Meditations and Musings

The sage has no mind of his own.

Having no mind of his or her own, the sage has room for everyone else.  As Lao Tsu says, he is aware of the needs of others. When we embrace the Big Self, our needs no longer govern our actions. Following this idea, the middle two stanzas of this chapter focus on the sage’s realization that the fact of the status of some other person’s actions as good or faithful makes no difference to the actions of the sage. The sage is both good and faithful whether or not others are good or faithful. There is no condition to be met for the sage to demonstrate his or her faith in others or for the sage to be good to others. Faithfulness and goodness are Virtue. Therefore, the sage acts in accordance with Virtue.

Just as a child demonstrates this propensity for unconditional acts of goodness and faith in others, so too does the sage. Often this behavior is simply opaque to ordinary observers. They cannot imagine living life in this guileless way. They cannot make sense of behavior devoid of subterfuge and want to attribute machinations to these childlike actions. But the sage is nothing but what he or she seems, both good and faithful.

He behaves like a little child.

The world is ruled by letting things take their course.
It cannot be ruled by interfering.

In the film Rivers and Tides, Andy Goldsworthy makes a piece of art that really struck me deeply. He took a series of large leaves and threaded the stem of each leaf through the broad part of the next leaf making a long chain of leaves. The chain was placed in a river where it was taken by the current. The photographer shoots the chain as it meanders through slower and faster parts of the current, sometimes finding eddies and curling in on itself, sometimes speeding up and unwinding from these curls. The flow of the river as described by the floating chain is absolutely mesmerizing.

This piece of art, I think, captures what Lao Tsu is communicating in Forty-Eight. The art gets its meaning from the features of the flow of the current. It is both part of the river and builds on it. When we experience the Tao, we flow in just this way. There is no interference. Our participation in the Tao is organic in just the way the current and its flotsam describe the flow of the river.

The farther you go, the less you know.

Thus the sage knows without traveling;
He sees without looking;
He works without doing.

It takes an act of the will to get back to this project. If I float along thinking, “I’ll get back to it soon. Maybe tomorrow.” It’s just not going to happen. And all the while I feel less and less centered. At first I think to myself, “You’re feeling this way because you haven’t been meditating and writing.” But soon this voice fades and the feeling of disquiet becomes pervasive. Only now it’s vague and I don’t know why I feel this way. The sage works without doing, but I do not.

I’ll try to pick up the thread again. Making time for this is just worth it. Without a doubt. But I am not the sage, and I will have to work at it.

Attachment and desire, as we have seen (for instance, in Forty-Four), are the root of human suffering. It is a cliche to point to the many examples of decadence in American society as a sure sign that we are in the twilight of our existence as a nation. Whether this assertion is true or not, I don’t know. But we are certainly bombarded by instances of indulgence beyond the pale on a daily basis. The voyeuristic rise of “reality” TV provides us with countless examples. Nothing says withering culture like an “eating” contest, though. Rewarding fools for horrid acts of gluttony to me is the pinnacle of American overindulgence. We are a culture that actively opposes the principle of “enough is enough.”

As the second of the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths tells us, it is through Upādāna, or attachment, and the craving that it leads to that suffering arises. The answers to the three questions that Lao Tsu poses in the first stanza of this chapter make little difference; they all characterize various attachments. All of these lead inevitably to suffering.

He who is attached to things will suffer much.

In my marginal notes I have scribbled this tidbit from Ben Wren:

Hasidic saying: There are only two sorrows in the world, never to have achieved what is desired and to have achieved it.

I have no idea if this is really a Hasidic saying or not, but the point is very Buddhist. If we accept this characterization of sorrow, then the very idea of desire is suspect. Certainly, if these are in fact true sorrows, no good can come of desiring, unless one is French. In which case, the perfect recipe for maudlin has been discovered.

The ten thousand things carry yin and embrace yang.
They achieve harmony by combining these forces.

The notion of balance is one common in most bodies of wisdom. I believe this is our first meeting with yin-yang, at least by name; the ideas have been there throughout, of course. Whether we describe them as feminine and masculine the moon and the sun, shady and sunny, or passive and active, I think even in western culture we are familiar with these concepts of complementary opposition. I like the idea of thinking of these as process rather than state. In truth, we are always experiencing the interplay of these forces rather than existing in some static composition of the two. Somehow, Lao Tsu tells us, the ten thousand things may achieve harmony through this interplay.

Perhaps we can take the teaching of the final stanza to be the outcome of discord when the harmony of the second stanza is not achieved. As Lao Tsu says, “A violent man will die a violent death!” Never believe a man who would say, “We will go to war to achieve a lasting peace.” The morons who believed George W. Bush when he said we needed a war in Iraq to fight terrorism should have heard and taken to heart Lao Tsu’s teaching. I imagine these assholes call themselves Christians, as well. Could you imagine Jesus of Nazareth saying he would go to war to achieve peace? I imagine Jesus was the kind of guy Lao Tsu had in mind when he prefaced his teaching by saying, “What others teach, I also teach.”

The wise student hears of the Tao and practices it diligently.
The average student hears of the Tao and gives it thought now and again.
The foolish student hears of the Tao and laughs aloud.
If there were no laughter, the Tao would not be what it is.

Clearly, Lao Tsu had me in mind when he wrote this chapter. I can’t help but think that I am at best an average student, bordering on foolish. When I read a line like this, “The perfect square has no corners,” I want to laugh aloud. Does this make me a foolish student? Isn’t that line ridiculous by any rational standard? What could Lao Tsu mean that isn’t totally ridiculous?

The structure of Forty-One is at least familiar to us by now. The second stanza is a list of aphorisms juxtaposing opposites as we have seen in several other chapters. Are we any less baffled just because we have seen this sort of thing over and over? Some of these at least seem to make some sense to me. My marginalia from Ben Wren’s class bring the line, “Great purity seems sullied” to attention. In my commentary on an earlier chapter, I mentioned the symbolic use of the lotus in relation to this idea. The beautiful lotus is perfectly happy floating on the surface of a stinking cesspool.

Virtue plays a central part in this chapter, as in: “The highest Virtue seems empty.” Certainly, the virtuous person never thinks of virtue. The state of living virtuously never depends on one consciously regulating one’s behavior in regards to some moral principle. The principle has been internalized. In a very real sense, one simply is virtue. These kinds of people are notoriously bad at explaining the state of living virtuously. When they do so, we get statements like those found in this chapter. To learn virtue, live in the presence of the virtuous.

Returning is the motion of the Tao.
Yielding is the way of the Tao.
The ten thousand things are born of being.
Being is born of not being.

Halfway. At the midpoint of the Tao Te Ching, we come again to what I think of as the central mystery of Taoism. From nothing, everything. In the margin of my text, I wrote during my Zen class with Ben Wren a single word: “Femininity.” The ideas central to this chapter are often considered feminine qualities, returning and yielding. And most importantly, the pregnant void. The Void that is the mother of us all.

In Infinity and Mind, Rudy Rucker talks about the infinite “Mindscape” out of which the human mind creates the content of the conceptual world. In his sense of the term, humans participate in a special way in the unboundedness of the infinite. This concept and similar representations of it in Descartes’ Meditations and Noam Chomksy’s reinvisioning of Rationalistic theories of mind have contributed greatly to my own understanding of the ideas so central to Chapter Forty of Lao Tsu’s work and of Taoism in general. If we each and every human have a kind of mirror of this pregnant void somehow in ourselves, perhaps the idea of being from not being is not so outlandish. From the point of view of language, the subject matter of both Descartes and Chomsky’s discussion of these ideas, we all can see the truth of the fact that it is not so hard to formulate a meaningful sentence that no other human being has ever uttered. For Descartes and Chomsky, the native creative impulse within us made us very special beings indeed. By analogy, perhaps we can apply this feature of the human mind to a picture of Being as a whole. In this sense, is it so outlandish to believe that “Being is born of not being”?