Tao Te Ching – Chapter Thirty-Five
Written by Lao-tzu – From a translation by S. Mitchell
She who is cantered in the Tao,
can go where she wishes, without danger.
She perceives the universal harmony,
even amid great pain,
because she has found peace in her heart.
Music or the smell of good cooking,
may make people stop and enjoy.
But words that point to the Tao,
seem monotonous and without flavour.
When you look for it, there is nothing to see.
When you listen for it, there is nothing to hear.
When you use it, it is inexhaustible.
How I Read This Chapter
The one who lives in the Way
moves freely,
not because life is easy,
but because peace has been found within.
They see the deeper pattern,
even in sorrow.
The world is drawn to noise and scent,
to surface delights,
but the Way is quiet,
subtle,
endlessly nourishing.
It cannot be grasped or captured.
But it can be trusted.
It is always here.
And it never runs out.
What This Means To Me
“She who is cantered in the Tao can go where she wishes, without danger.” This is the serenity I chased for years without knowing how to find it. I thought safety meant control—managing others, manipulating outcomes, numbing myself with alcohol. But true safety isn’t about eliminating risk; it’s about finding something stable inside me that doesn’t move, even when the world does. That stillness—what the Tao calls centre—has become the foundation of my recovery.
In sobriety, so many quiet gifts have come to me. Not all at once, and not always in ways I expected. But they’ve arrived like seeds long planted, finally blooming.
One of the greatest gifts has been the discovery of writing. At first, it felt like a way to process. Then it became a way to reflect. Now, it’s a kind of meditation. I don’t write to be clever or to impress. I write to return—to presence, to honesty, to something deeper than thought. The words don’t point to the Tao so much as lean toward it, quietly, like a garden growing in stillness.
And speaking of gardens—another gift. Since getting sober, my love of growing things has returned. I no longer rush past the miracle of green shoots, of ripening tomatoes, of worms moving through soil. I feel connected again—to the rhythms of nature, to the seasons, to the slow magic of life taking form. Gardening, like writing, is now a spiritual act for me. A way to observe and receive. A way to live without needing to control. A way to be centred.
“She perceives the universal harmony, even amid great pain, because she has found peace in her heart.” This line breaks me open. In active addiction, pain felt like proof that life was broken. But in recovery, I’ve come to see pain differently. It still hurts—but it doesn’t isolate me anymore. It connects me. Beneath the surface of my own struggles, I’ve begun to sense a harmony—a pattern I don’t fully understand but can sometimes feel. I don’t need to pretend the pain is gone. I just need to stay centred enough to keep walking through it, open-hearted.
“Music or the smell of good cooking may make people stop and enjoy. But words that point to the Tao seem monotonous and without flavour.” There is something almost disappointing about the Tao—until you’ve lived with it long enough to see what it really is. It doesn’t dazzle. It doesn’t entertain. It doesn’t sell. It’s not dramatic. But it endures. It nourishes. It’s always enough. That’s how my recovery has come to feel—not a firework show, but a slow, deep burn. Not flavourless—but sustaining in a way no surface pleasure ever was.
“When you look for it, there is nothing to see. When you listen for it, there is nothing to hear. When you use it, it is inexhaustible.” The Tao can’t be captured in sight or sound. But it works. I feel it when I pause before reacting. I feel it when I breathe through a craving. I feel it when I write from the heart, or water a plant, or sit with another alcoholic and share my story. These aren’t dramatic things. But they are holy. They are real. And they renew me again and again.
Today, I don’t need to chase excitement. I don’t need to explain everything. I simply return—to writing, to planting, to stillness, to breath.
This is my meditation. This is my prayer. This is how I stay centred.
And in that centre, I am free.
