The worst taoist in the world

Taoism has truly brought a sense of peace, wholeness, and effortless joy into my life. But this past weekend, as I began thinking about where I am hoping to get in life, I had a stark realization: I am very attached to outcomes in so many areas — my financial situation, my appearance, my love life, my house, my writing, my art. When I am honest with myself, I realize I still want very much to somehow be in the upper 10%, live in a beautiful home with a beautiful yard, look Instagram worthy at all times, create gallery-worthy art, have a dog that obeys, go on lovely perfect vacations, enjoy close, deeply fulfilling friendships … EVERYTHING. And I'm only sort of kidding. In fact, I as I thought it about it honestly, I realized I may subconsciously live Taoism with the hope that good things will come to me as a result. Now that is embarrassing. What kind of a person embraces the outward life of a saint in an effort to somehow fake out the universe and take the backdoor route to a life of luxury, love, and loveliness? At the same time, my guess is I'm not alone in my attempt to somehow find the balance between living the humble, accepting life of a philosopher while keeping one toe dipped in the pool of earthly delights. I often explain it away by saying, "Is it really that bad to want things? Isn't it the nature of man to want things, to have goals, to prefer the good??" Yes, it may be the nature of man, but it doesn't mean that being focused on outcomes is not harmful. Non attachment is a key Taoist principle, and for good reason.

Attachment brings with it multiple misalignments. First, when we’re tied to outcomes, every moment becomes a scorecard. We are constantly seeing things in terms of good or bad, we become exhausted by the constant calculations, and our focus is taken from the here and now to some finish line that we believe will confer upon us what we've been seeking all along. The truth is, nothing is entirely good or bad, so this whole exercise of wanting to “win” is a waste of precious life. Embracing the Tao moves us from measuring to experiencing.

Second, as Chapter 9 reminds us, attachment tightens our heart. We begin to need accomplishment or triumph at every turn. Again, we move out of letting the Tao flow through us into an ego-driven quest for more and better. There is nothing peaceful or wise about that.

Third, focusing on outcomes gives us a false sense of control. We often cling to outcomes because we believe that if we try hard enough, plan perfectly enough, or stress intensely enough, we can force life to give us what we want. But Taoism gently reminds us — through many chapters — that the Tao moves on its own schedule. The tighter we grip, the more life slips through our fingers. This is why wu wei is so liberating: It’s not passive; it’s the willingness to move with life rather than against it.

Finally, being attached to outcomes distorts our vision of ourselves. We start judging ourselves, the perfect beings that we are, by narrow, man-prescribed measurements: Am I “pretty” enough? Am I rich enough? Do I have enough status? Am I smart enough? In the Tao-driven life, these measurements are nothing more than irrelevant distractions.

Finally, my attachment to outcomes and “the good life” makes me blind to the most valuable part of my existence: the energy bestowed upon me by the Tao - my self, though we can't hold too tightly to even that if we want to move with the Tao.

Chapter 11 of the Tao Te Ching tells us that the most important part of a wheel is not the myriad spokes spinning around, but the empty center. All the outcomes we desire are just spokes. The most essential thing is who we are as a person — the center.

The movie Paterson (one of my favorites) teaches this concept effortlessly. Throughout the film we see how important writing poetry is to Paterson. He is always observing life, capturing quiet and insightful fragments in a small, ragged notebook. His partner repeatedly tells him he should make a backup copy, but he always puts her off, assuring her he will take care of it "tomorrow." Then one night, after returning from dinner, he finds the living room covered in shredded paper. The dog has chewed up the notebook.

Paterson is not attached to much, but you can see the deep pain quietly rising as he takes in what he has lost. He kneels, trying to salvage a few pages, but it is useless. We feel deeply for him as his life’s work lies like trash on the floor, the faultless dog with the large, feeling-less eyes panting in the corner.

From that point on, Paterson lives in a kind of quiet mourning — not only for the poems, but for his identity as a poet. He begins to believe the loss is a sign that he was never meant to be a poet at all.

Then, at the waterfall that has always been a source of comfort and wisdom for him, he encounters a stranger holding a book by William Carlos Williams — one of Paterson’s favorite poets. Paterson is stunned. “Are you a poet?” he asks. “Yes,” the man says. It feels like anything but an accident. What a gift, to meet someone who shares the passion Paterson thought he’d lost. They talk briefly, and as the man departs, he hands Paterson a gift that is seemingly dropped from the Tao itself: a blank notebook. In this moment, Paterson realizes that although he may have lost his poems, he still possesses the most important thing — himself and his ideas. He is a poet, someone that sees meaning and truth in all that he observes, and that can never be taken away from him.

And THAT is perhaps the most important thing I forget when I stay attached to all those pretty outcomes. I think they are what matter in life, they are what will make me happy, when the most valuable thing is actually ME — and life itself. The greatest source of joy, peace, and fulfillment is feeling life pulse through you the way it was meant to.

I began this post by saying I am the worst Taoist in the world. But through this writing I realize that is not quite true. Why? As one of my favorite Tao Te Ching line says, "He who is sick doesn't know he is sick." In other words, being spiritually "sick" has little to do with the "sickness" per se and everything to do with being able to truly see oneself in the mirror. Once we have an impression that we are off in some way, the sickness begins to lift. Nothing has confirmed to me my wellness more than this as I am, if nothing else, full of self-criticism almost to a fault. But from the perspective of this line, all that criticism, all that dwelling in the valley, whispers that perhaps I am not so sick after all.

So, even though I see how imperfect I am in this way and so many other ways, I will just keep on my road, striving to let go of expectations as best I can. Letting go does not mean I stop caring for the things in my life or helping them grow. It means I don’t let myself be defined by them. It means quietly considering what I truly need, what actually brings me joy, and placing my energy there instead of investing it in illusions that promise some kind of narrow, human-defined "fulfillment." It means staying calm and centered even through the natural ebbs and flows of life. I am the center of the wheel. As long as I remain steady, kind, and awake, everything else will be okay.