2.3.9. Chop Wood, Carry Water
“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”— Zen proverb
After the crucifixion of the old self and the tearing of every veil, one might expect to emerge wholly transformed — radiant, untroubled, set apart. Yet the truth is far more ordinary. The world continues, unchanged in its routines and demands, while beneath the surface, a subtle clarity and estrangement settle in. This chapter returns us to the humble work of daily life: chopping wood, carrying water. Here, the alchemist learns that the most profound transformation is lived not in ecstasy, but in the steady, patient integration of insight into the fabric of ordinary existence.
If one advanced purely through solitary practice, perhaps each stage would unfold in pristine succession, with a complete transmutation of being at every turn. Yet in my experience, it is more a slow drifting away from old pursuits and passions, a gradual deepening of connection with something that is decidedly not divine in the way we might imagine. Rather than ecstatic visions, it is a growing sense of responsibility and a viewpoint tinged with dreadful sobriety.
I find myself no longer enchanted by the old lures. I am still under a kind of spell, but now I see it clearly. Even the most beguiling offers have lost their ground, and I seem rooted in a reality deeper than what once passed for normal. This rootedness feels rock-like — firm, unyielding. Yet my outward behaviour flows like water around any rigid definition. I become elusive, almost effervescent, hard to pin down or conceptually enclose.
Confidence takes time. It is like building a temple, stone by stone, from the foundation upward. At this point, I am little more than the suggestion of an idea, unable to truly define myself. But slowly, almost shyly, I begin to rebuild my sense of body and mind upon a new, more natural structure that reveals itself bit by bit.
For now, I am weak and vulnerable. It is important to keep out wild concepts and focus on what truly matters. This means continuing to deepen my understanding while also tending to the bare necessities of life. As I build this new sense of being, my main concern is to provide a steady environment for its unfolding.
This does not mean idleness. It means keeping one’s work simple. Now is often the time to rejoin some form of community, especially if the path has thus far been solitary. Unless one is firmly set on a lifelong hermit’s course — which is perfectly legitimate — there comes a point when we must return to the ordinary fabric of human life.
The alchemist who has seen sense-sphere desire and ill-will fall away undergoes a distinct change in the direction of life. Even important tasks can seem hollow, and so one must focus on routine. Though much may seem meaningless, this is simply a period of adjustment, not a failure. Gradually, one creates a life out of simple duties that is either quietly selfless or content with minimal existence. Motivation toward worldly success loses all power. Supporting others becomes a kind of necessary grace — otherwise one is simply adrift.
From here, almost as if by metaphysical necessity, the alchemist returns to their roots. In alchemical imagery this is shown by people doing humble domestic chores. The “mental body,” that intricate web of conceptual selfhood, is now firmly anchored to the Tree. Any pursuits not related to the path appear hollow.
With each breakthrough, there may come moments of wonder — glimpses of something vast and bright — but these quickly settle into new layers of difficult adjustment. Perhaps monks and nuns find this easier within the shelter of their orders. Yet even for the alchemist, hermit or not, there remains a need for some relationship with “ordinary” people. Once the five gross fetters are weakened or broken, a great readjustment begins, taking time to filter through behaviours, attitudes, and one’s place in the wider world.
Restlessness persists until quite late in the journey. Still, conviction in the dhamma grows ever stronger, even if there is a natural pause — a kind of resting in place. Be kind to yourself during this time. It takes many months for new routines and habits to grow around your new perspective. Do not be harsh with yourself or with others when old patterns fade. Contemplate your new outlook patiently, and give others space to adjust to changes they may not fully understand. Often there is a subtle grief here — a mourning for the loss of a simpler, though more troubled, way of seeing.
During this time, your understanding of dhamma will steady you. There remains an inner concept of self, for the mechanisms that create it still operate. But now, instead of leaping toward sensory phenomena, it rests in a kind of quiet emptiness. Acting selflessly becomes surprisingly natural. Old habits may still arise — impulses once rooted in greed or ill-will — but they are often interrupted midstream, or at least quickly recognised for what they are.
The Abhidhamma tells us each breakthrough is distinct, arising in a single moment. Yet these moments occur within a living mountain of sensory and mental experience that moves with tremendous inertia. Even when arahantship dawns, the body and some mental traits persist. Only a Buddha fully transmutes this mountain into a seamless unity. So we must be patient. There is now a continuous inward pressure toward pure selflessness, yet the habits of the old self remain, to be worn away one by one.
Despite this, there arises a natural tendency toward selflessness — something quite unnatural by ordinary standards. Before we understood anything of karma, we lived in “apparent reality,” assigning meanings to life based solely on our solipsistic view. If we were fortunate, some moral intelligence tempered this, reflecting an inkling of karma. But lacking depth, we remained doubly deluded — unaware both of the illusion of apparent reality and of karma’s true nature as a mirror of our own actions.
The alchemist who has attained albedo no longer confuses apparent reality with truth, though they enter it as needed for communication. Their physical, emotional, and mental bodies become objects of gentle analysis. They immerse themselves in conditioned reality, but do not identify with it. With a clear grasp of karma and an indifference to appearances, the alchemist seems almost aligned to a divine order — at least from the view of an intelligent worldling. Unenchanted by sensory distractions, resistant to ill-will, they choose wisely, unclouded by lesser pulls.
We will explore this more in the next chapter, as the phenomenon of thaumaturgy — subtle influence and miraculous-seeming change — begins to manifest naturally. But for now, remember: this path is not so rare or exotic. It is probably far more common than we think, simply unrecognised. Many find themselves here through solitary striving, whether by plan or by unexpected grace. The occultist, after all, is just a mystic with a notebook. The “occult science” of this process is rather straightforward, despite the problems posed by language that is often charged with religious sensitivity.
Take your time. Reflect on this little account of my own stumbling path. The precise accuracy of the dhamma matters less than you might fear. It only needs to be a story that rings true enough to guide you home.
This chapter is an invitation to the humble work of integration — to build a life from simple routines, patient duties, and steady awareness. Here, the alchemist learns to dwell in emptiness without fleeing into fantasy, to act selflessly without strain, and to let old habits dissolve in their own time. It is a quiet stage, full of sober grace.
This text is excerpted from the upcoming book Albedo: A Course in Modern Alchemy. The complete volume will include additional study guides, glossaries, and extended teachings. Learn more about the book here.