Tao Te Ching XLIX

The sage has no mind of her own; she takes as her own the mind of the people.

Those who are good I treat as good; those who are not good I also treat as good; in so doing I gain in goodness.  Those who are of good faith I have faith in; those who are lacking in good faith I also have faith in; in so doing I gain in good faith.

The sage, in her attempt to distract the mind of the empire, seeks urgently to muddle it.  The people all have something to occupy their eyes and ears and the sage treats them all like children.

The sage sees her own mind as a forest, if it could see, might see a leaf on one of its trees.  The human mind is a particular limited floral configuration—perhaps beautiful, perhaps foul, perhaps rare, perhaps mundane; the only difference between the sage’s mind and other minds is that the former allows the forest to overcome it and does not presume its leaf to be greater than the forest.  Human minds are dusty reflections of nature—increasingly dusty as nature recedes as a living environment, replaced by technology—and in their totality is the Tao, though dirty now, almost unrecognizable, warped.  But the sage sees the Tao in the vast collection of minds in the city and hides in what she sees and gives herself over to becoming her sight.

While creativity is the rage in business, academia, and the arts, the sage dives into the center of transformation and creates what few entrepreneurs or artists do ... goodness from evil, faith from mistrust.  How?  Through the hot nimble furnace of the Tao.  When the people encounter evil, they respond with evil; when they encounter bad faith, they respond with bad faith; but this only increases strife.  They do not create, but recreate; they do not seek returns and origins but the endless turmoil of time; they talk but do not do; they assume the attributes of their enemies and so become their enemies; they take on the form of the content they despise and so mock any claimed virtue in their content and any purported seriousness in the dispute as a whole.  Instead, the sage transforms something into nothing then nothing into something by virtue of stuffing that which requires transformation into the Tao and pulling it out the Tao’s opposite side.  For the Tao contains and connects all and the one who resides in it uses it to do what she cannot alone, what only the power of all polished minds together can accomplish—the rustling of a billion leaves, in which all individual sounds are given to the forest’s full and desolate symphony.  So the sage devotes herself to polishing all mirrors and this is what she does.

The people, inhabited with desire and noise, are balanced on existence’s strange seesaw by the sage.  The people talk of clarity but are muddled; the sage attempts to muddle, not particularly caring for or believing in clarity.  Why does the sage seek to muddle the empire’s mind, particularly when that mind might be the very one she takes as her own?  Who would muddle her own mind?  The sage would and would even make this self-muddling her primary task, for she knows her mind alone assumes too much, usurps what is not its own, devours as much as presents itself simply to show itself to itself as paramount and true, deceives itself and others to no good effect, and thereby must be muddled to slip past truth’s golden ruse by means of the vast rustling of the endless ancient minds.

Tao Te Ching XLVIII

In the pursuit of learning one knows more every day; in the pursuit of the way one does less every day.  One does less and less until one does nothing at all and when one does nothing at all there is nothing that is undone.  It is always through not meddling that the empire is won; should you meddle, then you are not equal to the task of winning the empire.

When the people think of doing nothing, they think of it in opposition to doing something—lounging on the beach in Cuba as opposed to meeting with marketing managers in Tucson;  collapsing in front of the TV after work, dinner, and kids; stepping outside the productive workforce through internal or external misfortune or external fortune.  But nothing is not something that happens in response to or escape from something but rather something is a function of nothing.  To give one’s body, heart, mind, and soul over to the world—which is to say, the Tao—is to do nothing other than as a function of the world.  This giving over is the pursuit that does not feel like a pursuit but a return, a falling, or the most natural and easy thing in the world.  To do nothing other than as a function of the world is truly what everyone does, but the people do not think this is what they do and this not-thinking is what distinguishes the people from the sage.

The sage is not some dimwit, some unconscientious objector to reason’s rigors—one who pits the body’s brutish indolence against mind’s ceaseless strivings and finds the latter wanting.  She is more a Socratic flâneur, not doing anything in particular other than not knowing more than the body permits one to know.

The soul is lost through the tyrannies of volition, analysis, knowledge, and cognition.  In the Middle Ages, God was lost through priestly intervention, sacerdotal rites, cheap fire and vision; in modernity, the soul is lost through therapeutic intervention, domestication of that which is feral and divine in humanity, expensive commonplaces and concrete ideas.  Meddlers, by virtue of meddling, assert themselves over the soul and in so doing lose it.  This does not mean that one must be a quietist—when the wind is active, the sage is active; when calm, calm.  The people think the sage acts as they do—asserting herself to obtain more, retiring when exhausted—but the sage acts for no reason other than she acts.

The soul has one organ—the eye:  the eye untainted by mind’s rabid systematizing and the body’s voracious hungers.  It is the eye the sage crawls within and why her own death is no different to her than a leaf falling or the sun performing its routine descent into that which seems to be night.

Tao Te Ching XLVII

Without stirring broad

one can know the whole world;

without looking out of the window

one can see the way of heaven;

the further one goes

the less one knows.

Therefore the sage knows without having to stir,

identifies without having to see,

accomplishes without having to act.

There are those who are middle-aged and older who joke, The older I get the less I know.  While the commonplace can produce smirks and nods, the speaker rarely believes it and the rare one who demonstrates it—that is, believes it in her body—would not likely say it.  The common trajectory is for the mind and soul to narrow—to become more brittle, less nimble—as they age in the body’s aging.  The individual’s words and opinions tend to peak at a certain point, plateau, and gradually decline.  We retreat against the onslaught of life’s cumulative randomness and pain, carving a niche of security for ourselves—an apparent solid certainty against existence’s terrifying indifferent gaseous swirl.

When one is young, one’s experience is the world; if one typically ages, this doesn’t substantially change, although one can accumulate new expressions, many of them simply required by one’s phase of life and the culture and society one moves in—such as The older I get the less I know.  But the world gives us the opportunity to make the world one’s experience.  If this reversal occurs—through the active polishing of one’s mirror—one’s particular experience does not disappear but is subject to the world in its entirety:  including all the experiences one has not had and never will have.  As even the most worldly person’s experience is only an infinitesimal part of the world’s experience, one gradually realizes that ego-knowledge is nothing compared to soul-knowledge:  that is, a trans-cognitive, trans-emotional experience and intuition of the vast reaches of life.  This does not mean that the sage knows nothing but that she knows differently.  And this different knowledge—which is nothing esoteric but passionately embodied and deeply earthy—feels like so little knowledge from the perspective of ego and mind that one can say very little from those spaces.

So with travel—modernity’s prosthetic eye and cheap cosmopolitan badge.  But as with aging, while there is opportunity, there is no necessary correlation between the amount one moves and sees, the amount one climbs and accumulates, and any knowledge.

Thus we have the human moving in time and space—from birth to death and across the globe—and we have various trajectories.  At one extreme the person who lives a long life and has travelled extensively who is small and trite; at the other, the sage who lives long enough and barely moves from her hometown but is as large and silent as the world.  Naturally, degrees exist in between and while the spectrum may be a bell curve, the pressures of ego and soul are such that few if any can give adequate attention to both.

Is the Tao advocating the one who subjects her ego to the world—not primarily through abnegation but in caprice and wonder—or to some severely rare or imaginary figure who develops both in tandem?  Is this knowledge that can be gained?

Tao Te Ching XLVI

When the way prevails in the empire, fleet-footed horses are relegated to ploughing the fields; when the way does not prevail in the empire, war-horses breed on the border.

There is no crime greater than having too many desires.

There is no disaster greater than not being content.

There is no misfortune greater than being covetous.

Hence in being content, one will always have enough.

Who is greater—the one who stretches his ambition to human limits or the one who lies content on the spherical meadow of time?  Who is greater—Caesar or Lao Tse?  We cannot say Caesar or Christ, for they are simply differently ambitious, reflecting the West’s schizophrenia regarding politics and spirit.  Caesar tries to encircle the earth, Christ tries to reach God, Lao Tse tries to do nothing.  Or rather, places himself in whatever current sweeps him along and so feels as if he is trying to do nothing.

Caesar reflects the common political ambition—Nietzsche’s lion.  Christ reflects the common spiritual ambition—the camel.  Lao Tse reflects the child.  They are popular in that order:  the majority want more money, comfort, security, pleasure and power and are envious of the few, like Caesar, who are hanged on history’s vast meat hooks; a significant minority—whether through common disgruntlement or much rarer inclination—seek self-abnegation.  The rarest of these is the mystic—Simone Weil is a classic modern case—who so successfully achieves it (physically, anyway) that she starves herself to death in her 30s.  But rarer than all these is the non-seeker, the contented one, who doesn’t particularly object to the rich and powerful any more than she objects to the anchorite, who ebbs and flows, enlarges and shrinks, not through any particular volition but through the natural ebbs and flows, enlargements and shrinkings, which are life’s.

By placing herself in life as opposed to her individual will, feelings, and thoughts, the sage conforms to the only possibly real notions of god.  Notions that are grounded, earthly, and realistic, yet also include certain traditional Western notions of god.  This grounded god is not something separate from life or earth; not something specific, nameable, or definable; not something subtractable but the sum of all things existing, possible, and imaginary; not something in itself graspable but the sum of all things graspable and ungraspable; not something benevolent or malicious though sometimes benevolent or malicious and frequently neither; not something ever static unless its constant is flux; not something abstract and beyond us by virtue of being beyond the senses but abstract and beyond us by virtue of including all senses, all memories, all things that have been and might have been and might be; not something of specific attributes and words but all attributes and words; something that feels as if it is boundless because we cannot see its bounds but something that could quite easily be bounded if something existed to bind it; not something which discounts the individual and specific but affirms all individuals and specificities; not something of particular hierarchy, ambition, scope, telos, or linear trajectory, but all hierarchies, ambitions, scopes, teloi, and linear trajectories; not something clear, though sometimes clear, but murky.

So she does not dissolve on the water, but is carried by it, and dissolves in it upon death.

Tao Te Ching XLV

Great perfection seems chipped,

yet use will not wear it out.

Great fullness seems empty,

yet use will not drain it.

Great straightness seems bent,

great skill seems awkward,

great eloquence seems tongue-tied.

Restlessness overcomes cold, stillness overcomes heat.

Limpid and still,

one can be a leader in the empire.

The Tao does not have ideals, for ideals exist outside of life—in the mind’s imagining of what life never is—and all the Tao cares for is life.  In life, even sunsets get tedious after 15 minutes.  What the people are impressed by—what they call great skill or eloquence—is usually that which affirms their vanities.  True eloquence, perfection, skill—they stumble like water over the rough rocks of ideals.

So greatness never comes from a straightforward walk in the sunshine, but through circuitous routes in manifold terrains and conditions.  And if one is truly great, one doubts whether one has arrived anywhere.  One probably doesn’t care.

And should greatness be achieved, emptiness is the reward.  Greatness’ chief attribute is emptiness—whether the greatness is achieved through art, war, love, money, or sacrifice.  And when emptiness comes, what then?

Tao Te Ching XLIV

Your name or your person—

which is dearer?

Your person or your goods—

which is worth more?

Gain or loss—

which is a greater bane?

That is why excessive meanness

is sure to lead to great expense;

too much store

is sure to end in immense loss.

Know contentment

and you will suffer no disgrace;

know when to stop

and you will meet with no danger.

You can then endure.

Does the Tao ask questions and frequently not answer?  The Tao doesn’t care to choose, so questions for it are simply different ways to articulate statements of itself.

Is the Tao so naïve as to believe in earthly justice, particularly of such a guaranteed causal kind that states meanness and greed will lead to retribution?  Does it seem to think that it will provide the retribution?  The Tao doesn’t particularly care about individual things—whether lords or dogs, this particular river, that particular prince.  Does this mean the sage freely cuts individuals down?  Why would she do this?  Is not the one who cares about individual things—and cares about his own individuality above all—the one who freely cuts things down?  All things call out their destruction—stockpiling calls out depletion, exuberance calls out despair.  A hoarding grasping merchant may look at his stockpile grow throughout his life and on his deathbed say to himself, I have been mean but I have died a rich man.  But someone meaner comes along and the merchant’s grandson is set aside.  The Tao looks at the life of a stockpile, of meanness, of love and lust—without blinding itself to any related aspect in time or space—and then speaks the way it does.

The Tao lacks the twins, romance and tragedy.  The Tao points to life but no particular kind of life other than all—continuous repetitive contradictory themed stretching-but-limited life.   There might be comic life but romantic and tragic life is a debunking of life, a preference of death over life, and the Tao doesn’t prefer.  For the Tao, there is simply life, simply enduring life; there is no concept of life as something to be sweetened, embittered, soured, or salinated … no concept of human life, tree life, baby seal life, machine or aesthetic life as superior to any other …  no sweet and sunny life, though this is included … no cold and brutal life, though this is included … no fiscal or impoverished life, though these are acknowledged.  Only life.  Water endlessly pouring over awards and monuments, titles and company cars.

Tao Te Ching XLIII

The most submissive thing in the world can ride roughshod over the hardest in the world—that which is without substance entering that which has no crevices.  That is why I know the benefit of resorting to no action.  The teaching that uses no words, the benefit of resorting to no action:  these are beyond the understanding of all but a very few in the world.

Esoteric knowledge.  Those with the distinctive and elite guardianship of truth’s murky core.  Artists or warmongers.  Spiritualists or madmen.  Scientists or martyrs.  Certain perspectives, arcane theses, obscure formulae and phrases.

Yet the collectivity of sages crawls only into the perspective of all perspectives, thereby reaching an emptiness that is not a nihilism but an empty fullness, in the manner of mystics and children.  Words collapse, not from any despair but from their own emptiness.  Action dissolves, not from any futility but from its own weightlessness.  Words are used, action happens; but it is not more important than the silence and stillness that precedes and follows.  They are equal in volume and effectiveness and while the sage knows both, she teaches from the side of the murky myriad one.  This is what makes her a sage.