“Lately, every time I ask my wife what’s wrong, all I get is the same old nothing. But I know better, mate. There’s too much packed in that nothing of hers. So I can’t help but wonder, what does she expect from me?” Rooney was complaining while grabbing a beer from the fridge.
“To decipher everything! That’s what’s expected of you, my friend.” Max answered as confidently as he was slicing the eggplant, which he then salted to remove the excess liquid and bitterness and to ensure its silkier texture.
“I guess you’re right,” muttered Rooney, while opening his beer.
“I know what you mean. You can’t imagine the scenes that come to my mind every time we leave our troublemaker home alone, and he tells us he is doing nothing when we check on him.”
“Doing nothing is an art form.”
“Doing nothing is impossible.”
“Well, not impossible!”
“Think about it! We’re always engaged in some sort of activity — we think, sleep, dream, cut onions,” said Max, while chopping onions into fine pieces. “Or we try not to do something, much like I’m trying not to cry from these onions.”
“What about those Buddhist monks? They can do nothing for days in a row.”
“Well, the monks meditate, which is not the same as doing nothing. We may acclaim them for doing nothing, but know this — their nothing resembles your wife’s — it’s a code word for a lot more than you think. Actually, in Sanskrit, the term Śūnyatā, which is often translated as emptiness or nothingness, constitutes the ultimate reality for the Buddhists. And that, I reckon, is far from nothing,” assured him Max, while cutting the tomatoes into perfect cubes and the zucchini into equal rings. He then heated the oil, added a pinch of salt and a sprinkle of thyme. All that, while thinking at the back of his mind how he wished he was like Shiva, with at least another pair of hands.
“But the monks don’t think of anything while they meditate. I’m telling you, they’re the real deal!”
“They may seem so, but what they’re doing is simply not engaging with their thoughts. Plus, they’re positioned in a certain way — sitting, or laying down, or something of the sort. Meditation requires a very strong concentration, which is energy channelled in a certain direction. It’s a verb, after all. Moreover, according to the Buddhists, everything is in constant flux, nothing is ever still. Thus, my friend, it’s not the case that they’re doing nothing.”
“Hmm, when you put it this way — someone seated in a lotus pose with their eyes closed, allowing their thoughts to flow. That’s definitely something,” concluded Rooney. “But then, what’s nothing, Max?”
“Nothing is ever nothing. What a paradox! Everything is …
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