The Art of Closing Tabs

A Taoist Guide to Simplicity in a Distracted World

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I have too many tabs open.

Both in my browser and in my brain.

There was a time when life felt simpler—when I carried my existence in a backpack and wandered through the world with nothing but the rhythm of my own footsteps.

When the weight of decisions didn’t press so hard against my temples, and the expectations of others didn’t seep into my marrow like an invasive species. When my thoughts weren’t fragmented by email notifications, text messages, and the relentless, blinking cursor of unfinished projects.

Now, it seems, I am drowning in distractions.

You too?

We live in an age where the world no longer knocks politely at our door—it crashes through the walls. The buzz of an incoming message interrupts our meals, our meditations, our moments of peace.

The endless scroll of information, opinions, and hot takes has reduced our attention spans to the lifespan of a mayfly. We hold more knowledge in our pockets than entire generations before us, and yet we struggle to be present, to focus, to simply be.

Yet the Tao Te Ching whispers, “Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear?”

I, for one, have been guilty of stirring my own mud into a frenzy, mistaking motion for progress, and confusing busyness for purpose. Every notification, every request, every obligation is another stone thrown into the water—distorting the clarity I seek.

I say yes when I mean no, I keep tabs open long past their usefulness, and I cling to complexity as if it were an achievement.

But the Tao teaches us otherwise.

The Wisdom of Closing Tabs

Lao Tzu reminds us that the usefulness of a cup lies in its emptiness. If we fill our minds with noise, how can we expect to hear the wisdom beneath it? If we fill our lives with obligations, distractions, and digital clutter, how can we expect to bring our best selves to the table every day?

When I was living nomadically, I experienced a kind of effortless clarity that now feels like an ancient relic of another life. There were no tabs—only sunrises and sunsets, the laughter of strangers who became friends, and the simple awareness of my own breath.

Every choice was intentional because there weren’t so many of them. Every “yes” felt aligned because I had mastered the art of saying “no.”

Now, like most, I have returned to a world of responsibilities, expectations, and inboxes filled with tiny demands. But must I surrender to its chaos?

No.

Because simplicity is not just a place we visit—it is a practice, a discipline, a way of being. It is the daily act of choosing what matters and releasing what doesn’t. It is the radical wisdom of allowing some things to remain unfinished, some messages to remain unanswered, some invitations to remain declined.

The Power of Intentional No’s

There is a misconception that the opposite of distraction is focus. But I believe the true opposite of distraction is clarity.

Clarity about what we are willing to hold.

Clarity about what we are willing to release.

Clarity about what is ours to carry and what was never ours to begin with.

We say yes to too many things, not because we truly desire them, but because we fear the discomfort of saying no. We are conditioned to believe that we must respond to every request, meet every demand, and prove our worth through perpetual availability.

But what if we let go?

What if we practiced the art of saying “no” as an act of self-respect? What if we honored our own time the way we honor the time of others?

The Tao does not force. It flows.

A river does not try to carry every leaf that falls into it. It lets some drift to the shore, lets some sink, lets some find their own way downstream.

So must we.

Allowing the Mud to Settle

If we are ever to reclaim the simplicity we long for—the quiet mind, the clear purpose, the deep presence—we must first allow the mud to settle. We must resist the urge to react, to chase, to consume, to prove. We must be still.

It is in this stillness that we come back to ourselves.

Not the frantic, fragmented versions of ourselves that modern life demands, but the truest, most essential version—the one that knows, instinctively, that joy is not found in more but in less.

Less noise.

Less obligation.

Less reaching.

And when the mud settles, we see clearly once more.

We remember that we do not have to be everything to everyone.We remember that we do not have to chase a thousand things at once. We remember that our worth is not measured by our busyness. And in that remembering, we become whole again.

So I am closing some tabs today. Both in my browser and in my brain.

I’m inviting you to do the same.

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