It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing, and there's this electricity in the air,

you can almost hear it, right? And this bag was just... dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it.

For fifteen minutes.  That's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this

incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever.

Video's a poor excuse, I know, but it helps me remember... I need to remember.

Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can’t take it...

and my heart is just going to cave in." -American Beauty

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For a long time, when I asked myself What is the most important Taoist principle? I would say "acceptance."  Over and over Lao Tzu tells us to be pliant and accepting, like water. But he doesn't start his book with this concept. He begins with this: 

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There was something formless and perfect
before the universe was born.
It is serene. Empty.
Solitary. Unchanging.
Infinite. Eternally present.
It is the mother of the universe.
For lack of a better name,
I call it the Tao.
It flows through all things,
inside and outside, and returns
to the origin of all things. (SM)

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Before there was form, there was formlessness.  Everything that is a physical form—a body, a building, a gesture, a word—emerges from something formless: a spirit or a force, like gravity or magnetism. To me, this is the most important Taoist principle because what matters most in life, and where the most important transformations and connections take place, is in the world of the formless. If you are only seeing and dealing with the form-al, you really are connecting with the Tao in only one limited way. The form is what we see and what so much of the world deals with; but it is truly the formless that is the undercurrent of life itself. When we forget this, we lose connection to what is real, and what is life itself.  To live in harmony with the Tao is to begin recognizing and revering the formless. This shift in awareness transforms us. 

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Have you ever met someone who seems to see through you and understand you on a deep, real level, almost immediately? This person is deeply in tune with the formless. What about animals? My dog has the same enthusiasm and love for me whether I'm all dressed up for the day or I'm just rolling around in my pajamas. Why? He feels only the formless within me. My appearance means nothing to him. What about the feelings we get around different people - comfortable, more alive, sad, repelled. Often we don't know why the feelings are the way they are, but undoubtedly they are influenced by the formless within us and the formless within the other person. 

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Art: Where Form and Formless Meet

You may be thinking, “But form does matter. We live in a physical world. Beauty, structure, and order bring joy and meaning.” Yes. But the value of form lies in how well it reflects or expresses the formless. That’s the power of art.

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Whether it’s a painting, a piece of music, a building, or a scientific theory—when form is born from the formless, it carries truth. We sense this. We feel moved, delighted, even awakened. Why? Because something formless—spirit, emotion, intuition—has taken visible shape. This is the alchemy of art.

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When form is disconnected from formlessness, it feels hollow. Beautiful on the surface, perhaps, but lifeless. When we prioritize form for its own sake—when appearance, productivity, or performance becomes the end goal—we lose touch with life’s deeper rhythm. But when form flows from the formless, when our actions, creations, and structures are infused with spirit and intention, then we touch truth. And through that, we begin to experience peace.

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The Word is Not The Thing

Ironically, the Tao Te Ching opens with a paradox: “The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao.”
The very first thing Lao Tzu tells us is that the Tao cannot be captured by words.

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Words are signs, not substance. They point to things but are never the things themselves. I can try to describe a song to you—its rise and fall, its beauty, its power—but until you hear it with your own ears, you do not truly know it. The same is true of the Tao. We can speak of it endlessly, yet no amount of talk will reveal its essence. Only direct experience can.

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So why read the Tao Te Ching at all? Why read these words? Think of words as training wheels: they help us begin the journey, but at some point, they must fall away if we are to truly ride. Words can guide us toward the Tao, but they can never replace it. This is why silence, stillness, and meditation are so central to Taoist practice—they return us to a place where the Tao can be felt, rather than thought about.

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Sometimes we believe we are living wisdom when, in truth, we are only carrying its vocabulary. I’ve called myself Taoist because I’ve read the verses, pondered their meaning, and spoken of them to others. Yet in moments of stress or disappointment, I have seen how far I am from embodying what I claim to understand.

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Being Taoist is not a label one adopts; it is a way of being that gradually flowers from lived experience. Understanding takes root not through clever words or deep study, but through walking the path, meeting life as it comes, and allowing the Tao to shape our actions, thoughts, and hearts over time.

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We should not dismiss words entirely, however. They have their place. Sometimes it is only by tracing the pathways of thought, letting language guide us like a lantern in the dark, that we glimpse the hidden framework beneath a complex idea. Too few words can flatten or even distort the truth. Words, then, are not useless—they are tools, fingers pointing toward the moon. But they are not the moon itself. They can suggest the way, sketch the outline of truth, yet they can never substitute for the living, breathing experience of it.

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Complacency vs. Peace

One of the subtle challenges in the realm of form vs formless is distinguishing between a genuine feeling of peace—what might be called “oneness with the formless”—and simple complacency, or being "fat and happy." It’s entirely possible to feel content in a situation that neither nourishes the soul nor contributes meaningfully to the greater good. Not all comfort is rooted in alignment; some of it is merely inertia.

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When you feel a sense of peace, how can you tell whether it arises from true connection to the formless—or from being overly familiar with the status quo? This question becomes especially important in moments of decision-making. I’ve often found myself wondering, Am I choosing this because it’s easy and familiar? Or am I choosing it because it reflects who I truly am and what I most deeply need?

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The key, I think, lies in honest self-inquiry—asking whether you are dwelling in the valley, that quiet place of humility and surrender, or clinging to control and habit. What is driving your choice? When the mind grows quiet and the noise of the world—along with the static of your own ego—dissolves, what remains is your essence. In that stillness, you can sense what is right. The right decision reveals itself not through logic or comfort, but through resonance with the formless—an inner knowing that needs no justification.

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It’s also important to remember that we are not meant to carry the full weight of the culture we happen to be born into. If I try to hold myself personally accountable for every law, policy, and harm perpetuated by the United States, I become overwhelmed with grief and guilt. Awareness must be paired with acceptance. This is not a call to silence in the face of injustice—it is a reminder that we cannot single-handedly overturn a broken system.

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What we can do is quietly live our truth. We can anchor ourselves in the formless, move with integrity, and offer the world an example of another way—softly, steadily, one heart at a time.

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This being said, sometimes to stay aligned with the formless, we might have to walk away. When we realize that the actions and attitudes that surround us are jolting our commitment to what we know to be true and right, we may have to move our energy to a place with more understanding of and commitment to the formless. Why pour your life into a glass that is leaking when no one cares about stopping the holes?

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​​Someone who values the formless: 

• Deals with herself and others as spiritual beings rather than bodies that happen to move and breathe.

• Realizes it's more important to feel truth and peace rather than cognitively understand the words that represent truth and peace. 

• Values feelings over appearances.

• Moves with patience—never trying to do too much, with too little, too fast.

• Finds beauty in the present moment and grace in the current situation.

• Stays grounded in honesty and the present moment, where real action and real life unfold.

• When faced with a decision, contemplates (consciously or subconsciously) whether the choice is borne from a commitment to the form-al (pride, selfishness, desire, materialism) or the formless (truth, peace, compassion, beauty).

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Questions for Reflection

How would you describe yourself without any reference to your physical body? Does this change the way you value yourself?

Think about your most important possessions. What formless qualities do they add to your life? Do they add any formless burdens to your life? Does this make you value them any differently?

If you are facing a difficulty in your life, ask yourself: What formless issues are involved? If I move my focus to the formless, how does the difficulty change?

If you are making a decision in your life, ask yourself: How does this feel to me? Which decision feels better? 

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​Quotes

What is essential is invisible to the eye." Antoine de St. Exupery

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