Through form intentions
are made real.
Through meaning one can aspire
to the origin of non-creativity.
To complete the Tai Chi
it is necessary to expand
upon the purpose of Tao.
Design is the process of self-cultivation
the purpose which is to restore wholeness
back to its origin.
What is given form
is the reflection of a creator
purposely extending part of itself
into a corresponding frequency,
form and reality.
* * *
Through form, intentions take their shape,
A vessel for the soul's escape.
In silent flow, meaning is found,
Where the essence of truth resounds.
To seek the path, no artifice,
Beyond the grasp of thought or bliss,
To reach the root where stillness grows,
Where Tao's pure current softly flows.
Tai Chi’s dance, a gentle push,
A circle drawn with no harsh rush.
The goal is not to force or fight,
But to return to endless light.
Through design, we shape and learn,
In self-cultivation, we discern
The wholeness lost, the peace untold,
Restoring life from roots of old.
Creation's hand extends its reach,
Through form, the silent truths it teaches.
In every stroke, a fragment thrown,
A reflection of the One unknown.
A frequency, a spark, a sound
In each of us, the Tao is found.
* * *
In a small village nestled between rolling hills and ancient forests, there lived a sculptor named Liang. His hands were deft, his eyes sharp, but it was his mind that truly shaped his work. Unlike other artisans who focused solely on craftsmanship, Liang sought to understand the deeper essence of creation itself—something elusive, something profound.
He had heard whispers of the Tao, the way of the universe, from the village elders who spoke of it with reverence, as though it was a force that danced just beyond the horizon of human understanding. It was said that the Tao was neither born nor destroyed, but existed in all things, in silence and stillness, in the empty spaces between the stars. And through Tai Chi, through movement and stillness, one could touch it.
One day, while sitting by the river and reflecting on his work, Liang encountered an old monk who had wandered into the village. His robes were simple, and his face, though weathered by time, held a peaceful serenity that made Liang pause. The monk carried no possessions except for a small wooden staff and a quiet smile.
"Your hands are skilled," the monk observed, his voice like a soft breeze. "But what is it you seek to create, Master Liang?"
Liang, intrigued, responded, "I seek to create beauty, to shape the world into something meaningful. But I feel… there is something more—something beyond the form. I have been told of the Tao, the origin of all things. Yet, I do not understand how it connects to what I create."
The monk nodded, his eyes twinkling with quiet understanding. "You shape the world with your hands, but what is it that shapes you? True creation is not only about what you form—it is about the purpose you bring to the form. Intentions are not just thoughts; they are the invisible currents that flow through everything."
Liang looked puzzled. "How can intentions shape the world? I shape clay, stone, wood—but what is it beyond that?"
The monk smiled gently. "To complete the Tai Chi is to understand that creation and destruction are but one dance, woven together in the silence of the Tao. You seek to restore wholeness, yes? But wholeness is not something you impose upon the world. It is something you return to, something that was always there, hidden beneath the surface. The purpose of design is to reflect that which is not seen—an invisible order, a silent truth."
Liang stood still, contemplating the monk's words. "How can I do this? How do I reach the source of this truth?"
The monk motioned for Liang to follow him to a nearby clearing, where a large stone stood at the center, its surface weathered and cracked by the passing years. The monk spoke once more. "This stone has been here longer than your hands or mine. Yet, it waits for the right moment to reveal its form. Your task is not to force it into being, but to listen—to become one with the stone. To bring forth what is already within it."
Liang approached the stone, unsure of what the monk meant. He set his hands upon its cold surface and closed his eyes, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingers. For a long time, he simply stood there, doing nothing but breathing, listening to the wind, to the distant sounds of the village, to the rhythm of his own pulse.
Then, he began to move.
Slowly at first, his hands traced the lines of the stone, as if searching for something that was hidden deep within. He did not think about technique or form. He did not measure or calculate. He simply allowed his hands to follow the stone's natural lines, feeling its contours, its rhythm, its pulse. He was no longer merely sculpting; he was becoming the stone itself, understanding its silent truth.
As his hands moved with a quiet grace, he realized something he had not known before creation was not about imposing one's will upon the world. It was about returning to the origin—the place where everything began, before thought, before intention. It was about becoming a part of the process, not separate from it.
When he opened his eyes, the stone had transformed before him. It was still rough and unpolished, but there was a subtle beauty to it, a deep resonance that spoke of ancient wisdom and timeless truth. The form was simple, yet complete. It was not the work of Liang alone, but a reflection of something larger, something beyond the grasp of ordinary understanding.
The monk, who had watched silently, smiled. "What you have created is not just stone. It is a reflection of your own journey—of your willingness to surrender to the Tao, to let go of your need to control and instead, to align yourself with the flow of the universe."
Liang nodded, understanding at last. He had not made the stone; he had revealed it. And in doing so, he had touched the essence of creation itself.
From that day forward, Liang no longer sought to control his work. He did not seek beauty for beauty's sake or creation for creation's sake. He sought only to listen, to become one with the material, and to let the form reveal itself. Through this process, he found that he was not simply a creator—but a part of the creation, a part of the silent flow of the Tao.
And in that silence, he discovered a deeper meaning than any form could ever.
* * *
In a distant land, where the hills touched the sky and the rivers sang with the wind, there lived a young woman named Mei. She was an artist, but not in the way the village saw it. While others painted vibrant landscapes and crafted delicate pottery, Mei's art was quiet, almost invisible. She shaped with her hands not the material world, but the very currents of existence itself.
Her small cottage sat at the edge of the village, surrounded by wildflowers that danced in the breeze and trees that whispered ancient secrets. Mei spent her days in solitude, not crafting objects to display, but rather seeking the essence that lay beneath all things. She would wake before the sun, sit by the river, and listen—not to the babbling water, but to the space between each ripple, the pause between each wave.
One day, an old man wandered into the village. His hair was silver, his steps slow but sure. He had no possessions except for a simple walking stick and a quiet smile that seemed to carry the weight of years. The villagers, curious about the stranger, gathered around him, but Mei stayed in the shadows, watching him from the doorway of her cottage.
The man’s eyes caught hers across the crowd. Without a word, he walked toward her, his presence calm and unhurried, as though he were simply following the rhythm of the world. When he reached her, he spoke softly, his voice like a rustling leaf.
"I have heard of your art, Mei. But what do you seek to create?"
Mei tilted her head, uncertain how to answer. "I seek… I seek the truth beneath all things," she said slowly. "But I do not know how to make it real. I shape only silence, and yet, it feels as though something is missing. Perhaps, I am the one missing."
The old man smiled, as if he had been waiting for her to say those very words. "You are not missing, Mei. You are only unconnected, caught in the flow without understanding it. Creation, true creation, is not about making something new. It is about returning to what already is. You must listen, feel the rhythm, and join the dance."
Mei was confused. "But how can I create without knowing what I am creating?"
"Creation comes from the origin of stillness, the heart of the Tao. What you shape is not something you impose upon the world. It is something you reveal. To reveal is not to create, but to restore the wholeness that already exists, waiting to be uncovered."
The words settled in Mei’s mind like stones dropped into a pond, rippling through her thoughts long after the old man had gone. She could not sleep that night. Her thoughts swirled, like the water in the river, turbulent and unclear. She had always tried to create something with her hands, but now she wondered if the true purpose of her art was not to shape form, but to reveal it.
The next morning, she set out to the forest, feeling the cool morning mist brush against her skin. There, beneath the towering pines, she sat upon a stone and closed her eyes. She had heard the wind speak before, but now, she was listening—not to the wind itself, but to the pauses between its whispers. The space where sound had not yet formed. The silence where everything began.
Hours passed, and the world around her seemed to slow. The air thickened with meaning. It was as if the earth itself was breathing beneath her, a pulse that flowed through everything. She felt her heartbeat synchronize with the rhythm of the world. It was then that she understood—the form she sought was not something she could see with her eyes. It was something that existed before her, and yet beyond her. It was the Tao, the flow of all things, and she had only to allow herself to become a part of it.
Slowly, she rose and walked through the forest, not with purpose, but with the intent to move with the flow of creation. She touched the bark of the trees, the soft moss beneath her feet, the dew on the leaves. Each touch, each movement, was a conversation with the earth itself. The rhythm of her body began to mirror the world around her, not in a struggle to control, but in a quiet partnership.
At the edge of the forest, she found a stone—smooth and worn, its surface catching the light in a way that seemed to draw her in. It was nothing special, just a stone. But it called to her. She sat before it, her hands hovering above its surface.
She closed her eyes again, not to think, but to listen—to feel. And there, in the silence, she realized what the old man had meant. The stone was not hers to shape. It was already whole, already complete. She was simply there to reveal what was within it. And so, with gentle hands, she traced the stone’s surface, not as an artist, but as a witness. She did not force it, did not demand it to become something else. She let her hands follow the natural lines and contours, guiding them in the way they wanted to go, not the way she thought they should go.
As her fingers moved, the stone seemed to come alive beneath her touch, not because of what she was doing, but because of what she had let go of. She was no longer trying to make something from it; she was letting it become what it had always been.
When she finished, Mei stepped back and looked at the stone. It was not a sculpture, nor an object of art. It was simply… itself. And yet, in its simplicity, there was something profound, something that could not be captured by words or form. It was the Tao, the silence, the flow of the universe made real.
The old man appeared behind her, having watched from afar. "You have learned, Mei," he said softly. "True creation does not come from will, but from surrender. You have touched the rhythm of the world, and in that dance, you have found yourself."
Mei smiled, feeling a peace she had never known before. She understood now that she was not separate from the world she sought to shape. She was a part of it, and through her hands, she had revealed it—not made it but uncovered it.
And so, Mei continued her art, not as a creator, but as a listener. She no longer sought to craft, but to uncover the silent forms already waiting to be revealed, each piece a reflection of the Tao—complete, whole, and perfect in its stillness.
* * *
Designing the gap between divine 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.
