In There Is No Somewhere Insights from the Tao Te Ching, Francis Pring-Mill takes us on a journey up the same mountain from which Lao Tzu pointed out amazing views in his Tao Te Ching. Written over twenty-five hundred years ago, the Tao Te Ching shows us how to live a meaningful life in harmony with the world around us. Its timeless wisdom still resonates with people everywhere as though it had been written yesterday.
As we live our lives, why is it that some of our actions tend to create confusion and stress? Why do other actions seem to flow effortlessly and add to the harmony around us? Could the answer depend simply on where we’re coming from? Is this the difference between being centered in ourselves, and in our own thoughts and desires, and being centered in the Tao? There Is No Somewhere Else will appeal to anyone curious about answers to questions like these.
Author of In Harmony with the A Guided Journey into the Tao Te Ching, Francis Pring-Mill reveals a new path up the mountain by exploring between the lines of a series of contemporary observations about life. The chapters in There Is No Somewhere Else are short, easy to read, and the style is conversational. Francis Pring-Mill draws again on the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching and succeeds in bringing its messages down to earth where they can make a practical, positive difference in how we live our lives today. If the Tao is the only eternal reality, this book suggests we lose the harmony the moment we try to live “somewhere else.”
Francis Pring-Mill was born in Oxford, England, and now lives in Vancouver, Canada. He has been fascinated by the Tao Te Ching since discovering a copy in a secondhand store as a teenager. In his books, he applies skills developed as a professional facilitator, course developer and instructor, and communicator to offer the reader a guided journey into a densely written ancient spiritual text. The result will appeal to anyone interested in understanding the ideas contained in the Tao Te Ching and in applying them to daily life in the modern world.
This one felt personal. Francis writes about teachers who never speak and friends who teach without intending to. It made me look back at moments when someone’s quiet example shaped me more than any lecture could. The imagery of walking life’s path with others beside us sometimes catching us when we stumble was so moving. I loved the reminder that openness is the only real requirement for growth: open to receive, open to give. It’s one of those chapters that leaves you feeling both humbled and grateful for every person who ever appeared at the right time in your journey.
As a painter, this chapter spoke directly to my soul. Francis captures what art really is not self-expression, but self-dissolution. The Master, by residing in the Tao, sets an example for all beings, he quotes, and it’s true: the best art happens when the artist disappears. His reflection on how the ripples of our actions endure beyond us felt poetic. I closed the book feeling inspired to create from silence, not ego. This is one of the most spiritually satisfying explorations of creativity I’ve ever read.
Chapter 14: Thoughts and Dreams One of the book’s most intimate chapters: the opening lines “I am not my thoughts. I am not my feelings. I am a droplet of self-consciousness in the vast flow of everything that is” felt like a personal mirror. The chapter holds the paradox that we are inside thinking and also can observe thinking; that choice opens a way to wakefulness. Emotionally it was consoling; analytically it explains how to live with thought without mistaking it for ultimate reality. The voice here is both compassionate and clear, and it helped me name a habit I’ve carried for years.
Chapter 6: Let the Light Shine This chapter acts as a lighthouse: short, luminous sections that describe sudden clarity and what it feels like to see without the fog of self-consciousness. The metaphor of light sudden, revealing, clean runs through the chapter and gave me several slow, bright moments while reading. I appreciated the author’s care in explaining that “letting the light shine” is not egoistic brightness but a natural clarity that comes when we stop forcing outcomes. Emotionally I felt uplifted; analytically the chapter connects inner clarity to right action in the world, which helps the insight land in everyday ethics rather than mere mysticism.
I received an advanced reader copy (ARC) in exchange for an honest review. There Is No Somewhere Else is a book with impact. Like Michelangelo bringing the angel out into the light, Francis has removed the obstacles preventing the reader from seeing the “light” and the “harmony” of the Tao. Powerful, profound, moving, sometimes funny, Francis presents the complicated yet paradoxically simple Tao in an interpretation clear enough for all readers yet weighty enough to make one think, rethink, how one views the world. (Oops! We should be boxing up our thought, right?) “Can you cleanse your inner vision until you see nothing but the light?” (Chapter 22). In a world full of chaos, seeing nothing but the light is an appealing concept. Be Like Water (Chapter 26) made me laugh, but it also made me reconsider my own rigidity in regard to flowing forward like water without attachment to an outcome. “Every moment is what it is” (Chapter 34). So simple yet we fight this all the time, trying to make what is into something else. “Inside every moment is a song” (Chapter 34). Reading this quote brings a sense of, Yes, of course there is a song in every moment. So why do we forget this so often? Imagine the harmony of finding the song in every moment, not just the ones we deem “bad”? Chapter 35…I cried all the way through. Every little bit of it touched me. Francis, you are both a teacher and a friend. Your writing, this book, removes the obstacles from seeing the view from the mountaintop. I see it. I thank you.
Chapter 17 shows what that release makes possible. Freedom here isn’t rebellion; it’s alignment. Francis begins by distinguishing outer freedom the ability to act without constraint from the inner freedom that comes when the self no longer resists reality. He writes that true freedom is to be “at one with the flow of life rather than a victim of it.”
During our discussion, this definition turned into a mirror for each of us. One reader noted how often we confuse control for freedom choosing, planning, striving yet still feel bound by anxiety. Another said the chapter helped him see that freedom is felt not when we get our way but when we stop being ruled by wanting.
Analytically, the argument unfolds with Taoist precision: resistance creates tension; acceptance dissolves it; in dissolution arises effortless action. Francis describes this as living from the center the same quiet core the earlier chapters helped us locate. He uses simple but resonant imagery: birds flying, water running, wind moving. None claim autonomy, yet all express perfect freedom.
Emotionally, the chapter radiates peace. By the end we weren’t talking much just sitting with the idea that freedom might be less about escape and more about belonging completely to the present. This realization felt profound. Chapter 17 closed our evening with a shared stillness, a sense that we’d glimpsed the Tao’s meaning not as theory but as breath.
Chapter 16 brought one of our most emotional discussions yet. The line that anchored our reading was, “There is no-thing to let go of; it is already gone.” That paradox immediately unsettled us, but in a good way. Francis doesn’t treat letting go as a task on a to-do list; he reveals that the past itself has no weight except the one memory gives it.
He invites readers to notice how attachment to stories especially painful or nostalgic ones fixes us outside the living moment. The examples are subtle: a resentment replayed, an old success still defining worth, a wound rehearsed until it becomes identity. As we shared our own experiences, several members admitted that they thought they’d “moved on” from something only to realize they were still narrating it.
Emotionally, the chapter hit close to home; analytically, it’s a precise deconstruction of time as illusion. Francis builds the argument that each instant is complete in itself. When awareness rests in “what is,” the energy trapped in “what was” releases naturally.
What makes this chapter shine is its compassion. He never shames the reader for holding on he understands why we cling. Yet through the rhythm of his sentences, he offers permission to finally loosen the grip. We left the session feeling lighter, as though the Tao had opened a window and let a quiet breeze move through us.
Reading this chapter felt like being reminded of an old truth I’d forgotten: we are constituted by our connections. Francis opens the chapter by quietly insisting that “life is about relationships with those whom we touch and those who touch us in the course of our lives,” and that sentence kept returning to me as I read on. The piece is gentle but exact, it maps how intimacy, friendship and the wider community each shape who we are, and it refuses the modern myth of heroic isolation. I loved the way the author balances practical reflection (how to show up for family and friends) with a larger Taoist stance: relationship is both the ground and the practice of spiritual life. Emotionally I found it tender. I closed the book and looked at my phone less urgently. Analytically, the chapter does what good interpretation should: it makes an ancient insight feel urgent and usable today.
Chapter 4: Watch Your Thoughts This chapter felt like a short, powerful meditation. The invitation to try watching your thoughts instead of thinking them is deceptively simple, and Pring-Mill shows how practice produces a quieter mind that sees what’s actually happening. I found the examples about ordinary mental chatter the stories we tell ourselves very helpful: they moved the idea from abstract philosophy into a daily practice you can try on the next commute. Emotionally I felt relieved and less self-judging; analytically I appreciated the clear distinction between observing and doing, and the author’s skill in translating Taoist instruction into everyday language without diluting it. The chapter does a neat job of describing both the method and the immediate payoff (less reactivity, more ease).
Chapter 12: Freedom from Desire This chapter contains one of the clearest, most practical treatments of desire in the book: “Freedom does not lie in possessing the object of desire… Freedom lies in awareness and acceptance of everything just as it is.” Reading it felt like being offered an antidote to the restless consumer mind. The author unpacks how desire creates separation and attachment, then shows that accepting reality does not equal passivity, it frees action from frantic wanting. Emotionally I felt both relieved and empowered; analytically the chapter is a crisp lesson in how inner freedom reshapes choices and relationships. This one is already changing how I look at small cravings.
Chapter 15: On the Other Side This chapter closes our set with a luminous, paradoxical meditation: “On the other side of thought we stop making distinctions. No shades of meaning. No words. No noise.” The author shows how stepping beyond habitual thought reveals light and harmony that were always present but hidden by chatter. Emotionally the chapter is gently awe-inspiring not an otherworldly promise, but an invitation to ordinary practices (quieting, listening) that open an extraordinary perspective. Analytically it ties together earlier practices (watching, letting go, listening) and points to their fruit: a life less fragmented and more whole. It’s a lovely, patient ending to this first reading stretch.
Chapter 8: Let Go “Let go” is treated here as a skill not a single heroic moment, but a practice that slowly loosens the grip of desire and attachment. The chapter’s practical scenarios (wanting a possession, seeking approval, clinging to outcomes) made the argument concrete: attachment produces separation; acceptance dissolves it. My emotional takeaway was a lightened heart; thinking it through, the author gives a helpful distinction between acceptance and passivity acceptance frees energy for wise action rather than draining it away. The examples and step-by-step thinking make this chapter one I’ll return to when I’m caught by worry.
Chapter 9: To See Light This chapter extends the book’s imagery of light into how perception itself shifts. Pring-Mill writes about how the mind’s habits create shadows and how small shifts in attention allow “light” to be seen. I was struck by his modest, clear tone: the chapter doesn’t promise permanent enlightenment, only repeated glimpses that change how we act. Emotionally it felt hopeful and steady rather than ecstatic; analytically it describes perception-practices that are accessible and testable noticing assumptions, pausing before reacting, choosing kinder interpretations. It’s a practical manual for clearer seeing.
Chapter 10: Listen for the Harmony This is one of the book’s most affective images: life as music, and our work as tuning in to what’s already playing. The chapter’s practical advice empty the mind enough to hear the pattern is tied to concrete habits that reduce noise and increase sensitivity to others. I felt emotional resonance in passages that link small acts of empathy to a wider social harmony. Analytically, the music metaphor is held together by useful examples (how we listen to conversations, how we choose timing in speech and action). This chapter made me want to practice listening more carefully in my next meeting.
Chapter 11: Point of View Here the author explores how our vantage the way we frame reality shapes everything we think and do. The chapter asks us to test our assumptions and notice when we confuse our private map for the territory. Emotionally, reading it felt like someone showing me a picture I’d been missing at a family gathering: small, clarifying, and slightly humbling. Analytically, the chapter is a strong reminder that perspective-taking is not merely polite but foundational: changing view often changes outcome. The tone balances gentle challenge with supportive guidance, which works very well
Chapter 13: Music This chapter is pure tone and metaphor one of my favorites. Pring-Mill argues that meaning and understanding are ultimately musical rather than purely intellectual, and he invites readers to “listen to the music” beneath words. The line that stayed with me was the quiet insistence that music (and love) are gifts we share, not things we manufacture. Emotionally it read like a poem and opened a softness in me; analytically it’s a corrective to the cult of information a reminder that some things are received rather than built. The chapter made me want to slow my reading and listen to life’s rhythms.
Inside the Box What resonated with me most in this chapter was how Francis uses the metaphor of the toolbox for thought. The idea that we should keep thought inside the box rather than letting it run our lives hit home. I realized how often my mind acts like a master planning, worrying, over-analysing until reading this showed me that peace isn’t found by thinking more, but by thinking less and listening to the natural rhythm of things. I love how gently the author reminds us that even creativity and intellect are best when guided by awareness rather than ego. It’s a chapter that invites you to breathe again to remember that the mind should serve the heart, not rule it.
A great dive into the Tao Te Ching with so many Aha moments that I lost count.. If you are a novice or devoted Tao explorer, there is so much to be gained in these pages so beautifully written and presented. I would encourage all to read, and reread this book to more greatly become present in this moment we call ‘now.’ I would also encourage you to give this to others as a gift. It would be a greatest gift of all, especially for those wanting answers to what life is about. Thank You Francis for giving this wonderful interpretation of the Tao Te Ching.
As a community, Book Club The Next Chapter felt an immediate connection with Chapter 1, Why You Are Here. Francis Pring-Mill’s reminder that we each carry unique talents to make a difference struck us deeply. It was humbling and empowering at the same time. Chapter 2 then led us to reflect on how often we center ourselves in desires rather than in the Tao. His words gave us a kind of stillness we weren’t expecting from just two chapters. We can already sense this book will keep transforming us as we move forward.
Our club members agreed that these first chapters read like a gentle guiding hand. The honesty of Francis Pring-Mill’s reflections reassured us that life’s complexity doesn’t need complicated answers. We loved the phrase about resisting distraction and focusing on talents, it felt like a life compass. Chapter 2’s contrast between being centered in self versus being centered in the Tao challenged us to think about our daily choices. This book already feels like a mirror reflecting back our truest selves.
“Just be” could be an easy platitude, but here it’s treated as an art. The author carefully teases apart what “being” is (not passivity, not resignation) and how it frees action from force. I was moved by passages that invite acceptance without collapse the difference between surrendering to life and giving up on living well. This chapter made me slow down and practice gentleness toward myself; it also offered practical reminders about presence, which I found useful to bring into a busy workday. As both an emotional response and a critical note: the balance between poetry and practical application is exactly right for readers who want both comfort and usable guidance.
The flashlight metaphor is brilliant. Francis turns something ordinary into a doorway to the infinite. I found myself rereading those lines about turning off the light we think we need to see, only to discover a greater brightness that was always there. It perfectly captures what meditation feels like when the boundaries between self and world dissolve. This chapter reminded me that clarity doesn’t come from focusing harder, it comes from stopping the constant search. That paradox, beautifully written, left me in tears.
Intention might be one of the most deceptively simple yet profound chapters of the book. Francis connects purpose with surrender teaching that genuine intention is quiet, not forceful. Reading it, I felt my own ambitions soften into awareness. He seems to whisper: intention isn’t about control; it’s about alignment. It’s as if the Tao itself becomes the silent partner in every act. This chapter changes how you set goals, it makes you want to live with more grace, less striving.
This chapter blew me away. The contrast Francis draws between perception and reality challenged me to look at how much of my life is filtered through judgment. His language is calm yet piercing; he doesn’t tell us what to believe he invites us to notice. Experience and reality, he says, are not the same until we stop naming, comparing, and simply see. It’s pure Taoist wisdom reframed for modern readers. I left this chapter realizing how rarely I experience anything directly.
This closing chapter of the section felt like exhaling after a long meditation. The idea that peace begins when we let ourselves go not improve, not fix, not define, just release was deeply moving. Francis ties the whole journey together here: all our seeking ends where we started, in presence. The tone is so serene that I felt tears rise, not from sadness, but from recognition. We are already home, he reminds us. It’s the kind of ending that lingers long after you close the book a soft echo of truth that feels like light itself.
Reading the opening of this book felt like opening a door to an inner landscape we’ve often ignored. You are here to make a difference felt so personal, as though the author had written it for each of us individually. Chapter 2 took that further, showing us that fulfillment comes not from chasing expectations but by grounding ourselves in the Tao. These chapters carried both simplicity and depth, and as a club we can’t wait to see how the following sections expand on this wisdom.
As we discussed Chapter 1, many of us admitted we often wonder about our purpose. The clarity of “discover and develop your talents to make a difference” was grounding. Then in Chapter 2, the exploration of how desire creates fleeting satisfaction versus how the Tao brings lasting harmony gave us chills. It made us stop and breathe differently. Two chapters in, and already our hearts are more open. We’re eager to discover where the author’s wisdom will guide us next.
One of the things we appreciate most about this book is the balance between poetry and practicality. Chapter 1 wasn’t abstract, it was a call to action. Chapter 2 reminded us that serenity isn’t about escaping life but about where we choose to center ourselves. The group conversation afterward was one of our deepest yet. Everyone could relate to the noise of desire pulling us around. We’re looking forward to what Chapter 3, Life Is Relationship, will reveal.
We were touched by the humility in Francis’s writing. Chapter 1 speaks of life being limited but filled with opportunities to make a differencesomething that resonated with us as readers living through busy, often distracted days. Chapter 2’s reflection on centering ourselves in the Tao felt like a balm, reminding us of joy and harmony beyond expectations. This beginning already feels like a journey up a mountain. We can’t wait to see the views that lie ahead.
Our discussion circled around how Chapter 1 simplifies life’s purpose into making a positive difference. That directness felt like a gift. Chapter 2 then contrasted the restless noise of desire with the peace of the Tao, and it sparked a beautiful silence in our meeting. This book seems to invite not just conversation but stillness. We cannot wait to see how the journey unfolds in Chapter 3 and beyond.