Ever Without Desire · Ever With Desire

“Ever without desire, one sees the subtle essence; ever with desire, one sees the manifestations.” - Lao Tzu

These two lines stand like twin gates, opposite in wording, yet opening toward the same reality. Many read them as instructions to choose between detachment and longing, between transcendence and living. But Lao Tzu was not asking us to stand on one side. The Tao rarely speaks in either/or. It speaks in balance, in the ability to hold paradox without fracture, to be still yet responsive, empty yet full, without desire yet not void of aspiration.

Ever without desire

To be “ever without desire” does not mean extinguishing all wanting, nor abandoning the ordinary texture of human life. It means not being seized by desire, not being dragged, bent, or consumed by what we pursue.

When the mind is not gripped by grasping, rushing, or clinging, it becomes clear enough to perceive the world as it is, not as we fear it might be, nor as we wish it were. In this clarity, things regain their original form. Nothing is exaggerated, nothing is distorted, nothing demands to become what it is not. A flower opens without striving; a leaf falls without regret. In this state, we witness the subtle: the quiet order beneath the chaos, the hidden intelligence pulsing through the ordinary, the unnamed rhythm that binds all things into a single unfolding.

This is the realm of mystery, not because it is obscure, but because it reveals itself only when the mind stops interfering. It is a seeing without imposing. A knowing without grasping. A presence beyond interpretation.

Yet the Tao does not ask us to remain suspended in such stillness. Life is not meant to be a silent temple where nothing moves. We are born into the world to feel, to connect, to strive, to create, to respond. And so Lao Tzu adds the second line: “ever with desire.” Desire here is not greed, it is participation. It is the willingness to step into the currents of life rather than floating untouched on its surface.

Ever with desire

To have desire is to care, to hunger for meaning, to seek growth, to love deeply, to imagine possibility. It is the force that moves a seed toward the sun, that pushes a child to speak, that leads civilisations to rise, build, and evolve.

Without desire, nothing would change. Without longing, nothing would be born. Without aspiration, nothing new would ever emerge. So the Tao does not deny desire, it situates it. It places longing inside awareness instead of letting longing become the master. It teaches: desire is a fire, but only wisdom knows how close to stand.

When desire exists without the grounding of stillness, the self becomes captive to outcomes. The mind becomes restless, measuring life in achievement, recognition, acquisition, or comparison. Gain becomes identity; loss becomes annihilation. Every step forward is haunted by fear, and every possession is shadowed by the terror of losing it.

But when desire is held within the spaciousness of “ever without desire,” it changes shape. It is no longer a demand, it is an invitation. One pursues, but without desperation. One strives, but without forgetting peace. One loves, but without begging to be completed. One experiences, but without forfeiting presence. Desire becomes movement, not compulsion.

Two wings of a single being

And so the two states - without desire and with desire - are not opposites. They are the two wings of a single being. Without desire is the root: stable, grounded, unshakeable. With desire is the branch and leaf: reaching outward, alive, unfolding toward the world. Without the root, the branches break in the wind. Without the branches, the root becomes a silent burial.

In “ever without desire,” we see the essence.

In “ever with desire,” we live the expression.

Both are needed for a life that is deep rather than merely long.

Over time, one begins to notice a rhythm, not a forced discipline, but a natural ebb and flow. Some days life calls us inward, toward silence and spaciousness; other days it calls us outward, toward engagement and action. And when the two movements cease to feel contradictory, when we can act without agitation and rest without avoidance, something quiet and whole settles inside.

At that point, one no longer fears wanting, nor fears letting go. One no longer clings to outcome, nor rejects participation. The heart becomes a wide river: able to receive, able to release. The self becomes neither hollow nor overfull, simply complete.

A person who reaches this understanding does not become cold, nor passive, nor removed. Instead, they walk through the world awake. They know how to love without dissolving, how to strive without trembling, how to succeed without boasting, how to lose without collapsing. Their center is steady even as life continues to change.

In such a person, desire becomes wind, movement, not weight. And stillness becomes sea, vast, grounding, silent, and real.

When emptiness and longing no longer fight, but hold hands, the human spirit regains its original shape, not fragmented, not frantic, but whole.

And in that wholeness, the Tao is no longer a philosophy to study, but a presence that walks with us, breathing when we breathe, moving when we move, and remaining when everything else passes away.