Meditations and Musings

The Japanese martial art form, Judo, is the embodiment of the first line of Chapter Twenty-two. Literally in Japanese, “ju” (gentleness) plus “do” or Tao in Chinese (Way). Thus Judo is the Way of Gentleness; “Yield and overcome.” The philosophy behind the martial art form is essentially Taoism applied to the motion of two contending human bodies. In the competitive form, the practitioner uses the force of one’s opponent to defeat him or her.

For Lao Tsu, this principle is essential to The Way. By yielding we overcome; by bending we become straight. Here once again we are presented with The Way in the form of suppleness, gentleness, and softness.

Lao Tsu writes. “The greatest virtue is to follow the Tao and the Tao alone.” The problem is that the Tao is elusive, intangible, dim, and dark. Yet it is also contains within it image, form, and essence. In other words, it is all of Being. As Lao Tsu says, “This essence is very real, and therein lies faith.”

Virtue is the subject of many a lofty speech or writing in the history of human thought. For the Greeks and select others throughout the history of Western philosophy, it is the core subject of the study of Philosophy in general. In fact, I’d be willing to argue that it is an essential topic for any philosophical system. Western philosophy has lost track of this simple fact, and thus has become marginalized to the subject of specialists with little practical impact on the rest of human knowledge and culture.

In my marginal notes in my copy of the Tao Te Ching from Ben Wren’s Zen class, I have a partial quote from Confucius which I was able to track down in full here. Here’s the relevant passage:

The Master said, “If the people are governed by laws and punishment is used to maintain order, they will try to avoid the punishment but have no sense of shame. If they are governed by virtue and rules of propriety [ritual] are used to maintain order, they will have a sense of shame and will become good as well.”

Ji Kang Zi asked Confucius about government, saying, “What do you say to killing those who are unprincipled [i.e., the immoral] for the good of those who are principled?” Confucius replied, “Sir, in carrying on your government, why should you use killing at all? Let your obvious desires be for what is good, and the people will be good. The relation between superiors and inferiors is like that between the wind and the grass: the grass is bound to bend when the wind blows across it.”

Thus, for Confucius, the virtuous are like the wind, the unvirtuos like the grass, always subject to the overwhelming strength of the virtuous. The greatest virtue is to follow the Tao and the Tao alone. As Confucius argues, when one internalizes a principle, one is governed by virtue and not some external threat of punishment. Virtue becomes the image, form, and essence of one who has internalized the principle – this just is The Way (Tao).

Often the great masters of wisdom, the mystics of the world, seem crazy or foolish to the rest of us. They do not fear the things that others fear; they don’t care for the things that others care for. They look dull and stupid or aimless. They are different. Is this the fate of anyone who is “nourished by the great mother”?

I am reminded of a movie (based on a comic strip) called Ghost World. It’s an excellent movie; if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it. It’s got a great quirky soundtrack as well. The main character, Enid (played by Thora Birch), is a misfit just graduating from high school. Her best friend (Scarlett Johannson) is getting her life as an “adult” started, but Enid just can’t seem to picture herself living in that world, or really, any world. Though I am not at all saying that the character Enid is a Taoist or Zen master, I think of the two responding to the the world in the same way – and, for that matter, the world responding to them in the same way. The world becomes a kind of ghost world filled with wispy personalities – people with no depth, ghosts living empty lives. To the inhabitants of this ghost world Enid and the Zen master are alike in that they seem to have no place, to be fools or dull, to be drifting about aimlessly. For the character Enid this view might be accurate, but for the Zen master or the master of the Way, this could not be farther from the truth

In the last chapter, we were introduced to The Great Pretense; Lao Tsu continues his consideration of the topic here in Chapter Nineteen. Chapter Eighteen was the diagnosis and prognosis, and here in Nineteen we find the prescription. If we are to return to The Way, we must give up the pretenses of wisdom, kindness, morality, and ingenuity. These things are merely “outward forms alone.” As I wrote in my last entry, these pretenses are only necessary when we have lost our Way and begin to experience our selves in an atomistic sense. Then what is the prescription? Lao Tsu tells us:

It is important
To see the simplicity,
To realize one’s true nature,
To cast off selfishness
And temper desire.

I like Feng’s translation above, but I also appreciate McDonald’s for its beautiful terseness:

Embrace simplicity.
Put others first.
Desire little.

Simplicity is apropos, for what does it literally mean: One. Simplicity or Oneness is “one’s true nature.” Realizing this there can be no selfishness in the sense of an atomistic individual separated in some metaphysically significant sense from other individuals. Realizing that simplicity is our true nature, there is no need of desire. Simplicity is absolute sufficiency.

At first blush, we might interpret Eighteen (in the way we did Thirteen) as referring to the time when the “Great Masters” knew it all, the time we have lost in the degraded existence of present history. But I think such an interpretation would miss the point.

When the Tao is forgotten,
Kindness and morality arise

Taken unreflectively, one might think this statement contradicts what we have learned about the Tao. But this is not so. Lao Tsu is saying that when one begins to live one’s life separated (in some sense) from the Tao, then human beings need a set of rules or moral principles to live their lives. If one were living the Tao (The Way), no appeal to external principles would be necessary.

There is a long tradition in Western Philosophy of similar kinds of ideas. Charles Peirce referred to this phenomenologically as “Firstness” – a monadic relationship. Experientially we just are the thing in question (saying “thing” here misses the gist as well). The monadic relationship is firstness, dyadic relationship (or comparative) is secondness, and triadic relationship (interpretive – semiosis) is thirdness. Interestingly, it is thirdness that characterizes human intelligence for Peirce. Along these lines, Lao Tsu tells us, “When wisdom and intelligence are born, The great pretense begins.” Perhaps we need to get back to Firstness? From an ethical point of view, the difference is being governed by some external moral rule as opposed to internalizing the moral principle, for example Kant’s moral imperative.

When the country is confused and in chaos,
Loyal ministers appear.

If ever there were proof that Lao Tsu’s wisdom applies to our current condition, this statement is it. I like McDonald’s translation here:

When the country falls into chaos,
politicians talk about “patriotism.”

Chapter Seventeen is another one of those chapters that really required reading several translations for it to make sense to me. Feng’s translation is especially vague, I think. Here’s what I think Lao Tsu is saying in this chapter: The greatest leader, the Sage-Ruler we could call him or her, is one who the people do not realize is leading them. In today’s terms, the best leader is not a micromanager. The sage-ruler achieves his goals by placing his trust in his people and their ability to cooperate together and accomplish ends that they recognize as their own (and not just the ruler’s). Thus, when they reach their goal they say, “We did it ourselves!” or “It just happened naturally.”

At first blush this chapter seemed totally opaque to me. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it and think of it in terms familiar to me. But the one-sentence stanza in the middle helped me to tie it to some ideas I am very familiar with. Lao Tsu writes:

“He who does not trust enough will not be trusted.” (Feng) or,
“Truly, ‘It is by not believing people that you turn them into liars.’” (Waley) or,
“When there is not enough faith, there is lack of good faith.” (Lau)

George Herbert Mead, an American pragmatist philosopher and social psychologist during the early 20th Century, had an interesting theory that a human being develops his or her Self only through social interaction with other selves. The first stage occurs through play, especially the role playing we see so often in children, and the second stage occurs through the game. In fact, there could be no self at all without other selves. Here I always think of the game of baseball (a truly perfect game). Each player on the field understands the role they play on the team in a game by understanding the role of each of his or her teammates. Think of the double-play ball to the shortstop: when the shortstop comes up with the ball, the second baseman covers the base and receives the ball, pivots and fires immediately to first base. There can be no thought of the other team members doing anything other than their role or the double-play will never happen.

What does this have to do with Chapter Seventeen of the Tao Te Ching? I think Lao Tsu is pointing out a significant characteristic of human social life. Namely, that when we work together and trust each other implicitly to do each his or her own part in a participatory process, we are able to achieve goals far greater than any individual could ever achieve. Mead called these goals social objects because they cannot be achieved except through social interactions; in fact, they are inconceivable without these social interactions. The sage-ruler understands this and uses the trust we have in our compatriots to achieve these social goals. Mead called this social control and it is the hallmark of fully realized societies. Thus, the good ruler entrusts those he or she leads with their own part in the social act and, in so doing, the social act itself becomes part of the selves of the human beings who accomplish it.

“Returning to the source is stillness, which is the way of nature.”

In zazen, one of the crutches that the beginner (read Clay here) uses is to focus on the breath. The practice of meditation is the practice of stillness. When the mind is stilled the eternal present is absolute. The crutch of focusing on breath is significant. Ch’i or Ki (in Japanese) is both breath and more than breath. It is the essential life energy of the universe. In a metaphorical sense it is the lifeblood of the Tao. When we breath, the flow of Ch’i is apparent. Stilling the mind, as I have said, seems almost impossible to me. Thoughts come bubbling up, exploding on the stage of the mind’s eye dragging our attention away from emptiness.

Lao Tsu implores us: “Empty yourself of everything.” How is this done? By the spiritual practice of meditation. Ben Wren knew this when he taught his Zen classes at Loyola. When you were interested in taking the course, you had to go to Father Wren and talk with him in an attempt to get his approval to take the course. Nobody was allowed into the course unless they had Wren’s permission. The reason was that the class required a level of commitment far above any other course offered at the university. It is not enough to study Zen intellectually. One could never understand, in any meaningful sense, Zen without participating in the spiritual practice of meditation. So, as I undertook this attempt to reacquire the thread of my life as I wrote about it in the initial post of this project, I knew that it was not enough to read the Tao Te Ching and write about it in this blog. It was essential that I reinvest myself in the dharma practice of meditation.

I hope that anyone who is following this blog will do the same. In Wren’s Zen class zazen, or sitting meditation, was not the only form we undertook. We also learned and practiced the long form of Tai Chi Chuan nearly every day. We also practiced kinhin, or walking meditation. And finally, we participated in European folk dancing as a form of meditative practice. All of these forms of meditation are deeply tied to the balance of Ch’i in the human person. Focusing on Chi helped us to understand in a visceral sense that, in the end, the line between the self and the rest of existence is merely artificial. Thus: “Returning to the source is stillness, which is the way of nature.” No stupid theory of Medichlorians necessary….. (That’s a Star Wars joke, for those of you who aren’t total geeks like me).

My health has left a lot to be desired over the last couple of years. I have been investing myself in this project of reacquiring the thread of my life for about three weeks. Starting sometime last week I began to feel better than I have in years. I have been exercising everyday and meditating everyday. I am convinced that the realignment of my Ch’i, whether metaphorically or literally, is responsible for my feeling of wellness and wellbeing

Like so many other traditions, Lao Tsu tells us that the Ancient Masters had serious mojo. In some nearly forgotten past, there were these superhuman Masters of the Way, “subtle, mysterious, profound, responsive.” We can only aspire to their mastery. Whatever. Lao Tsu tells us about these masters and their mastery, but we shouldn’t get the wrong idea. Mastery is no state of fulfillment, no stopping point. “Observers of the Tao do not seek fulfillment.”

I’ve never been interested in the idea of satori or nirvana or whatever name it might go by. It’s interesting and telling, I think, that the average American thinks of Buddhist (especially Zen) meditation practice as aimed at some goal, some final state of blissful fulfillment, satori, nirvana, whatever. To me that just misses the whole point of dharma practice.

Lao Tsu writes of the ancient masters that they are “Opaque, like muddy pools.” Then he goes on to ask, “Who can wait quietly while the mud settles?” It’s funny; next to this line in my copy of the Tao Te Ching when I was taking Ben Wren’s Zen class I wrote, “My own zazen.” I like this idea, zazen or meditation as waiting for the mud in our minds to settle. Who can wait for it? There is very little in life that I have found harder to do. Quieting the mind seems impossible. Moments of clarity are rare indeed–at least for me.

Chapter Fourteen is an amazing bit of text. Lao Tsu has again woven a beautiful picture of the ineffable, “An unbroken thread beyond description.” Somehow, through poetry, Lao Tsu has straddled the gulf that separates the Parmenidean block universe and the Heracliltean river of fire.

Stay with the ancient Tao,
Move with the present.

For human minds, bound to time, the Tao is most fully realized in the eternal Now. “Move with the present.” The Now that always has been. There is no better time to live than the present moment. This is the essence of practice.

Chapter Thirteen is another one of those chapters where different translations vary wildly. I have to say, I really like Feng and English’s translation of this chapter. I see two central themes that run through Thirteen. First, the fact that we have a body has a great impact on the way we live our lives and interpret the world as experienced. And second, losing oneself, can lead to the greatest realization of one’s Self. I have a lot to say about the first theme; I think it’s important and has many connections that I would like to bring to the fore. But I’ll save that discussion for one of the other chapters that deal with this idea, and focus instead on the second theme.

Today marks the 5th anniversary of the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center (and the Pentagon). Looking back at the amazing and deeply moving acts of bravery and selflessness that the rescue workers who entered those burning buildings made is a fitting example of Lao Tsu’s words:

“Surrender yourself humbly; then you can be trusted to care for all things. Love the world as your own self; then you can truly care for all things.”

Those firemen and women, police officers, and others who put their lives on the line to help those trapped in the buildings are the highest examples of what is best in human beings. We are greeted by these great kindnesses on rare occasions, but we are greeted daily by small kindnesses which we often fail to recognize. Selflessness begins small and has its roots in compassion. Compassion – literally to “suffer with.” In our daily lives we can work to make real these momentary kindnesses at each opportunity that presents itself. We can make loving the world as our own self a guiding principle of practice. In the end, a life of small kindnesses is just as powerful as the great kindnesses of heroes like the ones who gave their lives for their fellow human beings five years ago today.

When I think of small kindnesses, I am often reminded of a character in Hayao Miyazaki’s masterpiece Spirited Away. The main character (and title character in the Japanese) is a little girl named Chihiro, later called Sen in the story. The movie is one of my favorite films; the kids really like it too. Chihiro perfectly embodies the humbleness and selflessness that Lao Tsu is telling us about in Chapter Thirteen of the Tao Te Ching. Throughout the movie, Chihiro thinks of everyone but herself. She gives everything to others and never thinks of herself. I always talk with the kids about this each time we watch the movie together because I think it is such a great example of a principle that is worth living one’s life by, albeit a difficult one to do so. If you haven’t seen the film, do yourself a favor and rent it.