the Chubu region along the Sea of Japan coast, often does not get the same tourist attention as Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka, but it is a region of subtle charms. The taxi ride from Fukui Station to the small town near Eiheiji took about half an hour. We were greeted with a landscape of gentle mountains, swathes of cedar forests, and valleys dotted with rice paddies. The air felt crisp, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth.
Despite the rural ambiance, signage occasionally reminded us that Eiheiji was not just another old temple. It was a place revered in Zen Buddhism. We'd see discreet signboards in Japanese and English: “Eiheiji Temple: 4 km,” and so on. As we neared, the roads became narrower, winding through tall cedar trees that seemed to whisper secrets of antiquity. The taxi finally pulled up to a modest inn where we planned to spend the night before fully immersing ourselves in the temple the next morning.
The inn—a traditional ryokan—featured sliding doors, tatami mats, and a small rock garden in the inner courtyard. We were shown to our rooms by an older woman dressed in a pale blue kimono, who welcomed us graciously and offered cups of hot green tea. This customary ritual set the tone for everything that followed: calm, deliberate, mindful gestures.
After we settled in, I walked out to the hallway that faced a small garden. There was a meticulously pruned pine tree in the center, surrounded by white pebbles and a few shrubs that sprouted bright green leaves. A sense of peace washed over me. Andrea joined me shortly, placing her hand on mine.
A fresh wave of gratitude flooded me as I looked at my son—now a grown man, yet still enthusiastic, still hopeful. Where had the time gone?
That evening we dined at the inn, a small meal of rice, steamed vegetables, miso soup, and pickled radish. It was simple yet delicious, carefully prepared and thoughtfully served. As we ate, we spoke quietly about the day ahead, the temple's schedule, and how excited—and a bit nervous—we were to experience a real Zen monastery. Andrea, as a historian, was brimming with anticipation to see centuries-old architecture. Shaun wanted to practice his Japanese with the monks. I simply wanted to experience the intangible presence of a sacred space—something I have enjoyed for decades in various places around the world, particularly in India.
After dinner, we retired early. Tomorrow's dawn would mark a new page in our lives, though none of us could have guessed just how profound that page would be.
4. A Brief History of Eiheiji
The next morning, after a light breakfast, we headed to Eiheiji Temple. On the ride there, I read aloud from a small guidebook I had picked up months before in preparation:
“Eiheiji, literally translated as 'Temple of Eternal Peace,' was founded by Dogen Zenji in 1244. Dogen was a pivotal figure in bringing the Soto school of Zen from China to Japan. Disillusioned with some of the practices he witnessed in Japanese Buddhism, he traveled to China, studied Ch'an (Zen) at several monasteries, and eventually found what he believed to be the true teaching of Buddhism. Upon his return to Japan, he established Eiheiji as a place where monastics could engage in rigorous training, focusing on the practice of shikantaza—just sitting.”
My audience, Andrea and Shaun, listened intently, occasionally asking questions. I continued: “Dogen taught that enlightenment is not something to be achieved in the future, but something to be expressed and actualized in each moment of sitting, standing, walking, breathing. The temple has survived through centuries of political upheaval, natural disasters, and social changes. Today, it remains one of the two head temples of Soto Zen in Japan, hosting hundreds of monks dedicated to daily zazen practice.”
We rounded a bend in the road, and there it was: nestled against the tall cedars, Eiheiji's imposing main gate, known as the Sanmon. The moment I saw it, my pulse quickened. In that single wooden gate, centuries of history seemed to converge. The air itself felt denser, charged with the weight of spiritual aspiration from countless practitioners across the ages.
Before we approached, Shaun helped me decipher a sign that requested visitors to maintain decorum, keep silence as much as possible, and respect the monks' daily routine. The sign also mentioned that lay visitors were welcome to observe certain areas of the temple, attend short Zen meditation sessions, and even stay overnight for a more immersive experience, though in designated facilities separate from the main monastic quarters.
5. Entering the Temple Grounds
Stepping through Eiheiji's outer gate felt like entering another dimension—an oasis of calm surrounded by the hush of towering trees and meticulously raked gravel pathways. The architecture combined elegant simplicity with austere grandeur: dark wooden corridors, sloping roofs layered in the style that had been used for centuries, and stone steps that had been worn smooth by countless generations of sandaled feet.
Monks clad in black robes moved around quietly. Some were novices; others, distinguished seniors with shaved heads revealing wrinkles and the dignity of age. In the distance, the rhythmic beat of a wooden block—han—signaled an upcoming period of zazen. We could hear the soft murmur of chanting weaving its way through the corridors, every syllable resonating with intangible depth.
To maintain the temple's quiet atmosphere, we spoke in hushed tones, occasionally pausing to read signboards or admire carved wood. Andrea, with her passion for architecture, pointed out the intricacies of the wooden pillars, each of which had been shaped and fitted centuries ago without modern tools. She explained that in traditional Japanese joinery, skilled carpenters use interlocking joints instead of nails, creating structures both elegant and strong.
Shaun, on the other hand, was fascinated by the calligraphy and small statues. We'd step past a nook in the hallway, and he'd see a little alcove with a small bronze statue of Kannon (the Bodhisattva of Compassion) or Jizo (protector of travelers and children). Sometimes these statues bore fresh flowers or incense sticks left by devotees. When Shaun read a plaque, he attempted to translate it for me, haltingly pronouncing the Japanese script, though I'd notice a smile crease the corners of his mouth—he was proud to use his linguistic skills.
We eventually found ourselves at a designated visitor area. A young monk with kind eyes greeted us in both Japanese and English, asking if we wished to attend the brief orientation and zazen practice offered for lay visitors. Andrea and Shaun exchanged glances; I answered with an enthusiastic yes.
6. Zen Daily Life and Practices
Before leading us to the zazen hall, the young monk gave us an overview of daily life at Eiheiji, so we would understand the context in which this practice occurs. I found myself listening with rapt attention, recalling how in my youth I had read about these routines, but never witnessed them up close.
“Our day begins at around three-thirty in the morning,” the monk explained softly, “with the striking of the han—three times to bring the mind into focus before chanting. By four a.m., we assemble for morning zazen in the main hall. Then we do a sutra chanting service, followed by a simple breakfast. After breakfast, we engage in samu—work practice—where each monk contributes to cleaning, cooking, gardening, or repairing the temple. Midday there is another zazen period, lunch, more samu, study of sutras and Zen teachings, and then an evening service followed by more zazen. We retire early to be ready for the next day's schedule.”
The thoroughness of the routine humbled me. It was a stark contrast to the way most people in modern life bounce from one distraction to another. Here, even the act of cleaning the floor or washing rice was a practice in mindfulness, a direct extension of Zen teaching.
Below are some details of the monk's explanation that especially stuck with me:
6.1 Early Morning Gong
At 3:30 a.m., the temple resonates with the sound of a wooden drum or han, struck in a precise rhythm meant to awaken the monks from sleep and awaken the mind from mental slumber. The deep pitch echoed in the corridors, signifying a cosmic call, reminding them—and any visitor who might be sleeping in an adjacent dorm—of the seriousness of this path.
6.2 Chanting and Zazen
By 4:00 a.m., monks are seated in rows in the soaring main hall. Incense drifts through the hushed space. They begin chanting sutras in a deep, methodical cadence. The vibrations of their collective voices seem to shake the very rafters. Then they transition to zazen—sitting meditation. In Soto Zen, this is often referred to as shikantaza, meaning “just sitting.” The aim is not to concentrate on a koan, or to visualize, but to simply let the mind rest in awareness, remaining vigilant and awake to the present moment.
6.3 Samu: The Practice of Work
After breakfast, the monks engage in manual labor—sweeping corridors, tending vegetable gardens, chopping firewood, or preparing the day's meals. Each task is undertaken with the same mindful attention they apply to meditation. Dogen taught that all aspects of daily life are an expression of enlightenment, so one's attitude while scrubbing a pot can be as significant as one's posture on the meditation cushion.
6.4 Meals and Ritual Cleanliness
Meals at Eiheiji follow the oryoki tradition, a formal monastic way of eating using nested bowls. Monks eat in silence, carefully receiving each morsel of rice, tofu, or soup with gratitude. The leftover water used to rinse their bowls is also sipped, ensuring no waste. This ritual cleanliness extends to their living areas and the entire temple complex—everything is kept orderly and uncluttered.
6.5 Evening Sutras and Closing the Day
As the sun sets behind the cedar forests, the monks reconvene for evening chanting and meditation, concluding around nine or ten p.m. Lights go out soon after, giving them only a few hours to rest before the next day's cycle begins anew.
Listening to all this, I felt a mixture of awe and curiosity. Could I, at my age, keep up with such a rigorous schedule, even for a day or two? Probably not, but the mere existence of such a lifestyle in our fast-paced modern world felt like a rare treasure—an anchor of presence, discipline, and devotion.
7. The Gardens and the Waterfall
Before we participated in the visitor zazen session, we decided to stroll through Eiheiji's renowned gardens. Small streams meandered between moss-covered stones. In certain areas, delicate maple trees arched over the water, their leaves a fresh green in early spring. Subtle footpaths crisscrossed the temple complex, lined with lanterns and intricate wooden bridges. Occasionally, we'd see a monk walking quietly, head slightly bowed, perhaps murmuring a mantra or lost in silent recollection.
At the northwest corner of the property, we discovered a modest but enchanting waterfall—a cascade of fresh mountain water that tumbled over smooth rocks, feeding into a small pond. The sound of flowing water blended seamlessly with the hush of the forest. It was as if nature itself was in silent prayer. We paused there, letting the gentle roar of the water calm our minds and prime us for meditation.
Andrea and Shaun both remarked on how the entire environment felt meticulously shaped by human hands, yet wholly respectful of the natural landscape. This was the essence of Zen landscaping: to guide nature into an art form without destroying its innate beauty.
Eventually, we made our way back to the visitors' hall for the short zazen instruction. A senior monk with a calm demeanor showed us the basics of posture—legs crossed if possible, back straight, hands forming a cosmic mudra, eyes half-open to maintain alertness. Then we settled onto cushions placed on the tatami floor. The monk struck a small bell, and we began.
For twenty minutes, I felt the swirl of thoughts—a mixture of excitement, memories, random worries. But in those final minutes, my mind quieted, as if lulled by the silence of the temple grounds. My breath deepened, and in that vast stillness, I recalled fleetingly the taste of that Perfect Coke so many decades ago. I almost smiled at the randomness of it. Why that memory now? Then I let it go, returning to the sensation of breath.
8. A Chance Discovery: The Vegan Eatery
After the zazen session, we parted ways with the group of visitors. Some had come just for the day; others planned to stay overnight within the temple's guest quarters. We, however, had other arrangements, having decided to remain at our little ryokan for another night or two. But first, we wanted to explore the surroundings outside the temple. According to a brochure I'd glanced at, the outskirts of Eiheiji had a handful of small eateries catering to visitors—some offering shojin ryori (traditional Zen vegetarian cuisine), others a more modern spin on local dishes.
We walked along a narrow road that wound around the perimeter of the temple grounds, lined with cypress and cedar trees. The late morning sun now peeked through the canopy, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow on the mossy ground. We passed a few souvenir shops offering prayer beads, incense, calligraphy brushes, and postcards featuring Eiheiji's iconic gate.
After a bend, we noticed a modest wooden sign advertising vegan soba, rice bowls, and tofu-based dishes. Intrigued, we decided to stop for lunch. The exterior of the eatery was humble—a sliding door with a simple cloth banner. Inside, a handful of tables were arranged near large windows overlooking a small Zen-style garden with carefully raked gravel. An older couple was seated at one table, quietly sipping tea. At another, two younger tourists with large backpacks were whispering in French. We took a seat at a low wooden table near the window, charmed by the miniature garden's serenity.
A petite Japanese woman with a warm smile approached us. She wore a simple apron and spoke in a gentle voice, welcoming us in Japanese. Shaun responded politely in Japanese, which earned him a grateful nod. She handed us menus that featured soba noodles in a clear, fragrant broth, accompanied by tofu tempura, rice bowls with seasonal vegetables, and a selection of small side dishes. Everything was vegan, apparently in the spirit of shojin ryori.
Andrea and I agreed to share a soba dish and a small tray of tofu-based appetizers. Shaun, with his typical youthful appetite, ordered two different soba variations—one in a light soup, the other topped with grated yam and green onions. As we waited, we observed the d�cor: calligraphy scrolls on the walls, a few potted plants, and a subtle fragrance of dashi-free broth and freshly boiled noodles.
Little did we suspect that our quiet lunch would soon turn into an extraordinary rendezvous with the past.
9. The Unexpected Reunion
We had just begun to dig into our first bites of soba when the door slid open, and in stepped a robed figure—shaven head, lined face, a presence that seemed both grounded and ethereal. At first, I took him for one of Eiheiji's senior monks. But as he moved, I noticed a certain familiar aura. Perhaps it was the way his eyes took in the scene, scanning not just surfaces but the subtle currents beneath them. He was tall for a Japanese man, his posture fluid yet upright.
Andrea glanced at me, noticing my sudden pause with chopsticks mid-air. Shaun, too, looked up, curiosity lighting his face. The monk nodded politely to the petite server, exchanged a few words in Japanese, then turned to look around at the small group of diners. His gaze moved from the French backpackers, slid across the older couple, then landed, almost magnetically, on us.
A moment of stillness passed as our eyes locked. His expression flickered with something akin to recognition. He took a step forward, then another, approaching our table with cautious reverence. I stood—somehow compelled—my heart beating a bit faster. He bowed, and I returned the gesture.
“I…remember you,” he said in softly accented English, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Could it be…David Lane?”
My breath caught in my throat. This was unexpected. My mind whirled, searching for where and when in the labyrinth of my memory I had encountered this man. The foothills of the Himalayas? Mussoorie? I recalled enchanting road to the Landour school, lined with pines, the crisp mountain air. Yes, there had been many travelers then—Indian families from the plains escaping the summer heat, foreigners like me studying Hindi or trekking further north. A faint recollection began to emerge.
“Mussoorie,” he continued, as if reading my uncertain gaze. “I was just a child. My family was visiting from Kyoto. We stayed in a small lodge in the hills. You were studying Hindi, yes?”
My eyes widened. The memory sharpened: a short conversation outside a modest tea shop, with a Japanese family—mother, father, and a shy boy who stared at me with a mixture of fascination and curiosity. I had tried to speak a few words of Japanese I knew from my random language dabblings, mostly gleaned from an old phrasebook. The father was excited to meet an American who was studying Hindi in India. They graciously invited me to tea, and for an hour or two, I was folded into their family's warmth. The boy at that time was perhaps twelve or thirteen. It was a fleeting meeting, but one that now came rushing back as if the intervening decades had vanished.
“You…you remember!” I managed to say, stunned. “Yes, yes, of course. That small tea shop near the slope leading to Gun Hill. My goodness, that was so many years ago. I'm—well, I'm amazed!”
A soft chuckle came from him. “I am called Shinryu now, my monastic name. My path led me to become a Soto Zen monk. I have been at Eiheiji for many years. But your face…I remembered it because you were so kind to us. You told my mother about your love for languages, and we talked about…Coca Cola.” He grinned, eyes shining with the recollection. “You said it was your favorite drink, yes?”
I smiled, feeling my cheeks warm. “I must have. At that age, I told everyone about my love of Coke.”
Andrea, witnessing this exchange, gently placed her hand on my arm. “This is incredible,” she whispered. Shaun looked delighted, his eyes darting between Shinryu and me.
Shinryu turned to Andrea and Shaun, bowing slightly. I introduced them both. “My wife, Andrea, and our son, Shaun.” The monk returned the greeting in a tranquil manner, then motioned to the server that he'd like to speak with her. They exchanged a few quick words in Japanese, the woman nodding respectfully at everything he said. I caught only fragments. Shaun, however, listened with rapt attention.
As Shinryu spoke, the server's expression became one of awe, almost a joyous reverence. She bowed repeatedly. Shaun raised an eyebrow, apparently intrigued by something the monk said.
When Shinryu returned his attention to us, a playful yet mysterious twinkle danced in his eyes. “Please, continue your meal. You must be hungry. But I had to come greet you. Your presence here is a blessing, and it brings back so many memories of my youth.” He paused, glancing at the bowl of soba. “However,” he added, “I think one more thing is required for your meal.”
That remark hung in the air with a peculiar weight, and I couldn't help but wonder what he meant.
10. The Monk's Cryptic Instruction
Shinryu glided toward the petite server again. He bent close, whispered something further in Japanese. She nodded, face serious, then excused herself and disappeared into a back room.
Curiosity gnawed at me, but I sensed that it would be impolite to pry. The other diners barely took notice, continuing their quiet conversations or focusing on their meals. Andrea resumed nibbling on soba, eyebrows furrowed as though she, too, wondered what Shinryu was orchestrating. Shaun leaned toward me.
“Papa, he mentioned something about 'the special glass' and 'sacred refreshment.' It's all a bit flowery, but from what I caught, it seems he wants to bring us a particular drink.”
A particular drink… I felt my heart skip a beat. Could it be? The thought flitted in and out of my mind so quickly I almost dismissed it. I reasoned that perhaps the monk had a special tea or some local brew in mind. After all, this was Eiheiji, not some convenience store. The notion of having a Coke here, in such a sacred setting, seemed wildly incongruous. And yet, this was exactly the kind of paradox Zen was known for—koans and unexpected gestures that snap you out of routine.
Shinryu returned to our table, taking a seat uninvited, though we were more than pleased he did. “Please forgive my interruption to your meal,” he said softly. “But your presence… I feel it is no accident that we meet here. It is also no accident that we once met in the Himalayas.”
I felt a surge of emotion. Joseph popped into my mind, an echo of that day at Fedco in Van Nuys. My eyes watered, though I blinked quickly to maintain composure. “I'm honored by your words,” I managed to say.
“Do you remember,” he continued, “that day in Mussoorie, you offered me a sip of Coke from a tin can you had carried up the mountain? I found the taste shocking—too fizzy, too sweet at first. But you said there was something transcendent about the burn. I never forgot that.”
I laughed gently, shaking my head in amazement. “Yes, that sounds like me, preaching the wonders of carbonation to a wide-eyed kid.”
Shinryu leaned forward slightly. “Zen teaches that every mundane object has the potential to open a door to the infinite, if only we know how to look. That day, you showed me that a simple soda could be an invitation to wonder. Now, as a monk, I have seen that wonders come in all shapes and forms—an incense stick, a raindrop, a single moment of breath. Today, I want to repay your kindness with a small offering.”
An offering indeed. Andrea gave me a curious glance. Shaun was practically on the edge of his seat.
At that moment, the petite server re-entered, carefully balancing a tray holding three tall glasses. In each glass was a deep, dark liquid crowned with swirling bubbles. My entire being seemed to vibrate with recognition: it was a Coca Cola. The glasses, however, were unusual—delicate crystal, etched with subtle patterns resembling lotus petals. My jaw slackened. A hush fell over the entire room, as if everyone suddenly sensed a shift in the air.
11. Three Cokes in Special Glasses
The server placed a glass in front of Andrea, one before Shaun, and finally one before me. The glasses looked almost too beautiful to touch. The dark cola inside was shimmering with effervescence, tiny bubbles dancing upward in a mesmerizing ballet. I could faintly smell the caramel sweetness. For an instant, I glanced back at Shinryu. He was smiling—not in a smug or self-satisfied way, but in a warm, inviting manner, as though he was merely a conduit for something greater.
Shaun, who had been so intrigued by Shinryu's instructions in Japanese, lifted his glass first. He peered through it, the sunlight from the window refracting off the crystal and creating a small rainbow on the table. He tilted it to his lips, took a cautious sip. Then he set the glass down, eyes wide, mouth slowly curling into a grin. “Papa,” he whispered, “this is…honestly remarkable. It's like I've never tasted Coke before.”
Andrea followed. She sipped, eyes closing briefly. When she opened them, there was an undeniable sparkle there—a quiet delight. “David,” she murmured, “I see what Shaun means. This is… it's different.”
My heart was hammering in my chest. My mind raced back to August 20, 1971, inside that Fedco store, my brother Joseph by my side. I remembered the white cup with green lines, the crystal clarity of the ice cubes, the perfect burn that had reduced us both to tears. Could it really be happening again? After half a century?
With trembling fingers, I lifted the etched glass. Even before sipping, the aroma hit me: sweet, subtle, with that distinctive hint of spices—cinnamon, nutmeg? The carbonation pressed lightly against my nostrils. I tilted the glass and let the cola roll over my tongue. A wave of memory surged through me, so potent that tears sprang instantly to my eyes. It was as if time itself had buckled under the weight of that single sip, bending me back five decades to that ephemeral moment with my brother. The taste was… perfect.
12. A Luminous Satori
They say that in Zen, kensho or satori can strike at unexpected moments. Sometimes in the hush of meditation, sometimes during a mundane activity like chopping wood or carrying water. For me, it arrived in the swirl of carbonation on my tongue, triggered by the memory of my brother's tearful smile so long ago.
It started as warmth in my chest, then expanded outward. My surroundings—the table, the soba, the petite server, Shinryu's face, Andrea and Shaun—blurred for a second, as though I was looking at them through a shimmering veil. My mind went quiet, but not in a forced manner—rather, in a luminous hush that seemed to cradle all existence. A calm ecstasy pulsed through me, the kind of calm that is paradoxically more vibrant than any excitement. It felt as if every moment of my life, including Joseph's passing, found resolution in a single cosmic breath. The taste, the burn, the memory: they were all doorways to a realm beyond ordinary perception.
Tears slid down my cheeks. Aware but not self-conscious, I let them flow. I became dimly aware of Andrea placing a hand on my shoulder. I think she whispered my name, but the words felt distant. My eyes locked with Shinryu's. He was gazing at me with a serene smile, as though he recognized precisely what was happening. And in that unspoken exchange, I felt an odd gratitude—gratitude for the intangible bond that had led us both from opposite ends of the Earth to a chance meeting in the Himalayas, then to this temple, and finally to this moment of re-encounter.
I don't know how long I remained in that state. Perhaps a minute, perhaps longer. When it subsided, I gently lowered the glass, noticing that I had barely taken a single sip. The Coke still fizzed, shimmering like liquid amber in the etched crystal. My breath came in soft shudders as I tried to speak.
13. The Tears of Memory
Andrea gently dabbed at my tears with a napkin. “David, honey, are you alright?”
I nodded, my throat thick with emotion. I glanced at Shaun, who looked both concerned and awed, as though he had just witnessed a miracle. Or perhaps he had: a miracle so small—just a sip of cola—that it would be imperceptible to anyone unacquainted with the depth of memory it evoked.
Shinryu bowed his head slightly. “Sometimes,” he spoke softly, “the simplest things can be the catalyst for profound realization. Your brother must have been a special soul.”
I swallowed, forcing down the sob that threatened to erupt. “He was. Joseph and I were the best of friends since my very birth… we shared so many moments, from surfing to golf to croquet, and more….. all bound by our silly search for the perfect Coke. It was a game, but also something more. That day at Fedco… it was like a mystical experience, but we never could really explain why to anyone. It was too… precious. Too strange.”
A tender smile formed on Shinryu's lips. “In Zen, we often talk about the infinite potential residing in every grain of rice, every flower, every object. If you truly see a single drop of water, you may perceive the entire universe reflected within it. For you, that sip of Coca Cola was a gateway. It's not about the brand or the sugar; it's about the subtle interplay of taste, memory, and the ephemeral nature of existence.”
Shaun exhaled a trembling sigh. “I never really understood my Dad's story about the Perfect Coke. I mean, I knew it was a special memory with Uncle Joseph, but hearing you describe it as something almost mystical… I guess I never grasped the depth until now.”
Andrea nodded in agreement, rubbing my arm. “Yes, David, I always knew how dear that memory was to you, how you and Joseph connected over it. But seeing the look on your face… I'm beginning to appreciate the transcendent in everyday objects.”
I bowed my head, tears still threatening to spill, but I felt a calm joy stirring deep within. I was at peace. Even as sadness lingered at the edges—an echo of Joseph's absence—there was an undercurrent of acceptance, a sense that his spirit, or at least his memory, was alive in me.
14. Twenty Minutes of Transcendence
Over the next twenty minutes, I savored each sip of that Coke. I lingered on the burn at the back of my throat, the tingle of carbonation on the tip of my tongue, the caramel notes merging with the aftertaste of soba. Instead of chugging it in a wave of thirst, I treated it with reverence, as though it were a sacramental wine in a holy Mass. And each sip revealed a new nuance, reminding me how a shift in awareness can transform even the most familiar taste into a revelation.
Time felt suspended. I watched as the bubbles gradually dissipated, each burst an ephemeral world in microcosm. My mind roamed freely, unburdened. Images of my childhood—Friday nights with siblings around the TV, the smell of buttered popcorn, the tinny static of black-and-white cartoons—mingled with the hush of Eiheiji's halls and the watery lullaby of its nearby stream. In that elongated moment, the distinctions of decades collapsed, allowing me to dwell in a realm unbound by linear time.
Andrea and Shaun also drank slowly, exchanging smiles and glances. They recognized something special was unfolding, not just for me but for all of us. Later, Andrea would tell me she felt a certain hush, as if the temple's deep spirituality had seeped into that little eatery, turning an ordinary lunch break into a small but potent ceremony of remembrance and awakening.
When the last drop was gone, I gently set the empty glass on the table. My chest filled with a sense of completion, akin to how one feels after finishing a profound meditation. I looked around, noticing the world anew—more vivid, more real, yet somehow dreamlike in its perfection.
15. An Evening of Deep Meditation
That night, after we returned to our inn, I could not sleep. My mind buzzed with memories, but not in a way that felt anxious or restless. Rather, it was as if the day's events needed a deeper assimilation. Andrea softly dozed beside me, while Shaun's gentle breathing resonated through the wall. Outside, the night wind sifted through the tall cedar trees, creating an almost hypnotic hush.
Slipping quietly out of the futon, I made my way to the ryokan's small inner courtyard. The night sky above was a dark canopy, pinpricked by stars. I settled onto a small wooden bench near a lantern, folded my hands in my lap, and closed my eyes.
In the stillness, I began to breathe in and out, focusing on the subtle movement of air through my nostrils. Unlike my earlier attempts at meditation in younger years—where stray thoughts assaulted me like a swarm of mosquitoes—now there was a gentle fluidity. Thoughts of Joseph, memories of childhood, the taste of that Coke, even a drifting image of the Himalayan foothills, all rose and fell like gentle waves. None lingered too long. I simply observed them with a serene curiosity.
My breath slowed. My posture straightened. Even though I had no zafu cushion and was just perched on a bench, I found a surprising comfort. It felt as though a door had quietly opened inside me, allowing me to step beyond the usual mental chatter. The intangible sense of wonder from earlier in the day now crystallized into a luminous clarity. This, I realized, was the Zen mind—open, unguarded, present. I heard the tinkling of bells as if they originated from a space far beyond any temple. I was in bliss.
What unfolded felt surreal, as if I had entered into a memory palace. Time stretched. At some point, I heard the faint ring of a gong in the distance. Perhaps a monk at Eiheiji was striking the midnight bell, or performing some nocturnal ritual. The gentle clang resonated in my chest, aligning with my heartbeat.
I lost all sense of how long I remained there. It could have been half an hour, an hour, more. I felt no discomfort, no urgency. Only a gentle acceptance of reality as it was—an acceptance of life, death, love, sorrow, joy. And an acceptance of Joseph's physical absence, tempered by the truth that memories can be a portal to something deeper, an underlying unity that doesn't vanish with a heartbeat's end.
When I finally rose, my legs were a bit stiff, but my spirit felt unburdened. I slipped back into the room, lay down beside Andrea, and fell into a peaceful sleep.
16. Reflections on a Second Perfect Coke
The next morning, the sun's rays found me already awake. I turned to see Andrea stirring. She yawned, then caught my eye and smiled. “You look… different,” she said, voice still soft with sleep.
I sighed contentedly. “Last night, I don't know how to explain it. It felt as if my brother was not distant at all, but part and parcel of my own beng. His memory was in my own D.N.A. Something beyond the day-to-day illusions. And it started with that Coke.” I let out a small laugh, finding irony in the notion that a carbonated beverage had triggered a spiritual epiphany in a Zen temple's shadow.
“That's Zen for you, right?” she teased. “Don't they say the path to enlightenment can be found in the smallest details?”
I nodded. “Indeed. And ironically, all these years, I was half-joking about searching for the Perfect Coke. I didn't expect to encounter another one, especially not here. But it wasn't just the taste. It was the synergy—my memories of Joseph, the quiet hush of the temple, Shinryu's warmth, the timing. Everything aligned, like the last time. It's so improbable it feels orchestrated by something higher.”
Andrea reached for my hand. “You know, David, it's beautiful that Joseph's memory guided you to such a moment. And I'm grateful I got to witness it.”
A little later, we gathered in the inn's small dining area for a simple breakfast of rice porridge, pickled vegetables, and green tea. Shaun looked well-rested but thoughtful. He regarded me with a new respect. “Papa, this might sound weird, but I'm proud of you. It feels like you've been searching for something about Joseph for a long time. Maybe not just a Coke, but a certain sense of closure. I saw it in your eyes yesterday.”
I ruffled his hair affectionately. “Thanks, son. Yes, I suppose you're right. And I didn't realize how much I needed that closure until I tasted it.”
17. Epilogue: A Bridge Between Worlds
That day, we returned to Eiheiji for another short zazen session and took our time strolling through the grounds again, noticing details we had missed before. We hoped to catch a glimpse of Shinryu, to express our gratitude, but learned from one of the younger monks that he had been called away to a retreat in another part of the temple. The young monk explained that Shinryu often traveled to assist with ceremonies or training sessions. He left no special messages for us, the monk said, but offered a final bow and a knowing smile that suggested Shinryu's cameo in our lives was both spontaneous and complete.
Andrea proposed that we make a small offering at one of the donation boxes by the main hall. We each lit incense and silently bowed, sending our gratitude into the intangible realm of mindful awareness. As the scent of sandalwood curled into the air, I felt a sense of calm acceptance that Shinryu's role in this chapter of my life had been fulfilled. Perhaps we'd meet again, perhaps not. The memory was enough.
After leaving Eiheiji, we decided to explore a bit of Fukui's countryside for another day before heading back to attend the A.I. conference. We also visited local shrines, took a short trip Osaka and to Kyoto. Each experience was sprinkled with the same mindfulness we'd touched at Eiheiji. Even the simplest actions—like sipping tea or strolling along a quiet footpath—seemed to glow with a subtle radiance.
Throughout, my heart remained buoyed by the memory of that second Perfect Coke. I realized that while some might laugh at the notion of a soda being a sacred object, the real point was the recognition that anything—any object, any moment—can become a portal to the ineffable. It's a matter of being open to grace, aware of the mysterious interplay of time, memory, and presence.
On our final night in Japan, before flying home, we stayed in a small hotel near Haneda Airport. As we packed our suitcases and prepared to leave, I made a small journal entry:
“August 20, 1971: Fedco in Van Nuys with Joseph.
Fifty-four years later: Eiheiji, Japan with Andrea, Shaun, and Shinryu.
The second Perfect Coke. A reminder that the simplest things can carry the deepest significance.
Joseph, you are here always in my memory and how you guided me always, thank you. And Shinryu, thank you too.
May we all find in the ordinary the gateway to the extraordinary.”
I closed my journal. Andrea slipped her arms around me, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Ready to go home?” she asked.
“Almost,” I replied softly. “Though, in some ways, part of me never left that day at Fedco. And part of me will remain here at Eiheiji. Maybe that's the beauty of this journey. We carry fragments of every place, every memory, within us.”
She kissed my cheek, and I felt a quiet joy settle in my chest. I turned out the lights, knowing that sleep would come easily, and that—like the ephemeral burn of a Coke's carbonation—this entire trip would effervesce in my memory for years to come.
Postscript: The Legacy of a Coke
In Zen literature, there is a story of a monk who achieved enlightenment upon hearing a stone strike bamboo. Another found satori when the morning bell echoed across the valley. Countless others found meaning in far more mundane events, such as cooking rice or seeing a cherry blossom drift in the wind. My story is less poetic, perhaps, but no less real to me: a Perfect Coke—twice in my lifetime—became the impetus for a glimpse into the deepest mysteries of existence.
Borges once wrote that anything—a coin, a tiger, a compass, the bottom of a well—can become a Zahir, an object so laden with significance that it reveals the infinite. For me, it was a simple carbonated beverage. The first time I encountered that Perfect Coke, I was fifteen, my mind open but unrefined, my brother beside me. The second time, I was nearly seventy, my brother gone, but his memory undiminished. And in both instances, the boundary between the profane and the sacred dissolved, leaving me trembling with awe.
In the end, it isn't the Coke itself that holds the power. Rather, it's the synergy of memory, emotion, setting, and that strange alignment of cosmic happenstance. Zen teaches that every moment is the only moment; it is always now. Thus, the Perfect Coke is always just a sip away, if only we pay attention.
And so, in the quiet hush of my twilight years, I hold these experiences close. Perhaps I will never again taste a Coke that replicates that ephemeral perfection. Or perhaps I shall, in some unexpected place. But that no longer feels like the point. The search—the open-hearted readiness to be astonished—is everything. And if I've learned anything from Zen, from Eiheiji, from my beloved family and the memory of my brother Joseph, it's that the essence of life is not found in grand gestures or elaborate miracles. It's found in each breath, each bubble, each tear, each fleeting instant that hints at an unbreakable unity behind the veil of separateness.
In that sense, the Perfect Coke is every Coke. The Perfect Coke is every moment. And in the rising and falling of each bubble, I find the stirring echo of a universe that is, in truth, more vast and more intimate than words could ever convey.
David Christopher Lane, Ph.D, is a Professor of Philosophy at Mt. San Antonio College and Founder of the MSAC Philosophy Group. He is the author of several books, including The Sound Current Tradition (Cambridge University Press, 2022) and the graphic novel, The Cult of the Seven Sages, translated into Tamil (Kannadhasan Pathippagam, 2024). His website is neuralsurfer.com