A quick update: I’ve been working on an important project lately, and I’ve decided to reduce some of the workload on the publication here so I can devote more time to it. When the time is right, I’ll share the project because I know it will add value for you.
I’ll still publish one post every week since I know these letters are important to you and me. I want you to know that writing these letters is a spiritual practice. It’s a recording of our spiritual exchanges because I appreciate your time, support, and presence.
Confucian culture needs to be questioned1. I say this with an appreciation of the original teachings of Confucianism, its core principles of human-heartedness and righteousness (or humanity and justice), its emphasis on learning, respect for rituals and etiquette, passion, and sincerity. Despite being quite moralistic, its doctrine can bring about positive outcomes in society.
At the same time, its theories contribute to the rise of a meritocratic and hierarchical cultural system. Since everyone can see the benefits of being perceived as capable and ethical, inauthenticity, hypocrisy, sycophancy, profiteering, and contending arise.
For instance, since its teaching emphasizes the importance of education and connects getting educated with reputable social standing and decent living, it has become an ingrained habit of Chinese parents over centuries to invest heavily in their children’s education.
Unfortunately, young kids become the involuntary laboratory mice for testing this traditional theory. So, they are usually forced to study hard to live up to their parent’s expectations.
Afterward, they also work hard; after all, they’ve invested many years of their precious youth in studying and working hard to make a good living, which becomes their reward (basically, justifying their being programmed with another layer of brainwashing.).
Perhaps in this grinding, they obtain some recognition, eventually making their parents proud and bringing honor to the family. Sadly, they are finished.
So, young people have been living in this loop for generations. So many of them take domestication for respecting the accepted ways of doing things, regard conformity as a necessary condition of social approval, and justify docility and blind obedience as respect for tradition and order.
When I look at the birds flying about in a park, I sometimes even wonder if they may know better than us about taking risks and trusting their instincts and intuition.
In our modern world, which is invariably hastened by the rapid development of the economy and technological progress, there is an element of hustling in almost every society. Perhaps America has the largest economy because it has the most intense type of hustler culture. Everything has to be executed with efficiency, speed, and a sense of urgency.
While we all get occupied with moving about, contending, striving, and grinding, we cannot slow down to think about what truly matters to us and how we are supposed to live, not what society says we should care about, but what truly speaks to us.
Schools are important in that they help impart knowledge and skills, to some extent, that we can fit into the mold of society. What is missing is that they do not teach us how to arrange our spiritual life or find a deeper connection with the world.
Similarly, the stuff that constitutes the core of the consumer culture is very much a social construct. Distractions and allures are everywhere. We are constantly positioned in the tension between reason and the subjugation of desires.
We labor and work hard to have some leisure time to relax and enjoy life. But we can actually start with living in simplicity.
For when we see through those social constructs, we become disenchanted, and we are free. In this sense, simplicity and detachment are not passive. They are an act of spiritual autonomy, which leads to serenity and peace of mind.
The source of inner joy
Simplicity is disenchantment with our attachments and fixations. It is a realization that there is no need to rely on something emotionally.
A simple way of life helps us make contact with reality, in which we slow down and start observing the world around us: the river flowing, the clouds moving, the breeze on the face, the trees growing and swaying, and the birds chirping and flying about.
Simplicity is a spiritual practice as it reminds us to see our entanglements in everyday life. So, we become detached from seeking external rewards and approval. We see through the enslaved state of being gripped by these external things.
Labels, fame, identities, status, and all the other transitory things all come and go. They are social constructs imposed upon us by society. To truly live in simplicity is to stop clinging to them.
This does not mean abandoning the responsibilities associated with specific roles in society. Instead, it simply suggests becoming aware of how we respond to these inserted identities.
In this sense, simplicity is the secret of enjoying the pleasure of leading a non-conformist way of life, as you are not afraid of breaking away from social approval. And you do not fear not belonging.
When we are at ease with a simple way of life, we value inner joy more than seeking validation from the outside. There is no need to contend for outcomes to satisfy the desire to be recognized.
With simplicity comes inner serenity. With serenity comes clarity to make conscious choices in life. Then we can walk out of the mental cave we’ve been brainwashed by society. And this is the path leading to taking life into your own hands.
Seeing the unity of all things
Confucius went to see Lao Tzu, who had just come out of a bath. Amazed by Lao Tzu’s appearance, which looks like a corpse, Confucius asked, “Master, you looked like the dry stump of a tree, standing there alone, like a thing from which the spirit has departed.”2
“I was meditating on the origin of the universe.”
“What do you mean?” said Confucius.
“It is a problem that defies the mind and language. I’ll try to tell you what it is like approximately. The great yin is majestically silent; the great yang is impressively active. Majestic silence comes from heaven, and impressive activity comes from the earth. When the two meet and merge, all things are formed.
Some can see the connection, but cannot see their form. Growth alternates with decay, fullness with exhaustion, darkness with light. Every day, things change, and every month, they are transformed. Without Tao, what can be the generative principle binding on all?”
“Can you speak more in detail?” asked Confucius.
Lao Tzu replied, “The vegetarian animals do not mind changing their feeding ground. Insects that live in water do not mind change of water. That is because the changes are minor and do not affect their vital needs.
Happiness and anger, joys and sorrows, should not enter one’s breast, for this universe represents the unity of all things. When one perceives this unity and is united with it, he regards his bodily form as dust of the earth, and the cycle of life and death but as the alternation of day and night.
He cannot be disturbed by such accidents, much less by the occurrences of fortune and misfortune. He shakes off an official position as he shakes off dirt, knowing that his self is more precious than rank.
His aim is to keep his self without allowing it to become lost in external changes. For the process of change going on in all things is continuous and endless. Why should one let one’s mind be troubled by it? One who knows Tao will understand this.”
Clarity from detachment
Much of our emotional disturbance comes from how we interact with external circumstances. Without paying attention to our mental state, we are easily driven by external stimuli.
Lao Tzu suggests looking at things on a holistic level. In other words, the way he explains to Confucius reveals his understanding that we can always learn from the workings of nature to improve the quality of our existence.
Misfortune and fortune, or even life and death, are separate parts that constitute the whole. When we are only fixated on a partial aspect of things, we become short-sighted and reactive because we are captured by our narrow perceptions of reality. This is a form of being programmed and being attached.
Therefore, Lao Tzu suggests “keeping the self” or not to lose the self. What is the cause of losing the self? Enchantment and lack of clarity.
Is it possible to preserve the self amidst life’s entanglements? By understanding, becoming aware, and seeing the natural order of things. This is to suggest the act of arriving at more accurate perceptions of reality, for reality can be complex, inscrutable, and fluid.
With a better, more precise grasp of reality, detachment becomes a choice. And detachment from external entanglements delivers us to a state of spiritual tranquility and clarity.
In this sense, detachment is to dissolve illusions in the mind. This is to say that when you are in a position of power, status, or wealth, you are not attached to what they bring to you. You are not enchanted.
So, when you are deprived of what you used to possess, you are still at ease with the new reality because you know this is how things can turn out. Life is still the same before and after your identity change. You are very aware that these things are externally inserted into your life.
Therefore, as your circumstances change, you can flow with the fluctuations. You are constantly refreshing your understanding, gaining insight, and observing the subtle vibrations of things.
This is also the practice of following the Tao. As you grow your understanding of things, you start seeing a sense of liberation within because you are no longer held back by the ideas, notions, and perspectives within your mind.
To practice Tao means to disentangle from the mode of reacting. So, you can take the seat of an observer to witness your interactions with your surroundings, what disturbs the mind, what brings distress to the heart, and how you respond to external changes.
This is the spiritual ideal of wu-wei — the inner self reminds you that you can watch, observe, and become aware of the mental state at a critical moment that requires spontaneous actions.
The Taoist way of life, as suggested by the practice of wu-wei and Chuang Tzu’s carefree wandering, is not about abandoning the world or retreating into a distant mountain area but arriving at spiritual tranquility while mingling with the turmoil of the world. And this is one of the fundamental differences between Taoism and Chan Buddhism.
Lao Tzu has put it this way, “Soften its light, submerge its turmoil, this is the mystic unity.”(Tao Te Ching, Chapter 56)
Chuang Tzu has described the Taoist approach to life in a similar spirit,
Follow anything; receive anything. For everything was in destruction, everything was in construction. This is called tranquillity in disturbance. Tranquillity in disturbance means perfection.”3
This is to suggest you detach and see through those identifications: emotional cues, external labels, approval and rejection, validation and criticism, and all the things that are temporary.
To adopt this practice of wu-wei is to become spiritual. And to become spiritual is to be the master of your mind. You could have all the labels, recognition, and rewards from a conventional perspective, yet you are still living in an illusion created by your society.
From a different angle, you could still experience all those external things but not be attached to them and not controlled by them. That’s the difference.
This is why Lao Tzu’s saying — “retire when your work is done, such is heaven’s way” (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 9) — has deeply impacted the Taoists in traditional China.
The act of “retiring” indicates both literal and symbolic meanings. One could stop promptly if one steps onto overreach, refrain from contending for rewards and credit, and one could detach, unlearn, and disengage on a spiritual level as one sees the non-stoppable evolution of things.
And, wu-wei, as a spiritual practice, is not simply to be known as a concept. If you seek real change, you need to feel it, try it, and see the transformation it brings. Every time you overcome one of those identifications, you grow stronger spiritually.
This is a process of gradually dissolving and reducing all the emotional, intellectual, and habitual baggage and burdens in your mind and heart. And the end of wu-wei is the ultimate state of simplicity.
Great form has no contour;
And Tao is hidden without a name. (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 41)
You become shapeless, undefinable, and mystic because how can something like worldly fame, quantifiable possessions, or peoples’ opinions capture someone who is disenchanted and detached?
This statement is based on an important historical observation that the original Confucian teaching has never been practiced in traditional China. Indeed, its doctrines had been taught in schools and families, but its influence was only limited. In the Han Dynasty (206 B.C.-220 A.D.), an official scholar named Dong Zhongshu (179 B.C.-104 B.C.) basically repackaged Confucianism with the core principles of Legalism for political reasons. As a result, on the surface, Confucianism was esteemed as the official ideology of the central government. But, in reality, it was Legalistic thought and practices that were incorporated into the governing of the country and control of society.
This insight is from my reading of Professor Yu Ying-shih’s essay titled “Anti-intellectualism and the political tradition of China” 反智論與中國政治傳統, which is included in his influential book History and Thought 歷史與思想. I hope I can translate this important essay into English sometime in the future, as this is a critical work discussing the impact of political thinking from Confucianism, Taoism, and Legalism on dynastic society in traditional China, targeting a general audience. And no one so far has a better job than Professor Yu Ying-shih.
And there’s the difference between Pre-Qin Confucianism (before Qin’s unification of China in 221 B.C. and the end of feudalism in China), which is essentially the original texts of Confucius’ Analects and works from Mencius and Xunzi, as well as a few relevant pieces of literature, and neo-Confucianism that refers to the philosophical reinterpretation of the scholars in the Song Dynasty (960-1279 A.D.).
So today, when people say that traditional Chinese society was a Confucian culture, it’s actually a misleading notion.
The story is from “Tian Zifang,” Chapter 21 of Chuang Tzu’s works. For this post, I used Lin Yutang’s translation. Lin Yutang, The Wisdom of Laotse. (Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press, 2009), 264-265.
Fung Yu-lan, “The Great Teacher,” in Chuang Tzu: A New Selected Translation with an Exposition of the Philosophy of Kuo Hsiang. (Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Publishing, 2016), 82. Translation modified.
So much wisdom packed in this piece! I like the story of Confucius and Lao Tzu.
And I like your reminder that we need not run off to faraway mountains. That spirituality is attainable in the here and now in our daily life, in the turmoil of the world. Not about another peak in enlightenment but staying with the present even when things get hard.