Tao Te Ching XXII

Bowed down then preserved.

Bent then straight.

Hollow then full.

Worn then new.

A little then benefitted.

A lot then perplexed.

Therefore the sage embraces the One and is a model for the empire.

She does not show himself and so is conspicuous.

She does not consider himself right and so is illustrious.

She does not brag and so has merit.

She does not boast and so endures.

It is because she does not contend that no one in the empire is in a position to contend with her.

The way the ancients had it—bowed down then preserved—is no empty saying;

truly it enables one to be preserved to the end.

The One the sage loves is no middling balance, no average of the difficult extremes, no part of the whole, no thing expressed in words, no idea.  It is only the reality of fully lived experience.  It includes all the opposites and so, in inexperienced hands, is schizoid even as the empire, in inexperienced hands, is schizoid.  But the sage is so comfortable with the nature of reality—the nature of government, civilizations, cultures, societies, organizations, families, the human psyche, nature, reality, dreams, herself—that nothing phases her.  What is schizoid to others is one to her.

It is because of this familiarity that she does not act like the average person—overtly or covertly asserting herself, overtly or covertly competing, raising herself up, pushing others down, smiling as she is successful in doing this, frowning as she isn’t—but like a sage, doing none of these things—not from volition, instruction, force, actual or potential gain, but naturally.  The sage is conspicuous, illustrious, meritorious, enduring simply because she is rare.  The rare is beautiful and virtuous, not according to the vast preponderance of beauty and virtue—those common images and words which the masses fall sway to—but according to some other thing.

Tao Te Ching XXI

In his every movement, a person of great virtue follows the way and the way only.

As a thing the way is shadowy, indistinct.

Indistinct and shadowy, yet within it is an image.

Shadowy and indistinct, yet within it is a substance.

Dim and dark, yet within it is an essence.

This essence is quite genuine and within it is something that can be tested.

From the present back to antiquity its name never deserted it.

It serves as a means for inspecting the parents of the multitude.

How do I know that the parents of the multitude are like that?

By means of this.

The Tao is nested into itself and all things, even as all things are nested into themselves and the Tao.  To be a thing is to not be shadowy, yet the Tao is a shadowy thing.  Though it is a shadowy thing, it hides within itself reflections, substances, and concentrations—each of these having at least a semblance of tangibility.  Yet within these reflections, substances, and concentrations, there is yet something else—something else unnamed—and this unnamed thing is somehow verifiable.  What sort of experiment might you construct to verify the presence of this thing within the image within the shadowy thing within the sage?  And how might one follow such a thing within a thing within a thing within a thing?  And how could one tell such was being incessantly followed?  And where in any text on psychology, healing, or religion might one find such an elusive definition of virtue?  Nowhere, for though words do not desert it, it eludes words; though the multitude ignores it, it inspects the multitude through its origins.

Imagine the council of original begetters, lined against the wall dressed in their most dubious selves.  Something not quite there pacing back and forth in front, its name tucked inside its pants, performing strange inspections.  Would you stand against that wall?  How do you know?

The Tao is nested through the liminality of itself in everything, of the twilight that infests all certainty and the doubt that thrives at noon.  The Tao does not live in the mirror; it is the mirror—its frame, casing, glass, source, void, and contents.  It is a method that precedes, infuses, and succeeds science ontologically and historically.

The Christian, the Jain and Hindu, the Moslem and Jew, the Buddhist, the Confucian and humanist … all must deviate from their ways, for their ways are ways and all walk but one way—the way of ways, the way of the body, life’s murky sensate path; the one who follows the Tao, though, follows the broadest possible way—without narrowness, without eradication, without rules, without scriptures, without priests or gods, without idols and ceremonies and structures, unreliant on the false gods of art and technology, unconcerned with money and reputation, giving time only a passing glance,   The way is not narrow but broad, for life is broad; most walk the narrow ways from fear and indolence, but the sage sees life and does not stray from its breadths, heights, or depths.  So she follows the virtue that is not named virtue and walks the way that is not named a way.

Not surprising, then, for such indistinction to avoid the clarity that grammarians demand with their crisp call for neon antecedents.  The Tao shrugs at such demands.  You ask, Like what? How?  It may respond, Like this.  By means of that.  If you follow the Tao, you know the that and this; you’ve seen and touched them, used them as tools and measures, been measured by them, followed them.  They are as genuine as pi and berries, as real as LSATs and wombats.

Tao Te Ching XX

Between yes and no, how much difference is there?

Between good and evil, how great is the distance?

What others fear, one must also fear.

The multitude are joyous,

as if partaking in a feast or going on an outing in spring.

I alone am inactive and reveal no signs and wax without having reach the limit,

like a baby that has not yet learned to smile.

Listless, as though with no home to go back to.

The multitude all have more than enough,

I alone seem to be in want.

My mind is that of a fool—how blank;

vulgar people are clear.

I alone am drowsy,

vulgar people are alert.

I alone am muddled—

calm like the sea; like a high wind that never ceases.

The multitude all have a purpose,

I alone am foolish and uncouth

and value being fed by the mother.

Here the ambiguity of morality is accepted, long before good and evil were surpassed and ambiguity proclaimed as some revelation.  It is not as if the way refuses morality, but that it quietly acknowledges the relative insignificance of all things—oneself as much as anything—and the complex intertwinement of all things—effect, cause, shadow, light—and in these quiet acknowledgements knows that a wrong turn, a misplaced book, or unrequited love can lead to ecstasy, even as fulfilled ambition, a glorious finish, or a benign prognosis can lead to misery.  Those who take credit for their fortune and talents—even as those who blame others for their misfortune and lack—fear the vast architecture of unseen causes and the elastic randomness of time.  For sometimes there are thousands of leagues between good and evil, sometimes a nanometer.  How great is the distance?  The question is unanswered because there are an infinite number of answers.  If you know why you say yes or no, you play at god … and the way smirks at such unacknowledged play and returns to the play of the wind.

So the one who follows the way is no more alone than others but knows her solitude—not as something to be overcome but as something that is.  She sees the blistered demarcations the people build between ideas, the sacred walls between words, the firm objectives, moral certainties, hardened judgments.  She sees them not as the people see them—as blisters, monuments, guiding stars, pedestals, and tribal cement—but as bubbles in a storm.

Inactive, impoverished, drowsy, confused, foolish, coarse, strange—look for these attributes in some obscure human resources database in some obscurer job description.

When the way is disused, alertness and clarity, purpose and knowledge, activity, opinions, sophistication and signs, acquisitiveness and independence are valued.  But the one who still seeks the way in such times doubts the superiority of such things—doubts the superiority of so many things—and in this doubt may even find the way.  Yet, in seeking and maybe finding, she also even doubts the way.

The sage is profane even as the mother is profane.  She does not know and her only knowing is this.  A slight upturn of the lips, a gaze that sees but doesn’t grasp, a soul that cannot be found for it hides in the entire universe. 

Tao Te Ching XIX

Exterminate learning and there will no longer be worries.

Exterminate the sage, discard the wise, and the people will benefit a hundredfold.

Exterminate benevolence, discard rectitude, and the people will again be filial.

Exterminate ingenuity, discard profit, and there will be no more thieves and bandits.

These four, being false adornments, are not enough …

and the people must have something to which they can attach themselves.

Exhibit the unadorned and embrace the uncarved block,

have little thought of self and as few desires as possible.

Here the sage, so extolled, so much the embodied mirror of the Tao—the Tao, the great way, the mother of the named and nameless—recommends her extermination for the betterment of the straw dogs.  Education, wisdom, goodness, creativity, capitalism—the pillars of progress, health, and truth—are obliterated for the sake of some hypothetical Edenic state.  Who would be sufficiently naïve to practice such annihilation?  Who would promote the eradication of what has been built up over so much time, with so much blood?  Who would sacrifice that rarest of noble specimens—the sage—for those most prosaic, vulgar, and common citizens—the people?  Does this all not sound too much like the way of the cross?

But there is no cross!  The sage eats and drinks and makes love and laughs and governs or bangs pots without discrimination and lives to a ripe old age or dies young—whatever.  She looks at firm breasts and buttocks, bulging sacs and colorful quesadillas, thinking, Ah, how lovely and ripe is the world.  Though she may just as easily run off and sit on a bench, thinking of nothing.  When she becomes a sage, the sage is exterminated; there is no more sage … this is why she is the sage.  Extermination occurs not through some masochistic denial, some suicidal pact, but through the dissolution of opposites (learning and ignorance, sagacity and foolishness, goodness and avarice, creativity and routine, profit and loss) by means of immersion in the opposites.  You can tell the sage because she does not believe in the sage even as you can tell the true believer by the one who doesn’t believe.

There is a thing in a shadow in a thing in a shadow at the center of things; this thing is stretched in time and the stretching we call learning, wisdom, goodness, creativity, business.  Would the sage cut the stretching of time and civilization with the Tao’s dubious scissors to see the circle of progress burst and the saggy center exposed?  The sage is not out to cut and burst!  The sage is the sage simply because she sees the circumference, she sees the center, and she sees no difference.  Thus she lives in the center for that is where she lives.  The people live on the line stretching from the center to the outer boundaries of the present—what is commonly called progress—for that is where they live; if they did not, they would not be the people and there would be no line.

The people, however, must attach themselves to things; this is why they are the people and know who the sages are, where there is profit, why learning and creativity are necessary, and how goodness is expressed.  They might themselves be better if they did not know who or where or why or how; they might be less anxious, more filial, less greedy.  So the sage laughs at such knowledge and in the laughter there is absolute death.

For the wisdom that is not wisdom, go to the one who has lost its definition and listen to what she doesn’t say.

Tao Te Ching XVIII

When the great way falls into disuse, there are benevolence and rectitude.

When cleverness emerges, there is great hypocrisy.

When the six relations are at variance, there are filial children.

When the state is benighted, there are loyal ministers.

When immorality increases, there are pious leaders.

When education becomes readily available, there is vast stupidity.

When corruption is rampant, the people are efficient.

When corporations are insane, teamwork abounds.

When free speech is entrenched in the Charter, when there are rights and freedoms,

there are clichés and tyrannies.

When the arts are funded, there is pervasive mediocrity.

When opportunity is unequal, there is contentment.

When history is forgotten, there are dancing and reverie.

Morality is not a system; it’s an orientation, the way one naturally faces.  For me to tell you that your face should be my face is to attempt to turn an orientation to a system, air to solid, nature to technology.  The more faces are displayed, normalized, reproduced, and idolized, the more the people lose their souls.  This is true whether faces are proclivities or names.  The more causation is hardened, the more minds are hardened.  The way is nimble, it does not nail down ideas or relations; it does not use nails, but bubbles.  Those far from the way depend on faces projected on the heavens to tell them how to face.  They see a way as the way.  But those close to the way seek the face without a face and face that way.  Systems, moralities, ideologies, ideas, orientations, faces:  these are simply signs that systems, moralities, ideologies, ideas, orientations, and faces exist … nothing more.  Those who wish to make them something more are tyrants and vary only in the degree to which they actualize their wish.

Life is no system; life is a shadowy sign of the way.

Tao Te Ching XVII

The best of all rulers is but a shadowy presence to her subjects.

Next comes the ruler they love and praise.

Next comes one they fear.

Next comes one with whom they take liberties.

When there is not enough faith, there is lack of good faith.

Hesitant, she does not utter words lightly.

When her task is accomplished and her work done,

the people all say, “It happened to us naturally.”

Progress has often been the extension of volition to a greater proportion of people.  With great masses of individuals now empowered, with democracy crawling across the earth, entitling billions to live like kings, with names and spiritual prosthetics now comprising the bulk of human imagination, with copyrights and rights the definition of justice, who would there be who chooses to meander down another path, dim and dubiously named, not craving extensions, who views her will as neither more nor less than that of any other object, who does not strut but lurks in shadow, who has removed herself from the elastic of affirmation and rejection, who cannot be taken advantage of for there is nothing to grasp, who aligns herself with the river of bodies, emptying into the sea?

Philosophy has replaced thinking with volition, wisdom with will.  Education has replaced knowledge with certification, thinking with industry.

If no sages remain, it is because we have moved so far from nature that we easily deceive ourselves as to our significance.  We perhaps have moved so far in order to deceive ourselves.  When I can instantly publish every little act I do, every little thought I think, the results of every little survey I take, to a great cloud of babble, how can I not be someone with whom to reckon?  The sage, in an age of eliminated external nature—or, at least, nature reduced to two dimensions—must seek nature within.  The commoner says, Because I seek it within, I can make it whatever I wish it to be.  But just because it cannot be seen does not mean it is subject to our wills.  The sage is intimate with shadowy things, with the elusive and the hidden; she peers into darkness and sees shapeless shapes, imageless images.  She sees the way.

Intimacy’s tyranny is difficult to avoid when humans exist in massive proximities.  When there are millions living and bumping within kilometers of one’s home, who would not divide these millions into those we love, those we fear, those we exploit?  The one whose primary reality is not those millions, but a nature that swirls in distant eddies.

To recreate nature, then, is the sage’s task.  Not to recreate it according to the fancies of her imagination, to the whimsies of desire, but according to the patterns she sees around her—patterns which emulate the ancient routes, still traced with our lives.

The body knows three dimensions.  The mind knows a fourth.  Technology strives for a fifth and in striving achieves two.  So the sage returns to the body and so is less and more than modern man.  The sage follows the body but does not care for time.  In stopping at the limits of the body, she is able to act naturally.

But in a world of artifice, the natural seems artificial and the sage is a fool.  In a world of artifice, nature must be dissected, analyzed, comfortably visited, explained, proceduralized, romanticized, and therapized so that the people can appear to be connected with it.  But once it has been dissected, it is no longer nature and the people are tethered to a corpse.  The sage turns away from manuals and texts, theses and therapists; she turns to the nature she sees and what she sees is the body.

The gods lived in nature and the gods were shadowy.  Now, the gods have receded and nature is shadowy.  Once nature recedes, what will be shadowy?  Perhaps us.

The sage has a task and when it is done, she does not care if no other comes along.  She sits and bangs pots, she makes pies or beds, she walks on silent sidewalks.  She does not stretch her life or power to unnatural limits but stops when stopping makes sense and dies when things are done.

Tao Te Ching XVI

I do my utmost to attain emptiness;

I hold firmly to stillness.

The myriad creatures all rise together and I watch their return.

The teeming creatures all return to their separate roots.

Returning to one’s roots is known as stillness.

This is what is meant by returning to one’s destiny.

Returning to one’s destiny is known as the constant.

Knowledge of the constant is known as discernment.

Woe to him who willfully innovates while ignorant of the constant.

But should one act from knowledge of the constant,

one’s action will lead to impartiality,

impartiality to kingliness,

kingliness to heaven,

heaven to the way,

the way to perpetuity,

and to the end of one’s days one will meet with no danger.

There are those who debate whether we are formed from nature or nurture; they are pedants.  The sage knows what she came from and where she returns to.  So often do the banker, the comedian, the farmer, the hairdresser, the addict.  This origin and return can be seen as life’s progressive narrowing or it can be seen as the stuff one is made of and one becomes.  Root and destiny, past and future, are the center and circumference of the way.

Yes, there is the great return, the return to earth.  Yes, most spend their lives resisting this return, building structures of resistance which, in turn, follow their creators into earth.  Some of these structures, like bodies, are beautiful; some, like bodies, destroy.

Each creature has a separate root in the earth, a root that allows one to say, That is him, this is her.  Most roots are common, most flowers are common, and while we may take one home and put it in a vase and it thus attains distinction, put beside its kind it is almost indistinguishable.  A few roots are rare, with strange flowers and exotic smells, as if drawing on nutrients from another world.  The sage is rare because she devotes her life to tending her roots, delights in feeling them extend further and further into the earth.  Should they extend sufficiently to the center, where the memory of all roots reside, she is granted a vision of the teeming physicality of all things and she is still.

By placing herself in movement—the movement of rivers, the movement of bodies—while dedicating herself to no specific movement, the sage aligns herself with the constant and from that vantage point of radical stillness—the place where radical movement and radical stillness meet—she sees all claims, all creations, all forms, all movements in their partiality and by doing so does not dismiss them but gives preeminence to none of them.  Hence she is a sage.

Creation only becomes destructive when the creator loses sight of the inevitable destruction of his creation—not by him or others necessarily, but by the gradual decay which is the gift the earth offers to all.

Look at the distance between kingliness and perpetuity.  The commoner views presidents, CEOs, and renowned entertainers as high.  But the sage sees how close they are to earth, how far most of them are from impartiality, how far all of them are from the way.  True regality is the ability to distinguish the botanical forms of the soul, make judgments and walk through life based on these distinctions.

The same circumstances, beneficent and detrimental, surround the sage as others; but to the common person, the rewards are good, the penalties bad.  To the sage, none of this exists; there is only root.  Thus, in being in her root, she meets no danger because there are no dangers.  All dangers have disappeared into the light above the soil.