A wounded man is waiting for a surgeon. His friends have brought help, but he stops them. Before they remove the poisoned arrow, there are things he wants to know.
Who shot it? Where was the man from? What sort of bow did he use? What were the feathers on the shaft?
This is a simile the Buddha told. It has a terrible stillness to it: the questions can travel anywhere, while the man cannot get away from the arrow.
At the beginning of Nothing Missing, morning comes with its familiar weight.
“Same hands. Same face.”
The mind starts laying out its unfinished questions. One answer might finally settle everything. One more event might make the whole life fall into place. Until then, even an ordinary morning can feel provisional.
“Thoughts come. Thoughts fade.”
The day passes through them. There is work to do. There may be something that hurts and needs attention. The old demand for a final answer can be seen among these other things, as another event in the mind.
“Nothing missing. Nothing wrong.”
The refrain leaves the wound deserving care. It releases the condition we kept placing on every act of living: first, the whole mystery must be solved.
Evening arrives without solving it.
A few plans have changed. A few thoughts have returned. The room is darker now.
Somehow, the unanswered question takes up less of it.