The Tao of Pooh

I finished reading the Tao of Pooh for the second time in two days about thirty minutes ago. The first time I read it, I finished with a greater sense of purpose than the second, but the second time I finished I closed the book understanding that I had taken more from it.

The first time, I finished with a firm resolve to become more like a Taoist: to enjoy life for what it was. After all, we're all searching for happiness in life. Perhaps the happiness is the searching, not the arriving. If we can make the choice to be happy with what we have, why don't we?

With this resolve I let my head run away and careen off on soliloquys about what I would do as a Taoist. I pranced down my fancy trails of this and that and China and communism and creeks and maple syrup and books. Lots and lots of books with lots and lots of words. And maybe writing some of my own.

Of course, partway through the day it and mostly sometime after school (when my diversions had left me hanging in the wind) I found myself rather bitterly contemplating waiting for it. I had an inkling that perhaps I was doing something wrong. No, I knew I was doing something wrong. I went back to read again perhaps find the inner peace acquired on the first read again, so that I could see clearly (now that the rain has gone)

And now, upon reading it the second time I plainly see that my fault was in wanting the Great Reward, and not enjoying all the rewards I was living with. I see now that there is no path or linear line to trek down, but only a cycle to be in. I see that the Wu Wei is about now, not later. So I will try again.