Life Wisdom - By Words of Taoism - The Illusion of our Ego - Taoism and Buddhism

Episode Date: November 2, 2025

Beyond the walls of our self-constructed limitations lies true peace.Free resources, books and more on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://wordsoftaoism.com/⁠⁠⁠⁠My Substack bestseller blog ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://taoismteachings.substack.com/⁠⁠

A Zen monk was looking at himself in the clear water of a pond when his master approached. What do you see? asked the master. I see my face, replied the monk. The master picked up a stone and threw it into the water, disturbing the surface. I no longer see anything distinct, said the monk. Precisely, smiled the master. When the water of the mind is agitated by the waves of the ego, You cannot see your true nature.

But tell me, who was there before your reflection appeared? And who remains when it disappears? This ancient parable points toward one of the most tenacious and universal illusions of human experience. The belief in the existence of a solid, permanent self separate from the rest of existence. What we call the ego resembles a mirage in the desert. From afar, it seems real and substantial, but the closer we approach with a clear attention of consciousness, the more it reveals its elusive nature.

The contemplative traditions of the East, Taoism, Zen, Buddhism, have explored this fundamental illusion for millennia and developed skillful means to free us from it, not to destroy or diminish us, but on the contrary, to reveal our true nature infinitely more vast and free than the narrow limits in which the ego imprisons us. The ego is often confused with self-esteem or self-confidence, but what Eastern Wisdoms call ego or small self-designates something more subtle and fundamental,

an inner voice that constantly whispers to us, I am this. I want that. I don't like that. I must protect myself. I deserve better. This voice that seems so familiar, it becomes confused with our very identity. The ego manifests first through this compulsive tendency to define itself, categorize itself, compare itself. I am intelligent. I am a generous person. I am not like them. I am more successful than him. And activity of definition reveals a deep anguish, that of not knowing who we really are.

As if by accumulating enough labels and characteristics, we could finally construct a solid and reassuring identity. Let us observe this tendency in our daily life. At work, when a colleague receives a promotion, we coveted. A small voice rises. It's not fair. I was more qualified. On public transport, when someone pushes us, the ego bristles,

he could be careful, I'm not invisible. In our relationships, when our partner doesn't notice our efforts, the ego complains, I do so much for this relationship, and it's not even recognized. These reactions reveal the deep mechanisms of the ego, the constant need for recognition. the fear of being ignored or diminished, the attachment to a positive self-image. Each of these reactions presupposes the existence of a central eye that deserves attention,

respect, validation. But what exactly is this eye? Where is it found? Can we grasp it? The Buddhist tradition teaches that this search reveals one of the fundamental character of existence, anata or non-self. When we carefully examine our experience, we find nowhere this solid and permanent eye

that the ego claims to be. We find thoughts that arise and disappear, emotions that rise and fall, sensations that appear and vanish, but no fixed entity that would be the owner of all these experiences. A Zen master asked his disciples, disciples, show me your original mind, the one you had before the birth of your parents.

This paradoxical question points toward that reality, which precedes and transcends all our egotistic identifications. Before identifying ourselves as man or woman, professional or student, success or failure, something was already there. That pure presence, that clear consciousness, which observes all the contents of experience without identifying with any. The Tao Te King expresses this truth through the image of Pooh, the uncarved block, which represents our original nature before the ego shapes it, according to its limited categories. This first nature needs neither to define nor justify itself. It is simply and fully like water that flows naturally towards,

the ocean without wondering if it is worthy of this journey. This perspective radically transforms our understanding of identity. Instead of seeing identity as something to construct, defend, improve, we discover that it resembles rather a garment we wear, a role we play. Not that this role is false or condemnable, but it does not exhaust what we really are. The actor remains distinct from the character he interprets, even if he can invest himself totally in it. This realization brings profound relief. How much energy we waste, maintaining, protecting, improving this image of ourselves.

How much suffering is born from this exclusive identification with our temporary roles? When we understand that we are not our thoughts, not our emotions, not our successes or failures, not even our personal history, an immense freedom opens. This freedom does not mean becoming irresponsible or indifferent. On the contrary, it allows us to act with more authenticity and effectiveness. When the ego no longer monopolizes our attention with its narcissistic concerns, we can respond to situations where we can respond to situations with more clarity and creativity. We stop filtering each experience

through the prism of what does this say about me? To open ourselves to the pure richness of what is. The ego feeds particularly on our attachments, attachment to our opinions, to our possessions, to our image, to our relationships,

to our projects. These attachments are not problematic in themselves, but exclusive identification with them creates constant vulnerability. When we believe we are our opinions, any questioning becomes a personal attack. When we identify with our possessions, any loss becomes a diminishment of our being. When we confuse our identity with our social roles, any criticism becomes an existential threat. Let us observe this dynamic in our reactions to criticism. Someone makes a remark about our work,

and immediately the ego mobilizes. He understands nothing. She is jealous. They don't recognize my value. This defensive reaction reveals that we have confused our intrinsic worth with the quality of our performance. But if we are not our work, if we are not our successes or failures,

what can really reach us? us. A Zen tale tells the story of a master who was constantly slandered by a jealous man. One day, a disciple asked, Master, why don't you defend yourself against these accusations? The master replied, if someone draws a tiger on a wall and a child is afraid of it, does the problem come from the drawing or from the child's belief? These slanders can only reach me if I believe I am what they describe. This story illustrates a profound freedom, that of no longer depending on others' opinions for our inner peace.

This independence does not arise from arrogance or isolation, but from understanding that our true nature transcends all external definitions, whether flattering or denigrating. The ego also manifests, through our relationship with time and impermanence. It constantly seeks to project itself into the future. When I have succeeded, then I will be happy or take refuge in the past. I was somewhat important at that time.

This flight from the present reveals its inability to accept the changing nature of existence. The ego wants the permanent in an impermanent world, the fixed in a universe in constant movement. Buddhism teaches that this resistance to impermanence constitutes one of the main roots of suffering. We suffer not because things change, changes the very nature of existence, but because the ego refuses this change,

clings to what was, worries about what will be. However, careful observation reveals that we ourselves change constantly. The body we had seven years ago has completely renewed its cells. The thoughts that occupied us yesterday, the emotions that seem so important to us last week, have disappeared. The concerns of ten years ago now seem ridiculous to us. Where is the continuity? What remains through all these changes? This interrogation brings us to the heart of Zen understanding. What remains is not a thing, but a capacity, the capacity to be conscious, to know that we know, to observe all changes without being carried away by them.

Her consciousness resembles the space that contains all objects without being affected by them, the mirror that reflects all images without keeping any trace. A Taoist master taught water takes the shape of the vessel that contains it, but it always remains water. Similarly, consciousness takes the form of each experience, but it always remains that pure capacity to know. This metaphor reveals our true nature, not the changing contents of experience,

but the very capacity to experience. This discovery transforms our relationship, with suffering. When we no longer identify exclusively with our emotional states, we can traverse them with more grace. Sadness can be there without I being defined by it.

Anger can arise without I becoming that anger. These emotions become temporary visitors in the space of consciousness rather than owners who settle permanently. This perspective, does not make us insensitive or emotionally detached.

It allows us to feel more fully without being overwhelmed. When we know that we are not our emotions, we can welcome them with curiosity and compassion rather than with resistance or identification. The ego also maintains our feeling of separation from others and the world. It constantly draws boundaries. me and them, us and them, my territory and theirs. These divisions create a world of competition, defense, mistrust.

But are these boundaries as solid as they appear? Deep observation reveals that we exist in a network of interdependencies so complex that it becomes impossible to say where I end and where the other begins. The air we breathe has been exhaled by countless beings before us. The food we eat incorporates the energy of the sun, earth, water. Our thoughts are influenced by the books we read, the conversations we have, the culture in which we are immersed. Our emotions resonate with those of the people around us.

Buddhism expresses this truth through the teaching of original interdependence. Nothing exists independently. Everything arises in relationship with everything else. This understanding progressively dissolves the rigid boundaries that the ego draws between self and world. A Zen master said, look deeply into your true nature and you will discover that it has no fixed limits. What you call you extends far beyond what you imagine. This realization reveals that our true nature is not limited to the boundaries of this particular body or this personal history. We participate in a mystery much vaster. This realization transforms our relationships,

instead of seeing others as potentially threatening strangers or objects to manipulate for our satisfaction, we begin to recognize in them aspects of the same fundamental nature that animates us. This spontaneous recognition generates natural compassion, not forced, which no longer needs to be artificially cultivated. However, recognizing the illusory nature of the ego does not mean fighting it or seeking to eliminate it. This approach would reveal a fundamental misunderstanding.

Who would seek to eliminate the ego? The ego itself. This attempt would create a spiritual ego even more subtle and potentially more proud than the ordinary ego. The path proposed by contemplative traditions is gentler and more intelligent. It involves observing the ego with the benevolent curiosity of a scientist studying a natural phenomenon. We learn to recognize its manifestations without identifying with them, to see its strategies without being trapped by them. This observation reveals that the ego resembles a frightened child,

constantly seeking attention and reassurance. Behind all its demands for love, recognition, security hides a deep fear that of having no real value of being only a temporary construction in a universe that seems indifferent to our small personal concerns. This fear actually reveals a correct intuition.

The ego, as it could be able, conceives itself is indeed a temporary construction. But this discovery, instead of being terrifying, can become liberating. If the ego does not have the solidity it claims to have, what can really be hurt? If our separate identity is more fluid than we thought, what can truly be threatened? This understanding opens toward a deeper security than all the protections the ego can erect. A Taoist tale tells the story of a man who dreamed he was a butterfly. In his dream, he fluttered from flower to flower, carefree and free.

When he woke up, he wondered, Am I a man who dreamed of being a butterfly? Or am I a butterfly now dreaming of being a man? This story illustrates the relativity of our identities and the difficulty of saying what is fundamental and what is construction. This perspective does not plunge us into paralyzing relativism, but invites us to hold our identities more lightly

to play our roles with more freedom. We can be fully a parent, a professional, a friend, while knowing that these roles do not entirely define what we are. This lightness brings new creativity and spontaneity to our interactions. The practice of meditation offers a privileged laboratory for observing the mechanisms of the ego. When we sit in silence, the ego reveals itself in all its agitation. It comments, judges, plans, remembers, worries. It resists the simplicity of the present moment, preferring,

its complex mental elaborations. In this observing silence, we discover that we are not that chattering inner voice, but the one who hears it. We are not the flow of thoughts, but the space in which they appear and disappear. This discrimination between the observer and the observed constitutes one of meditation's most precious teachings. At first, this realization may seem unstable. The ego quickly regains control,

convincing us that this experience of pure consciousness was just a pleasant moment without deep importance. But with patient practice, these moments of clarity deepen and stabilize. The Zen tradition speaks of Saturi, those instance of awakening where the constructed nature of the ego becomes evident with dazzling clarity.

These moments can occur in meditation, but also in the most ordinary circumstances, watching a sunset, listening to music, performing a simple task with total attention. A Zen master described his awakening thus. Suddenly, there was no one to see the cherry tree in bloom, no cherry tree to see.

see, no vision. There was only this pure blossoming, this beauty without witness and without object. This description points toward a form of direct perception that transcends the subject-object duality maintained by the ego. These experiences reveal that what we sought through all the ego strategies. Fulness, peace, joy, love was already there, masked by the very construction supposed to lead us to it. The ego resembles someone who would search for glasses already worn on his nose. This discovery transforms our approach to spiritual realization. Instead of seeking to become something more or better, we learn to remove the veils that hide what we already are.

This path of subtraction rather than addition corresponds to the Taoist teaching of Wu Wei, accomplishing by not accomplishing, reaching by ceasing to seek. The progressive dissolution of egotistic identifications also reveals a form of natural humility, not the forced humility of one who denigrates himself, but the spontaneous humility of one who realizes his true place in the order

of things. Like a wave that discovers it participates in the entire ocean, we recognize our fundamental belonging to something much vaster than our personal history. This humility transforms our relationship with success and failure. Successes no longer inflate the ego, since we know they result from countless factors beyond our individual control. Failures no longer crush us, since we understand they say nothing about our intrinsic worth. This equanimity in the face of life's ups and downs brings profound peace. A Taoist sage taught, the bamboo bends in the storm and straightens when it passes. It does not resist the wind, but it does not break either. Be like bamboo, flexible without being weak,

firm without being rigid. This metaphor illustrates the strength that comes from dissolving egotistic rigidities. This flexibility allows us to adapt to changing circumstances without losing our center. We can play different roles according to needs without identifying exclusively with any. This capacity for creative adaptation replaces the egotistic strategy of control and resistance. In our relationships,

this transformation brings new freedom. We stop expecting others to validate our ego or fill our identity deficiencies. This emotional independence allows more authentic connections based on mutual appreciation rather than need, on giving rather than expectation. Paradoxically, by ceasing to desperately seek love to nourish our ego, we discover our natural capacity to love. This discovery does not proceed from spiritual inflation,

but from recognition of our true nature. When egotistic barriers dissolve, love can circulate freely, without the filters of fear and calculation. A master also said, True love has no particular object. It does not seek someone or something to love. It is the very nature of clear consciousness. This form of unconditional love

does not depend on the other's qualities or their actions toward us. It radiates naturally from a heart freed from ego, egotistic constructions. This liberation also transforms our understanding of service and action in the world. Instead of acting to reinforce our image as someone good or to satisfy egotistic needs for recognition, we can respond spontaneously to the needs that present themselves.

This disinterested action carries particular effectiveness because it is not polluted by the ego's secondary motivations. The Tao Te-Ti King expresses this truth. The sage accomplishes without attachment to his action, succeeds without claiming merit. It is precisely because he claims nothing that nothing can be taken from him. This form of egos' action reveals a natural power that does not encounter the resistances generated by egotistic motivations.

This understanding also illuminates our relationship with the ultimate questions of existence, those deep interrogations that often torment the ego-seeking certainties. If we are not this aging body, these passing thoughts, this personal history that will end, what really constitutes our essence? This interrogation does not aim to deny the reality of our mortal condition, but to explore what in us transcends this apparent condition. A Zen master taught, before your birth, what was your nature? After your death, where will it be?

If you understand this, you understand that life and death are but waves on the surface of the ocean. This perspective transforms our relationship, with ultimate questions without claiming to resolve them definitively. This transformation progressively reveals that our true nature neither is born nor dies, not because it would be immortal in the ordinary sense of the term, but because it transcends the ordinary categories of birth and death. This realization brings profound peace in the face of existence, fundamental uncertainty.

The integration of this understanding into daily life does not happen overnight. The ego has deep roots and subtle strategies for reconstituting itself. It can even disguise itself behind spiritual concepts, creating an awakened ego that believes itself superior to others because it has had some insights

into its illusory nature. This vigilance against the spiritual ego demands constant humility and fine observation of our motivations. Each time we catch ourselves feeling superior because we practice meditation. Each time we judge others as less awakened, the spiritual ego rears its head.

This subtle form of ego can be more tenacious than its ordinary version, because it adorns itself with the trappings of spirituality. A Zen tale tells the story of a monk who boasted of his spiritual realization. His master said to him, show me your ego. The monk replied, but master, I have transcended the ego. The master burst into laughter, there is your ego. It now hides behind your pretended realization. This benevolent vigilance keeps us in humility and simplicity.

It reminds us that true realization does not strut, does not compare, claims nothing. It manifests rather through natural simplicity, spontaneous kindness, humble, and attentive presence. This recovered simplicity transforms our relationship with the everyday. The most ordinary tasks reveal their sacred dementia. when accomplished without egotistic agitation. Washing dishes becomes a meditation. Listening to a friend becomes an act of service.

Walking in the street becomes a silent communion with the life around us. This transformation does not withdraw us from the world, but engages us differently. Instead of approaching each situation asking ourselves, what do I gain from this? We can ask ourselves, how can I serve you? This change of perspective, apparently simple, revolutionizes our experience.

The ego is neither our enemy to combat nor our true identity to preserve, but rather a mirage that has long diverted us from our true nature. Like all mirages, it evaporates when we, we approach with the clear attention of awakened consciousness. This evaporation reveals what we have always been. That pure and free consciousness which observes all phenomena without identifying with any. That capacity for love which radiates naturally when egotistic barriers fall.

That deep peace which depends on no external circumstance, because it constitutes our very essence. In this recognition of our true nature lies the promise of an authentically free existence, free from the existential fear that drives the ego to its desperate strategies, free from the need for validation that makes us dependent on others' gaze, free from the exhausting race toward a happiness always postponed. This freedom finally allows us to live fully,

love unconditionally, serve without calculation, and dance with life.