The Pivot of the Dao and the Pattern of the Cross

A Monday Moonday reflection:

Wholeness is not a “perfect” circle.

It’s a dance of belonging.

Moonlight has a way of revealing what sunlight sometimes conceals.

It’s softer. Slower. Gentler with the things we’d rather not see—shadows, doubts, edges of ourselves we’d prefer to round off. The moon doesn’t demand we be whole before we are held. It simply shows up. Waxing and waning, full and hidden. Teaching us that transformation is not a straight line, but a curve.

This week, I’ve been sitting with the image of Yin and Yang—not as abstract philosophy, but as a real and embodied invitation. The Taoist wisdom that Yin and Yang belong together—though differentiated, distinct, even in tension—is something I feel deep in my bones. But more than that, I feel it at the pivot point. The threshold. The place where the two kiss, wrestle, pass the torch. Surrendering one to the other at key, pivotal moments.

And here’s the thing no one tells you when you start walking the contemplative path:

That pivot point? It’s uncomfortable.

It’s the “price of admission,” as I like to say. It’s where you start to see that the real work of spiritual transformation isn’t about resolving the opposites but relating to them differently. Welcoming them. Practicing presence with them.

The Christian language for this might be: the Cross.

Not as punishment. Not as transaction. But as pattern—the place where opposites are held in God.

Where human and divine meet.

Where death and life are no longer adversaries but dance partners.

Where suffering and love don’t cancel each other out but belong together in a mystery far deeper than certainty.

This is the contemplative path.

Not a path of “perfect,” but of practice.

The practice of staying.

Of consenting.

Of choosing love over clarity.

Of letting discomfort teach us how to belong—to God, to ourselves, to each other.

In Taoist language, they call this “the pivot of the Dao”—that tender, often excruciating moment where Yin gives way to Yang, or Yang bends toward Yin. It’s not a moment of finality. It’s a moment of transition. Of inner turning. Of Spirit-led surrender.

In Christian language, I think it’s something like the moment in Gethsemane:

“Not my will, but Yours be done.”

That sacred moment where we’re tempted to split—but instead, we stay.

We breathe.

We open.

We welcome what is.

And we trust that this very tension is the womb of grace.

So today, dear friends, on this Moonday, wherever you are on your journey, may you notice where you are in the circle. Maybe you’re in the fullness. Maybe you’re in the fade. Maybe you’re somewhere in between.

Wherever you are:

The invitation is not to fix it. {…} It’s to feel it.

To stay at the pivot.

To practice the art of holding what feels impossible—and trusting that God is doing the deeper holding underneath.

Moonlight teaches us that even shadows belong.

And the Cross reminds us that everything—every thing—can be made whole in Love.

If this reflection stirred something in you, I’d love to hear how you’re noticing the “pivot” in your own life. Leave a comment or forward this to someone who might need to hear it today.

Grace and grounding,

Logan