Living

While cosmology and theories concerning the nature of existence are fascinating in themselves, how can we benefit from all this while living in the real world of today? When reading through most translations of the Tao Te Ching it becomes obvious that the writing style refers to an age that has altogether been banished to the back shelves of history. When it boils down to it, living the life of a Taoist is living life simply and naturally. Being in tune with the natural cycles of nature and avoiding conflict. It is very much an attitude that many will find difficult to adapt to because it requires that you don't over indulge your ego. This means adhering to the principles of balance, Wu Wei and remembering the advice - 'Yield and be strong'.

There are of course other more disciplined areas that enable you to cultivate yourself physically and mentally, such as Tai Chi Chuan, Taoist diet, Chi Kung and many others, and these are looked at on other pages. For now we will concentrate on attitudes to life. What this means is that you should avoid extremes and try to take the middle path in all things. You will also benefit from practicing Wu Wei, which generally translates to 'non-doing' or 'non-action'. It does not mean doing nothing but instead refers to following the natural course of events, or 'going with the flow'. It refers to behavior that arises from a sense of oneself as connected to others and to one's environment. It is not motivated by a sense of separateness. It is action that is spontaneous and effortless. At the same time it is not to be considered inertia, laziness, or mere passivity. Rather, it is the experience of going with the grain or swimming with the current. Our contemporary expression, "going with the flow," is a direct expression of this fundamental Taoist principle, which in its most basic form refers to behavior occurring in response to the flow of the Tao.

The principle of Wu Wei contains certain implications. Foremost among these is the need to consciously experience ourselves as part of the unity of life that is the Tao. Lao Tzu writes that we must be quiet and watchful, learning to listen to both our own inner voices and to the voices of our environment in a non-interfering, receptive manner. In this way we also learn to rely on more than just our intellect and logical mind to gather and assess information. We develop and trust our intuition as our direct connection to the Tao. We heed the intelligence of our whole body, not only our brain. And we learn through our own experience. All of this allows us to respond readily to the needs of the environment, which of course includes ourselves. And just as the Tao functions in a manner to promote harmony and balance, our own actions, performed in the spirit of Wu Wei, produce the same result.

Wu Wei also implies action that is spontaneous, natural, and effortless. As with the Tao, this behavior simply flows through us because it is the right action, appropriate to its time and place, and serving the purpose of greater harmony and balance. Chuang Tzu refers to this type of being in the world as flowing, or more poetically (and provocatively), as "purposeless wandering!" How opposite this concept is to some of our most cherished cultural values. To have no purpose is unthinkable and even frightening, certainly anti-social and perhaps pathological in the context of modern day living. And yet it would be difficult to maintain that our current values have promoted harmony and balance, either environmentally or on an individual level.

To allow oneself to "wander without purpose" can be frightening because it challenges some of our most basic assumptions about life, about who we are as humans, and about our role in the world. From a Taoist point of view it is our cherished beliefs - that we exist as separate beings, that we can exercise willful control over all situations, and that our role is to conquer our environment - that lead to a state of disharmony and imbalance. Yet, "the Tao nourishes everything," Lao Tzu writes. If we can learn to follow the Tao, practicing non-action," then nothing remains undone. This means trusting our own bodies, our thoughts and emotions, and also believing that the environment will provide support and guidance. Thus the need to develop watchfulness and quietness of mind.

In cultivating Wu Wei, timing becomes an important aspect of our behavior. We learn to perceive processes in their earliest stages and thus are able to take timely action. "Deal with the small before it becomes large," is a well-known dictum from Lao Tzu.

And finally, in the words of Chuang Tzu, we learn "detachment, forgetfulness of results, and abandonment of all hope of profit." By allowing the Tao to work through us, we render our actions truly spontaneous, natural, and effortless. We thus flow with all experiences and feelings as they come and go. We know intuitively that actions which are not ego-motivated, but in response to the needs of the environment, lead toward harmonious balance and give ultimate meaning and "purpose" to our lives. Such actions are attuned to the deepest flow of life itself.

To allow Wu Wei to manifest in our lives may seem like a daunting task. And yet, if we pause to reflect on our past experiences, we will recall possibly many instances when our actions were spontaneous and natural, when they arose out of the needs of the moment without thought of profit or tangible result. "The work is done and then forgotten. And so it lasts forever," writes Lao Tzu.

By listening carefully within, as well as to our surroundings, by remembering that we are part of an interconnected whole, by remaining still until action is called forth, we can perform valuable, necessary, and long-lasting service in the world while cultivating our ability to be at one with the Tao. Such is the power of Wu Wei, allowing ourselves to be guided by the Tao.

There now follows a number of insightful articles that you may find inspiring: -

Respect for Life - by Derek Lin

Why do we cultivate the Tao? There are so many spiritual paths out there, how does the Tao differ from the rest? If differences exist, are they significant or superficial?

"All forms of spiritualities are the same - they all teach people to be good." I come across this sentiment quite frequently in recent years. Some Tao practitioners say it so much, the expression has all but become a platitude. Whenever I hear it, I can't help but wonder if they truly realize what a special treasure the Tao is.

We say that the greatness of Tao comes from its transcendence beyond ordinary teachings, but do we really understand what that means?

Tao cultivation is a journey of constant discovery. At any time during this quest for wisdom, we may realize that a particular belief, previously unquestioned, is in fact incomplete. Because we recognize that the Tao is the ultimate principle we seek, rather than an absolute truth we already possess, we are free to look beyond for a more complete concept. As Taoists, we have the liberty - indeed the mandate - to rise above the limits of any particular school of thought.

We can see an example of this process at work in a common teaching of many Eastern traditions. This teaching holds that all life is sacred, so one must never kill. Killing takes away the priceless gift of life, and therefore must always be wrong.

It is easy for us to identify with this concept initially. Who can argue against the statement that life is beyond price and killing is immoral? Note, however, that the teaching applies literally to all life. In its most traditional, undiluted form, even the killing of insects is frowned upon.

In fact, one can argue that the killing of weaker, relatively insignificant creatures is a greater wrong. Unlike lions and tigers, small creatures have no ability to defend themselves, so we need to be even more compassionate toward them.

This is one of the themes in the movie "The Next Karate Kid," starring Hilary Swank as Julie-san, Mr. Miyagi's latest student. There's a scene where Julie and Mr. Miyagi sit down for lunch with a group of Japanese monks. Julie is about to dig into her bowl of rice when she notices a cockroach on the table. She grabs a shoe and gets ready to smash it.

Just before her shoe slams down, the monk sitting across from her sweeps the cockroach into his hand with lightning quickness, saving it from a messy death. He lets it go with a loving and gentle expression while Julie stares bewildered. She doesn't get it. She keeps asking, "What? What?" as all the monks get up and walk away.

Mr. Miyagi explains that the monks have an absolute reverence for life. They refrain from taking any life, even the life of a cockroach. He then adds that even though he himself does not live in a temple, he too respects all life.

I find this scene troubling for a couple of reasons. The first is that it's a veiled criticism of the West - Julie represents the "ignorant" Westerner who has a difficult time grasping the sanctity of life. My experience tells me this is an unfair stereotype. The second problem I have with the scene is that the philosophy it dramatizes is in fact outdated and leads to all sorts of ludicrous conclusions.

You may find it surprising that I would question such a familiar doctrine that's been around for as long as anyone can remember. Isn't it precisely because we refrain from taking life that we encourage vegetarianism? If this absolute compassion for all life is flawed, then what's the basis for our position against eating meat?

There is an answer to the above, and we will get to it later. For now, let's think about this: Do you agree with the monks and Mr. Miyagi? If so, how do you react when you find a spider in your house? Do you kill it?

We want to be consistent in our thoughts and actions. We want to practice what we preach, so if we agree with the absolute reverence for life, we must let the spider live. When I posed this question to a Tao practitioner, she said that she would use a piece of paper to catch the spider without harming it, and then take it outside.

She was being consistent in her belief, but her answer did not resolve the underlying quandary. The insect does not have to be a spider, which is relatively easy to capture. It can be a fly, for example, so that a harmless capture is difficult or impossible. How do you react then?

There's more. What if it is not a single insect, but a swarm of insects? For instance, what will you do if your kitchen is crawling with ants? What will you do if your house is infested with termites?

The same thing applies to settings other than one's home. What if you're a farmer facing a plague of locusts? Will you try to kill as many as you can in order to minimize their damage? If so, how can you claim to believe in the absolute sanctity of all life?

One traditional study of Tao poses a similar question this way: If you are holding your baby and you see a mosquito landing on his arm, will you kill it? Suppose the mosquito is the probable carrier of a deadly disease fatal to infants. You have only a split second to act. How can you not kill it?

Throughout the centuries, people have come up with all kinds of added complexities to answer questions like the above. For instance, some advocate saying a prayer before killing an insect, to speed it on its way to reincarnation. This practice has never caught on in a big way, because it creates more questions than it answers. How exactly can prayers dilute the absolute sanctity of life? If prayers make killing insects okay, then how about killing animals? How about humans?

Another thing to consider is that this respect-for-life doctrine was formulated a long time ago, when people didn't know about microorganisms. Now that we know they exist, do we extend the doctrine to cover them? Clearly, that would be absurd. Every time you wash your hands or gargle mouthwash, lots of microscopic deaths occur. Does our reverence for all life mean we should never keep ourselves sanitary?

On the flip side, if it is okay to kill germs and bacteria, then why not insects? They're all little bugs, alive and wriggling, aren't they?

Come to think of it, reverence for all life isn't a great basis for vegetarianism either. When you consume the fruits or leaves of a plant, it continues to live, but when you eat the root of a vegetable (potato, for instance) you have in effect terminated its existence. How can that be reconciled with absolute respect for all life, no matter how insignificant?

Suppose a vegetarian is stranded on an island like Tom Hanks' character in "Cast Away," and there are no edible plants anywhere. Should he temporarily abandon his vegetarian ideals in order to survive? If so, wouldn't he be violating the sanctity of life just to save his own skin?

The bottom line is that if we really think about the doctrine espoused by Mr. Miyagi and monks, we'll find that we can tie it up in knots with no effort at all. This is not a teaching we can use as part of the modern Tao.

Again, since we are Taoists, we have the freedom and the mandate to find a way closer to the truth. So we ask ourselves: What can possibly be beyond the reverence for all life? What might be a principle that applies equally well in all situations and does not bind itself to all sorts of ridiculous scenarios?

Such a principle does exist. There are several elements to it, but at its core it is not at all complex. Simply stated, the principle teaches that what we revere is nature itself, not individual life forms. Our specialized term for this is Lao Mu - the nurturing, creative force of life in the universe.

Have you ever taken a walk through a forest and felt the abundance of life in all its kaleidoscopic variations? Have you ever sensed the interlocking relationships among all the components of that environment, working harmoniously together? Have you ever been taken by the beauty and power of living, breathing nature and felt yourself a part of it, and not apart from it?

If you can answer yes to any of the above, then you have a gut-level feeling for this principle we're trying to describe. You will probably recognize it as the most natural thing imaginable. Nature is something you want to embrace, not exploit.

When your personal connection with nature is such that you can relate to various animals on a personal level, an unavoidable consequence is that your desire to kill them and eat their flesh will diminish naturally. You find yourself not wishing to consume an animal who clearly doesn't want to die.

Our reverence for nature extends to every aspect of it, including its cycles of life and death, the concept of natural balance, and the idea that each living thing has its own habitat and ecological niche.

This means that when nature is out of balance in the local vicinity, it isn't wrong for you to take the appropriate action to restore the balance. This restoration may be difficult, but the point here is that it is not intrinsically evil. The action you take may involve the preservation of life in some instances, and the taking of life in others. Extremes (too much or too little) are bad; moderation (just right) is good.

One manifestation of imbalance is an endangered species. It goes without saying that, if extinction becomes even a remote possibility for a species, we'll want to do everything we can to increase its total population.

The other side of this coin is when you have too much of some living thing to the point of an impending ecological disaster. To head off such a disaster you need to decrease the number of the animal or insect. That will involve killing, either directly or indirectly.

If you're a farmer and there is a plague of locusts, you know something has gone horribly wrong in your region. You certainly should do something about it, if you can. That something may well result in the death of thousands of grasshoppers. This makes you a taker of life in the old school, but a restorer of balance in the modern Taoist perspective. Which viewpoint makes more intuitive sense?

Likewise, if your house is infested with termites, you have a mini-disaster on your hands. I say you should feel no compunction whatsoever about exterminating them. Termites are hardly an endangered species. You are not exactly striking a blow against nature by eradicating the ones living off your dwelling. You are merely removing them from an environment (the timber of your house) where they do not belong.

One important thing to note is that, as Taoists, we do not delight or take pleasure in the killing of these insects. We simply take effective action to do something that must be done, no more and no less. There is no guilt and no celebration. In fact there should be minimal emotional attachment. If we must kill them, we do so dispassionately.

In nature, killing is always done in this manner. A predator that hunts down and kills its prey does so to satiate its hunger, not for sport, self-glorification, hatred, loathing, vengeance, or other unsavory human deviations. Killing in nature is a pure act undertaken with neither elation nor remorse.

When we must perform such an act, we follow nature's lead and proceed with untainted intentions. Just as the everyday occurrence of killing in the animal kingdom can never make animals any less a part of nature, this does not alter our personal connection with nature one iota. Our reverence for nature is uplifted, not lowered. Our compassion for innocent, butchered cattle is strengthened, not weakened.

Little kids who don't know any better often toy with or torture insects. They focus a magnifying glass on an ant, or clip the wings of a flying insect, or cut off a bug's legs. Our respect for nature is such that we cannot condone this type of cruel and immature behavior.

The final element of this modernized principle has to do with human choice. In nature, human beings are unique from all other creatures in having a highly developed brain with which to think. Animals do not have the ability to reason and choose as we do. Having this power of choice means we should exercise it with care.

Living in modern civilization, we always have a choice in what we eat. Choosing a vegetarian diet means you refrain from contributing to the overall demand that drives the meat industry. There is honor in that choice. It is a stance against massive cruelty and environmental damage, both of which are affronts against nature.

On the other hand, if you find yourself far from civilization, in a situation where your survival is at stake, and the only food available is meat, then I would say you don't really have the choice. Someone who eats meat in order to survive when no other option is available has not done something wrong.

Thus, our individual, personal choice is a key to this overall puzzle. We all have the right to choose for ourselves. Chances are those of us who choose to reduce our meat intake will enjoy the health benefits resulting from that choice. Medical science offers a mountain of evidence all pointing to the improved health and increased energy of the appropriate vegetarian lifestyle. That's a clue to us that it is the right choice and the natural choice.

The flip side of this coin is that we do not have the right to impose our personal choice on other thinking, independent individuals. The choice is meaningless unless it is made willingly, in accordance with one's own volition.

So there you have it: a logical, consistent and modern framework that covers all situations. This framework incorporates the "respect for all life" teaching, resolves its problems, and then takes it a step beyond.

This principle can be simply stated, but its simplicity contains profound ramifications. It is an advocate of vegetarianism without the fanatical zeal. It recognizes the crucial role of free will, and does not engage in useless condemnation of those who are not yet ready to make the natural choice. The reasoning behind this principle is built from sound structures that will never lead you to illogical extremes.

This demonstrates for us that the essence of Tao is the opposite of dogma. To be dogmatic is to hold certain beliefs (for instance, the Earth being the center of the universe) as absolutely true and therefore beyond questioning. The study of Tao, in contrast, is a quest for enlightenment where we continuously deepen our understanding of spiritual truths.

This quest begins with the realization that we are not limited to any one set of teachings. We are not bound by arbitrary rules. We can draw from any resource - intellectual or intuitive, religious or scientific - to increase our wisdom.

Our goal is to approach oneness with the principle underlying all existence. To engage in this process is to recognize that we do not possess the full truth at this time. Nor shall we ever claim monopoly on any proprietary truths in the future. Our attitude will always be one of humility, and readiness to learn.

The Tao stands revealed as the paradigm of ultimate dynamism. It is the paradigm that reinvents itself. This is how the Tao transcends ordinary teachings. This is what makes it unique and precious.

And that, my friends, is why we cultivate the Tao!

Half Empty or Half Full? - by Derek Lin

The study of Tao often leads to what I call eureka moments. "Eureka" is an expression of triumph upon discovering a startling truth. Archimedes, one of the greatest intellects of antiquity, used this expression (literally "I have found it!") when he figured out how to determine the purity of gold objects.

We get closer to this eureka moment when the study of Tao changes us and gives us a new way to examine the world. This transformed perspective lets us take something ordinary and familiar, and suddenly see in it all sorts of interesting new insights.

For example, let's take a glass and fill it with water to the halfway point. We then ask the customary, time-honored question, "Is the glass half empty or half full?"

Haven't we all seen this a zillion times? What new insights can we possibly squeeze out of this tired old platitude?

As we all know, the glass serves as a metaphor for life, and water represents the good things in it. So, seeing the glass as half empty means you're a pessimist, because you dwell on the lack in your life. Seeing it as half full means you're optimistic, because you focus on the good things in life. Most people choose the latter and describe themselves as optimists. In all likelihood, this means you, too.

Notice an interesting social phenomenon here. Most people want to be seen as optimists, even those who are usually morose and glum. Aren't we just a planet full of upbeat, sunny cheerleaders? How interesting! Why do we have such a social pressure to be relentlessly optimistic?

Let's look at it from a completely different angle and turn this paradigm upside down. Is it always a negative thing to see the glass as half empty? Suppose such a perception motivates you to fill the glass - so to speak - whereas seeing it as half full leads to complacency. Focusing on the lack in one's life can then be a driving force for success. Not so negative now, is it?

Look at the overachievers who accomplish great things in any field. They probably started out life with the idea that there wasn't enough water in their glass to suit them, so they worked to fill it up. On the other hand, at the opposite end of the spectrum, we have the underachievers who dawdle away their lives in torpid passivity. Perhaps they do so because their focus is on what they already possess, rather than the areas of life that can use some improvement.

Another similar idea is to recognize the inherent usefulness of emptiness. In chapter 11 of Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu makes the point that the emptiness of a cup gives it utility and function. The lower part of the glass that is already filled with water cannot accept another drop, and if we remind ourselves that this represents life, we quickly see that the empty portion is where all the action can take place.

The Taoist concept of emptiness is not a vacuous state of nothingness; rather, it is a pregnant void bursting with potentialities. Now we can see how this makes perfect sense. The blank pages in the book of your life are where the continuing tale of your adventures will be written. These empty pages are the place where unlimited possibilities exist. It's where the excitement and the joie de vivre reside.

The emptiness is the part that can hold more water (good things). It is what makes the glass (life) useful and functional. So why wouldn't we want to focus on it? When you think of it this way, doesn't it seem a little odd that most people choose to see the glass as half full instead of half empty?

See what's going on here? Even though most of us have heard about the glass half filled with water many, many times, in all likelihood it has never occurred to us that we can switch the positive and negative perceptions around so easily. Evidently there's more to the glass than meets the eyes.

We also need to examine the unspoken assumptions and see how valid they really are. For instance, we start out with the unwritten, assumed rule that we have two choices, half full or half empty, and we must choose one of them. But must we really? Does it really have to be one or the other? Why can it not be both, or neither?

Indeed, a glass with water at the halfway point can be seen as both half empty and half full. Sometimes it is useful to think of it one way; other times it's better to see it the other way. This is a completely accurate description of reality, and probably a much better way to conceptualize it than to arbitrarily force it into one category or another. By recognizing that the glass can embody both descriptions simultaneously, we begin to deal with it from a holistic mindset, taking into account every aspect of the object.

In this mindset, we can see that asking about the glass being half full or half empty is just like asking about the nature of light. Is light composed of particles or waves? Well, the true answer is that light embodies properties of both particles and waves. Sometimes it is useful to think of it one way; other times it's better to see it the other way. This is a completely accurate description of reality, and probably a much better way to conceptualize it than to arbitrarily force it into one category or another.

Now let's look at the flip side. How can we say that the glass is neither half full nor half empty? First, we note that both descriptions can only be perfectly accurate in theory, and never in reality. When you pour water into the glass, no matter how careful you are and what precision tools you use, you will never hit the exact halfway mark. If you are very lucky, you can get to the point where you're only a few molecules off, over or under. Thus, the glass is never truly half full or half empty. Its state can only be described approximately.

The second factor is the Taoist concept of constant change. Nothing remains static. Nothing. As soon as any water gets into the glass, evaporation begins. At any given moment, the glass is releasing water molecules into the air. In fact, if we wait long enough, the glass won't just be half empty - it will be empty, period!

For some of us, the water goes away even more quickly, because we have imperfect glasses with hairline fractures, where water seeps out at an alarming rate. This means the good things in our lives never seem to last. You manage to get a great job, only to be downsized; you buy a new car, only to discover it's a lemon; and so on.

In the face of this dynamism, where the only question is how quickly water goes away, we need to take action. If we remain inactive, then it's a certainty that the good things in life will soon disappear, never to return. What we want is a constant stream of incoming water to replenish the water lost to evaporation and possible leakage.

Let's explore a little further. What does the glass look like from a Zen perspective?

Zen Buddhism recognizes the illusory nature of reality and the ultimate emptiness of the material world. Thus, when confronted with the choice of half empty or half full, the Zen Buddhist may answer "neither," because the water doesn't really exist, nor does the glass.

This may seem far out, but in at least two respects the Zen practitioner is right. First, both the glass and water are transient. We have already noted that the water will eventually be gone, either when the glass breaks (the end of your life) or before. The glass may last somewhat longer than the water, but we know it will eventually be shattered into pieces and no longer exist as a container. Like the ephemeral flame of a candle, life flickers into existence for a while, and then gets snuffed out without much fanfare. In truth, it can claim no more permanent reality than the candle flame.

The second factor affirming the Zen perspective is our understanding of the most fundamental level of reality, as revealed through quantum physics. At the sub-atomic level, we see that what we think of as solid matter is mostly empty space. The solidity of matter that we perceive is merely the macroscopic manifestation of energy and information patterns. In this perspective, the water is indeed illusory, and so is the glass.

Now that we have sampled the Zen perspective, we will naturally want to explore the Tao perspective as well. This is an interesting challenge in view of everything we have talked about so far. We seem to have left no stone unturned in discussing all the different ways we can approach the glass. What other insight can the Tao provide us that hasn't already been said? How can a true Tao sage answer the question in a way that transcends all other answers on the subject?

The sage does not answer. Instead, he takes the glass, drinks from it, and relishes the thirst-quenching and refreshing water. He puts the glass back down and remains quiet, perhaps with a smile on his face, as others scramble to revise their estimation from half full to quarter full, or half empty to three-quarters empty.

The sage knows that the essence of life is to be lived, not debated. The glass and water serve one purpose admirably well, and that is to slake thirst. Trying to decide if it is half full or half empty does absolutely nothing to further that purpose. If anything, it gets in the way and delays the ultimate objective of drinking fully and deeply.

The Tao is beyond mere words. Discussing the glass can never replace the experience of drinking from it; describing the various perspectives will never get you closer to the actual act of savoring the water. Thus, the sage wastes no effort on intellectualization; he cuts to the chase.

Eureka!

The Master's Tea Cup - by Derek Lin

The Zen master Ikkyu had always been quick in his thinking. This quickness came in handy for him in a well-known story from his youth:

As a young monk, Ikkyu got himself in trouble one day when he accidentally dropped his master's tea cup, breaking it into many pieces.

This was serious, because the tea cup was the master's favorite. It was a rare treasure, beautifully crafted from precious material. Of all of the master's possessions, it was probably the one thing he cherished the most - and now it was hopelessly smashed!

Ikkyu felt guilty, but before he could formulate a plan to get away, he heard footsteps approaching. He swept the broken pieces together and, blocking them from view with his body, turned to face the door just as the master entered.

When they were within speaking distance, Ikkyu asked: "Master, why must people die?"

The master replied: "It is perfectly natural. Everything in the world experiences both life and death."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"So it is not something we should feel upset about?"

"Definitely not."

At that point, the crafty Ikkyu moved aside to present the broken pieces. "Master... your cup has experienced its inevitable death..."

The first thing we notice about this story is probably its sly humor. It is the same sense of humor that has always been part of Tao spirituality. Chuang Tzu, our favorite vagabond philosopher, was perhaps the ultimate representation of this playful yet profound mindset - a mindset that made its way into the Zen tradition, giving it a flavor that was distinctively different from the original Buddhism.

As we smile at how young Ikkyu deftly extricated himself from trouble, the humor has subtly delivered the real lesson. It sinks in at some level that material objects have a life span too, just like living beings. If we can recognize our own mortality, then surely we can also see the impermanence of our various acquisitions. They can leave us at any time, no matter how much we value them and try to hold on to them.

Most of us are quite attached to our material possessions, and will continue to cling to them even after hearing the above story and comprehending its message. We all get upset when things belonging to us are lost, damaged or stolen. Protecting them from harm and hiding them from theft seem to give us a measure of peace - at least temporarily.

I'm as guilty as anyone. I remember how I used to collect comic books in my teens. Once, by accident, I got a drop of water on the cover of one particular comic. I flew into a rage because the water made a noticeable dot, marring the perfection of the cover. There was no question that I had to buy another copy - even though, like most teenagers, I was pretty much broke.

I never realized my folly as I grew older. My acquisitions changed from comic books to computer hardware and software, but my basic pattern remained the same: I had to have more and I didn't want to let any of it go.

That was the crucial key. I couldn't let go. I was a pack rat. I accumulated boxes full of stuff that I hadn't looked at or used in years. As time elapsed, I found myself unable to recall the contents of some boxes. I had forgotten much of what I owned; those boxes might as well not exist. And yet, I refused to dispose of them.

As the quantity of the items increased, my environment became more and more cluttered. I fought the encroaching chaos, but things never seemed to stay organized very long. This was one consequence of my inability to let go. Slowly but surely I was drowning myself in a flood of clutter.

I knew I had a problem, but I was powerless to change myself. I bought books and tapes on organization, but succeeded only in adding to the clutter with them. This was prior to my study of Tao philosophy, when I still didn't understand that I already had everything I needed within myself. I sought external solutions while sinking ever deeper into the quagmire.

When I read Ikkyu's story, something clicked. I wondered how the master reacted to the young monk's ploy to escape accountability. If he could not let go, then the incident would bring him much misery - anger at Ikkyu's carelessness and sadness about the loss of something so valuable. If he truly practiced what he preached, and saw clearly the similarity between the "life expectancy" of material objects and human life spans, he would be able to let go of the tea cup and accept the loss with perfect serenity.

To me, this connection between material possessions and the weighty issue of life and death was a new angle. It made me realize that, however difficult I found it to be to let things go, if I were to suddenly pass on for any reason, I would have no choice but to let everything go. No choice at all! This was a mighty sobering thought.

Nor was death the only thing that could separate us from our cherished belongings. Any disaster, major or minor, could do the job. If your house caught fire somehow, you would have no choice but to kiss most of your possessions good-bye.

This leads us to the next question: why wait? Why must we wait until we have no choice to learn to let go in a painful way? Why should we wait until the final moments on the deathbed, or perhaps the verge of a disaster, to gain clarity? Why do we not start letting go now?

I started to go through my boxes. I found many computers that were too old to run today's programs. I held on to them all these years for no sensible reason. I moved them from location to location, struggling against their collective weight, without realizing what I was doing. For all the utilities these old systems had for me, I might as well have dragged massive rocks from one place to another.

The clutter began to vanish from my life. I noticed that I had more energy in a clutter-free work environment. When clutter was present, the mind needed to tune them out. This required some mental energy - a relatively small amount, but a constant effort that, over an hour or two, would add up to quite a drain. I never suspected how much pressure this exerted on me until it suddenly went away, leaving me with a sense of tranquility and tremendous relief.

Finally I began to understand chapter 48 of Tao Te Ching:

Pursue knowledge, daily gain

Pursue Tao, daily loss

Prior to understanding the Tao, I was in hot pursuit of knowledge. I acquired more and more material things, but none of it led to what I truly wanted. I ended up with clutter, which in turn led to stress and agitation. I put in a lot of extra effort but did not gain any significant benefits. I was the very opposite of Wu Wei.

Now, on the path of the Tao, I let go of more and more every day. The more I discard, the better I can utilize what's left. The more I simplify my life, the easier it is to attain serenity and peace of mind. The wisdom of Ikkyu's story is inextricably linked to the wisdom of Tao Te Ching.

Earlier this morning, I opened another box and found my collection of comic books, which I hadn't looked at in twenty years. I found myself no longer interested in their colorful depictions of fantasy. Instead, I wanted to work on my own reality so I could make it the colorful adventure it ought to be - an adventure of challenges, explorations, discoveries, personal connections and enlightenment.

The comic book with the damaged cover and its replacement were nowhere in sight, forever lost in the passage of time. I let them go. Reflecting back on the fanaticism to acquire in my teenage years, I had to laugh at myself.

Yes, I found amusement in my own foolish struggles over the years, my pointless zealotry of material acquisitions. I began to see why the ancient sages regarded the world with a twinkle in their eyes and a sly smile on their lips. In learning the life lesson of how to let go, humor is not only the best way to convey the teaching... it is also the reward of a lesson well learned!

The Tall Hat - by Derek Lin

In chapter 22 of Tao Te Ching, we find the following four lines about the behavior of a sage:

Without flaunting oneself - and so is seen clearly

Without presuming oneself - and so is distinguished

Without praising oneself - and so has merit

Without boasting about oneself - and so is lasting

In chapter 24, we find the same idea expressed with almost the exact same words:

The person who flaunts oneself is not seen clearly

The person who presumes oneself is not distinguished

The person who praises oneself has no merit

The person who boasts about oneself does not last

Given the overall brevity and terseness of the Tao Te Ching, this repetition is remarkable and interesting. It's a cue to us that this is an important lesson, so we should pay extra attention to it.

Many people may think that this is an easy lesson to master, since they do not see themselves as show-offs. They may be the shy type who do are not normally flaunting, presumptuous or boastful, so they feel they have nothing new to learn here. If we look just a little deeper though, we'll see that reality is not quite that simple, because the ego's need to elevate itself takes many subtle forms.

For instance, it is very easy for Tao practitioners to see themselves as head and shoulders above people who are ignorant of the Tao. Because Tao philosophy is more sophisticated, elegant and consistent than other belief systems, we tend to assume - without any other basis - that it makes us superior somehow. We are presumptuous even if we don't externalize it with words or actions. This is something most of us will recognize in our hearts, if we are brutally honest with ourselves.

Let me share a story with you that further illustrates the subtleties. It is an interesting tale having to do with tall hats - but probably not the kind you have in mind.

Our "tall hat" is a Chinese expression meaning flattery. In ancient China, headgear signified one's position in society. Government officials wore elaborate hats specific to their level of authority. Thus, giving someone the tall hat is to presume in him a high level of power, thereby flattering him.

The story took place back in the days when the emperor's government ran on the Confucian system. In that system, bureaucrats were chosen from the ranks of Confucian students based on their performance in an official exam.

Two students had done well in this exam and won government posts in a city far away. They were visiting with their teacher, to ask for his leave and also to solicit his advice, in accordance with the customs of the period.

The teacher told them: "In our society today, if you are too bluntly honest or too direct, you will surely encounter obstacles. So, when you interact with others, give them the tall hat and things will go much more smoothly."

"You are right, master," one of the students nodded in agreement. "As I look at the world today, I see very few people out there who dislike tall hats as you do."

The teacher was enormously pleased by this remark.

They continued to exchange a few more pleasantries, and then it was time for the students to leave. As soon as they got out of the teacher's house - and earshot - the student who spoke turned to his classmate and asked: "So, what do you think of the first tall hat I handed out?"

This story is rich with irony. The teacher lamented the common people's weakness for flattery without realizing that he himself was just as susceptible. Because he saw himself as being above other people, he became a prime target for the tall hat. His self-elevation above the masses was the very thing that lowered him back down to the same level.

The point of this story is especially important to those of us who are on the path of cultivation. If we feel superior for having learned the lesson of humility, well... we really haven't learned anything at all!

The teacher was the type of person who praised himself. In his mind, he was already convinced of his own virtues. He would never say it out loud, of course - that would be too obviously immodest. What he did not realize was that his internal self-praise was already obvious to the students. He was blind to a tailor-made tall hat, because it matched his own private thoughts exactly, and therefore passed right through his critical faculties.

Tao Te Ching tells us that such a person has no real merit, because his inflated self-image is based on insecurities rather than true capabilities. Someone who has not accomplished much tends to be quite eager for others to know everything about his little achievements. Conversely, someone who is truly accomplished probably doesn't have much interest in elevating himself, because his focus is on his work and not on self-promotion.

It seems to be a permanent part of human nature that we will always be able to see other people much more clearly than we can see ourselves. This is how we can perceive the lack of substance in a braggart, and the real value in someone who does much more than he or she claims. Slick talk and fancy footwork may obscure the truth for a while, but sooner or later we figure it out. This is why show-offs do not last.

Be cautious about your ego's tendency to position yourself too high, especially if you think the teaching from the two chapters is an easy lesson to master. The teacher from our story did not see himself as a show-off or braggart either, and yet he stood revealed as the very opposite of who he thought he was. There's a lot we can learn from his example!