Tao Te Ching – Chapter Four
Written by Lao-tzu – From a translation by S. Mitchell
The Tao is like a well:
used but never used up.
It is like the eternal void:
filled with infinite possibilities.
It is hidden but always present.
I don't know who gave birth to it.
It is older than God.
How I Read This Chapter
Recovery is like a deep well:
drawn from daily, yet never runs dry.
It is like the stillness within:
holding endless paths to healing.
It may be quiet, but it is always there.
I don’t know where it begins—
only that it was waiting before I was ready.
What This Means To Me
For a long time, I tried to control everything—my drinking, my emotions, the world around me. I fought against life as though it were something to be tamed, believing that if I just tried harder, held on tighter, or drank enough, I could shape it to my will. But the more I fought, the more exhausted and lost I became. It was like thrashing in deep water, slowly sinking while pretending I knew how to swim. I thought surrender meant weakness, that letting go was giving up. But in reality, it was the beginning of everything.
When I finally stopped fighting and let go, something extraordinary happened: I began to float. It wasn’t a grand revelation or a dramatic transformation—it was a quiet shift. I stopped resisting the flow of life and allowed it to carry me. I began to accept that I didn’t have all the answers, and maybe I didn’t need them. Recovery, like the Tao, was already there, waiting—always present, always available. All I had to do was stop gripping the rocks and trust the current.
The stream of recovery has not been smooth the whole way. Some stretches have been rough, with white water moments where fear, grief, or shame surged like rapids. I’ve been spun around, dunked under, and left breathless at times. But even in those moments, I was moving forward—being carried by something greater than myself. Each challenge was not a dead end, but a bend in the river, shaping me, softening me, teaching me.
Most days, though, the current is calm. I can breathe, reflect, and feel the gentle movement beneath me. In those moments, I’m reminded that I’m exactly where I need to be. Recovery has become like the deep well—drawn from every day, but never empty. It fills me with strength, humility, and hope. There is something infinite in this process, something sacred in the simplicity of just staying present and willing.
I don’t know where this power comes from—whether it’s God, the universe, or something I can’t name—but I know it’s real. I know it was here before I was ready and will still be here when I falter. Recovery didn’t begin when I figured everything out; it began the moment I let go. And now, wherever the stream leads, I know I’m not drifting aimlessly. I’m on a path toward wholeness, guided by something wiser than I ever imagined.
