“How was your time with the river?,” my new friend asked. She lives in Taos, where I’d gone to read, breathe, and look at stars for a while.
“It was wonderful,” I said. “It makes me feel so clear.” She nodded.
I’d discovered a meditation spot at the Rio Grande Del Norte Gorge and visited every morning we were in Taos. It was high over the water, and allowed me to sit with my body square to the Rio Grande far below. Staggered cliffs would protect me from falling, so it felt safe to close my eyes and look within. While sitting there, I could also hear the river, which is not typically the case as you walk along the gorge.
Meditating on the Rio Grande—a real blessing—brought me peace and new ideas. I was grateful.
When he was 24, John’s musical mentor drove him over to Barnes and Noble, marched him inside, and put The Way of the Dao in his hands. This is what you need to know about conducting, he was saying. At that point, John had already been pursuing life as a conductor for nine years.
He was focused on learning how to stand in front of an orchestra, how to use gestures to communicate musical ideas, and how to study scores. He was worried about what to do after graduation. Then the person he trusted most, the one who taught him those practical musical skills, handed him a piece of ancient Eastern wisdom. There’s a long road ahead, he was saying. You’ll have to find peace with the ups and downs. You’ll have to keep your head above water. It has shaped John’s thinking since.
Meanwhile, about 350 miles east, I was in a similar boat. As a singer, I was trying to learn how to use my voice, how to be on stage, and how to win coveted opera roles. I was also worried—an understatement—about what to do after graduation. My senior year, a trusted professor and friend (who is likely reading this—hello, dear Chris) gifted me The Tao of Pooh. When I read it my concerns shifted into perspective, and I was comforted.
Though the Dao is a sophisticated ethical and philosophical framework from the third and fourth centuries B.C.E., in English it is commonly understood to mean the way. The “way” is not a concept that ever shaped Western philosophical thought, which, as the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy puts it, was dominated by ideas like “being,” “truth,” “right,” and “know.” But in Chinese philosophy, the way—or the Dao—infused everything. It was a prescriptive term meant to guide psychology and behavior rather than describe how things are.
Daoism suggests that we should live in harmony with the natural way of the universe, which is guided by qi, or the energy that flows through all things. This harmonious approach to life, it teaches, leads to happiness.
The way of the Dao is often compared to a flowing river. As the river flows we can let it guide us, like boats floating happily along, or we can resist its path. To row against the current, as you may know from experience, is unnecessarily hard. When we insist on forcing our own way, or muscling through, going against the flow of the universe leaves us with discord and unhappiness.
Every morning as I sat with the Rio Grande in Taos, I thought about the water, which despite seeming formless and fluid, slipping through our fingertips, is strong enough to have carved that deep, expansive gorge over time. I watched as the water encountered rocks in the river. As it flowed, it did not react; it moved gently around them. It could not go through the rocks, which seemed like the most straightforward path, but it accepted what is and kept flowing.
The moving water, in daoistic terms, is sensitive to the natural order of things. When we operate like the river, flowing in harmony with this natural order, gently sidestepping any boulders in our path, life requires less effort from us. We do not get worn out by striving or reaching; we flow effortlessly as the river goes around the rocks.
Western culture is built on effort; the harder we work, we are taught, the more we deserve and the more we will receive. We have to try hard to be worthy. But ancient Eastern philosophers would have us believe otherwise. They would say the flow of the universe is inherently wise; all we have to do is accept its gifts without striving too hard, which would get in the way.
It’s counterintuitive, but when I try too hard, or grasp at particular outcomes, I do get in my own way. I learn this the hard way almost every time I think I know what’s best. But after bumps in the road and unexpected detours, the universe reveals gifts greater than I’d imagined. Happiness—this is clear—is not something waiting on the other side of achievement and exploration. It is available right now.
In The Tao of Pooh, Benjamin Hoff puts it this way:
Wisdom, Happiness, and Courage are not waiting somewhere out beyond sight at the end of a straight line; they're part of a continuous cycle that begins right here. They're not only the ending, but the beginning as well. The more it snows, the more it goes, the more it goes on snowing.
It wasn’t a coincidence that John and I were both given the Dao in the same chapter of our lives, as young musicians trying to find our way. We started asking how to exist meaningfully and peacefully before we even met. A couple of years later, we would start exploring those questions together.
One day my friend in Taos—we call her my big sister now—offered some advice after hearing my current set of questions. She said it’s simple—that all I need to do in these moments is get out of my own way. To release any notions of who I am, who I was, or who I should be, and move over so my brain and body can settle into a coherent state. Then, she said, my path would be obvious.
I listened, then kicked stones down the trail as I walked to my spot by the river. I watched the water flow and, settling into the present, did what she said without even trying. I got out of the way. I felt a sense of peace and heard that inner voice of wisdom and clarity—the one we all possess, the one that doesn’t require any doing at all.
In a matter of days, the Rio Grande was able to show me what Daoism has suggested all along—that letting the flow of the universe guide me gently through life will bring ease and contentment. I am ready.
Between you and me—
This week, this lemon made me laugh; this licorice got my attention; and I knew this haiku was meant for anyone who enjoyed last week’s essay about embracing discomfort to make room for blessings:
Barn’s burnt down—
now
I can see the moon.—MIZUTA MASAHIDE
Thank you for being here. Thank you for the kind notes last week. Till next time, take care.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider supporting it by becoming a sponsor. You can also click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!