As-If Attitude

Zhuangzi was a sage who lived some 2400 years ago in China, in what is called the Warring States era. It was a time when the previous benevolent dynasty (the Zhou) had collapsed into several petty states, which for several hundred years fought among themselves, creating instability and chaos. Several sages offered their suggestions about how to return to peaceful and just times.

Probably the most well-known Chinese sage was Confucius, who advocated a ritualistic way for people to return to refined and honorable behavior. He maintained that if society's leaders practiced moral rites and modeled them for ordinary citizens, society could become more pleasant and gracious once again. 

Many people consider Confucius to have taught rote rituals, that seem artificial and hollow. Michael Puett, a Chinese scholar at Harvard, has a very different interpretation. He points out that Confucius' real intent was to conduct rituals “as-if” the repetitive (and sometimes pointless) motions that one performs could actually lead to magical or transforming results. It wasn't the belief that mattered, or its results—it was mindfully adhering to an honorable rite, that over time brought about a peaceful and ethical life. The process itself can be transforming. If we behave as-if it's true, we open to new possibilities.

A few hundred years after Confucius, Zhuangzi came onto the Chinese Warring States scene. Michael Puett describes Zhuangzi as another as-if teacher. Here's why. One of the witty and edifying stories that Zhuangzi told was how he one day awoke from a dream, during which he had imagined himself to be a butterfly. The fascinating aspect of his tale was that he wondered if he had been Zhuangzi dreaming of being a butterfly, or if he really was a butterfly dreaming that it was Zhuangzi. What was real?

Puett points out that Zhuangzi used this riddle to teach the value of empathy. The Chinese sage suggested that we might try to imagine what it would be like to be a butterfly—as-if we could put ourself in the shoes of a butterfly. That is a huge challenge—and maybe even impossible—but it could help us find ways to begin to understand what it would be like to step into our human adversary’s sandals. We could benefit from putting effort into trying to imagine how the opponent might perceive the world—to do it as-if we could. This attempt can open us up to others' perspectives, will break us free from our narrow viewpoints, will draw us closer together, will promote respect, and thus can lead to a culture of peaceful and moral behavior. Ancient teachings coming from a very different culture and situation are still relevant today.

Unhappy Endings

There is a love story from the Chinese Tang Dynasty, that was written over 800 years ago, of two lovers, Yingying (her) and Zhan (him). After a stuttering start, the two lovers subsequently united in ecstasy, but their affair had an unhappy ending. The story's conclusion was not nearly as tragic as Romeo and Juliet—both of the Chinese lovers lived on—but their affair did not enjoy the Hollywood movie ending of riding happily off into the sunset; that compulsory cheery outcome that the movies seem to demand.

Happy endings provide an immediate feel-good rush. We leave the theater or set the book down, with a buoyant feeling. All the problems have been resolved; everyone feels good. But that rosy feeling quickly fades and the story subsequently also fades from memory with it. Escapism seems pleasant in the moment, but quickly dissipates. The white hats won. The lovers live happily ever after. The drama is neatly tied up, but soon forgotten.

That is not reality, however. Real life stories often end ambiguously, or even unhappily; in an ending that leaves us unsettled and unsatisfied. It bugs us. It's disturbing. Many literary and film artists understand this dynamic and they often leave us hanging, or with that feeling of being a little disturbed. Unhappy endings tend to stick with us. The outcome bothers us. We keep mentally working on it, trying to find meaning in the melancholy ending. Sometimes we do discover significance, as we mull it over.

It's similar to poetry—in that we continue to process the message and often find deeper meaning, or realize that the unhappy story ending—though a bit unsettling—can be very appropriate. There often is a moral that is expressed in an unfortunate conclusion, which rosy outcomes rarely deliver.

Chinese society during the time of the Tang Dynasty was rather bothered by the sad ending of the story of Yingyin and Zhan. People wanted to feel better about the tale, so the ending was later given a happy twist. Rather than have them part ways and feel sad or resentful towards the other, the new result saw the lovers living on together in bliss. It made Tang citizens more comfortable for a while, but soon people realized that any lessons offered by the original sad ending were absent. Moreover, the cheery ending did not adequately reflect the values of society at the time—which were to honor one's duty to society, not pursue personal pleasure.

Soon the original unhappy ending was restored. As a result, the story of Yingying and Zhan has endured for hundreds of years. People continue to derive meaning from it. Its twists and turns are still debated and discussed. Is there a lesson here, which the happy ending did not deliver? Many people think so.

When we experience a cognitive jab from a tale, it causes us to persist in thinking about the story. In contrast, a cognitive consolation feels good in the moment, but can soon be forgotten. Being forced out of our comfort zone can be useful. We can learning something and grow from it.

Chuang Tzu—Part 3

“The Bell Stand”

In ancient China wooden bell stands were gorgeous works of art that supported the magnificent bells that craftsmen forged. Once a cabinet maker was commissioned to carve a bell stand for a particularly beautiful new bell. After he finished the stand, it was celebrated as an exquisite work of art. People who saw it proclaimed that the stand had to be the work of the gods—not mortal man.

When asked about the response of the people to his stand, the cabinet maker replied that he was simply a wood worker, not at all godlike. How had he accomplished this beautiful act? He replied that, when he receives such an auspicious commission, he prepares himself by dropping all distractions, slowing down, meditating, and fasting for a few days.

That clears his mind and focuses him on the task at hand—now no longer aware of any prestige or even of the money involved. Then he fasts and meditates a few days longer, letting go of any thoughts of expectation—of failure or success, or even of having the required level of artistry.

Then, feeling whole and rejuvenated, free from concerns of the outside world, he wanders into the forest, living with the trees for several days. At some point he comes upon the perfect tree, within which he can clearly see the form of a bell stand. With that vision and that perfect tree, he then simply removes the wood that is not essential to the bell stand residing within.

If he has succeeded in revealing—with no effort—the bell stand contained within the tree, he knows that he's followed the Way; he has been led by the Tao. He knows that he's aligned himself with heaven, so those who gaze upon the completed bell stand will be led to think that it has to be the work of immortals, of the gods.

Chuang Tzu Random Samples

• Words are not simply sounds. Words have meaning. And if this meaning is not subject to some accepted definition, does a word serve any function? We believe that our words are different from the chirping of young birds in the nest. What is the difference?
• Chuang fluttered about, from flower to flower, from nectar to nectar, delighted with all around him, existing as a butterfly. Dreaming as a butterfly, he forgot that he was indeed Chuang. He awakened from his dream with a start. “What?”, he cried. “I am me and no longer the happy, carefree butterfly. Am I really Chuang? Or am I the butterfly dreaming I am this Chuang? I cannot be both the butterfly and Chuang, or can I? No, that's not possible, there's a distinction between the two. But what is that distinction?”
• Death: And where were you before you were born? And where will you go when you die? The past stretches back beyond where we can see it; the future extends infinitely beyond our comprehension. I cannot see the beginning. I cannot see the end of things. Without beginning; without end, beyond life, beyond death; joined together in this birth of mine.
• To know what is of use in this world, you must first understand what is of no use.

Chuang Tzu—Ancient Chinese Sage

Chuang Tzu was a Chinese teacher and sage who lived in the fourth century BCE, during what is called the Warring States period. It was a chaotic time in which several Chinese states vied for power—in the wake of the collapse of the Zhou dynasty a hundred or so years earlier. Many Chinese scholars during this period were regretful that China had sunk into this violent time. They missed the peaceful and just Zhou reign and longed for either a return to the mores of that time, or looked forward to a new period of peace and civility.

The most well-known sage of this period was Confucius. His name and teachings have been widely disseminated in the West. Besides Confucius and Chuang Tzu, other prominent scholars and philosophers of the time were Lao Tzu, Mencius, and Mozi.

Chuang Tzu stands out from his contemporaries for me, because he was a recluse (he has things to say to this old hermit), but mostly because his writings are elegant, beautifully expressed, accessible to modern Western minds, and full of humor. He did not take himself seriously, as did most of his cohorts. In a number of ways, his outlook on life is similar to Socrates—whom I wrote about recently. Both of them looked upon the human condition with a skeptical eye, while maintaining a good degree of wittiness.

Chuang Tzu maintained that the quest for understanding is our top priority in life. His conclusion: while knowledge is unlimited, life is limited—so dedicate yourself to life-long learning. He taught that a simple life made the most sense, as he eschewed fame, wealth, and influence.

Chuang Tzu was the inspiration for Zen Buddhism—which has its roots in Taoism. Taoism is an ancient Chinese religion or philosophical tradition that emphasizes living in harmony with the Tao—which means “path” or “way.” The Tao is an undefinable concept, so I won't struggle to explain it here. I'll just try to describe a little of what it means to be a follower of the Tao.

The way of the Tao is a mystical path, one that leads us to a highly moral way of life—in which our actions mean far more that our words or beliefs. It is not a discipline that can be verbalized. It requires that we live simply, while we open ourselves to the spontaneity of the universe, with no preconceived ideas or answers. We do not precipitously jump into action, but allow the Tao to show us the way to act morally and effectively.

Taoism is full of paradoxically statements that cause the Western mind to wince. Chuang Tzu's writings express this paradox beautifully. Like good poetry, the message may not be apparent on first reading; but by slowing down, opening your mind to the deeper message, the wisdom shines through.

In the next three posts I will offer some of Chuang Tzu's more accessible (to the Western mind) writings. They are in my own words, but attempt to faithfully follow his message. There are numerous translations of Chuang Tzu into English, but they differ a lot, because the translators had to do much guessing, in order to render it approachable to modern English-speaking people.