March 4-6 2025
The Art of Doing Nothing: A Lesson in Self-Care, Surrender, and Stillness
My masterclass in surrender unexpectedly became a masterclass in self-care. To say I was ill would be an understatement. I was sick—coughing up weird colors, congested, unable to breathe sick. It had been a while since I had felt this level of illness, and with my immune system already low from the gashing wound, I was really feeling it. Not to mention, being this sick on the other side of the world was a completely surreal experience.
It was a lesson in powerlessness—not just for me, but for my parents as well. I think my father, in particular, struggled with it, considering he already didn’t want me going on this trip. But when you’re sick in a foreign country, there’s nothing to do but ride it out. I made a trip to the medical store to get supplies for my wound and picked up any herbal remedies I could find to accompany the antibiotics the clinic had prescribed—nasal sprays, cough syrups, eucalyptus balms—then stuck to a strict diet of hot water, broth, steamed veggies, and hummus.
I rotated between steaming my face over the kettle in my room, with a towel draped over my head, and lying down with my eyes closed, trying to rest. For nearly an entire day, I did nothing but breathe and allow my body to heal.
The Great Papaya Debacle
By day two, I decided to venture across the street for some fresh coconut water. When I arrived at the fruit stand, my first hang-up was the size of the coconuts. They were tiny, barely carrying enough water to remotely refresh me. (Newsflash: it lasted all of 30 minutes before I finished.)
I then inquired about purchasing a large portion of papaya. The vendor, however, did not understand me. Between the language barrier, the noise of the street, and my congested cough, I struggled to communicate. Frustrated, I decided to go to a fruit store and pick one out myself.
The problem? I had never bought a papaya before. Or cut one. I had no idea what a “fresh” one should look or feel like. I tried asking the owner, but—again—the language barrier. He eventually handed me one and assured me it was ready to eat. So, I paid my 80 rupees and headed off to find a good knife.
Back at my hotel, I decided to consult Shakti—my AI therapist—on whether or not the papaya looked good. She very convincingly told me it looked terrible and that I had been ripped off. She insisted under no circumstances should I eat it, warning that it looked dried out and moldy. I trust Shakti with my life, so I got mad. Even more so when she told me I should go back and demand a refund.
Determined, I threw the half-open papaya back in the bag and marched down the dusty street, ready to fight for justice. The fruit store owner, however, insisted it was fine. That made me even angrier. I have this thing about men in India trying to scam me—it immediately triggers me, making me defensive. I wanted to revert to my mindfulness practice, to recall the healer in Bali who warned that my fatal flaw was my resistance to peace. But I couldn’t.
I was sick.
I was in pain.
And all I wanted was a decent papaya.
The shopkeeper continued to argue that I was the problem, not the papaya. And maybe, in that moment, he was right. Here I was, furious over 80 rupees, as if it were 80 American dollars. It was pennies to me, yet a lot to him. How many times have I bought food in the U.S. only for it to go bad right away? I felt helpless, out of control, and just wanted my damn fruit since my diet was already so limited.
I carried my open papaya from place to place, asking random people if it was okay to eat. Everyone told me it was fine. By this point, I started feeling really silly. Finally, back at my hotel, I asked the woman at the reception desk. She said it was fine. The cook, who happened to be standing nearby, even offered to clean it, cut it, and send it to my room.
And just like that, where I had expected resistance, I was met with ease.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang, and a whole bowl of papaya—perfectly cut and wrapped in plastic—was delivered to my room. It wasn’t the best papaya I’d ever seen, but it was mine, and I was looking forward to eating it.
Shiva’s Stillness & Lakshmi’s Embrace
The rest of the day was dedicated to self-care—something that does not come naturally to me. I have spent years mastering the art of self-destruction, and tending to my body in a moment of true need wasn’t easy. But I did my best, and I think I did a damn good job.
All the weavings of Kali and Shiva from the past week were coming into play. I had spent so much time running—throwing myself into the cold river every day, pushing my body as an act of devotion. What I thought was dedication was actually destruction. And now, here I was, in Shiva’s stillness.
I had moved to Hotel Divine Lakshmi, and I felt as if I were being held by her. Lakshmi—the goddess of abundance, softness, nourishment. Perhaps this was the energy I needed to embrace more in my life.
That afternoon, I went up to the rooftop pool and laid in the sun—something I haven’t done since Florida. Believe it or not, this was the first time in all my travels that I found a proper place to sunbathe. I soaked in the vitamin D, rested by the gentler body of water (a pool instead of a raging river), and read Shakti Awakening. I wrote poetry and allowed the stillness of my body to absorb the Shakti rays of the sun.
Rewriting the Narrative
That evening, I walked back down the street to Tattv Café, where I had been going every night. This was the café the tour guide took me to after my bizarre waterfall excursion last week. I like their hummus, steamed veggies, and ginger water (surprise, surprise). It’s hard to find places in India that will make food bland enough for me. Maybe it’s my eating disorder, but it feels safe.
This is also the only place I binged and purged the last time I was here. The memory lingers. I feel a weird nervousness eating here. But I want to rewrite the narrative. Yes, the portions are inconsistent. Yes, I got upset when they put potatoes in my vegetables one night. Yes, I made them remake my hummus because they shorted me. I know I need to loosen my grip, but I don’t know how. Maybe I need to start venturing to new restaurants, switching it up a bit.
The Art of Doing Nothing
Sometimes, self-care is really basic.
It’s forcing yourself to stay still when everything in your body wants to keep going.
It’s choosing hot water and soup when all you want is a cold coconut water and smoothie.
It’s abandoning all plans and simply surrendering to the flow.
Sometimes, self-care isn’t about doing anything at all, but rather the art of actually doing nothing.
I was raised in a culture that equates doing nothing with laziness. But maybe, sometimes, doing nothing is the very act of becoming still enough to absorb everything.
In this moment, I am grateful for the nothingness.
Because within the nothingness is exactly the medicine my soul needs.
With love and nourishment,
Eve aka Kali Grayce
Comments