Everything is pushed or pulled through something by something; all that is and isn’t, created
and moved by some substrate force, evolving from this to that, towards apparent nothing
for apparently no reason other than itself. What is this movement? What is our role within
it? And can we integrate more seamlessly into it?
The ancient Chinese philosophy known as Taoism is one of the primary schools of thought that
emerged and sustained out of a volatile, but intellectually enriched period of Chinese
history between around 700 and 200 BC. Its origins, longstanding popularity, and viewpoints
are often similar and discussed in relation to other leading eastern philosophies like
Buddhism and Confucianism. By more or less coincidence, Taoism can also be said to contain
many similar ideas to the ancient Greek and Roman philosophy of Stoicism.
It is generally accepted that Taoism was founded by the writer and philosopher known as Lao
Tzu, who is credited with authoring the foundational Taoist text entitled the Tao Te Ching. However,
there is no substantiated proof that Lao Tzu ever actually existed, and some historians
believe that the name could merely be a pseudonym of sorts, either intentionally or unintentionally
creating a legend-like figure for the school. This, however, is also unproven. If Lao Tzu
was real, he is believed to have been a record keeper in the court of Zhou in around 5th
century BC China. At some point during his later life, the story goes that Lao Tzu grew
tired of the increasing bureaucracy and corruption of Zhou and decided to leave. On his way out,
the border official recognized Lao Tzu and, knowing of his reputation of wisdom, asked
if he would write down his insights prior to leaving. Allegedly, Lao Tzu did, and this
would become the Tao Te Ching, the most translated philosophical or religious book in all of
history, after the bible. There are, like most things of this sort,
different forms and sects of Taoism that implicate different ways of interpreting, behaving,
and thinking. As a result of its inherently vague and somewhat open-ended nature, a division
of philosophical, religious, and political interpretations have formed and fragmented
over time, and thus, Taoism has been rendered into somewhat of a broad, malleable philosophy.
What is generally considered Taoism today, specifically in the modern west, naturally
deviates at least to some extent from the likely origins and initial interpretations.
Separated by upwards of 2,500 years of time and a globe of space, this is to be expected
arguably, but it is no less worth noting and respecting. Ironically, though, the possible
fluctuation and evolution of Taoism is perhaps a testament to one of its own, primary ideas:
central to Taoism, everything is in a continual state of flux, ceaselessly changing and adapting.
Thus, no single idea or thing is to be attached to. Nothing is to be forced in or out of place.
All is to be permitted to go its natural course, subject to the one, constant, unchanging truth
that everything changes. And so, it is perhaps nothing but a confirmation of this idea that
the interpretation of Taoism’s ideas, in some sense, change over time.
To understand the philosophical basis of Taoist ideas, it is essential to know of the concept
known as The Dao. The Dao generally translates into “the way,” which in the context of
Taoism, refers to the natural way or order of the universe. Although, the Dao is, so
to speak, more of a blanket, abstract term for what is beyond human concept and comprehension.
The sort of force or substrate that creates and propels all things for apparently no reason.
The incomprehensible origins and destination of the universe where logic and human sensibility
collapse. A sort of god without a god. A creation without a creator. The infinite and the nothing
in a singular, unified, eternal dance with itself for itself. However, according to Lao
Tzu, even here, this sort of explanation still misses the point and essence of the Dao. “The
Dao that can be told is not the eternal Dao. The name that can be named is not the eternal
name. The unnamable is the eternal real.” Lao Tzu writes in the opening lines of Tao
Te Ching. The Dao is, or at least appears, paradoxical in this sense by virtue of it
being a word that is spoken and a concept that is, in a roundabout way, understood.
And yet, it declares itself beyond concept, and states that it cannot be stated. However,
perhaps sometimes words and concepts of this form can work like fingers, pointing in the
direction of a thing that can only truly be seen and understood by living it.
Essential to Taoism is living according to this Dao. Which is to say living in accordance
with nature. Lao Tzu suggests one can accomplish this by accepting the fluctuation of everything
and giving up rigid judgments, attachments, expectations, and controlling efforts in life.
In doing so, one becomes more closely intertwined with the natural order of things, taking on
a sort of fluid, intuitive, and harmonious relationship with the natural world. Perhaps
one of Taoism’s most useful and slightly more practical ideas that stems from this
is the concept of Wu Wei, which generally translates into non-doing or effortless action.
This idea does not literally suggest doing nothing or doing things that are easy, per
se, but rather, suggests cultivating abilities, circumstances, and lifestyles in which one
frequently becomes fully immersed in their actions, so much so that they are almost carried
by action, rather than the other way around. In other words, engaging in tasks with a deep
focus and presence, surrendering to more spontaneous, second nature instincts. Like how a bowl’s
emptiness allows for it to be filled and made useful, for Lao Tzu, emptying or stilling
the mind allows being to unfold more effectively. In many respects, this idea of Wu Wei parallels
modern day positive psychology’s notion of the flow state. They differ, of course,
in the latter being underpinned by science and the former by more spiritualized philosophy,
but at bottom, both seem to point to the same relative idea. A state where one experiences
a deep-focus, satisfaction, natural efficiency, and absence of self-consciousness. One might
experience this state when they are in the thralls of a creative flurry and a work of
art seems to almost create itself. Or a moment in a sport where one seems to almost know
exactly what to do, two moves ahead, without ever stopping and thinking. Or when one comes
up with an idea or the right thing to say more easily once they stop trying. Or perhaps
the more general gut instincts and intuitions felt in everyday life that seem to just feel
right for no other reason, and are. For Lao Tzu, perhaps life more broadly is
to be lived in this zone. Like how the breath breaths, the heart beats, the birds fly, the
fish migrate, the wind blows, the earth spins, all perfectly on their own, the Taoists believe
life operates most functionally when simplified to its more intuitive, natural intelligence.
Like water is humble and soft yet erodes the sides of mountains and dissolves rocks by
quietly, patiently, and persistently flowing its natural course, so too should the human
act. To work and live with a sort of softness and almost passivity to the universe, observing
the flux of everything around us, and gracefully adapting to it as it does. “Can you coax
your mind from its wandering and keep to the original oneness?...Can you cleanse your inner
vision until you see nothing but the light? Can you love people and lead them without
imposing your will? Can you deal with the most vital matters by letting events take
their course? Can you step back from your own mind and thus, understand all things?...This
is the supreme virtue.” Lao Tzu writes. We are drawn to the graceful yet indifferent
quality of nature. When we see someone forcing something, be it an artistic performance or
a performance of self in everyday, ordinary life, we almost always know. And we almost
always dislike it. We say that it doesn’t feel natural. That it feels forced. That someone
is being fake. We have a seeming innate sensitivity to what is tried rather than simply done.
Ultimately, we want truth. We want honesty. We want the natural motion of everything.
Some thing or essence that cannot be explained by anything else other than act of doing or
experiencing it. Words and ideas of intellect seem to fall short to the apparent deeper
truth that is revealed by this authentic poetry in motion.
Realistically, this notion of not trying and relinquishing conscious effort is perhaps
practical and effective in cases of artistic, athletic, and certain social circumstances.
However, in the broader application of the idea, it isn’t obvious how much one really
should, or even can let go and accept the way things are. Can the can of worms of intellectualization,
force, and desire truly be closed once it’s already been opened? Moreover, is it not possible
that conscious effort, forcefulness, and opposing action with the apparent, natural world are
all in fact natural parts of the natural world? In the context of Taoism, could working against
the Dao merely be the Dao working against the Dao for the sake of its perpetuation?
Perhaps a further step in the logical path of Taoism, and philosophies like it, involves
an even greater surrender that doesn’t even permit one to choose or consider if they are
surrendering or not. Rather, one is born into the surrender. If, in Taoism, the relationship
of all things is a cooperative, unified whole, even when things appear in conflict, is not
human and nature always in cooperation, even when they seem to oppose each other? If darkness
creates light, silence creates sound, beauty creates ugliness, good creates bad, does not
forcefulness create non-forcefulness? Does not man create nature? Does not consciousness
create unconsciousness? Human is part and parcel of nature, and so, how could human
act in any other way? How could manmade material or action ever not be natural?
Of course, this is just one counter idea that stems from just one interpretation of an elusive,
mysterious Taoist idea. And to step back on it a little, there is no question that our
conscious observations and logic do often fool us, and we are, in many cases, clearly
deviating from what’s best when we force or strive for what we think is. A drunk person
who does not resist or fight what is happening often receives significantly less injury when
falling or in a car crash compared to those who tense up and consciously brace, resist,
and try to save themselves. And so, clearly there are better ways for things to go, plenty
of which would go better if we never got involved. Perhaps the only remaining questions are:
when should we and when shouldn’t we? And how does one find out without screwing the
whole thing up? Perhaps these questions miss the point. Perhaps the point ignores these
questions. Of course, like all ideals of philosophy or
religion, Taoism’s concepts are likely just that: ideals; ideals that are not without
some level of contradiction or general incompleteness on their own. But regardless of this and the
potential limits of its applicability, the concepts suggested by Taoism are nonetheless
filled with rich insights that provide worthy, useful counterweights to the more common,
brutish way of mind and culture. The thinking that things must always be a different way,
or must go one’s own way for it the be the right way; that there must always be some
better ideal around the corner that isn’t or couldn’t be in this moment, right now;
that one needs to seek or strive for what they already have and know.