Chuang Tzu—Part 1

"Reading Their Dregs”

An elderly craftsman, wandering down the road, comes upon a scholar who is reading from a book. He asks the scholar what he's reading and gets the reply that it's the revered words of the sages. When he asks the scholar if they are still alive, he is told that they have died. The craftsman abruptly tells the scholar that he's reading the dregs of the sages.

Incensed, the scholar demands how an uneducated craftsman can be qualified to comment on what a scholar is reading. How could such a lowly person have any idea of the nature of his erudite reading? He demands an explanation for the man's audacity.

As the craftsman responds, he describes how he has perfected, over many decades, his skill of crafting high-quality wooden barrels. He knows exactly how to place the staves and fit them together so they form a tight fit, so the barrel never leaks. He has been unable, however, to describe his skill to anyone—even his own son. Words fail him and he knows he will take to his grave most of the knowledge of making a fine barrel. He tells the scholar that it must be the same situation for the ancient sages. They died with their real wisdom still unexpressed. So you, the scholar, must be reading their dregs.

“Why Mourn?”

A scholar is found sitting on the ground, banging on a drum and singing wildly, not long after his wife had died. His friend comes upon him and is shocked, asking him how he could be carrying on like this, almost in celebration, so soon after his wife's death. He had lived with her for so many years and had a deep and loving relationship. This display is disgraceful to her memory.

The scholar responds that, right after her death he had mourned deeply and cried. But as he considered her life, he came to see that during the time before she was born, she was nothing. No physical body... no mind. No spirit. Then a miracle occurred and she came into being—she then had a body, mind, and spirit. She existed. It was a true miracle.

Then another miracle happened: she died and no longer existed. It was the same as before she was born. The seasons follow one another in a similar manner. So it was for her and for everyone. It was appropriate for me to mourn her and cry at her death, but if I had continued to mourn, wouldn't that have shown my ignorance, my lack of respect for her... for her life?

So I ceased mourning. Now I sit and sing, as I bang my drum.