After reading over what I posted, I realize I’m sitting right in the middle of a tension I can’t quite solve.

Part of me wrote that final line, ‘picking up the staff and helping lift the stone’ because it felt like the ‘right’ answer. The compassionate response. The way to say ‘Yes’ to the chaos and stay connected to people, even when the project itself feels absurd.

But if I’m honest with myself, another part feels like the story really ended a few lines earlier: with the mud over my mouth, shutting up and drinking the water.

That’s where the silence comes from, and why I find I have less and less to say here lately. Is this growing quietness a noble silence—an understanding that words often just add to the noise? Or is it a defeated silence—a quiet realization that pointing out the emperor’s nakedness or the tower’s futility doesn’t change anything?

I fear it’s the latter….

In working through what I was thinking, I used an AI tool to dig deeper into these thoughts, and I noticed something revealing: both I and the tool kept wanting to collapse the tension into a neat lesson, a hopeful bow to tie it all up. in this case ‘But maybe naming the fear is the only way through it’ But I don’t feel that hope right now, my intuition uncomfortably whispered hold the tension and leave it their.

When I pushed back on that ending Gemini noted “I (it) fell right back into the exact trap we’re discussing: defaulting to an algorithmic “resolution.” I reflexively tried to package your tension into a neat, hopeful takeaway (“naming the fear is the only way through it”) because the machinery is trained to deliver closure, hope, and tidy morals. I collapsed the tension into a lesson instead of just sitting with it.”

Even now it suggest I end the post with ‘Maybe the only honest thing to do is just sit in the tension, without forcing an answer I don’t actually have.’ Which is close yet even that says to much…

Hi Thomas
I like your thought about meeting in the stream entry and being silent in our understanding.

As someone prone to self reflection, I completely agree. In my own meditation, I sometimes choose to follow a thought and watch as words form around it. Sometimes, when I’m still, a part of me notices where I can’t be sure if my mind is using the words, or if the words are using my mind.

Its funny how reflection can be two things at once: a tool for processing, and a Zen mirror simply noticing. It’s amazing that both can happen at the exact same time, as you noted earlier.

I read this passage from Matt Haig’s The Midnight Train recently, and discovered myself crying..

He had attempted to reinvent himself. An attempt to become business. To become money. To become a sign above a shop. To transcend himself rather than just being the man he was. To read through time with no weight and substance, but with maximum velocity. Ultimately even love was weak against the desire to avoid pain. Because what was love but another door into it. Better to keep those doors closed. Better to stay on the train of work… Until of course, you actually die and realize the mistake you made.

In the story, Wilber experiences loss, guilt, and an undeserved shame far too early in life. Out of sheer survival, his ego constructs a place for that pain to hide… though, of course, pain never stays hidden for long. Slowly, even after finding Love, the story begins writing him. He becomes work, money, and a sign above a shop, moving through life with maximum velocity and no weight or substance, all to outrun the threat of a past hurt again. In that fortress of logic, the word “love” becomes hidden in his story, redefined as another door into pain… the hiding ego/self decides it is safer to lock the door permanently.

The first arrow is the original painful event—unavoidable, raw, and real.
The second arrow is our initial emotional reaction to it.
The third arrow is the elaborate narrative constructed by the ego to protect itself, a fortress built entirely out of words, logic, and self-inflicted rules (“Avoid love, stay on the train of work, become a sign above a shop”).

The tragedy of the third arrow is that it originates from a real, lived injury, but once the story takes over, the words become our life, and the armor ends up inflicting far more suffering than the original wound ever did.

To break the Zen master’s staff, to step out of the illusion, we must first notice. In a world that constantly encourages maximum velocity and busyness, moving ever faster… the simple act of noticing when we are retreating into a story is more vital than ever.

I write this feeling Matt Haig’s words held up a direct mirror to my own heart. I continue to find myself falling into that old trap of a closed heart… But perhaps the true shift isn’t in never building the fortress again, it’s in recognizing the walls the moment they start going up, putting down the tools, and choosing to remain present with the living, vulnerable human being underneath.

Sorry I intended that for the ‘I am not the person I used to be’ thread…

but than maybe… I can draw it back to Zen…

The map is drawn on paper.
The territory is walked on foot.
The coin in memory has already landed.
The coin in the present is forever in the air.

Zen is the practice of stepping off the paper and back onto the earth, reclaiming the living reality before language comes in to divide it into this or that. What follows is a reflection on the quantum spin, the limits of language, and why staying present is our only safeguard in the age of artificial intelligence…

I know I sometimes play the fool, using words to point toward the limitations of words. Yet I keep returning to this theme because it feels increasingly important.

Human societies have always depended on maps. Language itself is a map. Laws are maps. Religions are maps. Scientific theories are maps. For centuries we have navigated reality through symbols and concepts, and for the most part it has worked remarkably well, though perhaps at a cost…

Yet every map carries a hidden danger when we begin to forget that it is a map. That point that often goes unnoticed where the words we use to express the complicated, wonderous.. and yes horrific begin to write an define us…

What fascinates me about the age of Large Language Models is that we have now created the ultimate map-maker!

An AI does not inhabit the territory. It does not experience the wind beneath the spinning coin. It does not know uncertainty, grief, wonder, love, or presence. It knows only patterns left behind in language. It studies billions of landed coins and becomes extraordinarily skilled at predicting where the next one is likely to fall.

In this sense, an LLM is a mirror held up to humanity’s accumulated past. It is built from recorded memories, inherited definitions, historical categories, and the countless stories we have told about ourselves. It is what makes it so useful.

The danger arises when we forget the difference between the map and the territory.

The danger is not AI., it is the moment we forgot that landed coins are not the whole story. For centuries we have taken snapshots of reality, called them truth, and then built identities around them. We have always been tempted to let yesterday’s labels define today’s possibilities.

An algorithm simply reflects this tendency back to us. If I allow it to define my feelings, my identity, my limitations, or my possibilities, I allow the language of yesterday to author tomorrow. The map begins drawing the map-maker.

When people become trapped in rigid either-or thinking, they become predictable. Successful or failure. Good or bad. Heads or tails. Once life is reduced to fixed labels, our responses become increasingly scripted. Ironically, the more tightly we cling to old definitions, the more machine-like we become.

Perhaps this is why I keep returning to the image of the spinning coin.

The landed coin matters. We need names, labels, categories, and descriptions. We need language to communicate with one another and we need maps to navigate the world. The problem is not that coins land. The problem is forgetting that the landing is only a moment.

Every label is a snapshot, not an identity.
Every definition captures something real, but never the whole.
Every map points toward the territory, yet can never contain it.

Those moments of awakening, when we step out of memory and return to direct experience, remind us of something that no map can fully describe. We are simultaneously the observer and the observed, the map-maker and the territory, the coin and the spinning.

An AI can generate endless maps. It can reflect humanity’s accumulated knowledge with astonishing skill. But it cannot inhabit the living immediacy from which all maps arise.

Each time we return to that living present, we reclaim something essential. We remember that language is a tool, not a prison. A guide, not a destiny.

And perhaps that is the real task in the age of AI is to learn how to use ever more powerful maps without forgetting the uncharted territory of being alive…

“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”
and a simple warning:
Do not mistake the finger pointing at the moon for the moon itself…

Zen teaches that words are only a finger pointing at the moon.

Most of our lives are spent cataloging landed coins—naming, labeling, and filing away the past into static concepts of “good” or “bad,” “Heads” or “Tails.” But Zen reminds us that reality lives only in the spin.

Though this began as an accidental detour into a Zen thread, perhaps it isn’t an accident at all. In an era where algorithms now draft our maps for us, returning to the unmapped immediacy of the present moment may be the most essential Zen practice left to us… 🙂 🙏

I’ve been reading Matt Haig – The Midnight Train – and reminded of this conversation. I feel he captures the grief of these moments…

There were many deaths in life…
A person, it seemed to the Ghost now, died in stages. And so it was particularly poignant to see himself at a young age. To come was the death of youth, of ideals. Of connection, friendships, principles, love. And these were often just choices. Choices that had seemed right at the time, in the moment, but when you got to the end, to the very last death, you looked back and realized all the lost versions that you left along the way. He missed, right than, the person he had once been. And the goodness that had existed inside him, as natural as the green in grass.

The forwardness of life was a problem, thought the Ghost.
If days could be scattered all over, so on Monday you were forty and on Thursday you were nine and on Wednesday you were eighty-one, that would be more helpful. You would know the fleeting nature of things, realize how many versions of ourselves a lifetime contained. It would make life’s beauty so abundantly clear. The way a sunset was so beguiling because it tells us that every day eventually sinks into night.

Latter in a dialog between Wilber and Charlie: “Reality is always moving,” said Charlie… “Everything is particles and particles aren’t still. They move around in a wave. The quantum wave function… This is physics.”
Wilber watched Charlie take a shilling from his pocket. “See this. When it’s in the air it could land either side up. So it is both heads and tails.” He flicked it and it landed on the stained purple carpet… Queen facing up. “Heads,” Wilber said… “Yeah, but listen, Wibo, with life the coin is always spinning in the air in the present and it has always landed in the past… We are the spinning coin… reality is a spinning coin… It contains many things… The existence of tragedy in your life does not mean that your whole life has to be that way. You’re the spinning coin…” — Matt Haig, The Midnight Train

I like that, the moment the coin lands and is labeled and so defined it becomes the past… and it is here we forget the present, and allow the either or to define us…

We are map-makers by nature. From early childhood, we attempt to chart the wilderness of human experience, drawing neat boundaries around raw emotion and labeling every event that meets us. Yet, in our impulse to categorize, we fall into a fundamental trap: as map-makers, we tend to live only at the exact moment the coin lands. We freeze the outcome, stamp it with a definitive label—Heads OR Tails, triumph OR tragedy—and then set up camp inside that frozen definition.

When we live this way, we inhabit memory rather than presence. We mistake our static maps for the living territory, forgetting that every line we draw is merely a historical record of where the coin used to be. We lock ourselves into past triumphs or past heartbreaks, convinced that a single outcome on the carpet defines the entire landscape of who we are.

The wisdom of the Tao lies in the realization that the map-maker is also part of the territory. We are not detached cartographers standing safely outside of life, observing a series of coin flips from a distance; we are the motion. We are the air, the spin, and the superposition of possibilities unfolding right now. To view life through this lens is to remember that the coin is perpetually in mid-air—always spinning, always active, and holding both Heads AND Tails simultaneously in the vivid present.

Every time we “return”… every time we let go of our rigid labels, step out of memory, and drop our insistence on fixed outcomes… we wake up to this truth. We stop defining ourselves by where the coin landed yesterday, and instead step into the dynamic rhythm of the now. In that moment of awakening, the map-maker becomes transparent to the territory, and we realize that we are the Tao itself, waking up to its own endless, spinning potential.

Beautifully put, Thomas.

It reminds me of something I’ve been pondering over recently: We are map-makers by nature. The Tao is the realization that the map-maker is also part of the territory. Every time we “return,” we are the Tao waking up to itself.

I wonder if true free will is what happens in that space where the self dissolves and becomes transparent to the territory. It’s only when we drop back down onto the grid of the map that we look back and call it destiny.