← Teacher Biography: Theodore Tsaousidis
Autobiographical Essay
The World I Came From
Growing up in Greece was like living in a hobbit’s shire and in the idyllic countryside of Narnia. To me, it was a magical place, and it revealed itself as part of who I am. I grew up as part of the mountains, rivers, trees, animals, and countryside — an intrinsic part of all the wonder and mystery that nature is. I remember sleeping on the mountain, free of fear, cradled by ground, trees, sky, and stars, while my parents yet again searched the countryside, torches in hand, calling my name.
Stories, debates, and discussions were also woven into the fabric of my childhood. Hearing tales about my grandparents’ struggle as refugees from Anatolia evoked echoes of the Odyssey: stories of tribulations, memories of success and failure, of battles fought and lost. Tales of betrayal, courage, sacrifice, and determination were passed down from one generation to the next. They taught us about honouring ourselves and our families in a time and place where, without these stories, we would have forgotten who we are and where we came from.
During the long dinners and gatherings in the village, there were also lively discussions of various subjects, including theology, mythology, politics and the full myriad of human concerns. To hold one’s own in debating was a skill we all were expected to hone, and Socratic debate was passionately cheered on. All existential questions that could be imagined were encouraged and considered. In the absence of any technology, including radios, this was something we looked forward to every night. We had stories, many stories, many communal meals—and more stories.
I share this essay, this story, as an introduction, and in the hope it will inspire and support the journey that we all must take.
The Rupture
In his desire to give us a better life, my father and my mother decided to move our family from Greece to Canada. I was nine years old. The sudden, violent pull that tore me from this idyllic, elemental existence at such an early age into a new life in Canada proved to be a deeply traumatic event. Now, looking back from the perspective of a man approaching his 70s, I can acknowledge that the magnitude and pain of this uprooting can arise so many decades later and are still to be mourned. Leaving my beloved aunt and uncle—elders respected for their healing and wisdom—seemed unfathomable. To leave that rural mountain setting, to abandon the familiar rivers, the sacred and secret places, the countryside markets, the small holy shrines, and the mountain temples, felt like having part of my being ripped away. Every part of that nature was woven into the fabric of who I was. The experience of leaving Greece left a deep, visceral wound.
The decision to leave was sold to me with grand promises: an effortlessly modern new life, a fantastic world with flying cars, limitless opportunities, and an existence free of struggle. The reality I found in Canada was a cruel inversion of that promise. Rather than expanding my world, the move seemed to shrink it. What had been a vast, mysterious, and beautiful ocean of wonders now felt like a tiny, suffocating fishbowl.
The new school environment in Canada was a profound shock. I was immediately struck by the absence of the protocol and respect I was accustomed to showing older people, like teachers. Furthermore, I could not relate to the other children. Compared to the real responsibilities and daily challenges one faces growing up in a Greek village—where every member has a necessary job according to their capacity—my new peers seemed like “children” in the truest sense. As a result, I retreated deeply into myself. My only sanctuary, my new portal to a limitless imagination, became the walls of the public library.
The Sanctuary of Books
The public library was not just a resource; it was a lifeline. Inside its quiet refuge, my reading became an obsession, and my curiosity extended to the compulsive acquisition of knowledge. I devoured everything I could find on legends, stories, and mythology. In my early teens, this exploration matured into philosophy, where I plunged into the writings of Plato, the intricate spiritual systems of Gurdjieff, the poetic wisdom of the Sufis, and any piece of ancient or esoteric thought I could find. I was, in effect, living multiple lives at once, dividing my days between the relentless necessity of survival and the endless, vibrant world of my inner life. This included obsessively writing my thoughts on anything that came to mind. I wrote hundreds and hundreds of pages of prose and poetry. Over that time, I wrote thousands of essays, some hundreds of pages long. Most are now long lost or faded beyond recollection. Greek, being my first language, and a mild dyslexia, did not stop the words from flowing. I always had books around me, reading several at once. Currently, I have amassed thousands of books, mostly on philosophy, psychology, indigenous healing methods, religions, and spirituality—including, of course, all branches of Buddhism.
At the same time as my refuge into the library, art and photography emerged as a deep, powerful compulsion—an addiction, not merely a hobby. All this was perhaps an urgent and unconscious attempt at “internal regulation”—a way to manage the trauma, anchor myself in a confusing present, and try to construct a possible, meaningful future. On some level, this relentless creative and intellectual work saved my life.
The Weight of Difference
Despite my parents’ immense, tireless dedication—my father was a beacon of perseverance, holding down three jobs at once to support us—I dropped out of school at fifteen to work and help provide for my family. My leaving school was difficult for my father to see, as education meant success to him. He was happy when I attended university later on.
Being employed at an early age, rather than being in school, only magnified my already intense sense of difference. To be honest, I felt more complex and aware than anyone around me. I never truly felt I belonged, and I struggled to find common ground with others, particularly those in my own age range. The silent, constant companion was the feeling of being fundamentally misunderstood. It felt strange and unsettling. A profound experience, the same year I left school (1975), brought a foundational change.
The Word That Opened a Door
In 1975, while crossing the street at Jones and Danforth in Toronto, I heard someone mention the word Buddha. I had, of course, heard this word before, but at this particular moment it exploded in my mind like an atomic bomb. It was like a chick bursting out of its shell but exploding inward. The world suddenly felt luminous, vast and bright. I felt an intense excitement, as if I were about to see or receive something wonderful. Ultimately, it created a spontaneously appearing contemplative and meditative space all around me, which meant more quiet times in my room. My mind seemed to open up and move through all kinds of universes. Although the word that opened a new door for me was “Buddha,” this was just another name in the cosmological list of great and influential teachers of wisdom.
The Theosophical Society embraced religions, philosophies, and science, and I joined the Toronto chapter soon after this experience. Apparently, I was the youngest person to ever become a member—at least in the Toronto chapter.
True to form, I was drawn to read any book I could find that the Theosophical Society published. I was particularly drawn to the teachings of Madame Blavatsky, I think mainly because she looked very much like my aunt, whom I had left behind in Greece.
Two years later, being a bit more mature, I started venturing out, finding other libraries, visiting parks throughout the city, and visiting other traditions, temples, and spiritual places. If I walked by a church or other place of worship that was open, I would walk in and just sit there, absorbing its atmosphere, structure, and images. I visited anything that was open to the public, sitting with teachers and traditions—Hinduism, Sufism, and Buddhism—but still leaning toward the inclusive teachings of the Theosophical Society. The Theosophical Society allowed me to learn about all other traditions and taught me to respect them. In my late teens and early twenties, still a member of the Society, I started exploring yoga and Buddhism, visiting various centres and temples available at the time and reading everything I could find on the subjects.
The Restaurant, the University, the Frustration
At the same time, I opened my first business in Kitchener. My parents wanted me to open a photography studio, but I opened a restaurant and received excellent reviews. It was 1979, and I was nineteen. The restaurant remained open until 1983, during a period of economic turmoil in Canada marked by very high interest rates. After closing the business, I entered university as an adult student.
For the next five years, I explored everything available to me at university, from philosophy to psychology, history, environmentalism, and social-ecological issues. It was both exhilarating and frustrating. Though grateful for the intellectual rigour of academia and for meeting like-minded people, I felt frustrated due to my strong Greek accent and dyslexia. This was before spell check and all the modern tools we have today.
Although some of my professors allowed oral exams, it was very challenging and disheartening. Determining what a professor wanted in order to get a good mark was difficult, particularly because even when I knew the answer required to pass, I felt conflicted if I had not personally verified it or did not believe in it. If I did not feel the answer proposed was sufficient, it felt contrived, disingenuous, and dishonest. I remember arguing with professors and students in class, then walking out in frustration and disgust. This frustration, in retrospect, was arrogance and stubbornness. It was also apparently an aspect of dyslexia. I do not defend the immaturity of my actions, but I do extend to myself understanding and compassion. This behaviour also stemmed from the exasperation of not being able to fully connect with others. Communication was difficult, and very few people could see or get excited about the issues I felt were important. During this time, I also continued to read about Buddhism. I had never stopped exploring and visiting various teachers. Feeling now that perhaps the difficulties I was experiencing stemmed from my own existential and unresolved issues, I decided to find and choose a path that I thought could help. This was challenging as I was not willing to fully commit to anything that still had a hierarchical view of the cosmos and all life. It was a big ask. The only path that I could accept had to contain a totality of equal worth for everyone and everything, including animals and Mother Earth. For me, this was not negotiable.
In the spring of 1983, I attended an animal rights festival at Nathan Phillips Square. I had been a vegetarian (mostly vegan) since 1979 and an animal rights activist since I could remember. An array of booths was selling vegan and vegetarian food, displaying animal rights information, while musicians were playing on the bandstand. As I was walking around, looking at the booths, I saw a banner with a monkey on it holding a lotus. Looking more closely, the banner read, “Buddhist Concern for Animals.” I was jolted. I asked the person at the booth, Vince (we later became good friends), what the sign meant. To my mind, all religions had at least a verbal acknowledgement for the concern for animals. Vince told me that it was a vegan Korean Zen Buddhist Temple. Had I found the path I had been searching for? That same year, I began formal training in the Korean Zen tradition and studied with my teacher until 1997. The first time I stayed there, my tears flowed for many nights. It felt like I had arrived home. I had finally found a place to practice and study that resonated with my heart.
A fundamental teaching of Buddhism is that of interconnectedness and interdependence. This means that nothing exists in isolation. Just like a tree cannot exist without sun, rain, and earth, we are not fixed or separate but exist only in relation to other causes and conditions. We mutually influence each other, and everything and everyone is of equal importance. To deny the interdependence of all things is to violate this truth. I could not practice with a “lesser truth.” It would be in contradiction to all that I have experienced and come to know. The sign with the monkey holding the lotus was my formal entry point into the study and recognition of Dharma. This was the non-negotiable path I had been searching for.
Finding Balance: Zen and Tibetan Buddhism
In my fourteen years of training with my Korean teacher, I was also, out of curiosity, exploring other modalities and meeting other teachers. This was not to give up Buddhism. What I liked about Buddhism was that none of its core ideas necessarily conflict with existing beliefs for those seeking to benefit from its practices. A Christian, a Muslim, an atheist, or someone with no particular religious affiliation can engage with Buddhist meditation or ethical teachings without abandoning their own traditions. Rather than demanding exclusive allegiance or the rejection of one’s cultural and spiritual heritage, Buddhism offers a framework for investigation that can complement and enrich diverse worldviews.
My exploration stemmed from my natural curiosity about the world and other forms of spiritual training. So when I left in 1997, I already knew about other teachers, lineages, and teachings. In 2000, to my good fortune, I met my present Zen teacher in the Sanbō Kyōdan lineage, with whom I am still practising today. During these times, I also had a deep attraction to Tibetan Buddhism and started attending classes with Ven. Zasep Tulku Rinpoche in Toronto. Being in his presence deeply resonated with me. I felt a somatic sense—a bodily knowing—of being back in Greece again. It was something intensely and intuitively familiar, but there was also fear, almost as if being pulled into a body of water and engulfed by it. An analogy may be that of Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters’ island, where one could remain in idyllic bliss, never to return home. For me, it was more about my capacity rather than the teachings of Rinpoche. I felt I needed both the rigorous discipline of Zen and the more mystical exploration and ritual of Tibetan Buddhism to find a balance in myself that I desperately needed.
I think I knew intuitively not to fall under the spell of Tibetan Buddhism because it was already so akin to my personality. I think my previous study helped me recognize that the point of practice is not to mistake the method for the destination, but how you proceed on the journey (how you engage with all of it) is fundamental.
To delineate how I am using terms here:
- Path: Buddhism, Christianity, Islam …
- Method: Zen, Tibetan Buddhism, Baptist, Catholic …
- Destination: Enlightenment, Union with God …
Whether you practice Zen, Vajrayana, Christianity, or Sufi mysticism, etc., how you approach and engage with the journey is vital. It must be approached with an open mind and heart. The method is simply the choice of vehicle—a car, boat, or plane.
In any case, Tibetan Buddhism held a strong resonance with my personality. It felt like a powerful drug that I could easily immerse myself in as a monk. I needed Zen’s discipline and rigour to keep me grounded and participating in mundane life, rather than becoming a monastic. Living a monastic life does not necessarily prevent one from participating in ordinary life, but I always felt it could isolate one from facing the direct challenges of everyday householder living—at least for myself. I pondered that it would be difficult for someone living a monastic, celibate life, in any religious tradition, to give guidance to those struggling in the secular world.
I loved the monastic life with its rituals, meditation, and study. I knew intuitively that I had to remain fully engaged with the world and navigate the daily challenges of ordinary life. The teachings of Buddhism are not and have never been about disengaging from the world, and I knew I could easily do so. The purpose of Buddhism and practice is to confront the world with wisdom, compassion, and discernment.
A Kindred Spirit: Joanna Macy
In the 1980s, another pivotal moment for me was meeting the environmental and social activist Joanna Macy. It was like being in the presence of my aunt and uncle again. My aunt was my second mother, my teacher, and my protector. My aunt and I had a relationship that transcended biology. My connection to my aunt and uncle felt like it was from a different dimension. I cannot explain further except to say it was a deep knowing, a recognition of love. They taught me about healing herbs and nature and helped me cultivate a deep respect and relationship with all life that I will always carry with me. Joanna has similarly informed me how I engage in the world. Being in her presence resonated with the same energy and sense of belonging as when I was growing up in Greece and being back in my village.
This kindred connection was highlighted during one of her teaching trips to Ontario. As one of her workshop participants, Joanna and I saw each other from across the room. She exclaimed, “Do my eyes deceive me? Can it be? Can someone please tell me if this is true? Is Theodore here? Is that you?” As I write this, remembering that moment brings tears to my eyes and takes my breath away. The memory of my aunt in Greece and Joanna’s recognition in that moment are the invisible bond between people that defies words or description, and the connection to our true nature that all of us share.
I still reflect on how Joanna kept inviting me to go and study with her. This invitation stirred a tension, a split between that part of me that yearns for nature and connection and the demands of the mundane world. Although I met Joanna Macy several times over the years and hosted her in Toronto, I regret that I never spent extended periods with her.
Joanna’s teachings exemplified socially engaged Buddhism. She saw that the active application of Buddhist teachings was the way to address social, ecological, and political suffering worldwide. Her books, Despair and Personal Power in the Nuclear Age, and later her collaborative book Thinking Like a Mountain, deeply resonated with me. Joanna’s presence in my life and these two books are foundational to how I view the world and my approach to teaching today. I still return to them time and time again for inspiration.
I remember when Joanna had her 90th birthday; people went around the room saying words to honour her. When it was my turn, I said that in our first meeting she empowered my life by asking me two questions—and those questions have continued to guide and inform me today. They were: “What are you going to do? How are you going to change it?” I resonated with these questions, and over the years, they provided much guidance and yielded much fruit in this mundane world. The questions evolved into, “How are you going to turn all the impasses, problems, and challenges in life into solutions?” You can’t go forward, you can’t go backward, you can’t go left or right, but you still have to choose. This acceptance and willingness to make a choice is the way through. It’s inevitable, but you still have to make a choice.
The Expensive Lesson
In the following years, I chose to engage with the world by operating businesses, succeeding, failing, and making huge mistakes—most of which came about because I viewed the world as I see myself. The world is often unjust and unfair, perhaps because the philosophy of survival of the fittest is considered acceptable and legal. In my ignorance and stupidity, I closed my eyes to the accepted, ruthless approach to business management and strategy that prioritizes gain and dominance over harm, as long as it’s legal.
Being Buddhist, I thought I could practice fairness and cooperation and that others would do the same. This did not happen. My misunderstanding led to massive suffering, and in the early 2000s, I had to declare bankruptcy. It was an expensive lesson that cost about a quarter of a million dollars. This experience was ultimately helpful because it forced me to ask difficult questions about what happened, and through the compassion and skillfulness of my teachers, I began to grow my capacity for discernment.
It was Rinpoche who offered the crucial teaching to confront this reality: the concept of Wrathful Compassion. This expression of skillfulness is about seeing the world as it is—full of ignorance, hatred, and greed—and participating in ways that prevent others from harming you and help you avoid negative karma. It means being attentive and careful, not leaving your keys in your car when you go shopping. Rinpoche worked tirelessly with me for 2.5 years to get this to stick. To truly understand and use it required me to work with my own internal wrathful compassion, which was antithetical to me since I had almost no experience expressing anger.
Thanks to Rinpoche, I finally realized this, and I can now, with a smile, blame my previous misinterpretation of Zen training for my failures. My Korean Zen teacher used to say, “You have a compassionate personality, but it’s an idiotic form.” The lesson was clear: You have to see the world as it is, not as you are. It was a very, very painful and very expensive lesson, though my Zen teacher later told me that such powerful learning obviously costs a quarter of a million dollars. Given my stubborn determination, I am glad it only cost that much.
This experience was a powerful force that finally compelled me to confront reality as it is in my life, and I feel my students are the beneficiaries of my failures. This is wonderful—taking a disaster and not wasting it, but using it, turning it into fuel for waking up. Eventually, through the practice of Metta (loving-kindness) and sustained meditation retreats, I was able to accept the failure and work even harder to turn that acceptance into understanding, and naturally, compassion and forgiveness—first for myself, and then offering forgiveness to all those individuals who had betrayed my trust and goodwill.
Fortunately, since we had put the Snow Lion Meditation Shop in my father’s name, I could still provide for myself and my wife. After settling the bankruptcy, I purchased the Snow Lion back from my father for one dollar, and that store became the namesake of the Snow Lion Meditation Community, suggested by my students.
The Gift of Failure
All the experiences of my life—the good, the difficult, the painful, and yes, the unbearable—and, of course, the fortune and goodness, like meeting my wife and my teachers, have become the foundation and source of how I teach my students today. The lesson I pass on is the one embodied in Joanna Macy’s questions: “What are you going to do? How are you going to change it?”
What are you going to do at this moment, as it is? You cannot go forward, backward, left, or right, but you still have to choose.
When Rinpoche asked me to teach back in 2006, it felt like a heavy object had fallen on me. It took another two years and the continuous encouragement of a dear mentor, Lama Catherine Jetsun-Yeshe, to finally accept. Rinpoche knew that full maturity in the Dharma was impossible without teaching. It was through teaching, and through the students who came to my classes—who became my true teachers—that I finally matured as a human being, moving past my “idiotic compassion.” The painful cost of my earlier failures became the fuel for continuous practice.
My primary focus in teaching is on the foundation: how to attend to one’s present reality as it is—the pleasant, the unpleasant, the difficult, the impossible, and the unbearable. Only when someone develops the capacity to attend to and embody that reality do I suggest that they begin to study Buddhism beyond the foundations of meditation.
I am sure that in my early years as a novice teacher, people who came to my classes had to pay the price for my arrogance—my mistaking what the teachings were pointing to for the journey and the destination. Even though what I said was not incorrect, context is everything.
Now, I mostly teach about how to attend to one’s present reality as it is, right here in the present. It is only when you develop the capacity to attend to and embody what is—the pleasant, the unpleasant, the seemingly impossible, the unbearable—that I suggest one can begin to study and penetrate Buddhism beyond the foundations of meditation.
Why I Teach
My greatest joy and my deepest sorrow stem from the same source: my relationship with the natural world and animals. This bond is my biggest inspiration for teaching. It is my sadness that the human race is so arrogant and ignorant of its place in the universe, causing unimaginable suffering to other species and the natural world. I teach so that one day all life will be seen equally. This aspiration to awaken students to a core truth—that the self is a reflection of the whole, and no single part of the circle of existence is more important than another—is the heart of my understanding of Buddhist teachings.
The Journey Continues
So here we are; the journey continues. I am grateful to all the teachers I have encountered and to those who have provided guidance over the years. Grateful to my Korean Zen teacher, grateful to my present teachers, grateful to Rinpoche for his faith and trust in me, and grateful for the faith and trust that my students bestow on me.
The journey continues, anchored by an enduring koan that asks, “How will you step off a one-hundred-foot pole?” Meditation teaches and helps us to be willing to step off this precipice, to feel what it is like to be on the edge, and to accept the necessity of choice. The hope I share is that one uses up all of one’s experience—all the destruction, the suffering, the pain—as building blocks for good. There is no waste. You paid for it; you must make something out of it so that the cost was worth the lesson.
I share this autobiography in the hope that it will help people see the vast terrain of possibilities, of waking up to one’s life and not wasting it—but using up all that one has experienced: the pleasant, the difficult, the impossible, and the unbearable—instead of being used by it. Confront it, make it visible more clearly so it can be useful for you—the destruction, the suffering, all of it from your life.
What does it all mean?
Theodore Tsaousidis
February 2026 ©