by Brian Enright
Oakland, Calif.
I pulled up to the teepee with a full beard and an empty stomach, in search of whatever it was I’d been after since leaving my 9–5. I’d come on the invitation of a friend, to take part in a ceremony of the solstice.
The ceremony, which involved flushing gallons of water out of my body, cleansed my system of any traces of booze. As it came to a close, I felt uncharacteristically hopeful. Actually, I’d made a friend, who told me, as we left for breakfast, about a chant she did morning and evening—a daily practice to refresh her spirit. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo was not a chant she alone did daily, she explained, but was the mantra of a movement. Inwardly, I took a big step back.
Religious involvement, to me, disqualified you as a thinking person. But speaking with her, I had to admit she was an odd exception—a freethinker in a religious movement.
She put me in touch with her friend who invited me to the New Year’s gongyo meeting. Twice I told this friend I’d be there, but as the day approached, I thought again, realizing I’d be partying New Year’s Eve and, “probably couldn’t make 11 a.m.” Over the phone, she told me: “There will always be an obstacle to your enlightenment. All you have to do if you want to be there is commit with your heart and your mind, and nothing can stop you.” It spoke to the person I believed myself to be—a man of my word. I decided to go, and went. Best decision I’ve ever made.
The first message I internalized after receiving the Gohonzon was that my life was precious and my time, valuable. A “starving artist,” I was welding metal 12, sometimes 24 hours a day, believing that my suffering would fuel my art. But the thing was, it hadn’t. And several years in, my relationships with family and friends had begun to strain, as they asked, one after another: What’s the plan?
Truth was, I didn’t have one. What I had was a vague hope of someone discovering me, deeming me an artist and funding my endeavors. Chanting, I took stock of the steps I could take and had my first real revelation, which was: I needed a truck. I’d been hauling everything around in a comically small, borrowed car.
To get a truck, I needed work—work that would do more than get me by. I began chanting for this and in a few weeks I got a call from a friend of a former client who wanted a giant bookcase built in the shape of the USA. It was my biggest commission yet, and gave me both the funds for a truck and confidence in faith. Enough so that I shared the practice with a friend. All her life, she’d suffered from an illness with no diagnosis. She began chanting to find one and, within a few months of chanting, did. Creating value through my efforts and empowering my friends to do the same gave me a joy I hadn’t felt since childhood. Gradually, I understood what it meant to live as an artist for kosen-rufu.
Fast forward a decade and I’d scored several major commissions—large public works throughout the country—and purchased my own studio in Oakland out of which I ran a business making custom gates, doors and fences. That was the year I accepted men’s leadership for Golden Gate Mentor and Disciple Zone. I knew I had to score a victory to inspire everyone amid a global pandemic, but didn’t know how. Until I read these words from Ikeda Sensei on the significance of the time:
The decade from the Soka Gakkai’s 90th anniversary to its centennial in 2030 will be crucial. We must be even more determined to show victorious proof of our own human revolution, to transform all great evil into great good and to effect a powerful change in the destiny of all humankind. (November 2020 Living Buddhism, p. 17)
This lit a fire inside me. I made a huge, concrete goal: To become the top sculptor in the nation. And, well … I had no idea how to do that.
In 2023, I sought guidance from a senior in faith, who told me, effectively, to rely on faith and not waste time. It was what I needed to hear. Doubling down, I got specific in front of the Gohonzon. What was my dream? For my art to power a cultural shift—away from waste and toward a sustainable economy. What needs to happen to realize this?
In answer, a second question came: Who produces the bulk of our goods? That’s when the lightbulb went off in my head. Companies. Large, Fortune 500 companies. I needed to get the CEOs of these companies on board. But how would I do that?
I chanted some more, spoke to my business partner and came up with the idea of running corporate team-building workshops where employees learn to weld and build a shared piece of art from waste material produced by their company. For the next two-and-a-half years, we pitched to CEOs and thinktanks, without ever landing a contract. And then, at last, a breakthrough.
In October 2024, pitching to the CEO of the largest cellphone refurbisher in the world, we heard him say, “This is perfect for us.” Two weeks later, we were speaking with the head of human resources. This was right in the middle of our zone’s November district discussion meeting campaign.
This campaign was the first in a while that I asked myself: What if my life depended on achieving this? Realizing there was more I could do, I went all out, making every cause I could to encourage the members.
I made ambitious daimoku and home visit goals and surpassed them both while meeting almost daily with the young man I was supporting in faith. All the while, I thought to myself, Whether I land this contract or not, it won’t matter if I don’t use it to inspire the youth. In the end, our efforts showed—we blew past our previous year’s attendance, expanding the forces of the Buddha in communities across the zone.
The cellphone company agreed to a six-figure contract to run a weeklong workshop at their headquarters, building a 5-by-5 sculpture. But given that the installation would be the centerpiece of the company’s 30th anniversary celebrations, they decided to double the size of the piece for another six figures. Now that’s what I call being in rhythm.
I’ve shocked myself by the strides I’ve made in the past few months, which have called on the full depth of training I received in the SGI—to expand my life to inspire others. As a case in point, a young friend of mine, a fellow welder, saw what I was doing in work and in faith, and was inspired. In April, he received the Gohonzon, and is now putting his faith—in himself and his dreams—to the test.
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