Lately, a profound theme has resonated through various readings and conversations, a central idea revolving around the intricate connection between our inner world and its outward manifestations. Essentially, the thoughts we harbour within inevitably shape the words we speak and the actions we undertake, ultimately leading to the consequences that unfold in our lives. For someone like myself, who for so long grappled with a deep-seated fear of self-expression, this concept carries significant weight. As anyone familiar with my previous writings will attest, I spent years internalizing emotions and thoughts, a particularly challenging predicament for someone navigating the relentless whirlwind of an ADHD mind. The constant inner dialogue, often racing at what felt like a hundred miles an hour and predominantly focused on the negative, made this internal confinement a breeding ground for anxiety and unease.
Adding another layer to this reflection, a quote I encountered recently struck a powerful chord: “Those who know don’t talk. Those who talk don’t know.” My deep appreciation for the wisdom embedded within the Tao Te Ching immediately signaled a deeper meaning within this seemingly simple statement. Turning to my various translations, I found the fuller verse in Stephen Mitchell’s rendition:
"Those who know do not speak.
Those who speak do not know. Close your mouth,
block off your senses,
blunt your sharpness,
untie your knots,
soften your glare,
settle your dust.
This is the primal identity. Be like the Tao.
It can’t be approached or withdrawn from,
benefited or harmed,
honoured or brought into disgrace.
It gives itself up continually.
That is why it endures."
Upon absorbing these words, my mind, in its characteristic fashion, launched into a rapid process of intellectualization, tripping and stumbling over interpretations. A wave of worry washed over me as I questioned my current path of expression. The verse seemed to suggest that true wisdom resides in silence, that those with a deep understanding of reality recognize the inherent limitations of language to capture its nuanced and ever-changing nature. Conversely, excessive talking could indicate a mind still grasping, analysing, driven by ego rather than genuine comprehension. This led me to introspect: “Am I now expressing myself too much? Am I writing without truly embodying the feelings and actions I describe?”
Fortunately, the principles and practices I’ve embraced through my involvement in Alcoholics Anonymous provided me with invaluable tools in this moment of self-doubt. Drawing upon the training in meditation and prayer, I was able to pause, to simply observe the frantic activity of my mind as it sped down the metaphorical drag strip of disquiet. After a period of detached observation, these racing thoughts began to recede into the distance, making way for a slower, more deliberate “caravan of love” to amble along my mental landscape. This shift in perspective brought a newfound clarity to my understanding of my own writing.
I now recognize that my motivation for writing stems not from an ego-driven need for validation or a desire to showcase my newfound freedom from fear. Instead, it is rooted in a genuine love for the act itself. Furthermore, given the inherent restlessness of my ADHD mind, constantly seeking novelty and quickly losing interest in past thoughts, the act of writing serves as an anchor. It slows down the relentless pace of my brain, allowing a fleeting thought to be captured and revisited, a tangible record for a mind that might otherwise completely forget its own creations. My blog has, in essence, become my externalized long-term memory, an open window into the inner workings of a recovering alcoholic’s mind. This journey of self-discovery continually underscores the profound changes that have taken place within me since Alcoholics Anonymous entered my life, teaching me to navigate my fears, to pause before reacting impulsively, and to observe my thoughts with a sense of detachment. But perhaps the most significant transformation of all is the simple, yet profound, reality that each day I now awaken without the pervasive fear that once shadowed my every morning.
Noticing
The wind does not hurry,
yet all things are shaped by it.
So too, the mind,
rushing, spinning,
believes it must arrive.
I have lived at one hundred miles an hour,
not on roads,
but in thought.
A blur of should, would, could,
regrets,
and impossible futures
whirled through the narrow lanes of my skull.
To speak was to risk;
to stay silent was to drown.
So I locked the words away,
and the silence
became noise.
What is hidden inside
makes its way outward,
like steam from a kettle
or roots cracking stone.
The Tao teaches:
close your mouth,
untie your knots,
soften your glare.
I feared this was a warning,
that to speak was to not know.
But perhaps it is not silence that holds the truth,
but the space from which silence arises.
Not words that reveal wisdom,
but the stillness behind the words.
Now I watch my thoughts
race like stallions at dusk,
beautiful, wild,
but not me.
I breathe,
and a different rhythm emerges,
a slow procession of camels
across the desert of my mind,
carrying love, not noise.
I write not to impress,
but to remember.
Each word an anchor
cast into the sea
of forgetting.
I am not the storm,
I am not the calm.
I am the one who notices both.
And in noticing,
I endure.
