I’m fond of telling the story of Lao Tzu, sitting at a corner in the imperial highway, weak-meat soup simmering in his pot.
Across from him is a busy noodle stand, steaming and warm, with travellers sipping drinks and trading news of what’s up and down the road.
No one pays any attention to Lao Tzu and his weak-meat soup.
What is his weak-meat soup?
Peace. Ultimate emptiness. Non-attachment.
We’re an awfully busy world. Who has time for peace? And what good is it anyways? Does it sell shoes? Does it cut time off the commute?
No, see the noodle stand across the road for things like those.
Lao Tzu is selling our native state. He’s selling water by the river. Lao Tzu is selling the peace of mind that is a pre-requisite to tasting the wine of enlightenment.
Whatever way you look at it, the mind must quieten. The vrittis (or waves in the mind) must subside. The distracted attention must land.
As long as there is cacophony in the mind, the sound of silence cannot be heard. And the Father, the natural state, the All that is into which everything finally dissolves, is silent and can only be heard in silence.
It is still and can only be known in stillness. It is peaceful and can only be known in peace.
So who craves for peace? No one. The busy person cares little for peace. The peaceful person craves for nothing.