There is a place inside each of us that remains untouched by the storms of life.
Just the other day, I was speaking with a client—a brilliant woman, a creator, with a heart full of beautiful, wild ideas. I could feel her vibrant energy even through the screen, a shimmering field of possibility. Yet she felt utterly paralyzed. “I have all these plans, Susan,” she told me, her voice tight with a familiar frustration. “Detailed outlines, color-coded schedules, the perfect productivity apps… I’ve designed the most exquisite cage. But I can’t move. I’ve forgotten how to fly.”
I listened, my whole body resonating with her struggle. How often do we do this? We yearn for freedom, for flow, for the feeling of being carried by a current larger than ourselves. And yet, we also crave structure, safety, a sense of order that tells us we’re on the right path. We build the banks of the river so meticulously, with such precision and fear, that we leave no room for the water to move. We want the wild, untamed, spaciousness of the Tao, but we cling to the reassuring order of the straight mat.
This very human paradox is at the heart of two of the most profound streams of wisdom to flow out of ancient China: Taoism and Confucianism. On the surface, they can seem like oil and water. One speaks of rules and rituals, of social harmony and the duties of a well-ordered life. The other speaks of a mysterious, unknowable Way, of effortless action and the wisdom of letting go. For centuries, they have been painted as rivals, a philosophical duel for the soul of a nation. But what if they are not opposites? What if, instead, they are two wings of the same bird, two essential notes in the chord of a fully-lived human life? What if they represent two fundamental, and equally sacred, neural pathways in our own brains?
The Well-Ordered World of Confucius
Let’s first sit with Confucius, the Master who, it was said, “would not sit if the mat was not straight.” Born in a time of social upheaval, Confucius looked to the past, to ritual (li), and to a clear and defined social structure as the remedy for the chaos he saw around him. His philosophy is one of deep, loving care for the fabric of society. It is built on jen, a profound and untranslatable word that speaks to a kind of human-heartedness, a compassionate virtue that should infuse all our relationships.
Confucianism gives us a map for this. It outlines five key relationships—between ruler and subject, parent and child, husband and wife, older and younger sibling, and between friends. It teaches that if we all play our part with sincerity and respect, a natural harmony will emerge. It is a philosophy of the daytime world, of our roles and responsibilities, of how to be a good human among other humans. It is the wisdom of the prefrontal cortex, the part of our brain that plans, organizes, and understands social convention.
From a modern, Western perspective, this can sometimes feel rigid, even stifling. And yet… don’t we all have a part of us that craves this? Our nervous system is a pattern-making machine. It creates predictable models of the world so that we can feel safe. These neural pathways, carved by repetition and experience, are our brain’s version of a Confucian ritual. They tell us who we are, how to act, and what to expect. When we know the steps of the dance, our amygdala—the brain’s alarm system—can relax. There is a deep comfort in this knowing. The “straight mat” isn’t just about external rules; it’s about the internal sense of safety that comes from knowing our place in the world, from feeling held in a web of mutual obligation and care.
The Watercourse Way of Lao-tzu
Then there is Lao-tzu, the “Old Master,” a figure so draped in mystery we’re not even sure he was real. Legend says he grew weary of the pretenses of society and rode off on a water buffalo into the desert, but not before a gatekeeper begged him to write down his wisdom. The result was the Tao Te Ching, a slender volume of poetry so profound it feels like it was written by the wind or the water itself. “The highest good is like water,” it tells us. “Water gives life to the ten thousand things and does not strive.”
Taoism invites us into a completely different way of being. It speaks of the Tao—the “Way”—an unknowable, unnamable force that flows through everything, the silent, intelligent source of all creation. The goal of the Taoist is not to follow external rules, but to align with this natural, effortless flow. It is the practice of wu wei, which doesn’t mean doing nothing, but rather “effortless action” or “creative non-doing.” It’s the way a boatman steers through a current, not by fighting it, but by using its power. It is the grace of moving with what is, rather than forcing what we think should be.
This is the wisdom of the body. Your heart beats, your lungs breathe, your cells divide and regenerate—all without a single command from your conscious mind. This is the Tao at work within you. It is a deep, innate intelligence that knows how to heal, how to grow, how to be. The Taoist path is one of learning to trust this inner wisdom, to quiet the striving, controlling mind and listen to the subtle, powerful intelligence of our own nature. It is a philosophy of the wilderness, of the moonlit night, of the part of us that is untamed and connected to everything. It is the wisdom of the body’s own consciousness, accessed through the vagus nerve and the deep, quiet frequencies of the theta brain wave state.
Ready to go deeper?
Private sessions and personal mentoring with Susan to support your transformation - solving life's problems, mastering challenges, and elevating your life to love.
Explore Healing SessionsThe Dance of the River and Its Banks
There is a famous allegorical painting called “The Vinegar Tasters.” It shows Confucius, Buddha, and Lao-tzu gathered around a vat of vinegar, which represents life. Confucius tastes it and finds it sour—he believes life has deviated from the proper path and needs correction. Buddha tastes it and finds it bitter—he sees life as full of suffering, from which we must be liberated. But Lao-tzu tastes it and smiles. He finds it sweet. He accepts the nature of life exactly as it is.
For a long time, I saw this as a kind of spiritual contest, with Lao-tzu as the clear winner. But I’ve come to see it differently. We need all three perspectives. We need the compassion for suffering, the desire for a just and harmonious society, and the acceptance of what is. We need both the river and its banks.
Confucianism provides the banks. It gives our life form, structure, and a safe container for our energy to move. It is the loving discipline of a daily practice, the integrity of our commitments, the honoring of our roles and relationships. Taoism is the river itself. It is the creative, spontaneous, flowing energy of life that moves within that container. Without the banks, the river becomes a destructive, chaotic flood. Without the river, the banks are just dry, empty ditches.
Of course, each path has its shadow. Taken to an extreme, the Confucian way can become rigid, brittle, and disconnected from the heart it’s meant to serve. It can become the cage my client described, a place of perfectionism and control that stifles the life force. The Taoist path, without any container, can become aimless, ungrounded, and dissociated—a spiritual bypass that avoids the messy, beautiful, and necessary work of being in relationship with others.
Healing, true transformation, is not about choosing one over the other. It’s not about abandoning all our responsibilities to live in a hut in the woods, nor is it about suppressing our wild spirit to fit into a rigid box. It is about fostering a conscious, loving relationship between our inner Confucian and our inner Taoist. It’s about asking: What structures can I create in my life that will best support my natural flow? How can my sense of duty and responsibility be an expression of my deepest, most authentic self?
Here is a small practice. Take a moment. Close your eyes. Feel your feet on the floor, the weight of your body in your chair. Now, bring to mind an area of your life where you feel stuck, like my client. First, invite your inner Confucian to speak. What are the rules, the schedules, the “shoulds” you have created? Acknowledge their purpose: to create safety and order. Thank them for their service. Then, gently, invite your inner Taoist to speak. What is the energy that wants to move? What is the wild, creative impulse that feels constrained? Don’t judge it, just feel it. What would it feel like to give it just a little more room to breathe? This is the work of neuroplasticity in action. By consciously holding both energies with compassion, we begin to weave new neural pathways that honor both our need for order and our desire for freedom. We build a life where our commitments feel like a joyful expression of our spirit, and our moments of spontaneous flow feel safely held. We learn to dance between the two, finding the sweet spot where form and freedom meet.
It is the dance of being fully, beautifully, and complicatedly human.
