Life can be approached in two broad ways: one, by maximizing joy in the present, and the other, by delaying gratification for a higher purpose or future gain.
Like most people, I’ve lived a combination of both. But in hindsight, I’ve let the latter—delayed gratification—overshadow the former.
This contrast parallels the lives of a worldly person versus a spiritual seeker. In many ways, the worldly person actually lives more in the present. He derives pleasure from immediate experiences—watching a cricket match regardless of screen-time rules, indulging in his favorite food despite health warnings, enjoying wealth, wine, and women, as the cliché goes. He is undoubtedly anchored in the now.
The spiritual aspirant, on the other hand, often does the opposite. The yogi delays gratification. The jnana yogi (path of knowledge) engages his mind, and as we all know, the mind can be a trap and takes one furthest from the present moment. The karma yogi (path of selfless action) focuses on serving others rather than loving himself. All of these approaches, in a way, postpone present joy in the hope of future liberation. Even the bhakti yogi—arguably the most joyful of the lot—may get caught in the same trap if his devotion becomes ritualistic or burdensome. He too may end up holding the present hostage for the promise of future union with the divine.
In modern psychological terms, particularly within the Jungian–Freudian or psychodynamic tradition, this same idea is expressed through shadow work: confronting and transforming the darker, more painful parts of the self now, for the sake of healing and wholeness later. It’s another form of delayed gratification—suffering now, for possible peace later.
My own life has largely followed this shadow-work model. And perhaps, until now, that was necessary. But today, at approximately 47 years of age, I feel called to shift gears.
I’ve recently found resonance with Nietzsche’s idea of what I call “conscious superficiality.” He suggests that the playful fish near the ocean’s surface, darting about in sunlight and waves, might be living a richer life than the solitary deep-sea creature plumbing the depths. He questions whether a life obsessed with depth—digging endlessly for hidden truths—might itself be a recipe for misery.
Conversations with a dear friend have further opened me to this view. It seems that those who don’t dig too deep often appear far happier than those who do. People of depth tend to suffer more. This might reflect a basic Zen truth: the human mind is inherently negative. Zen, after all, advocates living without concepts. The deeper we go, the more we rely on the mind—or more precisely, the bipolar intellect—which constantly questions, splits, doubts. It prevents us from ever settling into a simple way of being. My own life has been marked by this restlessness, though I am now slowly course-correcting. I’d rather live like a Zen monk or a Taoist sage than a jnana yogi or scholar.
While I now advocate savoring the simpler pleasures of life rather than living in the overactive mind—whether secular or spiritual—I am not endorsing mindless hedonism. This piece might come across as anti-spiritual and pro-worldly, but what if Epicurus was as right as Shankaracharya? Osho’s vision was of a “Zorba the Buddha”—a man rooted both in the material and the spiritual. Perhaps he was right—at least in theory. Whether such a balance can be practically achieved is up to each of us to explore.
Swami Vivekananda once said, “You will be nearer to heaven through football than through the study of the Gita.” He wasn’t dismissing scripture, but reminding us that vitality, experience, and groundedness in life matter just as much as abstract knowledge or perhaps matter more.
So the next time you feel like picking up a self-help book, maybe try having a sandwich instead. For all you know, that simple act might make you more spiritual. After all, what is spirituality if not being truly spirited?
