I was struck when I heard, in a YouTube video by a Zen master, that Zen and meditation were “good for nothing.” Suddenly, everything fell into place: that sentence became the missing cornerstone I needed to make sense of life, the world, and the universe — and of who I was, and why I was meditating.
Yes, I was meditating every day, but what importance or value could there be in this practice if our lives, humanity, and even our world, when measured against the vast spatial and temporal scale of the universe, are more insignificant than a molecule of water in the ocean? If our bodies and minds are nothing more than expressions of a probabilistically determined dance of subatomic particles and electromagnetic waves — no more transcendent than the dances unfolding in a crackling fire, in a roaring river, or in a silent rock? If there is no God, no hidden agent steering our minds, no immortal essence granting us special significance? And why should we matter, if electronic machines will soon surpass us in intelligence and creativity, if we ourselves are merely imperfect organic machines without free will? If our ego has encoded an alleged “meaning” for our lives in a brain that will soon die and cease to exist forever?
Was the Buddha not pointing to something remarkably similar? He taught that clinging to anything we deem important is the root of suffering. That is why he sought to show that nothing in our lives is truly transcendent: nothing lasts, no experience can fully satisfy us, there is no self we can genuinely identify with, and everything is impermanent and interdependent, arising from conditions beyond our control. If he were alive today, in an era when science shows that humanity is not at the center of the universe and that consciousness emerges from neural activity, wouldn’t he draw on these very insights to illustrate how little ultimate weight our lives carry, and how absurd our clinging truly is?
Seen from this perspective, it becomes obvious: how could we cling to anything — or reject it — if we were fully convinced it was “good for nothing?” How could the will attach itself to something meaningless, negligible, and about to change in the very next instant? And if the mind were not attached to anything, what worries could it sustain, what thoughts would continue to spin, what clouds would remain to darken it? Without those worries, thoughts, and shadows, wouldn’t it be far easier to live fully in the present?
Some time ago, I had already begun to question whether these forms of clinging were important at all. In a kind of gradual dissolution of ignorance, I kept reminding myself that I am nothing, and that our world is lost in the immensity of the universe. I had not yet grasped the full implications of “good for nothing,” but even so, whenever a thought arose, I would remind myself that it was not important. This made it easier to sustain brief moments throughout the day with a clearer mind.
With fewer thoughts and worries, moments of simply inhabiting the present became more frequent: while driving — observing my hands on the wheel, the sound of the engine and the wind, the landscape flowing toward me —; while walking — feeling the cold breeze on my skin and the warmth of the sun on my clothes —; while eating — tasting the food, noticing its texture, my jaw chewing —; while listening to Zen teachers on YouTube — sensing my body relaxed on the sofa, grasping their message, noticing their facial expressions and vocal nuances —; while writing — feeling my fingers on the keyboard and watching the words appear on the screen, as they do now—; and in many other ordinary activities.
But these sustained moments of presence were not the only benefit of no longer taking life too seriously — or seriously at all. Daily existence became simpler and lighter: I was less reactive with my wife and my son, I met work-related difficulties with greater ease, I could begin projects without obsessing over outcomes, and my actions felt steadier. I even believe this loosening of attachment played a meaningful role in my company’s transformation into a self-managed organization grounded in trust, radical transparency, honest communication, and the dismantling of power hierarchies.
There was yet another consequence of seeing my expectations, worries, and life itself as non-transcendent: for a time, my meditation sessions grew deeper and quieter. Yet this very fact led me to question a common assumption in contemporary meditation and awakening discourse. Listening to some Zen teachers, one often gets the impression that countless hours of zazen must precede any significant loosening of attachment. As I reflected on my own experience, however, I began to suspect that the reverse may also be true: that dissolving attachment — genuinely convincing oneself that everything is “good for nothing” — may itself be a powerful gateway into a more effortless meditation, settling into silence with fewer thoughts obscuring the mind.
But if everything is meaningless and inconsequential, why meditate at all? Why strive to become free from craving? Are these meant to be among a few remaining “important” goals worth pursuing? In the past, such a question would have unsettled me. Today, my answer is a clear and unambiguous no. This is precisely where the cornerstone of “good for nothing” fit so cleanly into place. Meditation is not important. Freedom from clinging or aversion is not important. Even the idea of “good for nothing” is, in the end, good for nothing — and may not even accurately describe reality. Like everything else in the universe, it carries no ultimate usefulness and serves no higher purpose.
And yet the questions persist: why do I meditate? Why do I desire a reduction of desire? Why do I treat this “good for nothing” perspective as if it were good for something after all? The answer lies in the multiple layers of my ego — that clumsy mental construction which has become conscious of itself and calls itself “I”, while failing to see that it is nothing more than an emergent pattern of neural activity. While some layers of this ego have embraced a “good for nothing” view of existence, others still believe that meditation, or this very framework, will bring some benefit.
Indeed, although I sense that significant parts of my ego have loosened their grip on craving through this awakening to non-transcendence, other parts — probably larger ones — continue to harbor deep desires: the need to be loved and recognized; to feel that I can contribute my small grain of sand to the world; to live in peace; to secure present and future needs; to feel that I am doing “good” zazen; to believe I am becoming freer from craving or growing in awareness; and countless others.
These same desires drive me to meditate — beyond the sheer pleasure of meditation itself, because the ego believes it will improve me, increase my social value, and perhaps even contribute something positive to humanity; to develop and write this theory — because the mind thirsts for understanding and recognition; and to work on dissolving craving itself — because the ego has learned the rewards it seems to bring: more frequent moments of presence, less reactivity, an easier relationship with difficulty, a steadier will.
Noticing that craving the end of craving appears to produce tangible changes in me, I recently found myself wondering what would happen if every layer of my ego were truly convinced that everything — including meditation — is good for nothing. If I were to become a Buddha, would I still meditate? I cannot know. Yet, extrapolating from those cravings that have already softened, I suspect I would. When a craving dissolves, behavior does not always change at the surface. What changes is what remains underneath: some cravings vanish without residue, while others lose their sting and persist only as quiet internal conditionings. A craving generates suffering when it is frustrated; a conditioning does not — it can be overridden by other internal or external conditions without suffering.
This, for me, is what it means to flow — like a river moving downhill, conditioned by the slope of the valley. The river does not cling to the laws of physics; it simply flows, freely and inevitably at once. Without free will, we cannot act outside conditioning; we cannot escape cause and effect; we cannot do anything without being shaped by the ego or by the brain’s neural circuitry. So even if I were completely convinced that meditation is “good for nothing,” I suspect I would still be conditioned to meditate.
And so, attached or merely conditioned, I meditate almost every day, morning and evening. Yet because I still carry a substantial residue of clinging, thoughts frequently rush through my mind. When that happens, I remind myself that those thoughts — and the cravings beneath them — are not important. Most of the time, they dissolve easily, and I return to the slow unfolding of the present: the breath is felt — such a simple act, and such quiet stillness it brings — and sometimes the heartbeat; birds are heard, a dog barking, or a distant car; posture is noticed, the spine upright, the legs crossed…
And when attention settles fully into the present, sometimes the mind is reminded once more: this moment is not transcendent either. Meditation, the experience of now, even this very gentle thought of “good for nothing” — all of it is good for nothing. Whispered with complete conviction. Then attention ceases to anchor itself to breath, posture, sound, or thought; and with nothing left to rest upon, it hovers in emptiness. And in absolute silence, space-time dissolves, and nothingness experiences itself.
