Gears of the Tao (2) - “That and This Are Not Me”

Gears of the Tao (2) -

“That and This Are Not Me”

There is a moment that comes quietly.

Not with thunder. Not with visions. Not with enlightenment descending from the heavens.

Just a subtle recognition.

A pause between thoughts. A slight widening of awareness. A tiny step backward from the machinery of the mind.

And somewhere in that stillness, a realization begins to emerge:

"That and this are not me".

At first, this sounds strange. Perhaps even cold.

But the realization is not rejection. It is not denial. It is not the abandonment of life.

It is simply the beginning of seeing clearly.

In the first movement of practice, a person often begins by trying to understand the gears.

The hidden mechanisms. The patterns of reaction. The cycles of desire and fear. The strange rhythms that move through relationships, emotions, ambitions, compulsions, and identity.

One begins to notice:

How anger pulls one gear. How fear tightens another. How pride accelerates motion. How shame locks the mechanism. How desire spins endlessly if not observed.

The machinery of the self becomes visible.

This alone is already rare.

Most people remain fully identified with the turning. When the gears move, they believe:

I am angry. I am afraid. I am broken. I am important. I am unworthy. I am my success. I am my failure.

But eventually, if observation deepens, another possibility appears.

Perhaps anger is being observed. Perhaps fear is being observed. Perhaps thought itself is being observed.

And if it can be observed... what, then, is the observer?

The Tao Te Ching hints at this repeatedly.

Chapter 16 says:

Attain to utmost Emptiness. Cling single-heartedly to interior piece. 

While all things are stirring together, 

I only contemplate the return. For flourishing as they do, Each of them will return to its root. 

To return to the root is to find peace. 

To find peace is to fulfill one's destiny. 

To fulfill one's Destiny is to be constant. 

To know the Constant is called Insight. 

If one does not know the Constant, 

One runs blindly into disasters. If one knows the Constant, One can understand and embrace all. 

If one understands and embraces all, 

One is capable of doing justice. 

To be just is to be kingly; 

To be kingly is to be heavenly; To be Heavenly is to be one with the Tao; 

To be one with a dow is to abide forever. 

Such a one will be safe and whole 

Even after the dissolution of their body.

The ancient text does not tell us to destroy the ten thousand things. It does not command us to hate the world. It simply points toward the one who watches.

The gears continue turning. But awareness no longer clings to every movement.

This changes everything.

A thought appears. But now there is space around it.

An emotion rises. But now there is room to breathe before becoming it.

A compulsion emerges. But now it can be witnessed before being obeyed.

Not perfectly. Not constantly. Not all at once.

Just enough to begin loosening the knot.

Chapter 15 of the Tao Te Ching asks:

Who can wait quietly while the mud settles?

This may be one of the deepest questions in all of spiritual practice.

Because most suffering comes not from experience itself, but from compulsive movement within experience.

The mind rushes. Defends. Grasps. Explains. Justifies. Attacks. Escapes.

The gears spin faster.

And the faster they spin, the more consciousness becomes trapped within them.

But the observer does not spin.

It watches.

This is why stillness is so powerful. Not because stillness is magical, but because motion becomes visible against it.

The surface of water reflects only when it grows calm.

Another realization eventually follows.

Even the identity of “the seeker” is another gear.

This can be difficult to accept. Especially for those deeply committed to spiritual growth.

The mind is subtle. If it cannot dominate through pride, it may attempt to dominate through spirituality.

It creates identities such as:

The awakened one. The wounded one. The chosen one. The healer. The enlightened one. The fallen one. The one with hidden knowledge.

But these too can become attachments.

Chapter 24 essentially warns:

He who makes a show is not enlightened.

And Chapter 38 essentially says:

True virtue is natural, effortless, and unconscious of itself.

The deeper one goes, the less solid the self begins to appear.

Not in a frightening way. Not in a nihilistic way.

More like watching mist dissolve in morning sunlight.

The self is not destroyed. It simply stops pretending to be permanent.

Thoughts still arise. Emotions still arise. Personality still functions. The body still hungers, tires, loves, fears, and dreams.

But the grip softens.

And in that softening, peace quietly enters.

Chapter 8 compares the Tao to water:

Water gives life to the ten thousand things and does not strive.

Water does not cling to shape. It moves. Adapts. Flows downward. Yields.

And because it yields, it endures.

Many people misunderstand surrender. They imagine weakness. Passivity. Resignation.

But surrender in the Tao is not collapse.

It is the release of unnecessary resistance.

The observer does not stop life. The observer stops fighting every movement within life.

This creates a different relationship with suffering.

Pain may still arise. Loss may still come. Fear may still visit.

But now there is a small space between experience and identity.

And within that space, choice begins to return.

One notices:

This feeling is present. But it is not the entirety of what I am.

This thought is moving through consciousness. But it is not the whole of consciousness.

This role, this story, this moment in the gears, is not the whole of the observer.

This realization can feel strangely freeing.

Not because the world disappears. But because the compulsion to constantly defend a fixed self begins to weaken.

Chapter 48 says:

Learning consists in Daily accumulating.

The practice of the Tao consists in daily diminishing. Keep on diminishing and diminishing, 

Until you reach the state of Wu-Wei. 

Wu-Wei, and yet nothing is left undone. 

To win the world, one must renounce all.

Not accumulated. Dropped.

Layer after layer.

Performance. Control. Image. Fear. Attachment. Compulsion.

Until eventually, what remains is startlingly simple.

Awareness. Breath. Presence. Stillness moving within motion.

The ancient Taoists often spoke of the uncarved block.

Natural. Whole. Unforced.

Not because nothing exists, but because nothing artificial needs to be constantly maintained.

One begins to understand why the sages valued emptiness.

Chapter 11 says:

It is the empty space within that makes the cup, the door, etc. useful.

The observer is like this empty space.

Not absent. Not dead. Not detached from life.

Open.

Capable of containing experience without becoming trapped by every experience.

And strangely, the more one loosens identification, the more compassion often appears naturally.

Because one begins to see:

Everyone is caught in the gears sometimes.

Everyone struggles. Everyone contracts. Everyone mistakes temporary weather for permanent identity.

Even ourselves.

This understanding softens judgment.

Not into passivity, but into patience.

The Tao Te Ching repeatedly returns to gentleness.

To humility. To softness. To yielding.

Not because softness is weak, but because reality itself moves in cycles, not rigid permanence.

Chapter 76 says:

The soft, supple, tender, gentle and yielding are the disciples of life.

The rigid eventually break. The clenched hand eventually exhausts itself. The mind that cannot release eventually suffers beneath its own weight.

But the observer remains spacious.

Not perfect. Not beyond pain.

Just less entangled.

This is why prayer, stillness, meditation, and contemplative practice can become so transformative.

Not because they instantly erase suffering.

But because they help consciousness step back one layer from total identification.

The gears are still turning. But now they can be heard.

And hearing them changes the relationship.

A person may still stumble. Still struggle. Still lose balance.

But increasingly, there is awareness during the motion.

A quiet returning.

Again and again.

Observer.

Perhaps this is why the Tao can never be fully explained.

The deepest truths are not concepts. They are shifts in perception.

Moments where awareness recognizes itself beneath the movement.

Moments where one sees:

"That and this are not me".

Not because life is rejected.

But because consciousness is wider than any single movement within it.

The gears continue. The world continues. The heart still trembles. The mind still wanders.

Yet somewhere inside the turning, a quiet center begins to appear.

Not outside the machinery. Not above it. Not separate from life.

Within it.

Watching. Breathing. Unclenching.

The Recursive Observer.