You’d never know it by the smile on my face but I’m currently in the midst of a storm. Not a literal weather based one. But the kind that hits the soul and shakes everything around it.
The kind that makes you question every decision, every belief, every intention you’ve ever held close.
Yet, here I stand—or rather, sit—like a rock in the chaos, learning how to unlearn, how to dissolve, and how to reset the table of my life.
With this, my entry into the mysterious world of Taoist alchemy has been more than just a practice, it has been a reckoning.
…..A profound surrender.
Disruption is the order of the day. It clings to us like smoke from a wildfire, suffocating and illuminating all at once. But the Tao reminds us that it is within disruption that we are truly formed.
In the spirit of wu wei it whispers, “when one does nothing, one leaves nothing undone.” And believe me, there’s truth in that.
I’ve spent years wrestling with the world around me, thinking that if I could just will things to bend in my favor, I would find peace.
But peace isn’t a forceful thing—it doesn’t arrive through conflict or conquest. It emerges when you relinquish control, when you stop interfering with the natural flow of things. Only then do the pieces begin to fall into place, as if they had always known where to land.
Resetting the table of one’s life isn’t glamorous. It’s gritty, raw, and uncomfortable. But isn’t that what alchemy is about? Burning away the dross to reveal the gold beneath?
I am in the crucible, and the heat is unbearable at times, but I know I must stay the course.
The Taoist sages teach that alchemy is about returning to the essence of things—ziran, the naturalness that exists when we stop trying so damn hard to control every outcome. It’s the art of flowing, of being, of letting things unfold in their own way.
The Bhagavad Gita speaks of action without attachment, of engaging with life fully but without the expectation of reward. There’s power in that wisdom—doing what must be done without the burden of needing to see the end result.
We are not the masters of the outcome; we are simply here to be good students of life. To show up, to learn, to absorb, and to adapt.
As I immerse myself in this alchemical journey, I’m reminded of Arjuna’s plight on the battlefield—torn between duty and despair. But Krishna, in his infinite calm, reminds him that life is not meant to be fought against but danced with. We are here to participate, not dominate.
But the world feels more like a battlefield these days, doesn’t it? Every headline, every scroll through the endless void of information tells us that chaos reigns supreme. There’s an impulse to react, to rage, to shout back at the darkness, but Taoist wisdom holds a different answer.
Lao Tzu tells us, Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear? This is the crux of alchemy—to allow the impurities of life, the distractions, and the noise to settle, so that clarity emerges naturally. It’s counterintuitive in a world that demands immediate action, but it’s the only way to truly transform.
I am learning to become a better student of life by embracing stillness in the midst of chaos, to observe without immediately acting, to allow the Tao to guide rather than my ego. I’m learning to lean into discomfort, to sit with uncertainty. This, I realize, is the real work—the deep alchemical process of transmuting fear into trust, anxiety into peace, control into surrender.
And let’s be honest, it’s not always pretty. There’s an edge to this process that cuts deep, an uncomfortable stripping away of everything familiar. There’s nothing soft or gentle about confronting your own false beliefs, your illusions of control.
But Taoism, with its elusive simplicity, offers me solace in this rawness. There’s freedom in realizing that wu wei—the art of effortless action—doesn’t mean passivity. It means aligning with the currents of life so seamlessly that what you do becomes an extension of nature itself.
This phase of transformation, for me, is about resetting everything—emotionally, spiritually, mentally. It’s about recognizing that the world’s chaos is simply a reflection of the inner turbulence we each carry.
If I am to play a role in our collective transformation, it starts with me resetting my own table, clearing the clutter of distraction, expectation, and need for validation.
I’m reworking my life from the ground up, brick by brick, with the understanding that I am not in control of the storm—I am simply learning how to dance in the rain.
In this alchemical process, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tao Te Ching, and countless other spiritual guides offer the same wisdom: transformation is not about doing more. It’s about being more—more present, more connected, more in tune with the pulse of the universe. The irony is that in doing nothing—truly nothing—we create the space for everything to be done.
The world may be burning, but in the ashes lies the potential for something new. As I reset my table, I realize that this work is both individual and collective. My transformation is part of a greater whole, a cosmic dance that we are all participating in.
And the lesson that keeps rising to the surface, like gold from the fire, is this: Stop trying to control the storm. Be still. Let the mud settle. The water will clear, and you’ll find that everything you need was already there, waiting to be uncovered.
And in that moment of clarity, you’ll see—there is nothing to be done. Everything is already in motion.
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Onward and Forward
Diamond Michael Scott aka The Chocolate Taoist
Massive hugs! It's always amazing how these storms pass. They always do. I'm glad you recognize the waiting-of-it-all!
I've been wondering about your stripe issues, how your feelings about them would resolve and interact w your Tao views.