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—Part 2

 "The Peace of the Dead" 

While wandering along the road one day, a scholar finds a human skull lying off the path, in the woods. He steps aside and picks up the skull, and gazing at it, Hamlet-like, asks it questions. How did you die? Was your time simply up, or were you involved in some nefarious activity? Were you murdered? Was your death just? What activities were you ripped from, by death?

The skull remains silent. The scholar remains looking at the skull for a while longer, then stuffs it in his pack and continues his trek. Later, when it comes time to bed down for the night, the scholar uses the skull as a pillow. As he falls asleep, the skull appears to him in a dream; telling the scholar that all his questions had been about the struggles and problems of the living, and how one comes to meet death. When you are dead, the skull now replies in the dream, all those concerns are gone. Human struggles are of no concern to the dead. He asks the scholar if he'd like to know what it's like to be dead. Yes, certainly, replies the scholar... all people want to know about what the afterlife is like.

Well, the skull says, when you are dead, there are no tyrants or oppressive rulers above you, making life difficult. There are no concerns or or hassles of all those below you to deal with. There are no such humanly problems. Time passes very leisurely, as it does in heaven—not frantically and so fast, as it does for the living. Indeed, even the lavish life of a king has no appeal for the dead.

Hmmm, the scholar thinks. That's interesting. In order to understand better, he then asks the skull, supposing he had the power to restore life to him, giving the skull back all that he had lost, would he go for it? The skull ponders the question for a moment and says no. After all, how could he abandon something that is better than the lavish life of a king, let alone revisit all those other difficulties of life?

"The Poor Scholar"  

A high official encounters a scholar who is dressed in shabby clothes; who appears very raggedy. The official asks the scholar why he is so wretched. The scholar responds that what the man is seeing is not wretchedness, but poverty. Wretchedness is far worse; it occurs when one understands the Way and when one knows how to follow the Tao, but does not do either. That's internal wretchedness. My clothes are tattered. That's just an external sign that I'm poor, not wretched.

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.

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.