and to which all forms return.
Form and formlessness exist because they can be contrasted.
To know the meaning behind the form
is to know what formlessness is.
In doing this one has an idea of its design.
The subtle energy of the Tao appears hidden
in form as meaning
and in formlessness as purpose.
* * *
Meaning is the root where all things grow,
From it, the forms emerge, and to it, they flow.
In each shape and shadow, in every line we see,
A hint of something greater, a hidden decree.
Form and formlessness—two sides of the same,
Each one reflected in the other’s name.
To grasp the meaning in what appears to be,
Is to glimpse the formless, to set the spirit free.
The Tao moves unseen in both shape and void,
In purpose it whispers, in meaning it's cloaked.
It hums in the quiet, in the dance of the world,
A force ever-present, yet veiled and unfurled.
Through form, we glimpse its intricate design,
Through formlessness, its essence aligns.
Both are but faces of the mystery vast,
Boundless, eternal, and ever to last.
* * *
In a small village nestled between mountains, there lived an old potter named Li Wei. His hands, though gnarled with age, moved with the grace of a river’s current, molding clay into vessels that seemed to capture the very spirit of life itself. The villagers came from far and wide to buy his pots, bowls, and cups, marveling at the way they felt warm to the touch, as though they contained the essence of the earth.
One day, a young traveler named Lin came to the village, drawn by tales of the potter’s extraordinary skill. Lin was curious, not only about the pots but about the meaning behind them. When he arrived at Li Wei’s workshop, he asked, "Master, how is it that your pots feel so alive? They seem to hold something more than mere clay."
Li Wei smiled, his weathered face lighting up with a gentle warmth. "Ah, young one, you ask the right question. These pots… they are more than what you see. They are born of the same earth, shaped by my hands, but there is something beyond the form you see. It is the meaning that gives them life."
Lin frowned, trying to understand. "Meaning? But they are just clay, aren’t they? Just objects?"
Li Wei nodded slowly, setting down a nearly finished bowl. "Look closely. You see the shape, yes? The form. But can you sense the space inside the bowl, the emptiness that gives it its purpose? Without this formlessness, the bowl would be nothing but a solid mass of clay. It is in the contrast—the form and the formless—that the true nature of the bowl is revealed."
Lin’s brow furrowed as he tried to process the words. "But I still don’t understand. How can something so solid be so full of meaning, while something so empty—like the inside of the bowl—hold such purpose?"
Li Wei gestured for Lin to sit beside him. He took a small lump of clay and began to shape it between his hands. "Meaning and formlessness, purpose and form—they are not opposites, but two sides of the same coin. One cannot exist without the other. You see, the bowl’s form gives it structure, but its emptiness is where the life flows—where it can hold something, whether it be water or fruit, or even air. The form gives it shape, but the formlessness gives it function."
Lin watched, captivated, as the potter’s hands moved with practiced ease, creating a perfect sphere. "So, the meaning of a thing is not just in what we see, but in what we don’t see?" he asked quietly.
Li Wei nodded. "Exactly. When you look at the world, you must see beyond the surface. The Tao—the invisible energy that flows through all things—appears both in form and formlessness. It is hidden in the meaning of the object, yet it is also present in the emptiness that allows it to be what it is. When you understand both, you understand the design of the universe itself."
The traveler sat in silence, contemplating the potter’s words. He reached out and gently touched one of the bowls on the shelf, feeling the smooth curve of its surface and the subtle emptiness within. For the first time, Lin felt something stir inside him—a quiet recognition of the truth in what Li Wei had said.
As the sun began to set, casting a golden light across the mountains, Li Wei handed Lin the freshly made bowl. "Take this with you," he said. "Let it remind you that meaning and formlessness are not separate. They are one. And when you seek the meaning behind the form, you will begin to see the formlessness that underlies all things."
Lin took the bowl, feeling the weight of its simplicity and the depth of its design. He bowed deeply to the old potter, who smiled with knowing eyes, and left the village, his mind filled with the understanding that in every form, there was a hidden formlessness, and in every formlessness, a profound purpose.
And so, the traveler continued on his way, no longer seeking answers in the world’s appearances alone, but learning to see the deeper, invisible threads that connected all things—form and formlessness, meaning and purpose—woven together in the great tapestry of life.
* * *
In a village surrounded by vast, rolling hills, there lived a young girl named Mei who loved to explore the world’s hidden mysteries. She spent her days wandering through the meadows, observing the changing sky, listening to the wind in the trees, and watching the river flow over smooth stones. Yet, despite the beauty of all she saw, Mei felt that something was missing—a deeper truth she couldn’t quite grasp.
One day, as she wandered farther than usual, Mei found herself in a quiet valley where a small, weathered temple stood. The air here felt different—calm, almost timeless. At the entrance of the temple, an elderly monk sat, his hands folded in front of him, his face serene as the mountains surrounding the valley. Mei approached him, her curiosity outweighing any hesitation.
"Good day," the monk greeted her, his voice calm, as though he had been waiting for her.
Mei nodded, but she couldn’t contain her question. "I see so much beauty in the world," she said, "but there’s a part of me that feels empty. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t stop searching for it."
The monk smiled gently, his eyes twinkling. "The emptiness you speak of is not something to be feared, nor is it something that needs to be filled. It is, in fact, the very source of all that you see. But before you can understand, you must look with a different eye."
Mei frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean? I’ve searched everywhere, looked at everything… but I still don’t understand."
The monk motioned for her to sit beside him on a large stone. "The world you see," he began, "is both full and empty, both form and formlessness. You have looked at the form—the visible things. The trees, the river, the clouds, even the stones beneath our feet. But you have not yet seen the emptiness that gives them meaning. The Tao, the great flow of life, is hidden in both the form and the formlessness. It is the space between the things you see that gives them life."
Mei was quiet for a moment, trying to process what the monk had said. "So, the world is not just what I see with my eyes?"
"No," the monk replied softly. "The world is much more than that. If you only look at the surface, you will miss the subtle energy that moves through everything. Just as a pot holds nothing but still has purpose in its emptiness, so too do the mountains and the rivers, the air and the sky. They are full of meaning because of what they are, and because of what they are not."
The monk pointed toward the horizon, where the sun began to dip behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the valley. "Look at the sky. You see the color, the clouds, the light. But do you see the emptiness that makes it possible for the light to shine, for the clouds to float? Without the space between, nothing would exist. The form and the formlessness are one."
Mei turned her gaze to the sky, then to the temple around her, and slowly, her mind began to open. She understood, at last, that the beauty of the world wasn’t just in the things she could touch and see, but also in the invisible spaces that allowed everything to exist. The form and the formlessness were not separate; they were woven together, inseparable.
The monk’s voice interrupted her thoughts. "To know the meaning behind the form, to understand the purpose of the formlessness—that is to understand the design of the universe. To see the invisible thread that ties all things together."
Mei sat in stillness for a while, feeling a profound sense of peace wash over her. The emptiness she had once feared no longer felt like a void, but a sacred space. A space that allowed everything to exist in its own perfect form yet also revealed the deeper truth behind what was visible.
When she finally stood to leave, the monk smiled at her once more. "You carry with you a piece of the world now," he said, "not just the form, but the meaning hidden within. Walk with both eyes open: the eye that sees the world as it is, and the eye that sees the space between, where the Tao moves quietly."
As Mei made her way back to the village, the world seemed to open before her. The trees whispered their secret language, the river sang in harmony with the wind, and the sky held a deep, mysterious promise. She now understood that meaning was not only in what appeared but in the formlessness that allowed all things to take shape, in the quiet spaces where life flowed unseen.
And so, with each step, Mei walked in tune with both the form and the formless, knowing that the meaning she sought had always been right there, just beneath the surface—waiting to be seen.
* * *
Designing the gap between omniscience
and mortal awareness.
Find your truth. Know your mind. Follow your heart. Love eternal will not be denied. Discernment is an integral part of self-mastery. You may share this post on a non-commercial basis, the author and URL to be included. All rights reserved. Copyright © 2025 C.G. Garant.
