When we feel lost, tense, or uncertain, we may have become disconnected from what Chinese philosophers call ‘Dao’, often translated as ‘the way’. For Confucians, dao is specifically a moral way; but for Daoists, it’s the effortless, ineffable unfolding of the cosmos…
A nice broad distinction between Western and Chinese approaches to philosophy, courtesy of scholars David Hall and Roger Ames, is that while the general character of Western thought is ‘truth-seeking’, Chinese philosophy is ‘way-seeking’.
Rather than obsessively trying to articulate the precise conceptual definitions of how things are, Chinese philosophies — particularly Daoism — recognize the limitations of language, and tend to place more emphasis on the value of experience.
The ultimate purpose of philosophy is not to logically define life but to help us experience it with greater balance and harmony.
Nowhere is this better illustrated than with a crucial Chinese concept: Dao, which roughly translates as ‘the way’.
Dao is central to both Confucianism and Daoism, two of ancient China’s major philosophies, but it manifests slightly differently in each.
For Confucians, dao is specifically a moral way, the optimal path or order running through human lives and relationships. Living according to dao means expressing attitudes and behaviors prescribed by Confucian ritual, self-cultivation, and virtues like benevolence, wisdom, righteousness, and proprietary.
For Daoists, meanwhile, dao is not a human way but represents the deeper, ineffable totality of cosmic processes. Dao is the natural unfolding of the universe, from the supernova of a star to water pooling in the hollow of a rock.
A key Daoist complaint is that many human enterprises go against the ‘grain’ of dao. We obstruct the way, we swim against the current, creating unnecessary difficulty for ourselves and others.
On a societal level, we construct institutions that disrupt natural rhythms. On a personal level, we try to control what cannot be controlled: like how someone feels about us, or our own productivity in the face of exhaustion…
Ease and tranquility await us when we notice the friction, and wonder whether we need to push so hard. Becoming re-attuned to dao means flowing like water. ‘Going with the flow’ isn’t mere passivity, however. The recommended approach is wu wei, roughly meaning ‘effortless action’.
Consider the apparent ‘effortlessness’ of a Simone Biles balance beam flip, a Roger Federer backhand, a sparrow bursting with song: this is more what attunement looks like. In the zone, ‘natural’, unforced…
Ancient Daoist thinker Zhuangzi brings wu wei to life with a famous story about a man named Chef Ding: a lord watches, mesmerized, as Chef Ding carves up an ox. The knife glides effortlessly, never getting stuck, almost like a dance. The lord compliments Chef Ding on his skill. Chef Ding puts down his knife and replies (as told in the Zhuangzi):
What I care about is the Way (Dao), which goes beyond skill. When I first began cutting up oxen, all I could see was the ox itself. After three years, I no longer saw the whole ox. Now I go at it by spirit and don’t look with my eyes. Perception and understanding have come to a stop, and spirit moves where it wants. I follow the natural markings, strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the openings, and follow things as they are… A good cook changes his knife once a year — he cuts. An ordinary cook changes his knife once a month — he hacks. I’ve had this knife for nineteen years and… [t]he blade is still as good as if it had just come from the grindstone.
Chef Ding’s abilities might bring to mind a psychological ‘flow state’, when we are so totally immersed in an ongoing process that we remain uninterrupted by intrusive thought or clumsy desire.
But wu wei is less about asserting control to achieve a temporary mindset, and more about cultivating a way of life through consistently yielding to dao: not interfering with egoistic concern, but letting the universe unfold naturally through our actions. It took him three years to get there, but Chef Ding now resides in the zone.
This is one of the paradoxical tensions within Daoism: it requires effort to let go of effort. At first we are quite clumsy and haphazard, but as we become more attuned to dao, as our minds quieten and strainings cease, the gap between us and the action becomes smaller and smaller until no separation remains at all: it becomes natural, spontaneous, unforced. Like learning to ride a bike: at first we wobble; later we do not even think.
If our lives are full of intrusive thinking and conceptualizing, if we feel resistance or friction or obstruction in our daily activities, if we are having to push things that do not want to be pushed, then chances are we are not living in accordance with dao. We’ve strayed from the path, caught in brambles and dead ends.
How might we find the way? Well, we might start by asking ourselves: what is the source of friction? How might I soften or smooth my encounters with this thought, person, or situation? Of what can I let go?
A gigantic boulder lies before us. Do we try to remove it? Do we strain against it? The wisdom of wu wei suggests, like water, we flow through the boulder’s cracks: we course underneath it and round its sides to gradually erode it away.
Chef Ding follows the natural markings. We might try to identify the ‘natural markings’ in our own lives: immersing ourselves in the processes we value, that we wish to contribute to and perpetuate. They don’t all have to be grand projects, like saving the world or amassing a private fortune; it could just be the humble transcendence found in walking, breathing, listening, caring, creating, playing, laughing, writing, coding, dancing... (Hunter S. Thompson offers similar life advice to a friend.)
A key value emerging from both Confucianism and Daoism is that of harmony: life goes well when we harmonize with processes larger than ourselves.
Within Confucianism, as Confucius compiles in the Book of Rites, these are the processes of appropriate social relations, for
[t]here is no music with one note, no culture with one object, no satisfactory results with one flavor.
Within Daoism, as its legendary founder Laozi observes in the Daodejing, they are the deeper forces governing the entire cosmos:
The ten thousand things carry yin and embrace yang. They achieve harmony by combining these forces.
The ancient Chinese emphasis on harmony perhaps provides a nice counterbalance to Western values, such as the individualized authenticity of existentialism, or the eudaimonia (happiness or flourishing) of ancient Greek thinkers like Aristotle.
Rather than boiling ‘success’ down to individual achievement, rather than structuring everything around the self, living according to dao emphasizes the flourishing of the larger processes in which the individual plays merely a part.
We do not all have to be the main character. We do not all have to be melody-makers, all the time. By immersing ourselves in the particular processes we find valuable, by attuning our uniqueness with the dao, we are contributing our part, our unique note that harmonizes with the whole.
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