Wu Wei: A Van Life Poem
The road is not a line to cross,
nor a circle to close—
it is the wind in your ribs,
the rain on your hands,
the silence that hums between miles.
No need to force the way ahead.
If the engine fails, let it rest.
If the river rises, wait.
The map is written in clouds,
the compass tilts toward chance.
Give without counting.
Receive without owing.
A stranger’s fire is your fire.
A borrowed roof is your home.
Radical hospitality:
you are the shelter you seek.
Forget the weight of a name.
You are not the driver.
You are not the passenger.
You are the motion between.
Be useless, like the crooked tree.
The straight ones are cut for lumber.
The bent ones sleep under the stars.
Leave less. Love wide.
Carry nothing that the wind cannot take.
You are not outside the journey—
the journey is inside you.
Move without effort.
Act without ego.
Give without expectation.
The road was never yours.
It was always the Tao.
I hope this captures the spirit of wu wei and van life in a way that flows with both lightness and depth. Would you like any refinements, or does this resonate as it is?
