Tao Te Ching – Chapter Five
Written by Lao-tzu – From a translation by S. Mitchell
The Tao doesn’t take sides;
it gives birth to both good and evil.
The Master doesn’t take sides;
she welcomes both saints and sinners.
The Tao is like a bellows:
it is empty yet infinitely capable.
The more you use it, the more it produces;
the more you talk of it, the less you understand.
Hold on to the centre.
How I Read This Chapter
The Tao doesn't judge or divide—
it gives rise to all things without preference.
Recovery, too, is not just for the good or the ready,
but for the broken, the lost, the sinner and the saint alike.
The way forward is not found by taking sides,
but by returning to wholeness.
The emptiness of the bellows is not lack—
it is potential.
And the silence of true understanding
speaks louder than all our theories.
So I stop trying to explain it all,
and return to the centre.
What This Means To Me
In addiction, I lived in extremes—right and wrong, good and bad, worthy and unworthy. I judged myself harshly, and I judged others even more. I believed that because of the things I had done, I was beyond saving. I was ashamed of my past and certain I didn’t deserve grace. I thought I had to earn my way back to wholeness. But recovery has shown me something radically different: that grace doesn’t play favourites. Like the Tao, it gives birth to both light and shadow—and welcomes both.
AA taught me something I’d never believed before: that there is a place for me, even as I am. That I don’t need to be “good enough” to begin healing. The Tao says the Master welcomes both saints and sinners—and so does recovery. Our fellowship is not a court of judgement but a place of belonging. We sit in circles not to declare who is right or wrong, but to speak truth and listen with compassion. My shame didn’t disqualify me; it became the doorway in.
The image of the bellows struck me deeply. At first glance, it looks empty—but in action, it becomes a source of life, breath, and movement. Recovery is like that. It can feel like we’ve lost everything—our health, our reputation, our self-worth. But in that emptiness, something powerful awakens. I found that the less I tried to define myself, the more I discovered. The less I relied on words, the more truth I felt in silence. I used to fill every space with noise—rationalising, explaining, defending. Now I’ve learned to trust in the power of stillness.
The line “the more you talk of it, the less you understand” reminds me of the humility recovery demands. I used to think I had to figure everything out, to understand how this all works. But some of the most transformative moments in recovery have come when I simply stopped talking and listened—to a newcomer’s story, to the silence of a Higher Power, or to my own breath. Words can’t always carry the weight of truth. Sometimes all I need to do is be present and willing.
And so I try to “hold on to the centre”—that quiet place within where judgement fades, extremes dissolve, and compassion flows. That centre is where I find balance between surrender and action, between reaching out and letting go. It’s where the Tao lives, and where my recovery finds its strength. I return to it again and again—not because I am perfect, but because I am human. Not because I know the way, but because I am willing to keep walking it.
