crandall, jeff

Tao and the Possibility of Return | Jeff Crandall

Copyright 2001 Jeff Crandall | http://www.jeffcrandall.com

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Tao and the Possibility of Return: The Mystical Philosophy of Chuang Tzu

by Jeff Crandall

The Way has its reality and its signs but is without action or form. You can hand it down but you cannot receive it; you can get it but you cannot see it. It is its own source, its own root. Before Heaven and earth existed it was there, firm from ancient times. It gave spirituality to the spirits and to God; it gave birth to Heaven and to earth. It exists beyond the highest point, and yet you cannot call it lofty; it exists beneath the limit of the six directions, and yet you cannot say it has been there for long; it is earlier than the earliest time, and yet you cannot call it old.1

Chuang Tzu’s Basic Writings and Lao Tzu’s Tao-te-ching (The Book of the Way and Its Power)

form the nucleus of the Chinese mystical philosophy called Taoism. Although the Tao-te-ching may have

been written during the sixth century B.C.E. by a contemporary of Confucius, Lao Tzu’s and Chuang

Tzu’s texts likely represent ideas that circulated through China during the third and fourth centuries

B.C.E. Taoists and religious scholars generally regard the Tao-te-ching and Basic Writings as

complementary works because of their deep philosophical similarities; however, Lao Tzu and Chuang

Tzu chose distinct forms and audiences for their work. In the Tao-te-ching, Lao Tzu’s writing is poetic,

addresses a would be king, and is concerned with living correctly. In contrast, Chuang Tzu’s writing is

anecdotal, blending philosophy with fables and aphorisms , and addresses individuals who are more

concerned with living a fulfilled life than engaging in social or political reform. In spite of these

differences, the Chinese people have historically blended Lao Tzu’s and Chuang Tzu’s philosophies into

a unified Taoist practice and regard Taoism as the spiritual complement to the more practical teachings of

Confucius.2

Although Taoist teachings were assimilated into Chinese culture, the way of life Chuang Tzu

proposes is rigorous and generally unattainable. In fact, Chuang Tzu’s philosophy involves such a radical

(and continuous) reorientation toward life that even Chuang Tzu cannot always adhere to it. In the Basic

Writings, Chuang Tzu’s Taoism emerges as a philosophy of freedom, which he posits against the

conceptual underpinnings of society and language; however, in spite of its opposition to these human

institutions, Chuang Tzu’s philosophy of openness depends upon their relatively closed systems.



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Consequently, an irreducible aspect of Taoism is the Taoist’s continual struggle for freedom from the

limits (i.e., values and meaning) created by the socio-linguistic community. Consequently, far from

asserting an ascetic’s rejection of the world, Chuang Tzu instead proposes a disengagement from the

values and anxieties that make life cumbersome. Furthermore, Chuang Tzu argues that life’s “heaviness”

is not located in the cruel winds of change, but in our alienation from a natural relationship with the

completeness of life—a completeness he refers to as Tao or “the Way.” If we can change our perceptions

and “make it be spring with everything,” we can live lives of unencumbered freedom.3

While Chuang Tzu advocates an inner reorientation, he does not advocate social or political reform.

In fact, as part of one’s reorientation, Chuang Tzu asserts a total rejection of value(s) and judgment.

Because he argues for such a radical reformulation of one’s regard for life, modern readers may approach

Chuang Tzu’s philosophy with ambivalence. After all, his philosophy is amoral and atheistic and, as a

consequence, challenges values and institutions many of us hold dear. And yet, Chuang Tzu’s approach is

refreshingly democratic (he writes to the “everyman” and not to kings), textually accessible and non-

ascetic. I propose that it is precisely this combination of characteristics that makes Chuang Tzu’s

philosophy convincing and unique, even amongst other Taoist and mystical philosophies. In the Basic

Writings, Chuang Tzu describes a way to live carefully and unobtrusively without turning one’s back on

social and familial life. With humor, great understanding, and ease, Chuang Tzu believes that we might

manage to “stay in one piece, keep [ourselves] alive, look after [our] parents, and live out [our] years.”4 In

the course of this paper, I will examine Chuang Tzu’s explanation of Tao (the Way) and his proposal for a

way of life that returns us to completion and indeterminacy.

Tao: The Philosophy of the Way

Because Chuang Tzu uses slippery metaphorical language to explain the presence of Tao in the

world, Tao is a difficult concept to explain. In spite of this difficulty, I will describe Tao in brief to assist

in orienting my discussion. In short, Tao refers to the ineffable source from which life emerges and



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returns. However, while the preceding definition is apt, it is too clinical to explain how or why Tao is

ineffable. Because Chuang Tzu is concerned with maintaining the integrity of Tao’s ineffability, he

avoids language that attributes the quality of thingness to Tao. In fact, one of the primary features of Tao

is that it does not belong to language (in which everything shares the attribute of thingness). Thus,

language can only describe Tao metaphorically and not as it is in itself. Nevertheless, by using a

succession of metaphors to describe Tao, Chuang Tzu orients the reader within his discussion of the term,

even if Tao itself remains aconceptual. Because Tao precedes language, Chuang Tzu argues that it cannot

properly be regarded as having qualities at all, especially since qualification is the essence of language.

Accordingly, anything one thinks about Tao cannot properly be attributed to Tao, including existence,

thingness, oneness, Godness, transcendence (i.e., beyond, above, below, outside, other), etc. Nevertheless,

by using language to describe Tao, one cannot avoid imbuing it with such qualities. Because of this

difficulty, it is easy to let the concept slip away altogether. Because Tao is not something one can grasp

intellectually, this transience is unavoidable. And yet, Tao is something that eventually works its way

through one’s mind after continued reflection on it. Chuang Tzu describes Tao using metaphorical

language for the purpose of such reflection; his words are intended to help one move through a conceptual

understanding Tao to a stage of complete, intuitive residence in Tao.

In one of his more complete articulations of Tao, Chuang Tzu describes it as something in which all

difference must be regarded as sameness. He writes:

Whether you point to a little stalk or a great pillar, a leper or the beautiful Hsi-shih, things ribald and shady or things grotesque and strange, the Way makes them all into one. Their dividedness is their completeness; their completeness is their impairment. No thing is either complete or impaired, but all are made into one again. Only the man of far-reaching vision knows how to make them into one. So he has no use [for categories], but relegates all to the constant. . . . This is called the Way.5

The role of the man of far-reaching vision is to orient his mind such that all things, no matter how unique,

become valueless (i.e., of the same stuff). In fact, Chuang Tzu not only argues that all difference should

be regarded as sameness, but he also considers the entire world of difference (i.e., the world of human

beings in language) as something that comes into being with each of us over and against the sameness of



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Tao. Thus, cognition itself alienates humans beings from the sameness of Tao. Chuang Tzu argues that

difference, sameness and cognition arrive in the world together. He writes, “Heaven and earth were born

at the same time I was, and the ten thousand things are one with me.”6 Not only is difference (here as the

dualistic coupling of Heaven and earth) inevitably locked in a synergistic relationship with awareness, but

all things (i.e., the ten thousand things) belong to each other in the absence of cognition.

Heaven, Earth and the ten thousand Things

Confucius said, “If you look at them from the point of view of their differences, then there is liver and gall, Ch’u and Yüeh. But if you look at them from the point of view of their sameness, then the ten thousand things are all one.7

In the preceding passage, Confucius simplifies the complex relationship between the differences we

see in the world, which the Chinese symbolize as the ten thousand things, and the possibility that all

things are one. To sketch this relationship as Confucius has done, however, is wholly different from

intuiting this relationship. For Chuang Tzu, Heaven (nature or sameness), earth (the perception of

difference) and the ten thousand things are all merely things, even though Heaven is equivalent to Tao.

Chuang Tzu argues that the very act of thinking about Tao situates it in language and, thus, breaks it apart

as something mediated; in language, the unmediated or holistically intuited experience of Tao becomes

that which is knowable and thinkable—a thing. From the perspective of a person who has “become one,”

however, there is nothing to say or think. Chuang Tzu writes:

We have already become one, so how can I say anything? But I have just said that we are one, so how can I not be saying something? The one and what I said about it make two, and two and the original one make three. If we go on this way, then even the cleverest mathematician can’t tell where we’ll end, much less an ordinary man. If by moving from nonbeing to being we get three, how far will we get if we move from being to being? Better not to move, but to let things be!8

All thinking about Tao spoils its “oneness,” because thinking (in this case speaking) delimits the whole

into that which has the quality of being thought about. The experience of Tao is ineffable and, as such,

untranslatable. Every step one takes into language requires another move away from the actual experience

of Tao and into the cognitive realm of thingness. As Chuang Tzu says, it is “better not to move, but to let



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things be!” According to Chuang Tzu, Tao cannot be named—every utterance spoils it. Chuang Tzu

explains further, “The Great Way is not named; Great Discriminations are not spoken; Great Benevolence

is not benevolent; Great Modesty is not humble; Great Daring does not attack. If the Way is made clear, it

is not the Way.”9 Chuang Tzu uses each of the capitalized expressions as metaphors for Tao, but none

comes close to describing it. Each description is simply a metaphorical face of the ineffable.

The Reservoir of Heaven and creativity of Tao

. . . understanding stops when it has reached what it does not understand. Who can understand discriminations that are not spoken, the Way that is not a way? If he can understand this, he may be called the Reservoir of Heaven. Pour into it and it is never full, dip from it and it never runs dry, and yet it does not know where the supply comes from. This is called the Shaded Light.10

In the Basic Writings, Chuang Tzu surrounds Tao by approaching it from many different

metaphorical angles. One of the more descriptive metaphors he uses for Tao is the Reservoir of Heaven.

In the preceding quote, Chuang Tzu describes the sage who moves beyond understanding to completion

as a reservoir that is never full and can never be emptied. When the sage reaches completion, there is no

longer any difference between the sage and Tao—they have become one. The reservoir in this passage

serves as one of the most salient metaphors for Tao. Tao is never full, such that it remains undecided or

indiscriminate, and it never runs dry, such that it continually ushers forth the world in which we come

into being and pass out of being. While Tao itself is formless and devoid of meaning, it gives rise to all

form and meaning and, as such, is essentially creative. Chuang Tzu calls the sage the Shaded Light,

because Tao can never be brought fully into presence despite the fact that its presence is everywhere in

the world. Consequently, the sage never knows from where life’s creativity comes. In this sense, Tao is

the source of all that is and all that is not; all that has been and all that has not been; and all that may be

and all that may not be. All of these possibilities are what Chuang Tzu means by the creativity and

completeness of Tao.



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Chuang Tzu argues that it is critical to regard Tao as an indeterminate, creative source, because if

we ultimately forget the creativity of the source, we may end the possibility of social and individual

creativity. He calls this danger hiding the world within the world. He writes, “You think you do right to

hide little things in big ones, and yet they get away from you! But if you were to hide the world in the

world, so that nothing could get away, this would be the final reality of the constancy of things.”11 The

final constancy of things would mark a complete oblivion or forgetfulness of Tao. Of course, our

situation in Tao would not be damaged by our forgetfulness; nevertheless, our awareness of our

participation in Tao would effectively be severed. Chuang Tzu believed that a forgetfulness of and

alienation from Tao had already occurred in his culture. Consequently, his Basic Writings serve as a

handbook for how to return to a full awareness of our participation in Tao.

In a description of the inner unity of all difference, Chuang Tzu describes how Tao remains fully

open and creative. In the following passage, Chuang Tzu explains how each part of a dualistic pair forms

an essential unity within itself. He writes:

Everything has its “that,” everything has its “this.” From the point of view of “that” you cannot see it, but through understanding you can know it. So I say, “that” comes out of “this” and “this” depends on “that”—which is to say that “this” and “that” give birth to each other. . . . Therefore the sage does not proceed in such a way, but illuminates all in the light of Heaven. He too recognizes a “this,” but a “this” which is also “that,” a “that” which is also “this.” His “that” has both a right and wrong in it; his “this” too has both a right and a wrong in it. So, in fact, does he still have a “this” and “that”? A state in which “this” and “that” no longer find their opposites is called the hinge of the Way. When the hinge is fitted into the socket, it can respond endlessly.12

The ability to see the “this” and the “that” as being complete in themselves involves being able to

understand how the opposite is implicated in each individual part. In other words, there is no positive

without a negative—no yin without a yang. “This” is “that” and “that” is “this.” All difference is born

together. However, when one achieves an awareness beyond oppositions, then one has reached the “hinge

of the Way.” This hinge represents Tao’s flexibility and mutability. In its appearance before us, Tao can

become anything we think of it. Moreover, we can never exhaust Tao’s possibilities, because Tao is the

essence of creativity and possibility.



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The Return to Home in Tao: Practices of the sage

Yen Hui said, “I smash up my limbs and body, drive out perception and intellect, cast off form, do away with understanding, and make myself identical with the Great Thoroughfare. This is what I mean by sitting down and forgetting everything.13

Understanding Tao philosophically is one matter, but practicing Taoism is quite another. Neither

Chuang Tzu nor Lao Tzu outline particular mystical practices or exercises, yet meditation and other, more

mundane, practices are not foreign to their work. In the passage above, Yen Hui describes a meditative

practice in which he alters his perspective by eliminating himself and identifying with the “Great

Thoroughfare” (i.e., Tao). But meditation does not seem to have specia l standing in Chuang Tzu’s

work—any more than walking, working or just doing things. In most passages of the Basic Writings, Yen

Hui’s type of meditation is not discussed, even though it is difficult to think of another medium by which

one can effectively eliminate the distractions of the world. Consequently, instead of focusing primarily on

meditation, most of Chuang Tzu’s writing involves practical situations and new approaches to thinking

about what we might otherwise regard as mundane.

Emptying, Forgetting and Becoming One: the art of meditation

As I described above, meditation is a familiar mystical practice and it is often considered the art of

emptying and forgetting oneself. Along with more garden-variety practices, Chuang Tzu encourages

meditation or, perhaps more accurately, a meditative life. In the following passage from the Basic

Writings, Confucius articulates a Taoist meditative practice:

Confucius said, “Make your will one! Don’t listen with your ears, listen with your mind. No, don’t listen with your mind, but listen with your spirit. Listening stops with the ears, the mind stops with recognition, but the spirit is empty and waits on all things. The Way gathers in emptiness alone. Emptiness is the fasting of the mind.”14

In most mystical practices, meditation serves as a process by which one releases familiar modes of

perception, steps outside of language, and merges with the sameness of all things. Meditation is

predicated on the belief that one cannot be brought to completeness with a mind full of concepts, ideas



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and discriminations. Oneness, because it is unbounded and limitless, is devoid of such features. Confucius

argues that Tao can only enter into in a spirit that has been emptied for it. In the process of emptying the

spirit, one’s ego is forgotten. This process is what Yen Hui describes as forgetting everything. In order to

prepare oneself for Tao, one must abandon the notion that the ego is the center of the universe. Thus, in

meditation, one relinquishes the ego (i.e., the self) to the undifferentiated and ineffable expanse of the

whole. Chuang Tzu describes this relinquishment in an anecdote about Meng-sun. Chuang Tzu writes:

Meng-sun doesn’t know why he lives and doesn’t know why he dies. He doesn’t know why he should go ahead; he doesn’t know why he should fall behind. In the process of change, he has become a thing [among other things], and he is merely waiting for some other change that he doesn’t know about. . . . Be content to go along and forget about change and then you can enter the mysterious oneness of Heaven.15

Meng-sun has become undifferentiated in the completeness of Tao. He does not worry about fulfilling a

role, moving on to better things in life, or when he will die. He has become a part of the process of

change; he is merely a thing among other things. His unconcern allows him to “enter the mysterious

oneness” of Tao.

Casting off values and difference

One of the great tasks of the sage is to stop creating meaning and values. Chuang Tzu argues that

meaning obscures Tao, because it privileges some aspects of life aspect over others. In other words, each

value, despite its transience and contingency, is always asserted at the expense of every other possible

value. In a passage comparing the greatness of thinking beyond values with the smallness of elevating

values, Chuang Tzu writes:

Great understanding is broad and unhurried; little understanding is cramped and busy. Great words are clear and limpid; little words are shrill and quarrelsome . . . [Men’s] little fears are mean and trembly; their great fears are stunned and overwhelming. They bound off like an arrow or a crossbow pellet, certain that they are the arbiters of right and wrong. . . . They drown in what they do—you cannot make them turn back. They grow dark, as though sealed with seals—such are the excesses of their old age. And when their minds draw near death, nothing can restore them to light.16



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Instead of positing values and defining the good and the bad, Chuang Tzu would rather have one wander

aimlessly amidst the whole while taking in its every aspect and splendor. Moreover, Chuang Tzu warns

us not to seek fame, create schemes, profess wisdom or undertake projects. Each of these practices is

imbued with values and compromises one’s ability to seek fulfillment. He writes:

Hold on to all you have received from Heaven but do not think you have gotten anything. Be empty, that is all. The Perfect Man uses his mind like a mirror—going after nothing, welcoming nothing, responding but not storing. Therefore he can win out over things and not hurt himself.17

Chuang Tzu suggests that values stem from a penchant for self-promotion. He also suggests that we

should drop all pretense of wisdom and instead use emptiness as a mirror to reflect all that is. Instead of

being a storehouse of knowledge, we should learn to respond genuinely to life—to move and act with

spontaneity and freedom. In this way, we will not injure Tao with discriminations. Chuang Tzu does not

trust those who discriminate by parading right and wrong as if they have a key to truth. According to

Chuang Tzu, values can never account for Tao. He writes:

The Way has never known any boundaries. . . . So [I say,] those who divide fail to divide; those who discriminate fail to discriminate. What does this mean, you ask? The sage embraces things. Ordinary men discriminate among them and parade their discriminations before others. So I say, those who discriminate fail to see.18

Discriminations are for the short-sighted and not for the sage; the short-sighted are blind to the

indeterminacy of Tao.

The art of non-reform

This man, with this virtue of his, is about to embrace the ten thousand things and roll them into one. Though the age calls for reform, why should he wear himself out over the affairs of the world? There is nothing that can harm this man. Though flood waters pile up to the sky, he will not drown. Though a great drought melts metal and stone and scorches the earth and the hills, he will not be burned. . . . Why should he consent to bother about mere things?19

Instead of advocating value-creation, Chuang Tzu advocates an end to reform. While he clearly

identifies with the need for reform, Chuang Tzu recognizes fundamental problems with every attempt to

reform the world. In addition, reform cannot be the goal of the sage, because the sage would never assert



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his will in the world. According to Chuang Tzu, reform always posits one set of values over and against

another and, if successful, merely replaces that set of values with another that becomes just as oppressive.

In a passage that is ostensibly about social drinking, Chuang Tzu describes the pitfalls of good intentions

(and reform). He writes, “When men meet at some ceremony to drink, they start off in an orderly manner,

but usually end up in disorder, and if they go on too long they start indulging in various irregular

amusements. It is the same with all things. What starts out being sincere usually ends up being deceitful.

What was simple in the beginning acquires monstrous proportions in the end.”20 By suggesting that

simple things “acquire monstrous proportions in the end,” Chuang Tzu asserts the instability of all value-

making; change disrupts every attempt to exert control through reform (i.e., value-creation).

Consequently, all attempts to reform the world will end disastrously. Perhaps it is better to let things be.

Being whole in power: accepting the inevitability of change—a philosophy of freedom

The True Man of ancient times knew nothing of loving life, knew nothing of hating death. He emerged without delight; he went back in without a fuss. He came briskly, he went briskly, and that was all. He didn’t forget where he began; he didn’t try to find out where he would end. He received something and took pleasure in it; he forgot about it and handed it back again. This is what I call not using the mind to repel the Way, not using man to help out Heaven.21

Because of the inefficacy of reform, Chuang Tzu’s philosophy attempts to create an alternative to it.

Chuang Tzu suggests that reform clouds the possibility of a more genuine relationship with Tao. As an

alternative to the reformist stance, Chuang Tzu posits the True Man, an image that serves as a positive

archetype of primordial being. Using this archetype rhetorically, Chuang Tzu describes a man who is

whole in power, not overly concerned with matters of life and death, and finds pleasure in all things. And

yet, this archetypal man does not pathetically cling to the things he encounters in an attempt to preserve

their presence in his life. Instead, he “handed [them] back again” to Tao. In this sense, the True Man lives

in the full presence of Tao and does not relegate Tao to an existence behind the determinations of values

and meaning. Moreover, the True Man has no need to fear the whims of change, because he values no

aspect of his life more than any other; life is good and the True Man is the master of all things. Unlike his



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successor (i.e., modern man), however, the True Man of ancient times did not enter into a world

overflowing with established meanings, givens, and values.

Consequently, modern or socio-linguistic humans are imbued with knowledge, values and meaning

from birth and, therefore, the world we enter is largely determined and given. Thus, the creativity of

world-building is not generally a viable option. Moreover, even in small ways, it is difficult to escape the

pervasiveness of pre-determinations. Because of the vastness of pre-determined meaning in all societies,

one must first break out of the overwhelming field of givens before one can exist in the openness of Tao.

Chuang Tzu describes this ability to leave the world of determinations as being whole in power. He

writes:

Life, death, preservation, loss, failure, success, poverty, riches, worthiness, unworthiness, slander, fame, hunger, thirst, cold, heat—these are the alternations of the world, the workings of fate. Day and night they change place before us and wisdom cannot spy out their source. Therefore, they should not be enough to destroy your harmony; they should not be allowed to enter the storehouse of spirit. If you can harmonize and delight in them, master them and never be at a loss for joy, if you can do this day and night without break and make it be spring with everything, mingling with all and creating the moment within your own mind—this is what I call being whole in power.22

Being whole in power, then, is the ability to find pleasure and richness in all things. Chuang Tzu argues

that if one can harmonize all things, one shall “never be at a loss for joy.” Meet life with the power of a

complete spirit, do not love life and hate death, and forget about yourself—do these things and you will

be alright.23

Inaction and Uselessness

Instead of formulating values and being injured by the whims of change, Chuang Tzu suggests that

one’s time might be better spent discovering how to be useless. Thus, far from being a philosophy of

practical living, Taoism is largely a philosophy of inaction and uselessness. In Chuang Tzu’s assessment,

usefulness only invites others to spend one’s resources and spoil the fruits of one’s life. In contrast, as the

useless, one can live long and prosper. Chuang Tzu explains this philosophy in a short parable about a

very old tree for which the rationalist philosopher Hui Tzu can find no use. Chuang Tzu writes:



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Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, “I have a tree named ailanthus. Its trunk is too gnarled and bumpy to apply a measuring line to, its branches too bent and twisty to match up to a compass or square. . . . Your words, too, are big and useless, and so everyone alike spurns them!” Chuang Tzu said, . . . “Now you have this big tree and you’re distressed because it’s useless. Why don’t you plant it in the Not-Even-Anything village, or the field of Broad-and-Boundless, relax and do nothing by its side, or lie down for a free and easy sleep under it? Axes will never shorten its life, nothing can ever harm it. If there’s no use for it, how can it come to grief or pain?24

In its uselessness, the tree experiences Tao, because the tree is not intent on creating meaning and serving

a function. The tree is smart enough to avoid the hatchet by growing crooked limbs and having ugly,

gnarled bark. Because it seems to be good for nothing, the tree frustrates the rationalist Hui Tzu, who

defines everything by its use. For him, the tree is analogous to Chuang Tzu’s philosophy—unwieldy and

useless. He even accuses Chuang Tzu of being oblique and unnecessarily complex by comparing his

words to the size and uselessness of the tree. In his defense, Chuang Tzu encourages Hui Tzu to continue

thinking of Taoism like the tree. Chuang Tzu argues that the tree is clearly useless; however, in his mind,

its uselessness is its beauty. The tree is too wise to produce something beautiful or to make its wood too

appealing. Chuang Tzu suggests that Hui Tzu leave the tree undefined. Instead of worrying over it, he

should stop being so anxious and take a free and easy nap under it.

In a subsequent chapter, Chuang Tzu reiterates the idea of uselessness and the necessity of leaving

Tao open for his crooked wandering. He does not want others to spoil his wandering, and he certainly

does not want others to regard him as useful. He writes:

Good fortune is as light as a feather, but nobody knows enough to pick it up. Misfortune is heavy as the earth, but nobody knows how to stay out of its way. Leave off, leave off—this teaching men virtue! Dangerous, dangerous—to mark off the ground and run! Fool, fool—don’t spoil my walking! I walk a crooked way—don’t step on my feet. The mountain trees do themselves harm; the grease in the torch burns itself up. The cinnamon can be eaten and so it gets cut down; the lacquer tree can be used and so it gets hacked apart. All men know the use of the useful, but nobody knows the use of the useless!25

The sage knows the use of the useless and does not attempt to compromise it by defining it. Like the

True Man, the sage uses what he finds, but he does not try to bring it to permanence. He accepts the good

fortune of life, does not mark his territory, and lets things pass away. Moreover, unlike the foolish



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cinnamon and lacquer trees, he has found a way to be useless so that no one will know what to do with

him. In this way, he will be left alone to wander.

Creativity, thinking beyond function

As one with far reaching vision, the sage can also see beyond function and remain open to

possibility. As a participant in Tao, the sage belongs to its creativity. Again using the foil of Hui Tzu the

rationalist, Chuang Tzu scolds Hui Tzu for not thinking creatively. Chuang Tzu writes:

Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, “The king of Wei gave me some seeds of a huge gourd. I planted them, and when they grew up, the fruit was big enough to hold five piculs. I tried using it for a water container, but it was so heavy I couldn’t lift it. I split it in half to make dippers, but they were so large and unwieldy that I couldn’t dip them into anything. It’s not that the gourds weren’t fantastically big—but I decided they were of no use and so I smashed them to pieces.” Chuang Tzu said, “You certainly are dense when it comes to using big things! . . . Now you had a gourd big enough to hold five piculs. Why didn’t you think of making it into a great tub so you could go floating around the rivers and lakes, instead of worrying because it was too big and unwieldy to dip into things! Obviously you still have a lot of underbrush in your head!26

Hui Tzu does seem quite dense, yet he represents many typical, reductionist ways of thinking about the

world. Like Hui Tzu, most of us relate to the world as a world of objects that serve particular functions.

Chuang Tzu encourages Hui Tzu to think outside the norm, clear out his head and relax. For Chuang Tzu,

the possibilities of a thing’s thingness can never exhausted, because Tao can never be exhausted. All

determinations remain open. Understanding understands what it understands—and nothing more. Tao is

the reservoir that is never full and never empty. In one’s engagement with things in Tao, understanding

can remain open and inexhaustible and the possibility for newness and change can be unending.

The Secret of Caring for Life

Let your mind wander in simplicity, blend your spirit with the vastness, follow along with things the way they are, and make no room for personal views—then the world will be governed.27

One of the most important Taoist principles is the secret of caring for life. Because Taoism is an

amoral philosophy in the sense that it rejects values and meaning, the subject of care is a delicate matter.



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Generally, Chuang Tzu’s prescription for care is that one must follow what is natural (Tao) and the world

will be governed. Like other aspects of Taoist philosophy, the matter of care is abstract. Nevertheless, it is

not impossible to understand how care follows from the principles of freedom discussed above. Although

Taoism can be described as a philosophy of freedom, is not a philosophy of rebellion and self-love.

Rather, it is a philosophy of forgetting one’s self so that a relationship to the whole can be recovered. In

one’s typical mode of being, despite all good intentions, one often works against the self-governance of

Tao by asserting a particular way of being over all other possibilities. Chuang Tzu regards such actions as

careless. He asks, “Can you afford to be careless?”28 Instead of pushing one’s values on the world and

assessing everything one encounters by an abstract set of standards, Chuang Tzu argues that one should

move more carefully and less obtrusively.

Chuang Tzu further addresses the matter of care in a parable about Cook Ting. Cook Ting, a Taoist

sage, explains his craft to Lord Wen-hui, who watches him cut up an ox. As a Taoist, his way of life

informs the seemingly mundane activity of ox carving as well as other seemingly exalted activities, such

as marriage, child-rearing or meditation. For a Taoist, there is no difference between the mundane and the

exalted—all things are the same. Chuang Tzu writes:

Cook Ting: “What I care about is the Way, which goes beyond skill. . . . I go along with the natural makeup, strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the big openings, and follow things as they are. So I never touch the smallest ligament or tendon, much less a main joint. . . . That’s why after nineteen years the blade of my knife is still as good as when it first came from the grindstone.” “However, whenever I come to a complicated place, I size up the difficulties, tell myself to watch out and be careful, keep my eyes on what I’m doing, work very slowly, and move the knife with the greatest subtlety, until—flop! . . . ” “Excellent!” said Lord Wen-hui. “I have heard the words of Cook Ting and learned how to care for life!”29

Cook Ting follows nature, is generally free and easy, and exercises great caution and restraint in

unfamiliar territory. Exercis ing care, he allows nature to guide him and never wears out his tools. This is

how Cook Ting cares for life. He cares for life by listening with his spirit, emptying himself, and freeing

himself from discriminations.



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Conclusion

Follow the middle; go by what is constant, and you can stay in one piece, keep yourself alive, look after your parents, and live out your years (

Chuang Tzu’s Taoism is a philosophy of freedom and return. The freedom of Taoism is primarily a

freedom from the anxiety induced by one’s alienation from Tao and desperate clinging to life. The return

Chuang Tzu proposes is a psychological return to a complete belonging to Tao, the “ultimate reality.” If

one can return again to the source, then freedom replaces anxiety and alienation. With genuine comfort

and ease, the Taoist can live lightly and spontaneously without burdening others with any unnecessary

willfulness or carelessness. Chuang Tzu argues that one should understand what cannot be changed and

leave it be. Instead of fighting life and trying to make it better, one should go by the constant and care for

Tao. If one can do this, the world will be governed and one will live a happy, long life. Because Taoism

belongs to the socio-linguistic world, it is not a separatist philosophy or an ascetic’s denial of worldly

things (although Chuang Tzu warns us not to seek fame or use more than we need). Chuang Tzu would

regard the separatist or ascetic ideal as something unnecessarily imbued with values. Moreover, the

ascetic also denies Tao in the rejection of the world—after all, the world of human beings is as natural as

a tree or a stone. Certainly, Taoists must empty their spirit and forget themselves, but they cannot do so at

the expense of an existence in the world that brought them forth. Tao is everything—even the values and

ideas that divide human beings; therefore, Tao does not only exist in the privileged realm of meditation or

any other sacred sphere. In fact, Tao rejects the division between sacred and profane modes of existence;

in Taoism, these ideas are unnecessary. Heaven is no different than earth and the ten thousand things are

one. Tao is in one’s work, play, eating, drinking, meditation, excretion of bodily fluids, and sleeping. The

Taoist’s goal is to remain in a full awareness of Tao at all times while living in the world. If Taoists are

successful, they will “stay in one piece, keep [themselves] alive, look after [their] parents, and live out

[their] years.”31

Chuang Tzu’s writing is not unique because of his interpretation of the ultimate reality of Tao; in

fact, in many ways, Chuang Tzu’s philosophy is quite similar to Zen Buddhism and other mystical



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practices. Chuang Tzu’s writing is unique because Chuang Tzu does not contradict the indeterminacy of

the ultimate reality by establishing a new system of value-creation (reform). Chuang Tzu neither wishes

to change nor reject the world—he simply wishes to be. Like other mystical texts, his Basic Writings

serve as an entry point and conceptual path that help to orient our minds toward a holistic experience;

however, the experience itself remains outside of the text. Because of the atextuality of the experience,

Tao also remains outside of the text. Therefore, Tao is acontextual—the no-thing that ushers forth all

contextual things. Even at the end of Chuang Tzu’s path, Tao remains slippery and delicate, yet Chuang

Tzu approaches Tao with a humor and lightness appropriate for a Taoist sage. He does not labor over

terms, but keeps Tao carefully out of reach. In the Basic Writings, he builds us a bridge, but we cannot get

to the other side without crossing it for ourselves.



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Works Cited 1. Chuang Tzu, Basic Writings, trans. Burton Watson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964),

77. 2. Burton Watson, introduction to Basic Writings, by Chuang Tzu (New York: Columbia University

Press, 1964), 1-2; Robert G. Henricks, introduction to Tao-te-ching, by Lao Tzu (New York: Random House, Inc., 1989), xi.

3. Chuang Tzu, 70. 4. Ibid., 46. 5. Ibid., 35-36. 6. Ibid., 38. 7. Ibid., 65. 8. Ibid., 38-39. 9. Ibid., 39-40. 10. Ibid., 40. 11. Ibid., 77. 12. Ibid., 35. 13. Ibid., 87. 14. Ibid., 54. 15. Ibid., 84. 16. Ibid., 32. 17. Ibid., 94-95. 18. Ibid., 39. 19. Ibid., 28. 20. Ibid., 57. 21. Ibid., 74. 22. Ibid., 70.



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23. Ibid., 56. 24. Ibid., 29-30. 25. Ibid., 63. 26. Ibid., 28-29. 27. Ibid., 91. 28. Ibid., 57. 29. Ibid., 46-47. 30. Ibid., 46. 31. Ibid., 46. 32. My timeline was developed from the following sources: Karen Armstrong, A History of God: The

4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1993; reprint, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. & Ballantine Books, 1994); Martin Bernal, Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization, Volume 1: The Fabrication of Ancient Greece 1785-1985 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1987; sixth paperback ed., 1991).

crandall, jeff

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