Apologies for my cough. I missed it in post-production.
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A Voice Like Water
“Nothing in the world is as soft and yielding as water. Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can surpass it. The soft overcomes the hard; the gentle overcomes the rigid. Everyone knows this is true, but few can put it into practice.”
– Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Verse 78
Google’s Deep Dive Podcast: The Sound of Stillness: Taoism, Music, and the Voice of Water
In this latest offering from TATANKA, I return to the source—the quiet river beneath all sound. Inspired by a full reading of the Tao Te Ching, this project is both a personal meditation and a public offering: a minimalist ambient soundscape shaped by the ancient Chinese guqin, the breathlike tone of the bamboo flute, and the steady presence of flowing water. These elements, steeped in Taoist tradition, create not only an atmosphere of stillness but a mirror for the listener’s own becoming.
The decision to use my own voice for the first time in any TATANKA project was deliberate. In Taoism, the voice is not an assertion of ego but a surrender to what is. I speak not as a teacher, but as one walking the path beside you. This is not performance—it is presence.
Aligned with TATANKA’s mission to bridge ancient wisdom and emerging consciousness, this project is a portal into both the ethereal and the embodied. It invites listeners to slow down, to listen inward, and to reconnect with what the Tao calls the “uncarved block”—the raw, real nature of being. At a time when speed, noise, and disconnection are the norm, this work seeks to anchor us in the natural flow of things, gently reminding us that alignment begins with attention.
This is an offering of simplicity, clarity, and return. May it serve as a companion for those seeking to be grounded in reality—and lifted by it.
Flowing with the Tao: A Sound Offering from the Uncarved Self
In a world saturated with noise and acceleration, this TATANKA project emerges as a quiet countercurrent—a meditative, minimalist soundtrack inspired by the Tao Te Ching. Blending guqin, bamboo flute, ambient drones, and the elemental sound of flowing water, this sonic work echoes the tenets of Taoism: simplicity, harmony, and the wisdom of non-action. For the first time in any TATANKA production, I include my own voice—not to instruct, but to accompany, to be with. This article explores three interconnected subtopics: the philosophical foundations of Taoism as expressed in the Tao Te Ching; the sonic and cultural significance of traditional instruments like the guqin and bamboo flute; and the symbolic and spiritual role of water as both motif and guide. Each of these threads flows together into a unified tapestry—a project that invites listeners not to escape the world, but to sink more deeply into its most essential rhythm.
The Tao Te Ching: A Philosophy of Flow
At the heart of this project lies the Tao Te Ching, the foundational text of Taoism attributed to Lao Tzu. Composed over 2,500 years ago, the text is not a dogma but a collection of poetic reflections—guidelines for living in alignment with the Tao, or “Way.” Its wisdom is paradoxical and elusive, intentionally so, challenging the reader to loosen their grip on rigid thinking. The text’s 81 short verses encourage non-resistance, humility, and trust in the natural unfolding of life. In this project, the verses are not read literally but interpreted through music, silence, and the ambient texture of space itself. As in the Tao Te Ching, the emphasis is not on control but on surrendering to the greater pattern—a key principle I carried into both the composition and vocal performance.
One of the most famous passages, Verse 78, states: Nothing in the world is as soft and yielding as water. Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can surpass it.
(Lao Tzu). This insight became the philosophical spine of the project. Just as water shapes stone over time, I sought to allow the music to emerge slowly, with no forced transitions or dramatic gestures. This approach reflects the Taoist value of wuwei—effortless action or doing without doing. By embodying these principles, the work becomes more than an audio experience; it becomes an invitation to live differently, to hear more deeply, and to act with attuned presence.
The choice to read the entire Tao Te Ching before beginning composition was not a gesture of research but a personal practice. The process shaped my emotional and creative landscape, allowing me to enter into a different kind of collaboration—not only with the instruments, but with the text, nature, and time itself. Taoism teaches that knowledge is not something acquired, but something uncovered when ego and expectation are dropped. My voice in this work, therefore, is not a statement, but a trace—just one ripple among many in the ongoing flow of the Tao.
The Guqin, Bamboo Flute, and Ambient Minimalism
The guqin, an ancient seven-string zither, is considered a sacred instrument in Chinese philosophy and aesthetics. It was traditionally played not for entertainment but for introspection, refinement, and spiritual cultivation. Its soft, breath-like tones resonate with space rather than filling it, echoing the Taoist ideal of presence through absence. In this project, the guqin does not drive the music forward—it lingers, hovers, and occasionally vanishes, creating room for stillness to speak. Alongside it, the bamboo flute (or shakuhachi-style timbre) acts as breath and movement, guiding the listener through subtle shifts in tone and emotion.
These traditional instruments are paired with ambient drones and minimalist composition techniques to create an emotional and temporal suspension. Ambient music, by its nature, resists traditional narrative structures and encourages open-ended listening. Inspired by the works of Brian Eno and Hiroshi Yoshimura, I approached composition as an act of restraint, where what is left unsaid is as important as what is expressed. Minimalism in this context is not a stylistic choice, but an ethical one—it reflects a refusal to dominate the listener’s attention, instead cultivating spaciousness for personal insight.
The integration of Eastern traditional instruments and Western ambient techniques creates a hybrid soundscape that transcends cultural boundaries. This reflects the TATANKA mission: to build bridges between the ancient and the emerging, the sacred and the digital. In doing so, the music becomes a meeting place—a liminal zone where cultural forms dissolve into essence. The act of listening becomes meditative, and the soundscape becomes a field for quiet awakening.
The Element of Water: Symbol, Sound, and Spirit
Water is not simply an ambient sound in this project—it is a spiritual presence, an active participant in the dialogue. In Taoism, water symbolizes the ultimate virtue: adaptability, persistence, humility. Flowing without resistance, seeking the lowest places, nourishing all without competition—water embodies the Tao more fully than any other element. I included a track of natural running water throughout the composition, allowing it to weave its way around the instruments and my voice. It is never ornamental; it is foundational.
The sonic presence of water also activates the listener’s body and memory. The soft, steady current calls us back to primal knowing—the womb, the river, the tears we’ve shed and healed. In a digital era where synthetic sounds dominate, the unedited, raw sound of water serves as a grounding force. It reminds us that despite all our advancement, our bodies still respond to the earth’s rhythms. It centers the listener not in fantasy or escape, but in the immediate reality of breath, gravity, and flow.
Theologically and poetically, water also becomes the voice of the Tao itself. Where words fail, the ripple speaks. It fills the silence between verses and underscores the gentle cadence of the guqin. In this way, water teaches us how to listen again—not just to sound, but to life. And perhaps most importantly, it reminds us how to let go. In a culture obsessed with grasping and defining, the steady sound of a stream becomes a subtle act of resistance, or more accurately, of returning.
Listening to the Way
This project—this sound offering—exists at the intersection of philosophy, music, and presence. Rooted in the enduring teachings of the Tao Te Ching, it uses traditional instruments and ambient minimalism to create a space for deeper listening. The guqin and bamboo flute invite reflection; ambient drones suspend time; water, as both sound and spirit, guides us through. For the first time, my voice joins the current, not to instruct, but to accompany. Each element—each breath, note, and silence—works in concert to embody the Taoist ideal: to do nothing, and yet leave nothing undone.
In the end, this is not simply a piece of music—it is an invitation to return to what is real, soft, and true. It is TATANKA’s continued mission to stand at the confluence of the ancient and the new, the known and the unspoken. As the Tao reminds us, The soft overcomes the hard; the gentle overcomes the rigid.
So may this work flow into you, and may you flow forward with it—clearer, slower, and more at peace with the Way.
The Stream Beneath the City: A TATANKA Tale of Remembering
Her name was Ayeenah, but few ever said it right. Her mother, a Haitian Vodou priestess with ancestral ties to the Dahomey lineages, named her after the wind spirits that travel in whispers between palm fronds. Born in the shadow of raised highways and broken promises in Liberty City, Miami, Ayeenah knew silence not as peace but as survival. She was Black, trans-feminine, neurodivergent, and—by American standards—statistically forgettable. Yet within her chest, a song had always rippled like water, waiting for a voice it could finally inhabit.
Ayeenah was working a late shift at a transitional shelter, folding donated sweatshirts, when she heard about the TATANKA project from a woman named Rua who had once been a client and was now thriving as an herbalist and digital musician in Alaska. “They listen to the Earth,” Rua had whispered over a crackly Signal call, “and they listen to people like us. Especially us.” Rua sent her a link to the Tao-inspired soundscape—ambient drones, guqin, bamboo flute, and the soothing hush of water—and Ayeenah wept. For the first time in months, she slept without nightmares.
The next morning, Ayeenah downloaded the track onto a worn Android and took the long bus ride to the mangrove wetlands near Oleta River. She sat under a rusted bridge while the sound of the music played softly through one borrowed earbud, its current wrapping her trauma like linen. The water spoke to her in old tongues. It reminded her of the Ginen spirits, the lwa, and her mother’s hands cracking coconut over shallow riverbeds. The flute seemed to ask no questions of her name, her scars, or her past. It only mirrored the way she moved through the world—slow, invisible, but constant.
She began returning daily, letting the sound offering become a ritual. She called it her “uncarving,” inspired by the Tao Te Ching verse that said, “Hold fast to the void. The ten thousand things rise and fall while the Self watches their return.” The music asked nothing of her. Not performance. Not explanation. In the flow of the guqin strings, she remembered who she had been before the world taught her fear. TATANKA’s work wasn’t just background music—it was a portal.
Within weeks, Ayeenah reached out. She sent a voice message to the team behind TATANKA, hesitantly introducing herself, offering a short poem she had written while listening to their Tao series. To her astonishment, someone responded. Not with a survey, not with a donation request, but with a message that said simply: “You are already a part of us.” She was invited into a remote listening circle, where other voices—many from the margins like hers—reflected, cried, prayed, and created in real time. There was an Indigenous elder from the Yukon, a refugee girl from Syria living in Brussels, a queer monk in Seoul. It felt like breathing again.
As she grew more confident, Ayeenah began composing her own field recordings, capturing the sound of subway cars, ocean waves, and storm drains. She blended them with bamboo chimes she found at a thrift store and lyrics whispered in Kreyòl. TATANKA featured her work in their next digital zine, placing her poem next to an essay on sound as sacred technology. The recognition didn’t make her whole—she was already whole—but it did light a lamp inside a dark corner.
One day, after a particularly grounding sound bath session hosted by a member of TATANKA in Argentina, Ayeenah looked at her reflection in the canal near her apartment. She saw herself not as fragmented, but as water: adaptable, ungraspable, essential. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she had to earn the right to exist. She just did.
In her next submission, she wrote: “I am not an echo. I am the stream.” It became the anchor phrase of the next Tao Sound Offering session, and others took it up, speaking her words in their own languages. Some danced. Some cried. Ayeenah only smiled, her face glowing in candlelight, finally seen not as a case study or a statistic, but as a current shaping the world.
Now she mentors others. Not as a savior, but as a fellow traveler on the uncarved path. She teaches sound healing workshops for youth navigating the intersections of race, gender, and mental health. Her sessions begin not with instructions, but with a simple invitation: “Let’s remember who we were before the noise.”
Takeaway
Ayeenah’s story illustrates the power of creating inclusive spaces where sound is more than art—it’s an invitation to return to the uncarved self. For marginalized communities, especially those erased by systems of oppression, music rooted in spiritual traditions like Taoism can become a bridge to wholeness. TATANKA’s sound offering wasn’t just aesthetic; it became a ritual that allowed Ayeenah and others like her to reconnect with the divine within and without.
TATANKA doesn’t just give voice to the unheard—it listens, allowing each participant to flow like water through their pain, history, and healing. Ayeenah’s journey reminds us that the path to transformation is not one of force, but of yielding. Like the Tao, it arrives when we stop striving and start listening.