More than two thousand years ago, in ancient China, a small collection of verses appeared that would become one of the most influential spiritual and philosophical texts in human history.
We know it today as the Tao Te Ching.
Tradition attributes the book to Lao Tzu — a name usually translated as "Old Master." According to the traditional story, Lao Tzu lived in ancient China and served as a keeper of imperial archives. Disappointed by the growing disorder of society, he eventually decided to leave civilization behind.
As he reached the western border, a guard recognized his wisdom and asked him to write down what he had learned before disappearing into the mountains.
Lao Tzu agreed.
He wrote a short text of roughly five thousand Chinese characters and then continued on his way.
Whether it happened exactly like this, we do not know.
Historians have long debated whether Lao Tzu was one historical person, whether some of the teachings were collected over time, and precisely when the Tao Te Ching took the form we know today.
But perhaps we do not need to solve that mystery before listening to what the Old Master has to say.
More than two thousand years later, his words are still here.
The word Tao — also written Dao — is usually translated as "the Way."
But that translation only takes us so far.
The Tao is not simply a path we are supposed to follow. Nor is it a god, a doctrine, or a set of commandments.
Lao Tzu uses the word to point toward the underlying mystery of existence: that from which everything arises, within which everything moves, and to which everything returns.
And immediately there is a problem.
The moment we define the Tao, we have made it into an idea.
So Lao Tzu begins the entire Tao Te Ching with a warning:
The Tao that can be spoken
is not the eternal Tao.
That may seem like a rather inconvenient way to begin a book about the Tao.
But it tells us something essential about how this book is meant to be read.
Lao Tzu is not trying to give us another belief system.
He is pointing.
Again and again he uses ordinary things — water, valleys, rivers, doors, wheels, bowls, children, wood, darkness and light — to direct our attention toward something that cannot quite be captured in words.
The Tao is not something we must believe in.
It is something Lao Tzu invites us to notice.
Much of human life is built around adding.
We acquire knowledge, possessions, status, experiences, opinions, achievements and identities. Even spirituality can become another project of accumulation: more understanding, more practices, more wisdom, perhaps even a slightly more impressive spiritual version of ourselves.
Lao Tzu often moves in the opposite direction.
He speaks of simplicity.
Of emptiness.
Of softness.
Of not forcing.
Of knowing when to stop.
Of acting without needing to possess the result.
One of the central ideas of the Tao Te Ching is wu wei, often translated as "non-doing" or "effortless action."
It does not mean sitting on the sofa and refusing to do the dishes because Lao Tzu said so.
It means action without unnecessary forcing.
Water is Lao Tzu’s favorite example. Water does not struggle with the landscape. It moves around rocks, enters the lowest places, changes shape without losing its nature, and yet over time can wear away stone.
There is tremendous power in something that does not need to fight.
The world in which Lao Tzu lived was very different from ours.
There were no smartphones, social media, twenty-four-hour news channels or overflowing online shopping baskets.
And yet the human mind seems to have remained remarkably recognizable.
We still compare.
We still chase.
We still worry about what others think.
We still accumulate things and then worry about losing them.
We still try to control life and become frustrated when life stubbornly refuses to consult our plans.
Perhaps this is why the Tao Te Ching has survived for so long.
It does not tell us how to improve the world by becoming better at controlling it.
It asks whether some of our struggle comes from the attempt to control what was never ours to control.
And then it offers another possibility:
What happens when we stop pushing for a moment and listen?
In this booklet, we will also place Lao Tzu’s teachings in dialogue with A Course in Miracles.
These teachings arose in completely different worlds. The Tao Te Ching emerged from ancient Chinese thought more than two millennia ago. A Course in Miracles appeared in the twentieth century and uses a psychological and Christian vocabulary that would have been entirely foreign to Lao Tzu.
They should therefore not be forced into agreement.
The Tao is not simply another word for God as the Course uses that word, and Lao Tzu’s view of nature and the changing world is not identical to the Course’s metaphysics.
Those differences matter.
And yet, when the two are allowed to speak without trying to make one imitate the other, something fascinating happens.
And both, in very different ways, suggest that peace becomes visible when we stop insisting that Reality conform to our ideas about it.
So this is not a book about proving that Lao Tzu secretly taught A Course in Miracles two thousand years before the Course appeared.
Nor is it an attempt to translate Taoism into the language of the Course.
It is a conversation.
Two voices from very different times.
Two different maps.
And perhaps, occasionally, a glimpse beyond both maps.
The Tao Te Ching does not unfold like an argument with a beginning, a middle, and a conclusion.
Lao Tzu seems to move differently.
He circles.
Again and again he approaches the same mysterious center, but from another direction.
One moment he speaks of water, another of emptiness, softness, simplicity, desire, leadership, the body, or silence.
These are not separate lessons to memorize.
Perhaps the Tao Te Ching is better approached not as a straight road, but as a spiral.
In the first chapters, Lao Tzu begins by disturbing some of our most familiar certainties. Beautiful and ugly.
Good and bad.
Being and non-being.
He then begins pointing toward another way of moving through life:
less forcing, less grasping, less interference.
As the spiral continues, his images deepen.
Water finds its way without struggle.
Emptiness makes a vessel useful.
Softness reveals a strength that hardness does not possess.
By Chapter 11, something that began as a mystery has become almost tangible:
the empty center allows the wheel to turn, and the empty space makes the vessel useful.
Then, in Chapters 12–20, the spiral turns inward.
Now Lao Tzu looks more directly at what may stand between us and this natural simplicity: stimulation, desire, praise and blame, identification with the body, cleverness, moral certainty, social expectations, and finally our conviction that we already know what things mean.
And so the question gradually changes.
It is no longer only:
What is the Tao?
It becomes:
What have I placed between myself and the Tao?
By Chapter 20, Lao Tzu arrives somewhere unexpected. He does not stand before us as someone who has finally found all the answers.
While the world around him seems certain about what should be valued, pursued, feared, and understood, he allows himself to step outside that certainty.
He becomes willing not to know.
Seen this way, these first twenty chapters form a beautiful first turn of the spiral:
from trying to understand Reality, through simplicity and letting go, toward questioning the very mind that believed it already understood.
But a spiral does not return to exactly the same place.
Each time it comes around, the view has changed.
Perhaps we have changed too.
And these first twenty chapters are only the beginning.
There is no need to hurry.
The Tao Te Ching is a very short book that can take a lifetime to read.
Some passages may immediately make sense. Others may seem contradictory. Some may become clear only after you have stopped thinking about them.
That is perfectly all right.
For each chapter, we will first explore what Lao Tzu may be pointing toward. Then we will bring his teaching into dialogue with A Course in Miracles, looking at both similarities and differences. Finally, each chapter ends with a short reflection.
You do not have to agree with either teaching.
Just look.
See what happens when an ancient sentence is allowed to remain in the mind for a while without immediately deciding what it means.
Because perhaps the best preparation for meeting Lao Tzu is also one of his simplest invitations:
come with empty hands.
There is nothing you need to bring.
And perhaps a little less than you thought you knew.
The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao.
The name that can be named is not the eternal Name.
(Lao Tzu, "Tao Te Ching", Chapter 1)
A Course in Miracles begins from a remarkably similar perspective.
It reminds us that words are symbols. Useful symbols. Beautiful symbols. But still symbols. They are not Reality itself.
The Course says:
"Words are but symbols of symbols. They are thus twice removed from reality."
Like Lao Tzu, ACIM invites us not to confuse the finger with the moon.
The map is not the landscape.
The menu is not the meal.
The word "Love" is not Love itself.
The word "God" is not God.
The word "peace" is not peace.
Reality must ultimately be experienced, not described.
Perhaps the greatest invitation of this first chapter is simply this:
Read these pages slowly.
Do not hurry to understand them.
Allow them to become quiet enough that something deeper than thought begins to listen.
Perhaps Truth is not something we finally understand.
Perhaps it is something we recognize.
When people see some things as beautiful,
other things become ugly.
When people see some things as good,
other things become bad.
Being and non-being give rise to each other.
Difficult and easy support each other.
Long and short define each other.
High and low depend on each other.
Before and after follow each other.
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 2)
Lao Tzu invites us to notice something so ordinary that we rarely question it.
The moment we call one thing beautiful, we have already created the possibility of something else being ugly.
The moment we call one thing good, we have also created its opposite.
Our thinking mind naturally divides the world into pairs of opposites.
Success and failure.
Gain and loss.
Pleasure and pain.
Praise and blame.
Yet Lao Tzu is not saying that beauty or goodness are wrong.
He is inviting us to see that opposites exist because the mind compares.
Without comparison, many of these opposites lose their meaning.
Light and shadow define one another.
Long and short exist only in relation to each other.
One cannot exist without the other.
The Tao itself lies beyond these comparisons.
It is not caught in one side or the other.
It embraces both without becoming either.
A Course in Miracles approaches this from a different direction, yet arrives at a surprisingly similar insight.
According to the Course, the ego’s thought system is built upon division.
It divides our reality into opposites,
Love and fear.
Innocence and guilt.
Winner and loser.
Us and them.
The Course teaches that this divided way of seeing does not reveal Reality.
It reflects the belief in separation.
True vision does not choose one opposite over another.
It looks beyond both.
Where the ego sees differences, the Holy Spirit sees what is shared.
Where the ego judges, the Holy Spirit gently overlooks the judgment and remembers only the truth.
How often do we spend our days comparing?
This is better than that.
I should be more successful.
I wish my life looked different.
Perhaps suffering begins, not with what we experience, but with the labels we quietly attach to our experience.
What if, just for today, we noticed our judgments without immediately believing them?
Maybe beneath every comparison there is already a peace that has never needed comparison at all.
Do not exalt the gifted,
and people will not compete.
Do not value rare treasures,
and people will not steal.
Do not display what people desire,
and their hearts will not be disturbed.
Therefore, the Sage governs by emptying minds,
filling bellies,
weakening ambitions,
and strengthening bones.
He helps people become free from excessive knowledge and desire.
He acts without forcing,
and everything falls into its proper place.
((Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 3)
At first glance, this chapter may seem strange.
Is Lao Tzu suggesting that we should not appreciate talented people?
Should we stop valuing beauty, knowledge or excellence?
Not at all.
His concern is not with talent itself, but with the restless mind that constantly compares, desires and competes.
The more we build our lives around status, possessions and recognition, the more the mind becomes disturbed.
We begin to measure ourselves against others. We fear losing what we have. We long for what we do not have.
Peace quietly slips away.
The Sage does not attempt to control people through force. Instead, he removes the causes of unnecessary conflict. He trusts that when the mind becomes quiet, life naturally returns to balance.
This is one of Lao Tzu’s central insights.
When we stop forcing life, life often begins to unfold with remarkable intelligence.
A Course in Miracles also speaks about the restless activity of the ego.
The ego constantly seeks specialness.
It wants to be admired.
It wants to possess.
It wants to be right.
It compares itself with others and builds an identity upon those comparisons.
The Course gently points out that this search can never bring lasting peace, because it is based upon the belief that something is missing.
True peace does not come from becoming more special.
It comes from remembering that nothing real has ever been lacking.
One of the most remarkable statements in ACIM is: "I need do nothing."
At first, these words may sound passive. Yet they point toward something very similar to what Lao Tzu calls "acting without forcing".
Neither teaching encourages laziness.
Neither suggests that we should stop living or stop caring.
Instead, both invite us to release the constant effort of the ego to control every outcome.
When fear no longer directs our actions, a deeper intelligence begins to guide them.
How much of our daily effort is truly necessary?
And how much is simply the ego trying to make life conform to its own expectations?
Perhaps there is another way.
Not a life without action,
but a life without inner struggle.
Not doing less,
but forcing less.
Perhaps peace does not come because we finally control life, but it comes because we no longer believe that we have to.
The Tao is like an empty vessel;
it is used but never filled.
Oh, unfathomable source of ten thousand things!
It blunts the sharpness, unties the knots, softens the glare, becomes one with the dust.
Deeply hidden, yet ever present.
I do not know whose child it is.
It seems to have existed before the gods.
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 4)
Lao Tzu now describes the Tao as an empty vessel that can never be exhausted.
At first this sounds like a contradiction. How can something empty be infinitely useful?
For Lao Tzu, emptiness is not the absence of something. It is openness. An empty cup can receive. An empty room can be entered. An open mind can discover.
The Tao never needs to defend itself, prove itself or possess anything. Because it clings to nothing, it remains available for everything.
Lao Tzu also says that the Tao "blunts the sharpness" and "unties the knots." Life constantly presents us with situations that the mind wants to analyze, judge and control. The Tao does something very different. It softens what has become rigid. It quietly dissolves what has become tangled.
Finally, Lao Tzu says that the Tao existed before the gods.
This is not a statement about religion. It is a poetic way of saying that ultimate Reality exists before every concept, every belief and every name we give to it.
A Course in Miracles also invites us to discover what remains when the mind becomes quiet.
The Course teaches that our true nature has never been lost. What hides it is not reality itself, but the countless judgments, fears and beliefs that cover it like clouds hiding the sun.
The Holy Spirit does not add truth to our minds. Truth is already there. Instead, He gently helps us remove the obstacles that prevent us from recognizing it.
This beautifully echoes Lao Tzu’s image of untangling knots. Neither teaching asks us to create peace. Peace is revealed as the mind lets go of what has been obscuring it.
One of the central ideas in the Course is that we do not become our true Self—we remember It.
Lao Tzu points in much the same direction. The Tao is never absent. We simply become too occupied by our own thinking to notice it.
What if peace is not something we need to achieve?
What if it has been quietly waiting beneath all the thoughts, opinions and worries we keep carrying?
Perhaps we spend much of life trying to fill the cup.
Lao Tzu gently suggests something unexpected.
Leave some space.
The cup is useful because it is empty.
Can it be the mind is the same?
————-
Heaven and Earth are impartial.
They treat all things like straw dogs.
The Sage is impartial.
He treats all people like straw dogs.
The space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows.
Empty, yet never exhausted.
The more it moves, the more it produces.
Much talking leads to exhaustion.
Better to remain centered.
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 5)
This chapter has puzzled readers for centuries.
In ancient China, straw dogs were beautifully crafted figures used during sacred ceremonies. They were treated with great respect while the ritual lasted. Afterwards, they were simply returned to nature.
Lao Tzu uses this image to remind us that nature does not play favorites. The sun shines on the kind and the unkind. Rain falls on the fields of both the wise and the foolish.
The Tao does not reward or punish. It simply allows life to unfold according to its own nature.
The Sage learns from this. Instead of judging people, he remains inwardly balanced. Compassion does not require preference. Wisdom does not depend upon taking sides.
Lao Tzu also compares the space between Heaven and Earth to a bellows. Though empty, it continually gives life.
Again, emptiness is presented not as lack, but as limitless potential.
Finally, he warns that excessive talking often creates confusion.
Silence is not ignorance.
It is often the place where wisdom quietly appears.
A Course in Miracles also teaches that God’s Love makes no distinctions.
God does not love one child more than another.
His Love is constant because it is not based upon behavior, achievement or worthiness.
The Course repeatedly reminds us that judgment belongs to the ego.
Whenever we divide people into worthy and unworthy, innocent and guilty, superior and inferior, we reinforce the illusion of separation.
Forgiveness becomes possible only when we begin to see beyond these judgments.
Like Lao Tzu, the Course invites us to discover a peace that does not depend upon constantly evaluating the world.
It is from this quiet mind that true compassion naturally arises.
How much of our daily thinking is spent judging?
This is good.
That is bad.
This person deserves.
That person does not.
Perhaps peace begins when we notice how much energy these judgments require.
Probably wisdom is not found in having more opinions, instead it quietly appears in the space between them.
The spirit of the valley never dies.
It is called the Mysterious Female.
The gateway of the Mysterious Female
is called the root of Heaven and Earth.
It is like a veil, barely seen,
yet its presence is inexhaustible.
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 6)
The valley is one of Lao Tzu’s favorite symbols.
Unlike the mountain, the valley does not try to rise above everything else.
It rests quietly below.
Because it is low, every stream naturally flows toward it.
For Lao Tzu, the valley represents humility, openness and receptivity.
The "Mysterious Female" is not about gender.
It symbolizes the creative, nurturing and life-giving aspect of the Tao.
Everything arises from this invisible source.
Yet the source itself remains hidden.
Lao Tzu reminds us that the deepest realities are often the least noticeable.
They do not demand attention.
They quietly sustain everything.
A Course in Miracles also speaks of an invisible Source.
God is the Creator of all that is real.
His Love continually extends without effort and without limit.
The Holy Spirit gently leads us back toward the remembrance of this Source.
Like the valley, this guidance never forces.
It quietly waits until we are willing to listen.
The ego seeks importance.
The Holy Spirit values willingness.
The quieter the mind becomes, the easier it is to recognize the Presence that has never left us.
Our world often admires what is loud, impressive and visible.
Lao Tzu invites us to look somewhere else.
Toward what is quiet.
Toward what receives instead of demands.
Toward the unseen Presence that silently nourishes life itself.
It can be the most essential thing that has never needed to make itself known,
It may simply been waiting for us to become still enough to notice it.
"Heaven is eternal; Earth endures.
The reason Heaven and Earth can endure and last forever
is that they do not live for themselves.
Therefore they can live forever.
Thus the Sage puts himself last,
and so finds himself in the foremost place.
He remains detached from himself,
and so is preserved.
Is it not because he has no self-interest
that all his personal aims are fulfilled?"
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 7)
Lao Tzu points to one of the great paradoxes of life. Our instinct is often to protect ourselves, promote ourselves, and hold tightly to what we believe is ours. Yet he suggests that this very effort creates tension and separation.
Heaven and Earth do not exist for themselves. They simply express what they are, without seeking recognition or reward. Because they do not cling to themselves, they remain in harmony with the Tao.
The Sage follows the same principle. Rather than striving to become important, he lets go of the need to place himself at the center. Surprisingly, this does not diminish him. Instead, it allows him to live with freedom, clarity, and quiet strength.
Lao Tzu is not encouraging self-denial or self-neglect. He is describing a life in which the constant need to defend and promote the personal self gradually falls away. When that burden disappears, a deeper peace naturally emerges.
A Course in Miracles approaches this idea from a different direction. It teaches that the personal self—the separate identity we work so hard to protect—is not our true Self. The ego survives by constantly placing itself at the center of every experience. It asks, How does this affect me? What do I gain? What might I lose?
The Course invites us to question this entire way of thinking. As the grip of the ego loosens, another awareness begins to emerge—one that is naturally peaceful because it no longer depends on comparison, competition, or self-protection.
Where Lao Tzu speaks of living without self-interest, the Course speaks of remembering our shared Identity. Both point beyond the restless search for personal importance, although ACIM explains this shift as the result of awakening from the belief in separation.
Notice how often the mind quietly asks to be seen, appreciated, or acknowledged. There is nothing wrong with these impulses—they are part of the human experience. Simply observe them without judgment.
Then, for a brief moment, imagine laying aside the need to be first, to be right, or to be noticed.
What remains?
Perhaps, in that quiet space, you discover that nothing essential has been lost. Instead, there is a presence that has been there all along—needing nothing, yet quietly embracing everything.
"The highest good is like water.
Water benefits all things
and does not compete.
It dwells in places that others disdain.
Therefore it is close to the Tao.
In dwelling, live close to the land.
In thinking, keep to the simple.
In conflict, be fair and gentle.
In governing, be just.
In work, do what you enjoy.
In action, choose the right moment.
Because it does not compete,
it remains beyond reproach."
(((Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 8)
Water is one of Lao Tzu’s most powerful images. It has no ambition, seeks no recognition, and never struggles to become what it already is. Yet without effort, it nourishes forests, fills rivers, shapes mountains, and sustains every living thing.
Water naturally flows to the lowest places—places that many people overlook or avoid. In doing so, it reveals a quiet strength. It does not become less by flowing downward. It simply follows its nature.
Lao Tzu invites us to live in the same way. Rather than forcing life to conform to our wishes, we learn to move with wisdom, patience, and simplicity. Strength is no longer measured by control or dominance, but by the ability to remain flexible, kind, and responsive.
This is not passivity. Water is among the most powerful forces in nature. Its strength lies precisely in its willingness to adapt without losing its essence.
A Course in Miracles also points toward a way of living that does not arise from conflict. It teaches that the ego believes strength comes from defending itself, competing with others, and constantly proving its value. Yet this struggle never brings lasting peace.
The Course invites us to discover another kind of strength—one that comes from letting go of fear rather than overcoming others. A peaceful mind does not need to resist life. Instead, it allows love to guide perception and action.
Where Lao Tzu speaks of flowing like water, the Course speaks of removing the inner obstacles that prevent love from flowing naturally. In both, true strength is quiet. It does not need to announce itself.
Think about water for a moment.
It never argues with the shape of the river. It does not insist that the mountain move out of its way. Yet over time, it can carve valleys through solid rock.
Perhaps there are places in your own life where less resistance would reveal greater strength.
Not because you have given up, but because you have stopped fighting what never needed to be your enemy.
Sometimes the gentlest movement carries the deepest power.
"Fill your bowl to the brim
and it will spill.
Keep sharpening your knife
and it will soon become blunt.
Chase after wealth and security
and your heart will never be at peace.
Care too much about approval
and you will become a prisoner of other people’s opinions.
Do your work, then step back.
This is the way of the Tao."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 9)
Lao Tzu reminds us that everything in nature has its right measure. When we ignore this balance and continually seek more—more possessions, more success, more recognition—we eventually create the very problems we hoped to avoid.
A bowl filled beyond its limit can no longer receive. A knife sharpened without end loses its usefulness. What begins as something valuable becomes damaged through excess.
The same is true in human life. The desire to achieve is not the problem. The problem begins when achievement becomes an endless pursuit, driven by the fear that what we have—or who we are—is never enough.
The Sage understands when to act, when to stop, and when to let go. Rather than clinging to results, he trusts that each action has its proper time. Once the work is complete, he releases it and allows life to unfold naturally.
A Course in Miracles also points to the restless search for completion in the world. The ego believes that happiness will be found in acquiring something more—another success, another possession, another achievement, or another person’s approval. Yet every gain is temporary, and the search begins again.
The Course questions this endless striving. It teaches that nothing outside ourselves can complete what has never truly been lacking. Peace is not something we earn. It is remembered when we stop looking for fulfillment where it cannot be found.
Where Lao Tzu encourages us to step back after completing our work, the Course invites us to release our attachment to outcomes. We are asked to offer what we can with love and allow the results to take care of themselves.
Think of something you have worked hard to achieve.
Notice what happened after you reached it.
Was there a quiet moment of contentment… followed by the next goal waiting in the distance?
The mind easily believes that peace lies just beyond the next accomplishment.
Lao Tzu gently suggests another possibility.
Do what is yours to do.
Do it wholeheartedly.
Then let it go.
Perhaps peace is not waiting at the end of the journey.
Perhaps it quietly accompanies each step when nothing more needs to be added.
"Can you hold your soul and embrace the One
without ever letting them separate?
Can you soften your breath
until it becomes as gentle as that of a newborn child?
Can you cleanse your inner vision
until you see without distortion?
Can you love and guide others
without trying to control them?
Can you open and close the gates of Heaven
while remaining like the receptive valley?
Can you understand all things
without relying on cleverness?
To give birth and to nourish,
to act without possessing,
to lead without controlling—
this is the profound virtue."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 10)
Unlike many other chapters, Lao Tzu does not offer answers here. Instead, he asks a series of quiet questions. They are not meant to test our knowledge, but to invite self-examination.
Each question points toward the same direction. Is it possible to live with a mind that is no longer divided? Can we remain connected to the deeper source of life without constantly interfering, controlling, judging, or forcing?
The image of the newborn child suggests openness, simplicity, and effortless presence. The child is not yet burdened by the endless calculations of the adult mind.
Lao Tzu then describes what true wisdom looks like. It gives without possessing. It supports without controlling. It leads without seeking power. Such a person allows life to unfold rather than trying to dominate it.
He calls this the profound virtue—not because it is morally superior, but because it expresses the Tao itself.
A Course in Miracles also invites us to examine the mind rather than simply changing our behaviour. The ego believes that love requires control, that wisdom depends on cleverness, and that safety comes from managing every outcome.
The Course reverses this way of thinking. It teaches that real guidance comes from a quiet mind willing to listen rather than to dominate. When fear begins to fall away, our actions become more loving without effort or calculation.
Lao Tzu describes living in harmony with the Tao. A Course in Miracles describes allowing the Holy Spirit to guide perception. Although their language differs, both point toward a way of living in which wisdom arises from inner stillness rather than personal control.
Take a moment to notice how often the mind wants to manage life.
It wants certainty before taking a step.
It wants guarantees before trusting.
It wants to improve, protect, explain, and control.
Now imagine setting that burden down, if only for a moment.
Not becoming passive.
Not becoming indifferent.
Simply allowing life to breathe without constantly trying to direct every movement.
Perhaps true wisdom is quieter than we imagined.
Perhaps it has never asked us to control life.
Only to be fully present within it.
"Thirty spokes share the hub of a wheel,
but it is the empty space at the center
that makes the wheel useful.
Clay is shaped into a vessel,
but it is the empty space within
that makes it useful.
Doors and windows are cut into a house,
but it is the empty space inside
that makes it a home.
Therefore, what is present may give form,
but what is absent gives it purpose."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 11)
Lao Tzu draws our attention to something we rarely notice: the value of empty space.
When we look at a wheel, we usually see the spokes and the wood. Yet without the open hub at its center, the wheel could not turn. A clay pot is useful not because of the clay itself, but because it holds an empty space. A house is built from walls, doors, and windows, yet what we truly live in is the space they surround.
Again and again, Lao Tzu invites us to look beyond what is visible. We naturally focus on objects and forms, while overlooking the invisible qualities that make them meaningful.
His point reaches far beyond wheels and houses. A mind constantly filled with thoughts has little room for insight. A life crowded with activity leaves little space for stillness. Sometimes what appears to be "nothing" is precisely what allows everything else to function.
A Course in Miracles also invites us to look beyond appearances. The world draws our attention to forms, events, and circumstances, yet the Course asks us to notice the mind that is aware of them.
The value of inner stillness is not that it creates truth, but that it allows us to become aware of what has always been present. When the mind is no longer completely occupied by fear, judgment, and constant interpretation, another way of seeing naturally becomes possible.
Where Lao Tzu points to the usefulness of empty space, the Course points to the quiet mind in which true perception can arise. Neither suggests that emptiness is a void to be feared. Instead, it is the openness through which clarity becomes possible.
Think about the spaces in your life.
The pause between two breaths.
The silence between two thoughts.
The quiet moment before you answer.
We often believe that fullness gives life its value.
Lao Tzu gently points in another direction.
Perhaps it is the space that allows everything else to be what it is.
Without the empty center, the wheel cannot turn.
Without inner stillness, can we truly see?
"The five colors blind the eye.
The five tones deafen the ear.
The five flavors dull the taste.
Racing and hunting make the mind wild.
Precious things lead one astray.
Therefore, the sage attends to the inner
and not to the outer.
He lets go of one
and chooses the other."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 12)
Lao Tzu is not telling us that colors, music, food, or beautiful things are wrong. He is pointing instead to what happens when our attention becomes completely absorbed by stimulation.
The senses are constantly drawn outward. We see something beautiful and want more of it. We hear something pleasing and want to hear it again. We discover something valuable and begin to fear losing it. What begins as simple enjoyment can quietly become attachment.
Lao Tzu sees a danger in this constant movement toward the next experience. When the mind is always searching for something outside itself, it gradually loses contact with its own natural stillness.
The sage therefore does not reject the world, but is no longer ruled by it. He can enjoy what appears without needing it to complete him.
A Course in Miracles also asks us to question our dependence on external experience. According to the Course, we continually look to the world for something that will make us feel complete: a relationship, success, recognition, security, possessions, or even a particular spiritual experience.
The problem is not the object itself. The problem is the purpose we give it.
When we believe something outside us can provide the peace we lack within, we have already assumed that we are incomplete. The search then continues because no external experience can permanently satisfy a need that was created by a mistaken belief about ourselves.
Where Lao Tzu speaks of turning from outer stimulation toward the inner, the Course asks us to withdraw the purpose we have given the world and allow another way of seeing to arise.
Notice what attracts your attention today.
Something you want.
Something you fear losing.
Something you hope will make you feel better.
There is nothing wrong with enjoying the colors of the world.
But perhaps they were never meant to give you what you already are.
What remains when, for one quiet moment, you stop reaching?
"Favor and disgrace both cause anxiety.
Honor great misfortune as you honor your own body.
What does it mean that favor and disgrace cause anxiety?
Favor lifts us up; disgrace brings us down.
Whether gaining it or losing it,
we remain afraid.
What does it mean to honor great misfortune as the body?
The reason I experience misfortune
is because I have a body.
If I were not identified with the body,
what misfortune could there be?
Therefore, one who values the world as himself
may be entrusted with the world.
One who loves the world as himself
may be trusted to care for it."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 13)
At first, favor and disgrace seem like opposites. We want one and avoid the other. Yet Lao Tzu notices that both can disturb our peace.
Once we depend upon approval, we become afraid of losing it. Praise creates the possibility of criticism. Status creates the fear of falling. The moment our sense of worth depends upon how others see us, anxiety quietly enters with it.
Lao Tzu then goes deeper by speaking about the body. Much of what we fear concerns what can happen to this physical self: pain, loss, aging, rejection, and death.
He is not asking us to neglect the body. He is questioning whether the body is the whole of what we are.
And strangely, when our obsession with protecting the separate self becomes less important, genuine care for life can become greater. We no longer approach the world only through the question, "What can I get from it?" We become capable of caring for it without constantly defending ourselves.
Here Lao Tzu comes remarkably close to one of the central themes of A Course in Miracles.
The Course repeatedly asks us to question our identification with the body. It does not deny that bodies appear within our experience. Rather, it challenges the belief that the body defines what we truly are.
If I believe I am primarily a body, vulnerability becomes unavoidable. Bodies can be praised or rejected, protected or attacked, become ill, grow old, and eventually die. Fear then seems completely reasonable.
The Course suggests that our deepest fear comes not from what happens to the body, but from having mistaken the body for our identity.
This also changes our relationships. When we no longer need another person to confirm our value, love becomes less possessive. We can meet another without asking them to constantly protect the identity we have constructed.
Notice how much of your day is influenced by what others might think of you.
Approval feels pleasant.
Criticism does not.
But both can become chains when they determine your peace.
Then ask something even quieter:
If my body, my reputation, my history, and other people’s opinions were silent for a moment…
would I disappear?
Or might something deeper still be here?
"Look at it, and it cannot be seen.
It is called invisible.
Listen to it, and it cannot be heard.
It is called inaudible.
Reach for it, and it cannot be grasped.
It is called intangible.
These three cannot be fully understood,
and so they merge into one.
Above, it is not bright.
Below, it is not dark.
Endlessly it moves beyond all naming
and returns again to nothingness.
Form without form.
Image without image.
It is elusive and beyond imagination.
Stand before it and there is no beginning.
Follow it and there is no end.
Remain with the ancient Tao
and move through the present.
To know the ancient beginning
is to know the thread of the Tao."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 14)
Lao Tzu now takes us beyond almost everything that can be described.
The Tao cannot be seen, heard, or touched. The moment we try to make it into an object, it escapes us. It has no form that the senses can discover and no definition that thought can completely contain.
Yet Lao Tzu is not describing something distant.
The Tao is not hidden somewhere beyond the universe waiting to be found. It is the mysterious reality through which everything appears, while itself never becoming one particular thing.
This is why Lao Tzu uses contradictions: form without form, image without image, beginning without beginning. Ordinary language divides reality into things. But the Tao precedes those divisions.
We cannot stand outside it and examine it.
We are already within it.
A Course in Miracles encounters a similar difficulty when it speaks about God, Knowledge, or Reality.
Words belong to the world of symbols. They distinguish one thing from another. But what is truly One cannot ultimately be described through a language built upon separation.
The Course therefore acknowledges that words can only point. They can help undo mistaken beliefs, but they cannot contain Truth itself.
This creates an interesting meeting with Lao Tzu. Both teachings eventually bring thought to a boundary. The mind can travel a certain distance through concepts, explanations, and practices, but then something else is required.
Not another concept.
A willingness to become still.
Truth is not finally something we understand as an object before us. It is something we recognize when the need to stand apart from it begins to disappear.
For a moment, do not try to understand the Tao.
Do not try to understand God.
Do not even try to understand yourself.
Simply notice what is here before you name it.
Before the thought says tree, there is seeing.
Before the thought says sound, there is hearing.
Before the thought says me, what is here?
Perhaps the deepest things are difficult to find for a very simple reason.
We keep looking for them as things.
"The ancient masters were subtle, mysterious, profound, and responsive.
Their depth was beyond understanding.
Because they cannot be fully understood,
we can only describe how they appeared.
Careful, as if crossing a frozen river.
Alert, as if aware of danger on every side.
Courteous, like a guest.
Yielding, like ice beginning to melt.
Simple, like an uncarved block of wood.
Open, like a valley.
Unclear, like muddy water.
Who can remain still
until muddy water slowly becomes clear?
Who can remain quiet
until the right action arises by itself?
Those who follow the Tao do not seek to be full.
Because they are not full,
they can remain open
and be renewed."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 15)
Lao Tzu describes the ancient masters not by telling us what they believed, but by showing us how they moved through life. They were careful without being fearful, attentive without being tense, humble without making humility into a virtue they could display.
His images are wonderfully simple. Ice beginning to melt does not resist becoming water. An uncarved block has not yet been forced into a particular shape. A valley remains low and therefore receives whatever flows into it.
Then comes perhaps the central image of the chapter: muddy water.
When water becomes muddy, our instinct may be to stir it, filter it, fix it, or somehow force it to become clear. Yet sometimes the simplest thing is to leave it alone. If the water is allowed to become still, the mud settles by itself.
Lao Tzu suggests that the mind can be like this too. We often respond to confusion by thinking harder, analyzing more, and urgently searching for an answer. But all that movement may simply keep the mud circulating.
There are moments when clarity does not need to be created.
It needs to be allowed.
A Course in Miracles also places great importance on our willingness to stop immediately deciding what everything means.
The Course suggests that much of our confusion comes from the fact that we have already interpreted what we see. We believe we understand the situation, the other person, the problem, and even ourselves. Then we ask for guidance while quietly insisting that our interpretation must be correct.
True openness begins when we can admit: perhaps I do not know what this means.
This is close to Lao Tzu’s muddy water. The Course does not ask us to manufacture peace through greater mental effort. It asks us to become willing to release the judgments that disturb it.
When judgment settles, clarity can appear.
Not because we invented a better answer, but because for a moment we stopped interfering.
Think of something in your life that feels unresolved.
Notice how quickly the mind begins stirring the water.
What should I do?
What will happen?
What does this mean?
How can I fix it?
Now imagine doing nothing with it for one moment.
Not avoiding it.
Not solving it.
Simply allowing the water to become still.
Perhaps clarity is not always something we have to find.
Perhaps sometimes we only have to stop disturbing it.
"Empty yourself completely.
Let the mind become still.
The ten thousand things rise and fall,
while the Self watches their return.
They grow and flourish,
and then return to their source.
Returning to the source is stillness.
It is returning to what is.
Returning to what is
is the eternal way.
Knowing the eternal brings understanding.
Not knowing it leads to confusion and suffering.
Knowing the eternal, you become open.
Being open, you become impartial.
Being impartial, you become whole.
Being whole, you are in harmony with the Tao.
Being in harmony with the Tao,
you are in harmony with what is eternal.
And though the body disappears,
the Tao does not pass away."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 16)
Everything we see is moving.
Plants grow and die. Seasons arrive and disappear. Civilizations rise and fall. Bodies are born, change, grow older, and eventually return to the earth. Thoughts appear and vanish. Emotions come and go.
Lao Tzu calls this endless movement "the ten thousand things": the world of countless forms.
But behind this movement he points toward something that does not participate in the same way. Everything arises, changes, and eventually returns to its source.
To recognize this is to stop demanding permanence from what is naturally impermanent.
Much of our suffering comes from wanting the changing to remain unchanged. We want youth to stay, relationships never to alter, pleasant experiences to continue, and the people we love never to leave.
Lao Tzu does not offer a way to freeze the river.
He invites us to discover what does not flow away with it.
Here the conversation with A Course in Miracles becomes especially interesting.
The Course also asks us to distinguish between what changes and what is eternal. Anything that can be threatened, lost, altered, or destroyed cannot define our true Identity.
The body changes.
Circumstances change.
Personalities change.
The world changes.
Yet the Course teaches that what we truly are remains untouched by these changes.
This is not an invitation to become indifferent toward life. Rather, it changes the place from which we meet it. When we stop asking temporary forms to provide eternal security, we can hold them more gently.
Love no longer has to mean, "Please never change."
It can become, "I recognize something in you that change cannot touch."
Look at your life for a moment as if it were a river.
People appeared.
Experiences came and went.
Your body changed.
Ideas you once believed completely may now seem almost strange.
Even the person you thought you were ten years ago has disappeared in countless ways.
And yet…
something seems to have been present through all of it.
What is it that knows the changing?
Could that be closer to what you are than anything that changed?
"The best leaders are barely known by the people.
Next come those who are loved and praised.
Next come those who are feared.
And finally those who are despised.
When trust is lacking,
trust is not returned.
The wise leader speaks little
and does not interfere unnecessarily.
When the work is finished
and the task is accomplished,
the people say:
"We did it ourselves.""
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 17)
Our usual picture of leadership is someone visible at the front: speaking, directing, deciding, and receiving recognition for what has been achieved.
Lao Tzu turns that picture upside down.
The highest form of leadership, he says, may be almost invisible.
A wise leader does not constantly remind people who is in charge. He creates the conditions in which others can discover their own ability. Rather than controlling every movement, he gives enough space for intelligence, cooperation, and responsibility to emerge naturally.
The result is curious. When everything has gone well, people do not necessarily praise the leader.
They say, "We did it ourselves."
To the ego, this might sound like a terrible leadership strategy. Where is the applause? Where is the statue? At the very least, surely there should be a plaque somewhere.
But Lao Tzu is interested in something deeper than recognition. The best leadership does not create dependence. It helps people discover that the capacity they were looking for was already present.
A Course in Miracles rarely discusses political or organizational leadership in this way, but there is an interesting parallel in its understanding of the Holy Spirit.
The Holy Spirit does not force, dominate, or demand obedience. Guidance is available, but it does not override our willingness. We remain free to listen or not to listen.
This is a very different image from an external authority controlling our lives.
The Course also teaches that a true teacher does not make others dependent upon him. A teacher of God is not someone who possesses truth and distributes it to less fortunate people. Teaching and learning ultimately become part of the same process.
What is being remembered belongs equally to everyone.
In that sense, true guidance quietly disappears into recognition.
We may begin by believing that wisdom comes from somewhere outside us. Eventually we discover that what was being pointed toward was never foreign to us.
Think of the people who have truly helped you grow.
Were they always the loudest?
Did they tell you exactly what to think?
Or did they somehow create enough space for you to discover something yourself?
Perhaps the greatest teachers leave fewer footprints than we expect.
And perhaps true guidance has done its work when, at the end, we smile and think:
"I see it now."
"When the great Tao is forgotten,
goodness and morality appear.
When cleverness and knowledge arise,
great hypocrisy follows.
When harmony within the family is lost,
we hear of filial devotion.
When the country falls into confusion,
loyal ministers appear."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 18)
At first, this chapter can sound almost upside down. Surely goodness, morality, devotion, and loyalty are desirable qualities. Why would Lao Tzu speak of them as signs that something has gone wrong?
His point is subtle.
When people live naturally in harmony, there is little need to constantly speak about goodness. A loving family does not need rules reminding everyone to behave lovingly. When trust is present, loyalty does not need to be demanded. These qualities simply express themselves.
It is when the natural harmony has been disturbed that we begin creating ideals about how people ought to behave.
In this sense, Lao Tzu is not criticizing goodness itself. He is questioning goodness when it becomes a substitute for something more natural that has been lost.
A person deeply connected with life does not wake up each morning thinking, "Today I must behave like a good human being." Care arises naturally because separation has not taken over the mind.
The more disconnected we become, the more rules we may need to imitate what once happened effortlessly.
A Course in Miracles approaches this from a surprisingly similar direction.
The Course does not teach us to become morally superior people. Its central distinction is not between good people and bad people, but between love and fear.
When fear is present, behavior becomes complicated. We begin judging ourselves and others. We create rules about who deserves love, who is guilty, who is innocent, and what someone must do before forgiveness becomes possible.
Love itself requires none of this.
The Course even suggests that forgiveness is necessary only because we believe separation and attack have occurred. In perfect knowledge, forgiveness would have no function because there would be nothing to forgive.
This is remarkably close to Lao Tzu’s paradox.
When the Tao is forgotten, virtue must be discussed.
When Love is forgotten, forgiveness becomes necessary.
The remedy is meaningful because we believe the problem is real.
Notice the difference between doing something because you believe you should…
and doing it because kindness simply arises.
They may look identical from the outside.
Inside, they feel completely different.
One carries obligation.
The other carries no burden at all.
Perhaps the deepest goodness begins when we no longer need to prove that we are good.
"Give up holiness and abandon cleverness,
and the people will benefit a hundredfold.
Give up morality and righteousness,
and people will return to natural kindness.
Give up profit and calculation,
and there will be no thieves.
These three teachings are not enough by themselves.
Therefore let people hold to what is simple.
See the plainness.
Embrace simplicity.
Reduce selfishness.
Have fewer desires."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 19)
Lao Tzu continues the thought of the previous chapter, but now he pushes it even further.
"Give up holiness" sounds shocking if we read it literally. But Lao Tzu is not asking people to become selfish, ignorant, or immoral. He is challenging the artificial categories through which we divide life.
The moment I declare myself holy, someone else can become unholy. When I proudly identify myself as righteous, I need something against which my righteousness can be measured. When cleverness becomes highly valued, people learn to manipulate. When profit becomes the central measure of value, opportunities for exploitation naturally appear.
Lao Tzu keeps returning to simplicity because simplicity does not require us to constantly construct ourselves.
The uncarved block does not need to become impressive.
It simply is what it is.
To "have fewer desires" therefore does not mean becoming lifeless or refusing pleasure. It means becoming less driven by the endless belief that something more is required before this moment can be enough.
A Course in Miracles also asks us to look carefully at the identities we build around being good, spiritual, wise, or right.
The ego is remarkably adaptable. It can be proud of wealth, but it can also become proud of having renounced wealth. It can feel superior because it knows more, but it can just as easily feel superior because it believes itself to be more spiritual.
Even spirituality can become another costume for separation.
The Course therefore does not ask us to construct a better spiritual identity. It asks us to relinquish the judgments through which we continually separate ourselves from others.
This gives Lao Tzu’s call for simplicity a particularly interesting resonance.
What if awakening is not about adding something to ourselves?
Not becoming wiser.
Not becoming purer.
Not becoming more spiritual.
Perhaps it has much more to do with letting go of what we have added to what we already are.
Imagine putting down, just for a moment, everything you use to describe yourself.
Your profession.
Your history.
Your achievements.
Your failures.
Your opinions.
Even your spiritual ideas.
Nothing needs to replace them.
You do not have to become a better version of yourself.
What if underneath everything you have learned to be…
there is something wonderfully simple that never needed improvement?
"Give up learning, and put an end to anxiety.
How small is the difference between yes and no?
How great is the difference between good and evil?
Must I fear what others fear?
How endless such questions seem.
Everyone else is joyful,
as if celebrating a great festival
or climbing a terrace in spring.
I alone remain quiet,
showing no sign,
like an infant who has not yet learned to smile.
Everyone else seems to have more than enough.
I alone seem to have nothing.
Mine is the mind of one who knows nothing,
simple and confused.
Others appear bright and clever.
I alone seem dull.
Others are sharp and certain.
I alone seem uncertain.
I drift like the sea,
blown about as if I had nowhere to rest.
Everyone else seems to have a purpose.
I alone seem awkward and different.
But I am different from others
because I value being nourished by the Mother."
(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 20)
Chapter 20 feels different from many of the chapters before it. Lao Tzu is no longer simply describing the Tao or the sage. For a moment, we seem to hear something more personal.
He looks around and sees a world full of people who appear to know where they are going.
They know what is desirable. They know what should be feared. They understand the social rules. They pursue success, pleasure, knowledge, and recognition.
And Lao Tzu seems to stand outside all of it.
He calls himself foolish, uncertain, drifting, and different. Yet beneath these words there is no real despair. There is something almost playful in his refusal to participate in the collective certainty surrounding him.
Perhaps he appears foolish only because the world has decided what intelligence should look like.
"Give up learning" therefore cannot simply mean becoming ignorant. Lao Tzu himself was obviously not incapable of thought. He is pointing toward the accumulated assumptions through which society teaches us what life means before we have really looked for ourselves.
What should I want?
What should I fear?
What makes someone successful?
What makes a life worthwhile?
Most of us receive answers long before we realize these were questions.
Lao Tzu dares to become uncertain again.
This chapter comes remarkably close to one of the most important attitudes in A Course in Miracles: the willingness to question everything we believe we already understand.
The Course repeatedly asks us to recognize that we do not know what anything is for. This is not intended to make us helpless. It creates an opening in a mind that has become imprisoned by its own certainty.
We look at a situation and immediately decide what it means.
This is good.
That is bad.
This person helps me.
That person threatens me.
This must happen for me to be happy.
That must never happen.
And then we live inside the world created by those interpretations.
The Course does not merely offer us a better collection of judgments. It invites us to become willing to see differently.
In this sense, Lao Tzu’s apparent foolishness becomes strangely wise. The person who says "I do not know" may actually be closer to learning than the person who already has an answer for everything.
How much of what you believe about life did you actually discover for yourself?
What is success?
What should a good life look like?
What should you fear?
What should you want?
Who told you?
Perhaps there is nothing wrong with the answers you have collected.
But for one quiet moment, imagine putting them aside.
Not replacing them with better answers.
Simply not knowing.
There is something strangely innocent about that place.
Before the world told you what everything meant, there was simply experience.
Seeing.
Hearing.
Being.
Perhaps wisdom does not always begin with finding the answer.
Perhaps sometimes it begins with becoming quiet enough to ask the question again.
With love and light,
Gonny
What does Lao Tzu mean with these words?
Lao Tzu begins his remarkable book with a warning:
The moment we try to capture "Reality" in words, we have already reduced it.
Words can point. They can inspire. They can guide. But they can never contain what is beyond all description.
The Tao (the nameless Source of everything) cannot be defined because it is not an object among other objects.
It is the source from which everything arises.
The same is true of names…
The moment we give something a name, we distinguish it from everything else.
Naming is useful in everyday life, but the deeper Reality from which everything emerges cannot be divided in this way.
Lao Tzu therefore invites us to look beyond words. Beyond concepts. Beyond the constant activity of thought. Not because words are wrong, but because they are only signposts. The destination itself can never be captured by language.