FREE ESSAY ON TAOISM

TAOISM

In order to go into Taoism at all, we must begin by being in the frame of mind in which it
can understood. You cannot force yourself into this frame of mind, anymore than you can
smooth rippled waters. But let's say that our starting point is that we forget what we
know, or think we know, and that we suspend judgment about practically everything,
returning to what we were when we were babies when we had not yet learned the names or
the language. And in this state, although we have extremely sensitive bodies and very
alive senses, we have no means of expressing what is going on around us.
You are just plain ignorant, but still very much alive, and in this state you just feel
what is without calling it anything at all. You know nothing at all about anything called
an external world in relation to an internal world. You don't know who you are, you
haven't even the idea of the word you or me. It is before all that. Nobody has taught you
self control, so you don't know the difference between the noise of a car outside and a
wandering thought that enters your mind- they are both something that happens. You don't
identify the presence of a thought that may be just an image of a passing cloud in your
mind's eye or the passing automobile; they happen. Your breath happens. Light, all around
you, happens. Your response to it by blinking happens. 
So, on one hand you are simply unable to do anything, and on the other there is nothing
you are supposed to do. Nobody has told you anything to do. You are completely unable to
do anything but be aware of the buzz. The visual buzz, the audible buzz, the tangible
buzz, the smellable buzz-- all around the buzz is going on. Watch it. Don't ask who is
watching it; you have no information about that yet. You don't know that it requires a
watcher for something to be watched. That is somebody's idea; but you don't know that. 
Lao-tzu says, The scholar learns something every day, the man of tao unlearns something
every day, until he gets back to non-doing. Just simply, without comment, without an idea
in your head, be aware. What else can you do? You don't try to be aware; you are. You
will find, of course, that you can not stop the commentary going on inside your head, but
at least you can regard it as interior noise. Listen to your chattering thoughts as you
would listen to the singing of a kettle. 
We don't know what it is we are aware of, especially when we take it altogether, and
there's this sense of something going on. I can't even really say 'this,' although I said
'something going on.' But that is an idea, a form of words. Obviously I couldn't say
something is going on unless I could say something else isn't. I know motion by contrast
with rest, and while I am aware of motion I am also aware of at rest. So maybe what's at
rest isn't going and what's in motion is going, but I won't use that concept then because
in order for it to make sense I have to include both. If I say here it is, that excludes
what isn't, like space. If I say this, it excludes that, and I am reduced to silence. But
you can feel what I am talking about. That's what is called tao, in Chinese. That's where
we begin. 
Tao means basically way, and so course; the course of nature. Lao-tzu said the way of the
functioning of the tao is so of itself; that is to say it is spontaneous. Watch again
what is going on. If you approach it with this wise ignorance, you will see that you are
witnessing a happening. In other words, in this primal way of looking at things there is
no difference between what you do, on the one hand, and what happens to you on the other.
It is all the same process. Just as your thought happens, the car happens outside, and so
the clouds and the stars. 
When a Westerner hears that he thinks this is some sort of fatalism or determinism, but
that is because he still preserves in the back of his mind two illusions. One is that
what is happening is happening to him, and therefore he is the victim of circumstances.
But when you are in primal ignorance there is no you different from what is happening,
and therefore it is not happening to you. It is just happening. So is you, or what you
call you, or what you will later call you. It is part of the happening, and you are part
of the universe, although strictly speaking the universe has no parts. We only call
certain features of the universe parts. However you can't disconnect them from the rest
without causing them to be not only non-existent, but to never to have existed at all. 
When a one experiences oneself and the universe happening together, the other illusion
one is liable to have is that it is determined in the sense that what is happening now
follows necessarily from what happened in the past. But you don't know anything about
that in your primal ignorance. Cause and effect? Why obviously not, because if you are
really naive you see the past is the result of what is happening now. It goes backwards
into the past, like a wake goes backwards from a ship. All the echoes are disappearing
finally, they go away, and away, and away. And it is all starting now. What we call the
future is nothing, the great void, and everything comes out of the great void. If you
shut your eyes, and contemplate reality only with your ears, you will find there is a
background of silence, and all sounds are coming out of it. They start out of silence. If
you close your eyes, and just listen, you will observe the sounds came out of nothing,
floated off, and off, stopped being a sonic echo, and became a memory, which is another
kind of echo. It is very simple; it all begins now, and therefore it is spontaneous. It
isn't determined; that is a philosophical notion. Nor is it capricious; that's another
philosophical notion. We distinguish between what is orderly and what is random, but of
course we don't really know what randomness is. What is 'so-of-itself,' sui generis in
Latin, means coming into being spontaneously on its own accord, and that, incidentally,
is the real meaning of virgin birth. 
That is the world, that is the tao, but perhaps that makes us feel afraid. We may ask, If
all that is happening spontaneously, who's in charge? I am not in charge, that is pretty
obvious, but I hope there is God or somebody looking after all this. But why should there
be someone looking after it, because then there is a new worry that you may not of
thought of, which is, Who takes care of the caretaker's daughter while the caretaker is
busy taking care? Who guards the guards? Who supervises the police? Who looks after God?
You may say God doesn't need looking after Oh? Well, nor does this. 
The tao is a certain kind of order, and this kind of order is not quite what we call
order when we arrange everything geometrically in boxes, or in rows. That is a very crude
kind of order, but when you look at a plant it is perfectly obvious that the plant has
order. We recognize at once that is not a mess, but it is not symmetrical and it is not
geometrical looking. The plant looks like a Chinese drawing, because they appreciated
this kind of non-symmetrical order so much that it became an integral aspect of their
painting. In the Chinese language this is called li, and the character for li means the
markings in jade. It also means the grain in wood and the fiber in muscle. We could say,
too, that clouds have li, marble has li, the human body has li. We all recognize it, and
the artist copies it whether he is a landscape painter, a portrait painter, an abstract
painter, or a non-objective painter. They all are trying to express the essence of li.
The interesting thing is, that although we all know what it is, there is no way of
defining it. Because tao is the course, we can also call li the watercourse, and the
patterns of li are also the patterns of flowing water. We see those patterns of flow
memorialized, as it were, as sculpture in the grain in wood, which is the flow of sap, in
marble, in bones, in muscles. All these things are patterned according to the basic
principles of flow. In the patterns of flowing water you will all kind of motifs from
Chinese art, immediately recognizable, including the S-curve in the circle of yang-yin. 
So li means then the order of flow, the wonderful dancing pattern of liquid, because
Lao-tzu likens tao to water: 
The great tao flows everywhere, to the left and to the right, It loves and nourishes all
things, but does not lord it over them. 
For as he comments elsewhere, water always seeks the lowest level, which men abhor,
because we are always trying to play games of one-upmanship, and be on top of each other.
But Lao-tzu explains that the top position is the most insecure. Everybody wants to get
to the top of the tree, but then if they do the tree will collapse. That is the fallacy
of American society. 
Lao-tzu says the basic position is the most powerful, and this we can see at once in
Judo, or in Aikido. These are self-defensive arts where you always get underneath the
opponent, so he falls over you if he attacks you. The moment he moves to be aggressive
you go either lower than he is, or in a smaller circle than he is moving. And you have
spin, if you know Aikido. You are always spinning, and you know how something spinning
exercises centrifugal force, and if someone comes into your field of centrifugal force he
the gets flung out, but by his own bounce. It is very curious. 
So, therefore, the watercourse way is the way of tao. Now, that seems to white
Anglo-Saxon Protestants, lazy, spineless, and altogether passive. I am always being asked
when I talk about things, If people did what you suggest wouldn't they become terribly
passive? Well, from a superficial point of view I would suggest that a certain amount of
passivity would be an excellent corrective for our kind of culture because we are always
creating trouble by doing good to other people. We wage wars for other peoples benefit,
and attempt to help those living in underdeveloped counties, not realizing that in the
process we may destroy their way of life. Economies and cultures that have coexisted in
ecological balance for thousands of years have been disrupted all around the world, with
often disastrous results. 
A noted Chinese anthropologist has written that Chinese religion mirrors the social
landscape of its adherents. There are as many meanings as there are vantage points.2 The
same could be said of the diverse tradition we call Taoism. Taoism was understood and
practiced in many ways, each reflecting the historical, social, or personal situation of
its adherents. While this diversity may confuse and perplex the outside observer, it
accounts for the resilience of Taoism in China. Taoism was adaptable, evolving to fill
spiritual gaps created by the vagaries of life. 
Taoism can also be called the other way, for during its entire history, it has coexisted
alongside the Confucian tradition, which served as the ethical and religious basis of the
institutions and arrangements of the Chinese empire. Taoism, while not radically
subversive, offered a range of alternatives to the Confucian way of life and point of
view. These alternatives, however, were not mutually exclusive. For the vast majority of
Chinese, there was no question of choosing between Confucianism and Taoism. Except for a
few straightlaced Confucians and a few pious Taoists, the Chinese man or woman practiced
both -- either at different phases of life or as different sides of personality and
taste. 
Classical Taoist philosophy, formulated by Laozi (the Old Master, 5th century B.C.?), the
anonymous editor of the Daodejing (Classic of the Way and its Power), and Zhuangzi (3rd
century B.C.), was a reinterpretation and development of an ancient nameless tradition of
nature worship and divination. Laozi and Zhuangzi, living at a time of social disorder
and great religious skepticism (see article on Confucianism), developed the notion of the
Dao (Tao -- way, or path) as the origin of all creation and the force -- unknowable in
its essence but observable in its manifestations -- that lies behind the functionings and
changes of the natural world. They saw in Dao and nature the basis of a spiritual
approach to living. This, they believed, was the answer to the burning issue of the day:
what is the basis of a stable, unified, and enduring social order? The order and harmony
of nature, they said, was far more stable and enduring than either the power of the state
or the civilized institutions constructed by human learning. Healthy human life could
flourish only in accord with Dao -- nature, simplicity, a free-and-easy approach to life.
The early Taoists taught the art of living and surviving by conforming with the natural
way of things; they called their approach to action wuwei (wu-wei -- lit. no-action),
action modeled on nature. Their sages were wise, but not in the way the Confucian teacher
was wise -- learned and a moral paragon. Zhuangzi's sages were often artisans -- butchers
or woodcarvers. The lowly artisans understood the secret of art and the art of living. To
be skillful and creative, they had to have inner spiritual concentration and put aside
concern with externals, such as monetary rewards, fame, and praise. Art, like life,
followed the creative path of nature, not the values of human society. 
Throughout Chinese history, people weary of social activism and aware of the fragility of
human achievements would retire from the world and turn to nature. They might retreat to
a countryside or mountain setting to commune with natural beauty. They would compose or
recite poetry about nature, or paint a picture of the scene, attempting to capture the
creative forces at the center of nature's vitality. They might share their outing with
friends or more rarely -- a spouse, drinking a bit of wine, and enjoying the autumn
leaves or the moon. 
Chinese utopian writings also often bore a Taoist stamp. Tao Qian's (T'ao Ch'ien,
372?-427? A.D.) famous Peach Blossom Spring told the story of a fisherman who discovered
by chance an idyllic community of Chinese who centuries earlier had fled a war-torn land,
and had since lived in perfect simplicity, harmony, and peace, obliviously unaware of the
turmoil of history beyond their grove. Although these utopians urged him to stay, the
fisherman left to share his discovery with friends and a local official. He could never
find his way back. He did not understand that this ideal world was to be found not by
following an external path, but a spiritual path; it was a state of mind, an attitude,
that comprised the utopia.3 
If Taoist ideas and images inspired in the Chinese a love of nature and an occasional
retreat to it from the cares of the world to rest and heal, it also inspired an intense
affirmation of life: physical life -- health, well-being, vitality, longevity, and even
immortality. Laozi and Zhuangzi had reinterpreted the ancient nature worship and esoteric
arts, but they crept back into the tradition as ways of using knowledge of the Dao to
enhance and prolong life. Some Taoists searched for isles of the immortals, or for herbs
or chemical compounds that could ensure immortality. More often, Taoists were interested
in health and vitality; they experimented with herbal medicine and pharmacology, greatly
advancing these arts; they developed principles of macrobiotic cooking and other healthy
diets; they developed systems of gymnastics and massage to keep the body strong and
youthful. Taoists were supporters both of magic and of proto-science; they were the
element of Chinese culture most interested in the study of and experiments with nature. 4

Some Taoists believed that spirits pervaded nature (both the natural world and the
internal world within the human body). Theologically, these myriad spirits were simply
many manifestations of the one Dao, which could not be represented as an image or a
particular thing. As the Taoist pantheon developed, it came to mirror the imperial
bureaucracy in heaven and hell. The head of the heavenly bureaucracy was the jade
Emperor, who governed spirits assigned to oversee the workings of the natural world and
the administration of moral justice. The gods in heaven acted like and were treated like
the officials in the world of men; worshipping the gods was a kind of rehearsal of
attitudes toward secular authorities. On the other hand, the demons and ghosts of hell
acted like and were treated like the bullies, outlaws, and threatening strangers in the
real world; they were bribed by the people and were ritually arrested by the martial
forces of the spirit officials.5 The common people, who after all had little influence
with their earthly rulers, sought by worshipping spirits to keep troubles at bay and
ensure the blessings of health, wealth, and longevity. 
The initiated Taoist priest saw the many gods as manifestations of the one Dao. He had
been ritually trained to know the names, ranks, and powers of important spirits, and to
ritually direct them through meditation and visualization. In his meditations, he
harmonized and reunited them into their unity with the one Dao. However, only the
educated believers knew anything of the complex theological system of the priest. Thus
communal rituals had two levels: (a) a priestly level, which was guided by the priest's
meditation and observed by major patrons, who were educated laymen; and (b) a public and
dramatic ritual, usually performed by lower ranked Taoist assistants, which was
theatrical in form. It conveyed the meaning through visible actions such as climbing
sword ladders, or lighting and floating lanterns. The same ritual had a subtle
metaphysical-mystical structure for the theologians, and a visible dramatic structure for
the lay audience.6 
Taoism was also an important motif in fiction, theater, and folk tales. Local eccentrics
who did not care for wealth and position were often seen as Taoist because they spurned
Confucian values and rewards. In fiction Taoists were often eccentrics; they also had
magical or prophetic powers, which symbolized their spiritual attainment. They healed,
restored youth and vitality, predicted the future, or read men's souls. They were also
depicted as the stewards of a system of moral retribution; the Taoist gods in heaven and
hell exacted strict punishments for wrongdoing, and would let no sinner off the hook. On
the one hand, then, they were non-conformists who embodied different values and life
styles; on the other, their strict moral retribution reinforced the values of the
society. Taoism was the other way, but it did not threaten the moral consensus. It was,
perhaps, a kind of safety valve to escape the pressures of society, or at least a
complementary channel for alternative views and values. 
Chinese communists see Taoism as fatalistic and passive, a detriment to socialist
reconstruction. The People's Republic has kept alive some practical arts, such as the use
of traditional herbal medicines, which have longstanding links with Taoism. In a larger
sense, since Taoism functioned in imperial China as a retreat and withdrawal from the
struggles of the political arena, one might say that in a very general way the current
relaxation of political pressure in reaction against the excesses of the Gang of Four
represents a Taoistic phase of Chinese Maoism. 
When I was a sophomore in high school, I became convinced that Asians and Americans were
too different. I also thought that perhaps true understanding between the two was beyond
the realm of possibility.
What started me in this direction of thought was a class on world religions. An elderly
Catholic priest taught this class, and while he certainly knew a great deal about
Catholicism, it quickly became clear that he was not as knowledgeable about other
religions. Because of my bicultural background, his lack of understanding was especially
jarring whenever he spoke of Asian faiths and beliefs.
My ears perked up when we discussed the Chinese practice of ancestor worship. Most of the
class was non-Asian and found this concept perplexing. One classmate raised the question:
What was the rationale or reason to compel the Chinese to worship their ancestors? The
priest shrugged, professed ignorance, and then speculated that the Chinese were fearful
of the spirits of their ancestors. Maybe the ritual was meant to placate them, so that
these spirits would not punish their descendants with some sort of curse.
This was so far off the mark that I became instantly incensed. I jumped to my feet and
spoke up to contradict the teacher. In retrospect, I think I probably caused quite a
scene. At that moment in time, almost two decades ago, the reckless impetus of youth
possessed me, and I didn't even consider a more diplomatic approach.
From this incident I learned that many, many people in America did not have the first
clue on what ancestor worship meant to the Chinese. They regarded this essential
cornerstone of Chinese spirituality as a quaint, exotic ritual, with all the trappings of
primitive superstitions.
Recently, I came across another item that seemed to reinforce this impression. Prior to
his untimely passing, celebrated author and scientist Carl Sagan penned his last book,
The Demon-Haunted World. In that book, Sagan spoke against the spread of irrational
beliefs in the world. To illustrate the decline of scientific thinking in China, he
pointed to the resurgence of ancient Chinese practices such as I Ching fortune telling
and ancestor worship (page 17).
There it was again: the casual equating of ancestor worship with primitive, out-dated
superstitious beliefs. Apparently it is not just the average person in America that does
not understand this aspect of Chinese culture, but noted intellectuals as well.
Let's set the record straight once and for all: ancestor worship springs not from fear or
superstitions, but from gratitude and respect - possibly the highest echelon of all human
emotions.
Drink water, think of source is the phrase that the Chinese associate most often with the
concept of ancestor worship. The idea is to never take anything for granted. As you
quench your thirst, don't forget the spring or well where the water comes from. Without
that source you would not be drinking deeply.
In just the same way, one should never, ever take one's own existence for granted.
Without your ancestors you would not be here. If they hadn't lived, loved, struggled,
fought, and survived, you would not exist. Just as you cherish your own life, it makes
perfect sense that you should also cherish your forebears, for they are the ones who
paved the way for you.
This is the real essence of ancestor worship: a state of grace known as gratefulness.
It's a feeling that you are uniquely blessed, as the last link in an unimaginably long
chain of human beings stretching all the way back to the genesis of humanity. You feel
very much a part of this ancient tradition and the feeling gives you power and strength.
In that regard, ancestor worship is not necessarily superstitious. One does not have to
believe in the existence of ghosts or spiritual beings to feel a sense of gratitude and
appreciation. Likewise, expressing that gratitude and appreciation through a ritual isn't
always an endorsement of the supernatural.
The emphasis on gratefulness extends into other aspects of Chinese thinking as well. For
instance, it elevates filial piety to its rightful place as a high virtue. This kind of
emphasis does not exist in the advanced West, where too many of the elderly die lonely
and are not commemorated by their descendants after their passing. The Chinese practice
is a sharp contrast to this lamentable state.
In that regard, ancestor worship is anything but primitive. The ability to feel gratitude
marks an individual as a worthy human being; the institution of ritualized thanksgiving
marks a people as a truly civilized society.
One reason why many Westerners have such a tough time with this concept is the
unfortunate use of the word worship. The connotation of this word is entirely religious,
with all the implications of deities and supplicants. Without any other information, the
typical Westerner naturally assumes that the Chinese regard their ancestors as gods on a
similar level as Buddha or Jesus.
This is a false assumption that the Chinese would find ludicrous or laughable if ever
they figure out what their American friends are really thinking. Certainly the Chinese
believe their ancestors exist as spiritual entities, but to go from there to godhood is a
mighty big stretch, indeed.
A better word than worship would be communion. When the Chinese hold incense sticks in
their hands and face the ancestral shrine or gravestone, they are in silent prayer to the
dead. The content of such prayers have to do with greetings, the paying of respects,
invitation to share a meal (thus the offerings of food), and request to watch over the
safety of family members.
Note that the Chinese prayers to ancestors do not include begging for things like
forgiveness for sins or transgressions, victory over Evil, vanquishing of one's enemies,
or a guaranteed entrance into heaven. That makes sense because departed family members
are at best guardian angels, not gods.
When you look at it this way, is the Chinese practice of ancestor worship/communion
really so bizarre after all? In the West, do we not also pray to departed family
members?
We most certainly do, and all without assuming that dear old Aunt Meg has, since her
death, become the Almighty Saint Meg of the Seventh Host. The Catholic priest from my
high school days would never assume that we pray to the dear departed out of some fear of
the supernatural. Carl Sagan, despite his atheist convictions, would never think of it as
some superstitious and irrational mumbo-jumbo.
What the Chinese do, in essence, amounts to the exact same thing. And yet Americans seem
to insist on seeing Chinese customs as both more and less than they actually are. Perhaps
this is because there is a certain need in the Occidental psyche to see the Orient as
mysterious and inscrutable.
If so, the insight we have gained today may come as a disappointment. In the final
analysis, and despite superficial trappings and different styles, we all share a common,
universal need to be in touch with the spiritual world. Beneath the multicultural veneer,
our essential human nature is similar.
The insight gives me a new perspective as well. It tells me that my sophomoric high
school views were wrong. The East and the West are more alike than different. Perhaps
true understanding between the two isn't an impossible dream after all!