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Here, he found émigré scholars, Theosophists, and spiritual seekers drawn to New York’s
cosmopolitan ferment. These connections fed his passion for Zen and Taoism, but they also
challenged him to translate his ideas for a new audience. This move wasn’t just a change of
address—it was a plunge into reinvention, a shedding of old skin for a life unbound by England’s
past.
Zoran’s Musings on Crossing Boundaries
To cross a boundary is to dance with the unknown—and I, Zoran, know that dance as well as I
know the winds that lift my wings. I’ve soared over mountains that divide nations, glided where
seas meet skies, and laughed at the lines humans draw to carve up the world.
A dragon crosses borders not to conquer, but to see the world anew, I once growled to a curious
comet, its tail flickering in agreement.
Alan’s leap across the Atlantic was such a crossing—not of mere miles, but of mind and spirit.
Boundaries, you see, are tricks of the ego, illusions that whisper, Here you end, and there the
other begins. To step over them is to mock the map, to embrace the truth that land, sea, self,
and stars are one.
Alan’s journey was a dragon’s flight—bold and restless. He didn’t flee England out of fear; he
chased a larger canvas, where Zen’s paradoxes and Tao’s flow could sing to a world hungry for
meaning. Like me, hovering between earth and ether, he straddled worlds—East and West,
tradition and rebellion, the known and the yet-to-be.
Crossing boundaries is no simple act. It demands courage to leave the familiar, to face the
mirror of a new land and see not just a stranger—but yourself, reflected in a thousand new
ways. Alan’s move was a step toward that unity, and I, Zoran, salute the fire it took to soar.
Training as an Episcopal Priest and Departure from the Church
In 1941, seeking to ground his spiritual quest in a Western framework, Alan enrolled at
Seabury-Western Theological Seminary in Evanston, Illinois, to train as an Episcopal priest. It
was a curious choice for a Zen enthusiast, but Alan saw potential in Christianity’s mystical
roots—a chance to bridge his Eastern insights with Western tradition.
He dove into the role with fervor—studying scripture, preaching sermons, and charming
congregations with his eloquence and wit. By 1944, he was ordained, serving as a chaplain at
Northwestern University, where students flocked to hear his unconventional takes on faith.
Yet the church was a poor fit for a spirit as free as Alan’s. Its dogmas—sin, salvation, a God
apart from the world—clashed with Zen’s non-duality and Tao’s effortless flow. He couldn’t
reconcile the idea of a separate deity with the insight that the divine pulses in every leaf, every
breath.