“This is your mind, tame it.” the shaolin monk said and hit the gong.

The filled up to the brim water bowls in front of the pupil throwed perfectly concentric circles in reverberation, the gong unwilling to stop, the water ripples reaching resonance, about to splash. The pupils gingerly grabbed their bowls, swinging them cleverly, intricately, softening the waves and containing the water within the bowl. The monk hit the gong again, the game strengthening, the pupil slowly failing one after the next. All but one that is. The one right in front of the monk sat unmoving, her bowl still in front of her, untouched, the water contained, throwing the concentric circles but not overflowing. The monk grabbed the soft mallets and started drumming on the gong, the waves adding up, folding, merging into slower, stronger waves, the water in the pupil’s bowl still contained. The monk built up the tempo, moving around the gong counterclockwise, creating large lateral movements within gongs micro vibrations, finally breaking the natural rhythm of the water in the bowl, the water starting to work against itself, chopping until it burst out of the bowl, splashing on the pupil and all around. Her bowl containing only one third of the water, the pupil remained still.

“And this my friends,” said the monk after muting the gong, his open palm pointing to the pupil in the front, “is being zen as fuck.”