July arrived like a soft exhale. Not dramatic, not life‑altering, not even particularly eventful. Just a gentle loosening. A slackening of the rope I didn’t realise I’d been pulling tight for decades.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my spiritual life this month—how it’s never been a straight line, more like a river that occasionally disappears underground only to resurface somewhere unexpected. I’ve found myself re‑engaging with Taoism, not as a new discovery but as something that feels like it’s been quietly waiting for me. And then Zen, sitting nearby like a cousin who shares the same eyes. I’m beginning to think of my beliefs as a kind of Buddhist‑Taoism or “Buddaoism”: a hybrid that feels less like a label and more like a homecoming.
The Long Road to Stopping
For a while, I kept trying to identify the one thing that led me to take this extended year away from client work. I thought there must be a single catalyst, a moment, a burnout, a crisis. But July has shown me the truth: it wasn’t one thing. It was everything.
Fifty years in healthcare. Fifty years with people who were unwell, injured, traumatised. Fifty years of witnessing lives change in an instant. Fifty years of death and dying. Fifty years of absorbing stories that were never mine but somehow settled into my system anyway.
Even clinical supervision—meant to be the place where residue gets cleared—left its own residue. Micro‑traumas, tiny fragments, accumulating quietly until my mind, body, and soul simply said enough.
Looking back, I can see it now: this wasn’t just professional fatigue. It was something deeper. Something spiritual. A craving for stillness that had been whispering for years.
The Myth of “Resting Properly”
At first, I thought I had to work at having a break. I approached rest like a project. A goal. Something to achieve. I kept thinking, “I must make the most of this time off.” As if enjoyment itself needed a strategy.
But July has been the month of unlearning that.
Rest isn’t a task. It isn’t a performance. It isn’t something to optimise.
Rest is stopping.
Rest is wandering.
Rest is pottering.
Rest is aimlessness—not because aimlessness is virtuous or healing or productive, but simply because it is allowed.
I spent over ten years in school and sixty years after leaving school “getting on in the world,” as my dad encouraged. Society applauds that kind of momentum. It rewards goals, targets, progress. Even when I stepped away from work, I carried that momentum with me. The goal became “enjoy being off work.” I didn’t realise how absurd that was until July gently tapped me on the shoulder and said: You’re still doing it.
Aimlessness as a Spiritual Practice
Letting go of goals has felt strangely radical. Almost rebellious. But also deeply Taoist. The Tao doesn’t demand direction. Zen doesn’t insist on achievement. Both traditions invite you to simply be with what is.
So I’ve been practising aimlessness. Not as a technique, not as a self‑improvement exercise, but as a way of loosening the grip I’ve had on my own life.
I’m not wasting time.
I’m inhabiting it.
I’m not falling behind.
I’m stepping out of the race entirely.
I’m not failing to be productive.
I’m remembering what it feels like to be a human being rather than a human doing.
July’s Quiet Gift
July didn’t give me answers. It didn’t give me revelations. It didn’t give me a new plan.
It gave me permission.
Permission to stop trying to rest “well.”
Permission to stop searching for the cause of my exhaustion.
Permission to stop naming my spirituality and simply live it.
Permission to be aimless.
Permission to slacken off.
Permission to wander without purpose.
Permission to trust that being is enough.
And maybe that’s the beginning of my Buddhist‑Taoist year: a year of nothing, which is turning out to be a year of everything I didn’t know I needed.
