The Quiet Feast

Finding the Dao in Solitude

By: Cheng Tong - Jul 22, 2025

In the pre-dawn stillness, as the world outside my window sleeps, my day begins. At 4:30 AM, there is no pressure, no performance, no societal expectation—only the gentle rhythm of breath and the settling of the mind. This is the first of my two daily meditations, a bookend to a life lived intentionally apart from the world’s ceaseless noise. To many, a life of chosen solitude might seem lacking, a state of loneliness to be pitied or remedied. But from a Daoist perspective, it is not an absence, but a presence. It is a quiet feast.

Our culture often conflates solitude with loneliness. Loneliness is a hunger, a painful void created by a lack of desired connection. Solitude, conversely, is a chosen state of being, a rich and fertile ground for self-discovery and the cultivation of inner peace. It is the difference between an empty room and a spacious one. The former feels barren; the latter is filled with potential. The path of the Dao is one that seeks to return to our original nature, to the “uncarved block” (pu), and this journey is most readily undertaken in the quiet company of oneself.

My days are structured not by external demands but by an internal cadence. The stillness of meditation at 4:30 AM and again at 7:30 PM anchors my experience. Between these moments, the slow, flowing movements of Qigong and Taiji are not exercises but conversations with my own vital energy, my qi. This is the core of my practice and my life: to cultivate, to listen, and to move in harmony with the natural currents of being. This internal dialogue is so profound and fulfilling that the cacophony of constant social engagement feels like an interruption, a distraction from a far more essential connection.

This philosophy finds a powerful physical expression in the practice of Taiji Push Hands. We learn the principle of bu diu bu ding—not to lose contact, but also not to resist. When our partner pushes, our instinct is to meet force with force, to brace and push back. But the art teaches us to yield, to absorb our partner’s energy, neutralize it, and redirect it. Society, with its relentless demands for engagement, is a constant push. It insists on our attention, our opinions, our presence. The Dao of Solitude teaches us not to meet this force with rigid resistance, which only creates struggle and tension. Instead, we learn to yield gracefully. We do not disconnect from the world, but we refuse to be thrown off our center by its force. We remain supple, rooted, and in control of our own space.

This is not a life walled off from humanity. The connections I do maintain—with family, friends, and my students—are made all the richer by the solitude that surrounds them. Because I do not need companionship to fill a void, the time I share with others is intentional and wholehearted. When I teach Qigong or discuss the subtleties of the Tao Te Ching, I am not speaking from a place of theoretical knowledge, but from a lived experience. I am offering a cup of water from a well that is deep and full, replenished daily in stillness. The purpose is not to hoard this quietude, but to share its fruits.

The red deck where I train and teach daily, in the midst of a meditation garden, is a safe haven for those who study with me. My duty to students is to maintain that sacredness for their well-being during our time together, to offer a stillness conducive to learning, a temporary respite from the noise of humankind for them. We do not rail against that noise; for our time together on the red deck, we choose instead to focus on what is immediately before us.

Laozi reminds us in the Tao Te Ching of the utility of emptiness: “We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want.” A life cluttered with noise and perpetual engagement leaves no room for the spirit to reside. By embracing solitude, we create that essential emptiness—a sacred space within ourselves. It is in this inner quiet that we can truly hear the subtle whispers of the Dao, feel the flow of qi, and understand our place in the universe. We discover that true companionship is not about being surrounded by others, but about becoming a true companion to oneself. In the quiet, we find not an absence, but a presence. We find ourselves, and in doing so, we find everything.