When you stir the pot, take great care that the pot does not stir you.

As your mind moves your arm,
And as your arm moves your hand,
And as your hand moves the ladle,
And as the ladle moves whatever happens to be in the pot
—Nine days old or not—
Take heed that it does not move you in turn.

For how know you that what is in the pot is not what moves your ladle,
And that your ladle does not move your hand and arm,
And that your hand and arm in turn do not move your mind?

Which came first? The stirring of the porridge, or the thought of doing so?

Do you remember?

If the pot should stir you—no, not that kind of pot—to what end does it do so? Where will it take your thoughts?

We swirl the contents of pots like toilet bowls swirl water, but perhaps it is the water that swirls the toilet. Perhaps it’s the pot that swirls the mind, and when you are lost in the whimsical reverie brought on by the swirlage, perhaps it is all merely in accordance with the will of the pot itself and the contents thereof.

Beware the hypnosis of the pot.

Or not. Perhaps it will take your mind to higher heights.

But wouldn’t it be nice if you took your mind to those heights yourself? Wouldn’t it be nice to act of your own accord, to lift yourself up on the wings of your own imagination, rather than to simply be hypnotized into it by the pot you think you stir?

The pot you think you stir actually stirs you. Or maybe it doesn’t. It’s so hard to tell who’s in charge sometimes.

Long was it believed that it was trees that swirled the wind, but it happened that it was the other way around. A thing of substance is swirled by the insubstantial whims of passing gusts. How know you that it is not the case here with the pot you stir? How do you know that you, a being of substance, are not the one being stirred by the insubstantial contents of your pot?

And if you are the one being stirred, who can really be sure that you have any substance at all?

For how much substance can a thing have if it is blown about by every rumor or wind of doctrine? How much substance has a feather against the full force of a typhoon? How much substance is in the puny arm of mortals if mere stew can move it about? What substance could ever be in the mind that is so easily stirred by the pot?

Shall you continue to be blown about by every breeze you feel? Shall you continue to be moved by every rumor you hear? Shall you continue to be stirred by the gloopy morass of the pot that you believe you yet stir?

Take care when stirring the pot lest the pot stir you.

For stir you it shall, given the chance.

Thoughts? Feelings? Lunatic ravings? Let me know in the comments! Also, share this around with all your friends lest their pot stir them as well as you. All proceeds go toward discerning the indiscernible will of the pot. Really.