After Pooh
And after Pooh, there was Piglet. If Winnie-the-Pooh was to offer an introduction to the world of Western philosophy, then his shy but determined friend Piglet was clearly the ideal candidate to introduce us to Taoism. It was in a previous blog I had explored how Pooh was used to provide us with an introduction to philosophers and their ideas over the centuries, as covered in John Williams excellent book Pooh and the Philosophers. It would have been easy to move on from there to Benjamin Hoff’s excellent volume, The Tao of Pooh, to offer a further program of enlightenment. However, Hoff went on some years later to issue a second introduction to Taoism, in the Te of Piglet. Why Piglet? This cautious and yet very thoughtful creature was the embodiment of Taoist thinking.
In The Te of Piglet, Hoff uses Piglet to explain how this Chinese concept means ‘power’ or ‘virtue’, through the Taoist concept of ‘Virtue—of the small’; though in his ruminations with Piglet, he also has the opportunity to elaborate on Taoism. In this book we find Piglet is shown to possess great power—a common interpretation of the word Te, which more commonly means Virtue—not only because he is small, but also because he has a great heart or, to use a Taoist term, Yz’u, and elaborate on how Taoism explores living in harmony with the Tao.
So, what are these terms? Hoff explains that Taoism is counterbalance to Confucianism. As Hoff explains, Confucianism is concerned with human relations, how we relate to one another, and the importance hierarchy, social rules and political systems. Taoism is about the individual’s relationship to the world. Rather than focussing on social rules and systems, it is addressed to scientific, artistic and spiritual thinking. Hoff suggests the key principles are “Natural Simplicity, Effortless Action, Spontaneity, and Compassion”, and goes on to add that, in contrast to the rather patriarchal message of Confucianism, “Taoism is happy, gentle, childlike and serene – like its favourite symbol, that of flowing water.”
The Daodejing (also known as the Laozi after its purported 3rd Century author) has traditionally been seen as the central and founding Taoist text, though historically, it is only one of the many different influences on Taoist thought, and at times, a marginal one at that. The Daodejing changed and developed over time, possibly from a tradition of oral sayings, and is a loose collection of aphorisms on various topics which seek to give the reader wise advice on how to live and govern, and also includes some metaphysical speculations.
Some scholars have argued that the Daodejing prominently refers to a subtle universal phenomenon or cosmic creative power called Dào (literally “way” or “road”), using feminine and maternal imagery to describe it. Dào is the natural spontaneous way that things arise and exist, it is the “organic order” of the universe. James Giles, however, argues that the Dào refers to a meditative state of awareness in which one sees that one’s own awareness is what enables things to arise and exist. The Daodejing distinguishes between the ‘named Dào’ and the ‘true Dào’ which cannot be named (無名;wúmíng; ‘no name’) and cannot be captured by language.
The Daodejing also mentions the concept of wúwéi (effortless action), which is illustrated with water analogies (going with the flow of the river instead of against it) and “encompasses shrewd tactics—among them “feminine wiles”— which one may utilize to achieve success”. Wúwéi is associated with yielding, minimal action and softness. Wúwéi is the activity of the ideal sage (shèng-rén), who spontaneously and effortlessly express dé (virtue), acting as one with the universal forces of the Dào, resembling children or un-carved wood (pu).
A further basic concept mentioned in the Daodejing is guigen (return to the source or root) or guifu (return again). This concept is employed in several examples from nature, such as when plants return to their dormant state after a cycle of luxuriant growth or when a stream that has become muddied returns to clearness. After each such example, it is suggested that people can likewise return to a state of stillness or clarity and thus achieve the Dào. According to Giles, this back and forth movement between stillness and the constant flow, what he calls the double return, refers to a feature of human awareness in which stillness and activity co-exist in awareness. According to Giles:
What happens is in finding the stillness within the constant flow, one disengages from actively participating in this flow. One lets the perceptions and thoughts go on their way without oneself being swept along with them. This is returning to the root or source of awareness. It is the root of awareness because it is this state that allows us to see the workings of awareness. It is the root from which the ceaseless activity (luxuriant growth) of awareness issues forth. This root is, as it were, a vantage point from which the other operations of awareness can be quietly observed.
This, says Giles, is the meditative state of awareness that is the Dào. It is the state of awareness achieved by sages.
Sages concentrate their internal energies, are humble, pliable, and content; and they move naturally without being restricted by the structures of society and culture. The Daodejing also provides advice for rulers, such as never standing out, keeping weapons but not using them, keeping the people simple and ignorant, and working in subtle unseen ways instead of forceful ones. It has generally been seen as promoting minimal government
Hoff offers a masterly approach to the issue of perception, or how ‘It All depends on How You Look at Things’. The sad but rather brilliant story of what happens when Pooh and Piglet decide to build a house for Eeyore, captures this memorably. They realise they would need material to build a house, sticks for example:
“‘There was a heap of sticks on the other side of the wood’, said Piglet. “I saw them. Lots and lots. All Piled up.”
So they took the pile of sticks and made a house for Eeyore. And later when Eeyore couldn’t find his pile of – that is , when he couldn’t find his house, he and Christopher Robin went looking for it and met Pooh and Piglet, and …
Where did you say if was?’ asked Pooh.
‘Just here’, said Eeyore.
‘Made of sticks?”
‘Yes.’
‘Oh!” said Piglet.
‘What?” said Eeyore
‘I just said ‘Oh’’ said Piglet nervously. And so as to seem quite at ease he hummed Tiddely-pom once or twice a what-shall-we-do-now kind of way.
‘You’re sure it was a house?’ said Pooh. ‘I mean you’re sure the house was just here?’
As Pooh and Piglet contemplate what they have done, neither can quite admit the truth about how they had looked at things. They are saved by Piglet, who eventually remarks:
“‘It’s like this’, said Piglet quickly. … ‘Only warmer’ he added after deep thought.
‘What’s warmer?’
‘The other side of the wood where Eeyore’s house is.’
So they went there and Eeyore found his house and …
“So they left him in it; and Christopher Robin went back to lunch with his friends Pooh and Piglet, and on the way they told him of the Awful Mistake they had made. And when he had finished laughing, they all sang the Outdoor Song for Snowy Weather the rest of the way home.”
Goff isn’t interested in a light-hearted opinion, however. Te is serious, and Hoff wants us to understand this. He is particularly interested in exploring the nature of ‘problems’ and he presents two critical observations on these.
First There is the issue of defining and dealing with problems before they arise. He observes it is often difficult to see ‘problems in the making’, because the best time to see them is when they are relatively small, minor difficulties that could have been avoided or their consequences stopped if we had addressed them early on. This isn’t just a matter of “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of care”, but it is also a matter of perception. Minor irritations and issues can grow large and troublesome, but Lao-Tas noted “Trouble is easily stopped before it commences. Put things in order before chaos occurs”.
Equally important is the recognition that many problems aren’t really problems at all. “People who don’t see situations for what they are often struggle against difficulties that aren’t there, and create difficulties in the process”. Goff quotes some wonderful Taoist writings. Here is a story by Liu An:
An old man and his sone lived in an abandoned fortress on the side of a hill. Their only possession of value was a horse.
One day, the horse ran away. The neighbors came by to offer sympathy. “That’s really bad!” they said. “How do you know?” asked the old man.
The next day, the horse returned, bringing with it several wild horses. The old man and his son shut them inside the gate. The neighbors hurried over. “That’s really good!” they said. “How do you know?” asked the old man.
The following day, the son tried riding one of the wild horses, fell off, and broke his leg. The neighbors came around as soon as they heard the news. “That’s really bad!” they said. “How do you know?” asked the old man.
The day after that, the army came through, forcing the local young men into service to fight a faraway battle against northern barbarians. Many of them would never return. But the sone couldn’t go, because he’d broken his leg.
Taoism is hard to ignore. It places an emphasis on simplicity and often seems to cut through the complex and tangled path we follow. Hoff offers many somewhat blindly optimistic views as indicative of failing to pay attention to simple but critical facts. It is hard to go past his observation that the US has 5% of the world’s population, consumes 25% of the world’s energy, and emits 25% of the world’s greenhouse-effect-producing gases. Isn’t the problem clear?
In many ways, The Tao Te Ching is a seductive read for Westerners. It describes the Tao as the source and ideal of all existence, unseen, but not transcendent, immensely powerful yet supremely humble, something to be found at the root of all things. People have desires and free will (and thus are able to alter their own nature), but many act “unnaturally”, upsetting the natural balance of the Tao. The Tao Te Ching is regarded as seeking to lead students to a “return” to their natural state, in harmony with Tao. As a result both language and conventional wisdom are critically assessed. Taoism views them as inherently biased and it presents various paradoxes to sharpen the focus on what is really the case.
‘Non-action’ or ‘not acting’, is a central concept of the Tao Te Ching. The concept is complex, and reflected in the words’ multiple meanings, even in English translation; it can mean “not doing anything”, “not forcing”, “not acting” in the theatrical sense, “creating nothingness”, “acting spontaneously”, and “flowing with the moment. It includes the concepts that value distinctions are ideological and seeing ambition of all sorts as originating from the same source. The term is used broadly with simplicity and humility as key virtues, often in contrast to selfish action. On a political level, it means avoiding such circumstances as war, harsh laws and heavy taxes.
Unsurprisingly, the Tao Te Ching has been translated into Western languages over 250 times, mostly to English, German, and French. One writer has suggested “It is a famous puzzle which everyone would like to feel he had solved.” Many translations have written by people with a foundation in Chinese language and philosophy who are trying to render the original meaning of the text as faithfully as possible into English, but some of the more popular translations are written from a less scholarly perspective, giving an individual author’s interpretation. Indeed, Russell Kirkland goes further to argue that these versions are based on Western Orientalist fantasies in his 2004 book, Taoism: The Enduring Tradition and argues they represent the colonial appropriation of Chinese culture. Others suggest that while they do not pretend to rigorous scholarship, they meet a real spiritual need in the West. These Westernized versions aim to make the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching more accessible to modern English-speaking readers by, typically, employing more familiar cultural and temporal references.
It is easy to regard The Tao Te Ching as another way in which Western students latch on to something apparently esoteric and give it unwanted credence and attention. There is good reason to consider this unfair, and that Hoff is addressing an important area of thinking and reflection. It should be recognized as a seminal work, often insightful; but one where it is the task of the reader to reflect and want to work out the full implications of its often provocative or sometimes apparently tangential insights. It shares a background set of ideas and assumptions with other early Chinese philosophical texts, but it does invite reflection on the very core of being beyond any cosmological assumptions. As is the case with other unfamiliar material, while the production of meaning is context dependent, new horizons do emerge from great works of philosophy.
The power of the Tao Te Ching is best understood as seminal insights rather than in its doctrines, but in its seminal insights. The ills of discrimination, exploitation and intellectual hubris, so deeply embedded in language and value systems, remain as serious today as they were in early China. The healing power of nonaction still strikes a chord and commands continuing reflection and engagement. Although in working out these insights differences will no doubt arise, they unite many Western interpretations of the Tao Te Ching and draw new generations of readers into the mystery of Taoism and its virtue. If it is through the apparently simplistic of his reflections that some readers find their way into this literature, The Te of Piglet offers an excellent stepping stone.
