Letting My Mind Wander Like Zhuangzi

There was a time when I flitted about like a cicada. You know the type—buzzing from job to job, gig to gig, inbox to inbox, with my wings always half-singed by the fluorescent heat of expectations.

Sure, I was busy and felt badass. I wore my productivity like a tailored suit and my identity like a LinkedIn badge.

Every move I made had a purpose. Every purpose had a plan. Every plan had a five-year outlook, quarterly check-ins, and action items with sub-bullets.

And then one day, I looked up and in my mind saw a giant bird flying overhead.

Let me explain.

I stumbled upon the Taoist thinker Zhuangzi’s writings on Free and Easy Wandering during one of my late-night scrolls through philosophical rabbit holes—those moments when insomnia partners with curiosity and drags you across time zones and traditions.

I had already been dancing with the Tao through Lao Tzu, but Zhuangzi? He hit differently. Zhuangzi wasn’t interested in aphorisms that could fit neatly on your Instagram feed. He gave you a fish by the name Peng that turned into a bird large enough to block out the sun.

Reading Chapter 1 was like discovering a part of myself I’d buried beneath ambition, control, and well-meaning performance. Peng didn’t hustle. Peng didn’t try to impress hiring managers or optimize his morning routine. Peng soared on the wind because the wind was.

🐦 Becoming Peng (Or Trying To)

Let me tell you something: you don’t just become Peng overnight.

The first time I read about this mythical creature flying 90,000 li into the sky, I thought, Yeah, that sounds cool but I have emails to answer.

Still, the image of Peng wouldn’t leave me. It tugged at something ancient inside of me—something the world kept telling me to ignore. That sense of vastness, of freedom, of flow.

Over time, the Chocolate Taoist was born—not out of enlightenment, but out of exhaustion.

You see, being Black in America already comes with a whole set of expectations. Add to that my own ambitions, my old Nice Guy complex, my need to be liked, my corporate years, my nomadic wanderings, and you’ve got a tightly wound ball of spiritual potential just waiting for Zhuangzi to cut the string.

One morning in Fort Collins, Colorado (a peaceful city I didn’t know I needed), I sat sipping a cup of herbal tea, and it hit me—I was tired of flying branch to branch. I was tired of asking for permission to live big. I was ready to ride the wind.

🐞 The Cicada Within

But even as I soared in certain moments—through Taoist insights, meditative epiphanies, or standing alone in the desert watching the stars—there was still a part of me that chirped like a cicada.

“You should be doing more.”

“You should go viral.”

“You should monetize this wisdom.”

Should. Should. Should.

Zhuangzi says you can’t discuss the ocean with a frog at the bottom of a well. That frog was me on Monday mornings. I’d peek my head up, see the vastness of Peng flying by, and still crawl back down into the well because it was familiar. The cicada in me wanted validation, safety, applause.

But Taoism doesn’t clap for you. It doesn’t hand out trophies. It hands you paradox and tells you to make soup with it.

🌀 The Joy of Being “Useless”

One of Zhuangzi’s most hilarious and liberating moments is his riff on the “useless tree.” You know the one—its wood is too knotted to build with, its bark too gnarly for cutting. So no one chops it down. It just… stands there. Gloriously useless. Completely free.

The first time I read that, I laughed out loud. I’d spent years trying to prove my usefulness to every job, lover, system, and situation. I was addicted to being essential. But deep down, I longed to be that tree—left alone to grow crooked and wild, unbothered by capitalism’s chainsaw.

And so I began cultivating sacred uselessness. I wrote what I wanted to write. I said no more often. I started calling long walks “spiritual alignment sessions.” I redefined productivity as alignment with the Tao. I let myself meander. I left conversations early. I ghosted expectations.

And wouldn’t you know it? That’s when the magic started happening.

🛸 The Tao of Misunderstanding

Here’s the thing about becoming Peng: nobody really gets you at first.

When I shifted from the old me—the striving, pleasing, performing me—to the Chocolate Taoist version of me, a lot of people looked at me like I was speaking in fortune cookie riddles. Maybe I was. But I was also finally telling the truth.

There’s a special kind of freedom in being misunderstood. It’s the freedom of no longer needing to translate your being into a language others can monetize. Like Zhuangzi says—if you try to explain Peng’s flight to the cicada, it won’t compute.

💫 The Art of Wandering

There’s something holy in not knowing what the hell you’re doing, and doing it anyway. The Western world trains you to have a plan. A roadmap. A five-year projection. But Zhuangzi says: Forget the map. Follow the breeze.

I started leaning into that. I let myself drift. Not in an apathetic way—but in an attuned, surrendered, listening way. Wandering became a sacred practice. And the more I wandered, the more synchronicities showed up. Right people. Right books. Right signs.

I stopped walking in straight lines. I danced.

🕊️ Final Flight

There’s a quote in Chapter 1 that hit me deep in the marrow:

“He who has left the human realm and joins the Tao is known as the Perfect Man.”

Now, I don’t claim perfection—not by a long shot. I still grumble when my internet’s slow. I still catch myself trying to prove I matter. But more often than not, I catch myself catching myself.

And that’s something.

I’m learning, slowly, to soar like Peng—not in the eyes of others, but in the eyes of the Tao. I’m discovering that the real freedom isn’t external but internal. It’s not about where you fly, but the fact that you’re no longer chained to the ground by other people’s expectations.

🎤 Final Notes from the Sky

Here’s what I know:

• The cicada is loud, but short-lived.
  
  

• Peng is silent, but eternal.
  
  

• The Tao isn’t in the grind. It’s in the glide.
  
  

• Don’t try to explain yourself to those committed to not understanding you.
  
  

• Rest is a revolution.
  
  

• Uselessness is underrated.
  
  

• And wandering… wandering is sacred.
  
  So if you see me on a park bench, in a coffeehouse, or pacing slowly through an antique bookstore with a crooked smile on my face, know this:

I’m not lost.

I’m just free and easy wandering.

Chocolate-style.

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