Episode 31 - Daoism (Taoism)

In this extended episode I explore some of the main ideas and beliefs of Daoism (also known as Taoism) - highlighting aspects of Daoist philosophy that have a particular connection to the development of Zen. I also describe the way in which Daoism is complemented by Confucian ideas in the history of Chinese culture. It seems to me that there are many things we can learn from the ways in which Daoists think about change, uncertainty, the natural world and finding harmony within apparently opposing viewpoints and forces. Forgive my pronunciation of Chinese terms – I am not a Chinese speaker. To avoid confusion please refer to the transcript of this episode.

Transcript

CONFUCIANISM

When Buddhist ideas and practices were carried along the Silk Road from India to China in the second century CE, Indian travellers would have encountered a Chinese society infused with two complementary sets of values: Confucianism and Daoism (also known as ‘Taoism’). There are many overlaps between Confucianism and Daoism, and together they form a dynamic balance that has been at the heart of Chinese culture and society for almost 2,500 years.

Before moving on to discuss Daoism, I will first say something about Confucian ideas. We have no verifiable dates for Confucius, but tradition has it that he lived from around 551 – 479 BCE. For much of Chinese history Confucian ideas and ethics have dominated the spheres of social and political organisation. The Chinese state was highly regulated and very hierarchical – from the emperor at the top to the lowliest peasant. Government agencies proliferated and minor functionaries could be found working in even the most outlying villages of the Chinese empire. Most educated, literate men, including writers, poets and painters, also had jobs as administrators and government officials. This large, all-pervasive, bureaucracy was a reflection of Confucian ideas about how society should be ordered and how citizens should behave. Confucian values place emphasis upon strict social, legal and ethical conventions that everyone is expected to uphold in order to maintain social stability. Everyone knows his or her place and ‘keeping up appearances’ is paramount. The rather rigid Confucian system of regularised behaviour, knowledge and categorisation seems to have been very effective and efficient.

In traditional Chinese society, Confucian beliefs and values were considered to be particularly influential on how people should live in the young and middle years of their lives, while Daoist ideas and practices came to the fore in later life and old age. Indeed, in the literary history of China, stories abound of scholars, poets and painters who give up wealth and status in order to live a simple Daoist-oriented life in their old age - often in the mountains. These lines from a poem by the eighth-century poet, Wang Wei, who was much influenced by Daoist ideas, convey something of this spirit: ‘Twilight comes over the monastery garden. / Outside the window the trees grow dim in the dusk. / Woodcutters sing coming home across the fields […] Off through the bamboos someone is playing a flute. / I am still not an old man, / But my heart is set on the life of a hermit.’ (Rexroth 1970: 57)

DAOISM

Many scholars have argued that Zen and Chan Buddhism developed their distinctive character largely as a result of a convergence, or fusion, of Daoist and Indian Buddhist ideas. Certainly, there are similarities and parallels between Daoism and Zen, and, for this reason, I would now like to describe some of the Daoist ideas that have echoes in Chan and Zen Buddhism. But keep in mind that Daoism and Confucianism both have roles to play in traditional Chinese society – they complement each other rather than oppose each other.

Daoism can be seen as the counterbalance to Confucian convention and regulation. While Confucianism is concerned with imposing a human order on the world, Daoism is concerned with living in harmony with the natural order of the universe. The ‘Dao’, or ‘Tao’, is often translated as, ‘the way’ (its literal meaning is ‘road or path’), and we can think of it as the way of nature or the natural way of the universe. According to Daoism the way of nature is spontaneous and organic – it is a fluid process of change, growth and decay. Daoist writings are full of metaphors of water being more powerful than stone, willow trees bending in the wind, intuition being more effective than reason, and chance or serendipity being as important as logical thought or decision-making. Note, the similarity between the Dao and one meaning of the Buddhist term, ‘dharma’: ‘how things are, the nature of things’ – and, also, the importance of impermanence and change in both Buddhist and Daoist worldviews.

The two most important Daoist texts are the Daodejing (or Tao Te Ching) – literally translated as, ‘Way’ / ‘Virtue or integrity’ / ‘Great book or classic text’. Confusingly, the Daodejing, is also known as the Laozi or Lao Tzu (‘Old Master’), which is also the name of a legendary founder of Daoism, who is also often described as the author of the Daodejing. Laozi is reputed to have been a contemporary of Confucius. However, most contemporary scholars consider the text to be a compilation of the work of many authors. The oldest manuscript forms of the Daodejing date from around 300 BCE, but most authorities suggest that these ancient texts are probably based on an oral tradition going back many hundreds of years prior to this date. (see Littlejohn 2024)

The other major Daoist text is the Zhuangzi or Chuang Tzu (‘Master Zhuang’) - which is, again, both the title of a book and of its legendary author who is reputed to have lived in the late fourth century BCE. (see Graham 1986)

To add just one more complication, Daoism is both the name of a religion and of a philosophical tradition. The former is concerned with alchemy and the search for everlasting life and is closely associated with folklore and traditional forms of medicine. However, it is the latter, philosophical Daoist tradition, that I am now going to briefly describe.

One underlying idea or belief in Daoism is that the Dao is the ‘way of nature’ – the natural processes inherent in life and the universe. So long as we live in harmony with the Dao, the natural way of things, we will be well and harmonious. If we do things that are contrary to the way of nature, we will not be well, we will be in conflict and feel discordant and ‘out-of-step’ with the way of the world. The more removed we are from nature, the more unhappy, unstable and dislocated we will feel. Hence, an emphasis is placed on being natural, letting things be – not interfering with our natural state of grace or goodness. 

The Dao itself is in a continuing process of balancing complementary forces – particularly male and female, positive and negative, energies of yang and yin. In the Daoist worldview ‘opposites are relational and so fundamentally harmonious.’ (Watts 1989: 175) These complementary forces, held in a dynamic balance, are inseparable. They always exist in tandem, never solo. It is only in the abstract realm of concepts and categories, that we can talk about them as independent entities. In actuality they are always two sides of a coin with no thickness. Thus, ‘up’ only exists in relation to ‘down’; ‘big’ in relation to ‘small’; ‘male’ in relation to ‘female’; ‘light’ to ‘dark’; ‘soft’ to ‘hard’; and so on with any other complementaries we care to identify. This relationality is fundamental, binding all elements together in one harmonious whole. When the natural balance is temporarily disturbed – for instance, by human interference – nature will always be moving to restore the balance. This echoes Buddhist notions of interdependence, often referred to as ‘dependent origination’ - a profoundly ecological conception of the universe – always in motion, always interacting, always balancing itself. 

Process, change, impermanence, flow and growth are characteristics of nature, that are taken by Daoists as models for how to think and act. Wind, water and clouds become symbolic of the Dao – flowing, moving, supple. The willow is a tree that exemplifies this symbolic meaning – it moves with the wind, rather than rigidly standing against the wind. Spontaneity, non-interference and humility are seen as virtues exemplified by the legendary sages, Laozi and Zhuangzi.

Chance and indeterminacy are other qualities inherent in nature and are therefore considered by Daoists as qualities to be emulated and developed. The I Ching, (Yijing), Book of Changes, or Classic of Changes, is an example of this – an acknowledgment, and celebration, of chance as being a formative element in how the natural order unfolds. 

The I Ching is very ancient. Scholars date its origins as a manual of divination to between the 10th and 4th centuries BCE. It was almost certainly in use in its current form by about 300 BCE. At the time when the I Ching was first developed (the Western Zhou period) it was used as a method of cleromancy – a process in which numbers, generated by chance methods, are used to provide advice about solving problems, or to help decide actions to take in the future. (see Wilhelm 1987)

Underlying the I Ching philosophy of change is the notion that the cosmos is an organic process without beginning or end. As a process, the cosmos resembles a great flow in which all the parts belong to one organic whole. All the parts are always in motion, interacting with each other in one continuous self-generating process. We now know that chance or randomness plays a vital role in the processes of evolution – for instance, in genetic mutation – and we can all observe how chance processes, lucky and unlucky, affect our own lives and the lives of everyone around us. Taking account of chance and randomness would seem to be reasonable when undertaking any course of action - from a Daoist perspective it is considered to be vital.

Daoist writings, including the Daodejing and the Zhuangzi, tend to place little value on knowledge that can be put into words. The language of both the Daodejing and the Zhuangzi tends to be aphoristic and enigmatic. There are many short sayings, often raising more questions than they resolve. For instance: ‘The Dao that can be spoken is not the true Dao’; ‘To use words but rarely is to be natural.’ The Daoist practitioner values wisdom that cannot be put into words, lives a simple life and has few needs: ‘Cherish sincerity; belittle the personal; reduce desires.’ The natural way of the Dao is often likened to the way in which a carpenter works – the knack he or she has in being able to use a chisel or a saw, seemingly without much effort. The carpenter may find it almost impossible to describe in words how to hold the chisel or how much force to use. But he could demonstrate how to do it. This is much the same in the practice of many crafts and the arts of music and painting. Hence the Daoist awareness of the limitations of words and their reluctance to engage in abstract theorising. 

The more we live in harmony with patterns of natural growth, the more peaceful and fulfilling will be our lives. As stated in the Daodejing: ‘In their every movement the person of great virtue follows the way.’ (Lao Tzu 1963: 78) Virtue is associated with being at one with the way of nature - doing things in harmony with nature. Daoists are suspicious of the use of misguided force and inappropriate effort – often it is better to let go, rather than to cling on to habits and beliefs that go against the natural order. Hence, the Daoist concept of ‘wu-wei’, often translated as ‘non-action’ or ‘not doing’ or ‘doing by not-doing.’ This does not mean to be passive or supine – far from it. It refers more to an attitude of not doing anything that goes against the way of nature – ‘doing by not interfering with the natural flow of things.’ Judo exemplifies this dynamic approach – using, and working with, an opponent’s force and energy to achieve one’s goals – applying little force oneself. Wu-wei is likened to the action of wind and water – being fluid and flexible, rather than rigid and resistant to how nature works. Wu-wei is a dynamic mode of action that utilises, or echoes, the way nature works – adding no unnecessary force or intention.

In a similar vein, Daoists suggest that it is often better to learn by unlearning, to know by unknowing – to let go of conventional patterns of dualistic thinking that are driven by habit and delusion. Far better to be spontaneous, creative and unbound by rigid conventions. In chapter 23 of the Zhuangzi, a man on his own meets Laozi and asks him how to solve life’s problems. Instead of answering his question, Laozi says: ‘why did you bring this crowd of people with you.’ The man is bewildered and looks around. He can see no people. By the time he turns back Laozi is wandering off. In this typical Daoist story, it is left to the listener, or reader, to reflect on what has been said. To me, Laozi is suggesting that at least part of the answer to the man’s question, is that he must let go of the bundle of ideas and conventional opinions he is carrying about with him – that is, ‘the crowd of people.’ Only by reducing the load he carries can he begin to walk freely with a lighter step – this is how to follow the Dao. (see Littlejohn 2024) Zhuangzi recommends meditative stillness as one of the methods ‘to achieve unity with the Dao and become a “perfected person”’ – a ‘zhenren.’ (ibid) Note the echoes here of how in Zen meditation we are advised to let go of opinions and judgments – to let things be. 

The following extract from a text by Chinese Chan teacher, Yung-chia Hsuan-chueh – often known by his Japanese name, Yoka Daishi (665-713), could be describing both the Dao and ‘Buddha-nature’ – a term often used in the literature of Zen.

Like the empty sky it has no boundaries,

Yet it is right here, always profound and clear.

When you try to know it, it disappears.

You cannot hold it, but you cannot lose it.

In not getting it, you get it.

When you’re silent, it speaks;

When you speak, it is silent. [JD version]

So, in the Daoist universe of clouds, process, flowing water and doing-by-not-doing, how do people make wise decisions? How do we decide what to do and how do we determine what is good or bad, right or wrong?

Hans-Georg Moeller (2006: 99), a scholar of Chinese philosophy, writes about the distinctive Daoist approach to ethical issues and to the clash of competing ideas and viewpoints. Moeller makes reference to an ancient Chinese tale about an old man living at a frontier fort whose horse runs away. His neighbours are sad and full of sympathy for his loss, but the old man seems to be unconcerned and asks them how they can be sure that it is bad luck. Months later the horse returns, bringing with it other horses of fine quality. The old man’s neighbours are delighted and congratulate him. He seems unmoved and this time he asks them how they can be sure it is good luck. The horses enable the old man to become prosperous. His family share in his seeming good fortune, until one day his son breaks a leg while out riding. His neighbours are very distressed by this turn of events, but the old man is once again unperturbed and asks them how they know that this is bad luck. Not long afterwards enemy tribesmen attack the fort, and many young men are killed. However, as the son has a broken leg he cannot fight, and both the old man and his son are unharmed. 

Not only is the old man not disturbed by changing events, he maintains that he does not know whether they are good or bad. He remains unmoved by different interpretations and does not attach himself to any particular truth claim – he suspends judgment, much as an ancient Greek sceptic would. As Moeller writes: ‘The sage is the only one who does not take sides.’ (ibid: 107)

Although the old man is as subject to the vicissitudes of life as his neighbours, he doesn’t suffer the added pain of having a belief in good fortune battered out of him and turned into an opposite belief in bad luck. He avoids the emotional upheavals and storms that afflict his neighbours. Sad as he may be when his horse runs away or when his son breaks a leg, his suffering is not made worse by emotional attachment to a false understanding of what these events mean. Likewise, he is no doubt pleased to see his horse return with others and to see his son unharmed by his enemies, but his pleasure is not exaggerated by believing that this is evidence of good luck. To him there is no substance or definitive truth in the idea that he has been favoured with good luck or cursed with bad luck and he thus avoids the worst extremes of emotion that seem to upset and confuse his neighbours.

The Daoist interpretation of this story is that we can never know when good luck will become bad, or when bad luck will turn into good, and therefore the old man is wise in not getting too carried away by each turn of events. He remains in a state of equanimity - neither particularly happy, nor overly despondent. The old man recognises that as we live in a stream of ever-changing sensations, experiences and events, each inextricably linked to what came before and to what follows, we can never be sure of what is good or bad. The fact that life is a continuum means we can never be certain how to separate one moment or event from another. All such separations or divisions can only be highly provisional and temporary. Even the old man’s neighbours can see that what happens can be both good and bad, positive and negative. But because they cling to the idea that things are either good or bad, they are upset by change, while the old man accepts change and is not too disturbed.

The need for impartiality and non-attachment to either side of an argument or assertion is a recurring theme of the Daodejing.

The Japanese philosopher, Toshihiko Izutsu, argues that a Daoist practitioner experiences the world, or aspires to experience the world, in its undifferentiated state - a state in which ‘distinctions between things become dim, obscure, and confused […] The distinctions are certainly still there, but they are no longer significant or essential.’ (Izutsu 1984: 319) Distinctions are subject to change and revision, they are not permanent or absolute. This is markedly different to the Confucian viewpoint. For the Confucian, ‘everything is marked off from others by its own ‘essence’.’ (ibid: 321) These essential differences are permanent and are the basis for the ways in which we categorise phenomena and organise society. Hierarchies of rank and status are built upon such essential distinctions, and social order is maintained by carefully upholding such differences. 

For the Daoist this is a very unsatisfactory, disjointed view of a world which is, in its very nature, always changing - forming and reforming like every cloud that appears and disappears in the sky. The Daoist ‘sees the world as a vast and limitless space where things merge into one another.’ (ibid) The Daoist universe is a multi-dimensional field of fluid energies and potentialities, rather than a collection of clearly defined things. All distinctions between things are temporary and all apparently separate things are interrelated. The universe is a vast web of relationships in which apparent differences are always relative.

This distinctive understanding of how the universe is composed is echoed in a similarly distinctive view of the mind. Seen from a Daoist perspective there are two primary modes of mental activity, in Izutsu’s words: ‘galloping around,’ or hsin; and, ‘sitting still and void,’ or wu-hsin. (ibid: 324) The term, hsin, refers to the state of mind in which our thoughts ‘gallop around,’ chasing after ideas, fretting about this and that, running after one idea of truth or another, pursuing changing opinions and positions. This is the state of mind of the old man’s neighbours in the story. In contrast, the mind of the old man, seems to be at ease, ‘sitting still,’ letting go of events and notions of good and bad, open to the flow of experiences, accepting the impermanent nature of reality – this is wu-hsin. Hsin, or ‘galloping around mind,’ is characterised by clinging to, or being led around by, distinctions and differentiations; the mind of the old man, on the other hand, is attuned to, and at rest in, the open field of indefinite possibilities that swirl around him like clouds.  The term, wu-hsin, is often translated as ‘no-mind.’ (Watts 1989: 23) In Zen, ‘no-mind,’ is also often described as ‘beginner’s mind’ or ‘Buddha mind.’

This Daoist conception of relativity within unity – of parts being inseparable from the whole - extends beyond the world of phenomena and objects, to the domain of concepts and judgments. If things are impermanent and ever-changing, it is no surprise that our judgments can never be fixed or absolute. In the Chuang-tzu it is argued that heated debates, in which opponents claim that this is right or that is wrong, are futile, because the objects of debate and reality itself are themselves ever-changing and indefinite. There is no stable, permanent reality, made up of things with fixed essences, about which we can be objective, or about which we can form absolute distinctions or judgments. Thus, the Daoist sage, like the ancient Greek sceptic, suspends judgement and maintains a state of equanimity. The Daoist view of the universe as a relational field of impermanent, ever-changing processes, is very close to the Zen perspective.

This view of the universe as a vibrant relational entity full of complementary energies and forms has been hugely influential on the development of classical Chinese painting and poetry. Images of people sitting quietly, absorbed in a view of mountains and valleys, mists and clouds, are emblematic of the Daoist aspiration to become one with the Dao. I encourage you to take a look at paintings and poems by Wang Wei (eighth century), Li Bai (also known as Li Po – also eighth century), Yu Xuanji (a ninth century Daoist nun) (see Rexroth & Chung 1972: 17-20) or Su Shih (also known as Su Tung P’O - eleventh century) to understand the Daoist sensibility – their work resonates with a deep immersion in the ways of nature.

It is quite likely that Buddhist travellers meeting Chinese Daoist practitioners for the first time would have been surprised and delighted at the similarities in their ways of thinking and at some of the values they had in common. No wonder that Zen is often described as arising from the coming-together of Buddhist and Daoist approaches to living.

To end, here is part of a poem titled, The Weaker the Wine, by Su Shih – notice the wry humour, the brevity of expression, the coincidence of opposites, the acceptance of change and mortality. It goes like this:

The weaker the wine,

The easier it is to drink two cups.

The thinner the robe,

The easier it is to wear it double. 

Ugliness and beauty are opposites,

But when you’re drunk, one is as good as the other.

…

Follow the advice of your common sense.

…

One hundred years is a long time,

But at last, it comes to an end.

Meanwhile it is no greater accomplishment

To be a rich corpse or a poor one.

… (Rexroth 1971: 72)

I hope you have found this brief introduction to Daoism to be of interest. There is much to be learnt from the writings, poetry and paintings of Daoist thinkers: about not prejudging issues; realising there is another side to every story; seeing the interconnections between things, rather than always focussing on the divisions between things; adapting to change as best we can; and, being ready to deal with those chance events that are just around the corner. Also, it seems to me that the Daoist reverence for the natural world, and the belief that we need to live in harmony with natural processes, are particularly relevant to us now - as we struggle to maintain the health and wellbeing of our planet. Seeing ourselves as part of nature, deeply dependent on all living beings and on our environment, is something Daoist sages have advocated for at least 2,500 years. Maybe now, as we grapple with crises of accelerating climate change, mass extinctions and habitat loss, is the time for us to reflect on Daoist insights and to learn from them. I believe so.

Thank you for listening and bye for now.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Graham, A. C. trans. 1986. Chuang-tzu: The Inner Chapters. London: Mandala.

Izutsu, Toshihiko. 1984. Sufism and Taoism: A Comparative Study of Key Philosophical Concepts. Berkeley, USA: University of California Press.

Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching, trans. D.C. Lau. 1963. London: Penguin Classics.

Littlejohn, Ronnie. 2024. Daoist Philosophy, Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Online at https://iep.utm.edu/daoismdaoist-philosophy/#H5 (consulted 17 October 2024).

Moeller, Hans-Georg. 2006. The Philosophy of the Daodejing. New York: Columbia University Press.

Rexroth, Kenneth. 1970. One Hundred More Poems from the Chinese: Love and the Turning Year. New York: New Directions. 

Rexroth, Kenneth. 1971. One Hundred Poems from the Chinese. New York: New Directions.

Rexroth, Kenneth & Chung, Ling. 1972. Women Poets of China. New York: New Directions.

Watts, Alan. 1989. The Way of Zen. New York: Vintage Books. 

Wilhelm, Richard. 1987. The Pocket I Ching. London: Arkana Penguin.