My question relates to women, toxic masculinity, male privilege, and learning to trust men, when you have accumulated a lifetime of karma that doesn't encourage that intuitively. I am raising three lovely men, and I would appreciate any insight into this modern koan as a single mom and a single woman.

Engaged Buddhism originally represent the participation of Buddhist monks like Thich Nhat Hanh in the anti-war movement in the sixties and expanded into other kinds of civil rights protests for social justice, peace, against the death penalty and so on. The term engaged Buddhism begs the question, what is it in contrast to? What is disengaged Buddhism? Is monasticism disengaged? Is the Vinaya rules for disengagement? Where can engagement take place?

A friend of mine, who is a dedicated Zen practitioner from a Rinzai tradition and leads a Zen group as well as having a family, is about to be ordained a "lay-monk." He reports that he does not know exactly what "lay-monk" means, but it sounds like he hopes to become a "bridge" between monastic and lay practice. I have been grappling with this term, as this sounds contradictory to me. Is Zen practice inevitably connected with the monastic practice/tradition to be recognized as legitimate or can lay practice stand by itself without losing its essence and connection with a Zen lineage/tradition?

This humorous companion koan to Joshu's wash your bowls is meant to make some things clear about practice. Originally Joshu asks the monk, "Have you eaten? You have? Then wash your bowls." In a way he asks, "Have you gotten something?" The monk has, but it's inner and private. The washing is meant to wipe away any sense of having gotten something. But also, washing brings out the experience into functioning in the world. It's not about an inner experience, but about service. Do you take your practice off the cushion and into the world where you do something useful with it? Or do you use inner experiences to warm your hands by?

My entire identity is tied up in being a writer. I've spent 40 of my 45 years wanting and studying to be one. I'm now a full-time professional writer with 18 books out, both novels and non-fiction. I meditate regularly and have little problem accepting the temporality of most things. I know that everything will change, and I'll lose everything at some point. While obviously attached to the people I love, I understand and accept the impermanence of all relationships, and this does help me enjoy the now of the moment I stand in. The one thing that throws me into a panic is the thought that someday I might not be able to write - it's not something I'm able to hold with a loose grasp. If I weren't a writer, I wouldn't know who I was. Is there a way to become less attached to this idea? Or is even something to strive for?

I'm aware of the importance of Japanese culture and traditions in Zen Buddhism and I'm grateful for the teachings of many generations of Japanese Zen masters, but I'm concerned that this cultural heritage remains quite foreign to me. How important do you think it is for us students to orient our practice within this heritage, and if it's important, how might we go about doing this?

Elad writes, From Barry Magid's writings I get the impression that he takes a stance of "knowing" about reincarnation - expressing that the idea of a continuing mindstream (as described in Tibetan Buddhism) is a defensive fantasy, a variation of "the myth of the isolated mind".

At the same time a line by Barry Magid that inspired me a lot years ago goes something like: "sometimes my job as a Zen teacher is to be the only person in the room who says 'I don't know'".

Would Barry elaborate on the pros and cons of taking a stance of knowing on an issue such as reincarnation?

Where/how/when can we really draw a line between psychotherapy and Zen. Especially in cases where the teacher and/or the student are involved in therapeutic processes as doctors or patients in "official" Western therapeutic settings.

The dichotomy between holy and ordinary isn't one that modern lay westerners connect with so much. A better translation for "holy" to bring it alive for us today would be "it matters". So much of Zen practice is treating ordinary things as if they really mattered. It's a challenge for us as lay people to bring that attitude to what we do all day. But really that's the essence of bringing Zen practice off the cushion and into the world. The other turn of that is worrying whether we matter.

In the wake of scandals and tragedies of self destruction involving Buddhist teachers questions arise about how can someone supposed to be so wise fall into such behavior? It's a perennial problem for people to try to understand what do they think a teacher has attained. What's the difference between a teacher and student? What's the relationship between what we do in the zendo and how we work through our personal psychological problems?