7: Unselfishness

7
Heaven is eternal and Earth lasting.
How can they be eternal and lasting? Because they don’t live for themselves. That is why they can be eternal.
Thus the sensible puts himself last and becomes the first. He neglects himself and is preserved.
Is it not because he is unselfish that he fulfills himself?

Unselfishness
The well-known reward for the unselfish is the praise he receives. Another benefit is hinted in the example of Heaven and Earth: The ones who don’t live for themselves will endure, because that path is less straining, less of a struggle.

Those who strive to get ahead are quickly fatigued and wear themselves down. Impatience and discontent are poisons to the mind, therefore at length to the body as well. That is how it works. The one who chases his own happiness will never catch it, but wastes his life running. He may reach far and gather fortunes, but will he have time to enjoy it?

Those who are humble, with modest demands, are easily satisfied and therefore soon to be joyous. And their joy lasts, undisturbed by temptation. That is appeasing to the mind and medicine for the body.

There is no guarantee for longevity, but the ones who are pleased with their situation have a better chance at it than those who never get enough.

Of course, the rewards of unselfishness can create a paradox: Considering such rewards, what selfish man would not try his utmost to be unselfish – at least enough to receive the benefits of it? That would be selfish unselfishness. I am not sure that it matters, though. It is by our deeds that we shape our lives and affect the lives of others. Not the thoughts behind them. A good deed is helpful, whatever the reason behind it. Considering the sad state much of the world is in, we can’t afford to be picky. A good deed does good, even if its purpose is selfish.

Furthermore, it is quite possible that a selfish benefactor will be so pleased with the outcome that he forgets his original intention. That is one of the finer sides of mankind – delight and pleasure are contagious. Unfortunately, so are bitterness and anger. Again a reason for encouraging good deeds of whatever intent.

6: The Womb

6
The valley spirit never dies. It is called the mystical female.
The entrance to the mystical female is called the root of Heaven and Earth.
Though gossamer, as if barely existing, it is used but never spent.

The Womb
Lao Tzu allows himself some play with words here. The Chinese word for valley can be translated gorge, and the word for female (of any species) also refers to a deep gorge. The word for mystical can be translated dark or deep. So, Lao Tzu describes a dark depth, from the entrance of which the whole world springs, like from a mother’s womb.

The sign for entrance, also meaning gate or door, shows a swinging door, just like the one to the saloon in every western movie. In the context of this chapter, it is an intricate image also suggesting the gate to a woman’s womb, which is certainly a birthplace of tremendous significance.

To Lao Tzu, the origin of the world is female, like a mother of any species. Heaven and Earth are rooted at the entrance to its womb, but there is a vast depth beneath the entrance, from which so much more can emerge. This mother of all is endlessly fertile, and continues to breed and nurture.

Lao Tzu must mean that this mystical female is Tao, the Way. Again an intriguing imagery. The way to this primordial female leads into the dark gorge.

Tao as a mother of all, like the Greek goddess Gaia, is a returning theme in the Tao Te Ching. Although ancient China was indeed a patriarchal society, Lao Tzu praised the traditionally female qualities in every case. Since the nature of Tao is much more like the female than the male, so should people be. Giving instead of taking, humble instead of proud, yielding instead of forcing, and so on. This preference must have been very radical in the days of Lao Tzu. Actually, it still is.

The essence of the Way is as vague and fine as cobweb, because it is a principle, a natural law, with no substance of its own. That is why it lasts, no matter how much it is used. Like a formula.

5: The limit of compassion

5
Heaven and Earth are not kind. They regard all things as offerings.
The sapient is not kind. He regards the people as offerings.

Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows?
It is empty, but lacks nothing.
The more it moves, the more comes out of it.

A multitude of words is tiresome, unlike remaining centered.

The limit of compassion
This chapter consists of three parts that have little to do with one another. The first part talks about offerings, the second about a bellows, and the third about words. The division of Tao Te Ching into 81 chapters was not done by its author, but introduced much later. So, here I suspect that three separate sayings have been combined into one, although Lao Tzu did not intend it. I have divided the parts by blank lines.

Now, the first part speaks of a ruthlessness that seems terrifying. The offerings that Lao Tzu mentions were straw dogs used in religious rituals, and thrown away afterward. We have no doubt that nature treats all its components and creatures with such indifference, simply because it lacks awareness. It is like a machine. But why should the sapient do the same?

Should we not be compassionate, doing our utmost to save fellow men from pain and misfortune?

Well, Lao Tzu probably refers to society as a whole – much like nature is a whole. Too much concern for single individuals can bring mayhem on society. We should be like straw dogs in the sense that none is worth more than the survival of the society that contains us all. So, the sapient would not dream of harming society for the benefit of a few of its members, but would not hesitate to sacrifice a few for the need of all. And to guarantee the survival of society, he would be prepared to offer almost all of its inhabitants.

Anyone who is given the power to rule a nation would do the same. Actually, the people demands it of their ruler. It is the very basis of any society: nothing within it is worth sacrificing it for, and no price is too high to save it from destruction.

This is not only the case in a crisis, but in everyday life as well. Individuals cannot demand to be treated better than what is good for the whole. On the other hand, there is no reason for allowing the citizens to suffer more than what is needed for society to prevail. The most precious society is the one that needs the least sacrifice of its members.

In the second part of this chapter, Lao Tzu marvels at the abundance of the world we live in – the space between Heaven above our heads, and Earth below our feet.

In this space we move about freely, and there seems to be no end to what is brought forth in it. Countless generations of animals and vegetation, the cycles of the seasons, the splendor of sunrise and sunset, the phases of the moon. Everything moves and renews itself, and all the creatures that feed on the Earth and breathe the sky multiply. The world is filled with tireless reproduction. It is as if the sky is a breath of life, its winds stirring the cornucopia that is Earth.

In the third part of the chapter, Lao Tzu seems aching to let his pen rest. Words and the thoughts behind them may be clever, perhaps inspired, but still there can be enough of them. Then it is better to silently take it all in. We don’t need to describe everything we experience, or to express all that we learn. The words are mere shadows. If we focus on them we may lose sight of the reality they try to imitate.

Instead, we should trust that our inner stillness finds the Way, and makes us see the patterns in the constant bombardment of information that is our daily life.

The word ‘centered’ in my translation of this chapter is jhong (or zhong) in Chinese and means middle or center. It is used in the name for the Chinese nation (Jhongguo or Zhongguo). The Chinese character for the word is a simplification of an arrow hitting the center of a target. In Lao Tzu’s use of the word, inner balance and steadfastness is implied, somewhat like the keel of a boat that is unaffected by the waves on the sea. That is how the human mind should be – calm in whatever turmoil surrounds it, confident even in a rain of urgent questions and answers.

4: The hidden cause

4
The Way is empty, yet inexhaustible, like an abyss!
It seems to be the origin of all things.
It dulls the sharpness, unties the knots, dims the light, becomes one with the dust.
Deeply hidden, as if it only might exist.
I don’t know whose child it is.
It seems to precede the ancestor of all.

The hidden cause
Lao Tzu returns here to the mysterious nature of Tao, the Way. It is so vague and distant that we can only guess its existence, by deductions we make from the world that we see before us. It is the inner working of the universe, and probably therefore also the originator of it. The natural law by which the universe works.

A natural law has no form of its own, but governs all there is, and never gets fatigued or diminished. Although it causes all the magnificence of the world we live in, it is infinitesimal, like the dust of the dust.

This law that governs all can have no preferences. It treats the biggest things the same as the smallest, none with less care. Since everything in the world consists of things small, that is closer to the nature of Tao. And since most things in the world go by unnoticed, that is also closer to the nature of Tao. Because Lao Tzu sees the Way as the reason behind all, he concludes that it must have the most to do with the things that we regard as lesser. The big events are rare, while everyday proceedings take place constantly. And the bigger size things have, the fewer they are, so the Way deals mainly with the small.

We should understand this, so that we remember to pay the most attention to the least things. The most enduring powers in the world are those that stand out the least. Sharpness does not remain, nor does the tightness of a knot or the brightest light. There is nothing that lasts as long as its own dust. So, if we become like dust, we will prevail – and we will be in unison with the Way.

The last line of this chapter is the only clear occurrence of a divine entity in the Tao Te Ching. What I have translated as the ancestor of all is Ti, who was the first and supreme god in ancient Chinese mythology.

Although Ti was indeed regarded as a creator god, Lao Tzu doubts that he predates Tao. Even a creator god must obey the natural laws by which the universe is ruled, or it would not have come into existence. Also, since a natural law does not exist by itself, but through nature, it has no birth date. There may be a starting point for its manifestation, but the law itself is timeless. If a world appears, it has to follow the law for such a world, but the law does not change if the world appears or disappears. It remains the same forever and anywhere. So it is eternal and ever-present. Even before the gods, and where they are not.

There can be a universe without any gods to rule it, but not one without laws for it.

3: As little as possible

3
Not praising the deserving prevents envy.
Not valuing wealth prevents theft.
Not displaying the desirable prevents confusion of the senses.
Therefore the sapient governs by emptying senses and filling bellies, by curbing strife and strengthening backs.
He keeps the people ignorant and without desire.
He makes the knowledgeable afraid to act.
If he acts without action, order will prevail.

As little as possible
Society is obsessed with the eagerness to change. Changes for the better, we would like to believe. Today we call it progress, as if that is automatically the case. We encourage impatience and hurry onward, convinced that letting go of the past will bring an increasingly splendid future.

But this mentality is doomed to escalate and accelerate, until we have no time at all to compare our innovations with what they replace. We don’t know if they are for better or for worse, or even what they lead to at length. We might one day destroy our world without realizing it.

Lao Tzu is wary of change, of interfering with the present state of things. He sees the world as one of precious balance, where an action that is not carefully considered might easily lead to an avalanche of unwanted effects until balance is restored. So he praises non-action, wu-wei. Do as little as possible, and only when you absolutely have to. A minimum of interference ensures a maximum of stability.

The more power you have, the more important it is to stick to non-action. A good ruler has the patience to refrain from action before knowing exactly what to do, and then to do as little as possible. Even for great problems, small solutions are usually the safest – and the more efficient. Big solutions cause new problems of equal size.

There are those who claim to know what is needed, but they seldom know what needs may arise out of their solutions. So, they don’t know enough. Knowledge is also power, and should be treated with the same concern. The ones who know the most should be the most humble about the certainty of their knowledge. If they are aware of the risk of being proven wrong by a future of their suggestion, they will be afraid to propagate it. That is how they can make their responsibility equal their knowledge.

Mankind is a longing species. Each of us knows that we are mortal, so we are desperate to live our lives to the fullest. This easily makes us victims of greed and envy. We guard each other with envy, suffering to the extent that others seem to enjoy themselves, struggling for a surplus surpassed by none, losing any sense of what is enough. Greed makes it impossible to delight in what we have, since there will always be more to get. This cannot last.

Lao Tzu’s cure for such galloping madness is moderation in all. Only if we cease to cherish what we do not possess, can we appreciate what we have. If so, we will find that we don’t need much at all. Anything beyond food to keep us from getting hungry is luxury that we can do without. Any other power than the strength to endure is a burden.

We live in a society of mass consumption. We are all both producers and consumers, but we tend to reluctantly forebear the former just for the reason of being able to indulge in the latter. Should we not be happier about what we are able to create, than what we hurry to destroy? At least, we should be able to ask ourselves if we really want everything that we set our eyes on. The joy of giving in to greed is quickly replaced by the disappointment of its minute reward. That is the trap of longing: Few things are as pleasing when we get them, as they were tempting when we longed for them.

We must learn the deep and lasting pleasure of discovering how much it is that we do not need. Thereby we also learn how much we already have, and how precious that is.

2: Don’t split the unity!

2
When everyone in the world sees beauty, then ugly exists.
When everyone sees good, then bad exists.
Therefore:
What is and what is not create each other.
Difficult and easy complement each other.
Tall and short shape each other.
High and low rest on each other.
Voice and tone blend with each other.
First and last follow each other.
So, the sapient walks around doing nothing, and teaches without speaking.
All things appear, but he makes no claim on them.
He works for them without making them dependent.
He claims no honor for his deed.
Because he claims no honor, he will never be dishonored.

Don’t split the unity!
Lao Tzu continues in the second chapter by presenting a consequence of what he stated in the first chapter: Because the opposites of existence are united in a necessary whole, it is detrimental to try and separate them – either in deed or in value.

The unity of opposites makes up the world. We should not call one good and the other bad. There is no point in telling them apart at all, since they cannot exist divided. Nor do they make any sense when separated from each other.

Certainly, we appreciate some things more than others, but we must remember that we are able to do so only because we can compare them. The ugly is the mirror of the beautiful. So, who can say that beauty is only within the latter? That is why we are unable to find complete consensus about which is which. What one of us regards as beautiful, another will be indifferent to. It is even so that each of us changes the way we see things, from moment to moment, and from one perspective to the other.

Beauty is no object in itself, but merely the impression of one. It is in the eye of the beholder, and not a fixed quality of that which is beheld. So, we should treat our preferences with the appropriate modesty. And we should learn to appreciate the beauty in the ugly, as well as the ugly in the beauty. None exists without the other, and both exist within each other.

We hasten to call some things good and others bad, but fail to recognize that such opposites are also deeply dependent on one another — and judging between them has little meaning. The prickled stem leads up to the flower of the rose. A forest is rejuvenated by fire, as is the soil by the turn of the seasons. Night brings repose from day, and death gives room for new life. One is in need of the other.

Even when it comes to human deeds, judging them as good or bad is a risky business for the most experienced judge, as well as for a jury of twelve. There is rarely just one person responsible for a series of events, and within that person there are sure to be many contradictions. So, trying to decide on the character of a person in terms of good and bad is even less likely to succeed.

We are more complex than any book can cover. No one is simply good or bad. Both are inside of us, and in a multitude of nuances. Any personality is a mystery beyond explanation. We can only observe the actions by which that personality expresses itself.

What we do is the result of a series of events and reasons, only few of them at our control. Most of our actions are not ones of choice, but of necessity. We stumble into them, or we are pushed. Certainly we are still responsible for our deeds, but there is no point in judging them as good or bad. That only interferes with our ability to counteract them if needed, or support them if wanted.

Not to mention the problem of what is good for one but bad for another. That is mostly the case. Therefore, modern philosophers prefer to discuss ethics in quantities: what is good for most people, or what is more good to one than it is bad to another, and so on. There is rarely an objective truth to be found, or a value that everyone can share.

Mostly, good and bad are in the hands of those who have power. They decide what is good for all, or bad for all – and that is usually what is good or bad for themselves. Lao Tzu has more to say about that, later in Tao Te Ching.

Deeds of people may force us to react or counteract, but we are not helped much by defining those deeds morally, or even deciding on moral standards for all.

We make rules to bring a working order to society, and to push society in the direction we want it to develop. We follow these rules when we can, and break them when cannot constrain ourselves. The rules stipulate what the consequences of breaking them should be. That’s all fair and square. There is no need to add a moral judgement to the legal one. For that, we simply do not have enough information. And if we allow morals to influence our judgements, we are unable to be objective. Then there is a risk that the judgement of a deed is far worse than the deed itself.

So, the sapient refrains from judging. He is very hesitant to interfere, or to insist that his opinion should be respected. He is reluctant to lead, and refuses to be followed. He is an example without pointing it out. Since he never puts himself above others, they find no reason to rebuke him.

Lao Tzu frequently mentions the sapient, sheng-jen, in the Tao Te Ching. It is often translated ‘the sage’ or ‘superior man’, but I find that the word ‘sapient’ comes the closest to the word Lao Tzu uses. Sheng-jen is someone with a refined spirit, excellent manners towards fellow men, and modesty about his place in the world.

The word sheng is written with a sign that contains three parts: an eye, a mouth, and the sign for king or sovereign. Someone who sees and speaks beyond the perspective of common men. An elevated mind. It is closer to what we call reason than to wisdom, knowledge, and the like. Lao Tzu has little respect for the ones who call themselves wise. Instead, he stresses the superiority of simple reason, close to what we call common sense. To Lao Tzu, the sapient is someone who excels at common sense.

We will learn more about what Lao Tzu regards as sapient in the following. He used the expression more than thirty times in the Tao Te Ching.

The Chinese text rarely specifies gender, either regarding the sapient or other characters referred to. In the English language this would get awkward to copy, so I have had to give it up on several occasions. In such cases I have chosen the male gender, just because the tradition of its use in such a context makes it slightly more neutral than the opposite sex. So, please regard any ‘he’ in the text as ‘he or she’.

1: It is all real

1
The Way that can be walked is not the eternal Way.
The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.
The named is the mother of all things.
Therefore:
Free from desire you see the mystery.
Filled of desire you see the manifestations.
These two have the same origin but differ in name.
That is the secret, the secret of secrets, the gate to all mysteries.

It is all real
Lao Tzu begins his writing about Tao, the Way, by stating that the written word can neither grasp nor fully encompass the real thing. The workings of the Way are hidden behind what we can observe. It was present at the dawn of time and the birth of the universe, but is visible only through what has been created out of it, in accordance with it: all the world, and all the living beings. It is the way the universe works.

But that also means it can be understood, by observing what can be observed: the manifestations. When we indulge in the world as we perceive it, we might be blinded by the splendor and magnitude of it all, but we do witness the workings of the Way, the principle behind it. We don’t see the interior, but the surface, which by its shape still reveals a lot about what it covers.

If we want to see beneath the surface, into what really makes up the world, we have to detach ourselves from the attraction of that surface. When we distance ourselves from the world as if we are not at all part of it, then we can see through it. The mystery of its true nature becomes evident.

This is like an echo of Buddhism, although preceding it. Truth is revealed to the one who detaches himself from the world, who is not tempted by anything in it, and not distracted by any of its phenomena. It is because we allow ourselves to be consumed by the world that we can’t see it clearly. If we cease to look at the world for what we hope or fear that it will be to us, then we can see what it really is, in itself. Its true nature, which is the Way.

But we don’t have to see through the world to manage living in it. The manifestation is an expression of the Way, so it is as real and as essential as the Way itself. Like the two sides of a coin. The world can be understood from the surface as well as from its interior. The descriptive words will differ, but the world and its workings remain the same.

The surface is just as real as what lies beneath it. They reveal each other. None exists without the other, so none is superior or inferior.

We tend to think in opposites – light or dark, high or low, hot or cold, and so on. That is fine as a method of getting acquainted with the world and beginning to understand how it works. But when we make judgement, calling one opposite good and the other bad, we are mistaken. They complement each other, and depend on each other. Even when one of them seems obviously superior, neglecting the other is damaging.

Many belief systems praise the spirit and condemn the body, but the latter is the vessel of the former. They depend on each other. A spirit without a body cannot act, nor can a body without spirit. The Taoist way is to treat each according to its nature. They need differing concern and nourishment. Whichever one is neglected, both will suffer.

The unity of surface and interior also tells us that we should not make them contradict. If you pretend to be something that you are not, then your outside and inside are in conflict. Somewhere along the way you will break. They need not be exactly the same – they cannot, since they differ in nature. But they are joined on one and the same path. A human being is a whole, walking one way. If this whole is divided, for whatever reason, you will halt. You get nowhere.

When we accept that the mystery and the manifestations are each other’s mirror, the secret is revealed. We can understand all. What you see is what you get, but you have to truly see it for what it is. The manifestations become clear when you observe them with delight. The mystery appears when you detach yourself from the world and empty your mind. You will discover their unity: something and nothing embrace and become all.