《莊子》Vol. 14

The opening passage of the “Heaven’s Revolutions” chapter of the Zhuangzi explores the mysteries of nature’s workings through a series of poetic questions:

Does Heaven turn of its own accord? Does Earth remain still? Do the sun and moon contend for their places? Who governs these phenomena? Who keeps these patterns in order? And who, idle and at ease, sets everything in motion?

Here Zhuangzi raises a central Daoist idea: nature follows the inner pattern of the Dao (the Way), rather than being deliberately controlled by some ruler.

Perhaps some inner mechanism compels things to happen as they do? Or do they turn of themselves, unable to stop? Do clouds exist in order to bring rain, or does rain exist in order to form clouds? Who raises the clouds and sends down the rain?

These questions suggest that natural phenomena shape one another through cycles of cause and effect.

Who, idle and at ease, delights in bringing about these changes? The wind blows from the north, now west, now east, circling and swirling through the air. Who breathes in and out to make it blow? And who, doing nothing, waves a fan to stir up the wind? What, then, is the cause of these phenomena?

Zhuangzi uses personification here, but in doing so he rejects the idea that a personal deity rules over nature. He emphasizes instead that the myriad things transform of themselves, through natural Wuwei (non-action). This passage foreshadows the later discussion of the free and easy state of the perfected person, who acts without contrivance.

Wu Xian Shao, a spirit medium from ancient legend, said:

“Come here! I’ll tell you. Between Heaven and Earth are the Six Directions—up, down, and the four cardinal points—and the Five Constants, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water). When rulers follow these natural patterns, they can govern their states well; when they go against them, disaster follows.

“When affairs across the Nine Regions are governed well and virtue is complete, the ruler becomes like a clear mirror reflecting the human world. People everywhere will support such a ruler. This is the most enlightened state of the ‘Supreme Sovereign.’”

Dang, the Grand Steward of Song, asked Zhuangzi what benevolence meant. Zhuangzi replied, “Even tigers and wolves have benevolent feelings.” He meant that benevolence is part of our natural character and need not be pursued deliberately.

This dialogue from the Zhuangzi discusses “Perfect Benevolence,” the highest form of benevolence.

Someone asked Zhuangzi, “Why doesn’t the mutual affection between parent and child count as true benevolence?”

Zhuangzi replied, “Because Perfect Benevolence makes no distinction between those who are close and those who are distant.”

A grand steward then challenged him: “I’ve heard that without such distinctions there can be no love, and without love there can be no filial devotion. Does it make sense to say that Perfect Benevolence has no regard for filial devotion?”

In this passage, Zhuangzi presents a distinctive Daoist view of Perfect Benevolence: true benevolence transcends worldly distinctions of closeness and distance and reaches a state of equality like that expressed in the saying, “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent.” This stands in sharp contrast to the Confucian emphasis on graded affection.

Zhuangzi said:

“That is not so. The highest form of benevolence is exalted; the idea of filial devotion alone cannot describe it. This is not because the standard of filial devotion is too high. On the contrary, it is too low.

It is like someone who travels south to Ying, the capital of Chu, then turns to look north and cannot see Mount Ming. Why is that? Because the distance is too great.

So it is easy to fulfill one’s filial duties with a respectful attitude, but hard to do so with love that comes from the heart. It is easy to fulfill them with love, but hard to forget one’s parents entirely. It is easy to forget one’s parents, but hard to have one’s parents forget oneself. It is easy for one’s parents to forget oneself, but hard to forget the whole world at the same time. It is easy to forget the whole world, but hard to have everyone in the world forget oneself.

True De (Virtue/Power) goes beyond even the sagehood of Yao and Shun. Its benefits reach through the ages, yet the people of the world remain entirely unaware of it.”

Zhuangzi here critiques the moral norms revered by conventional society. He argues that virtues like filial piety (xiao, respecting parents) and fraternal duty (ti, loving siblings), benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), loyalty (zhong), trustworthiness (xin), chastity (zhen), and integrity (lian) are all things people force themselves to pursue—artificial constructs that bind our innate nature and aren't worthy of excessive veneration.

He then presents a profound insight: The most precious thing in existence cannot be matched by the highest noble rank; the truest state of abundance renders all the wealth of a nation superfluous; the most sublime aspiration makes fame and reputation seem insignificant. This is the realm of the Dao (the Way), which remains eternally unchanging.

The passage continues with a parable: Bei Men Cheng asks the Yellow Emperor for guidance. When the Emperor performs the musical piece "Xianchi" by Dongting Lake, Bei Men Cheng describes feeling fear upon first hearing it, then weariness upon listening again, and finally confusion after the performance ends. He becomes so entranced that he forgets both the external world and his own identity.

This text exemplifies Zhuangzi's critique of worldly values—he views artificial moral codes as constraints on our natural spontaneity. The genuine Dao transcends all conventional standards, much like the "Xianchi" music that transports listeners beyond ordinary perception. The Yellow Emperor's musical revelation serves precisely to guide Bei Men Cheng toward this higher state of awareness beyond mundane understanding.

The original passage from the Zhuangzi describes how “supreme music”—music of the highest order—accords with the patterns by which Heaven and Earth and all things operate. Here is a plain-language interpretation:

The Yellow Emperor said, “You probably understand now. I perform using the tones of the human world, verify them against the Dao of Heaven, put them into practice through ritual and right conduct, and take Great Clarity (Taiqing), the source of the cosmos, as their foundation. True supreme music must first accord with the ordinary principles of human life and follow the patterns of nature. It must resonate with the nature of all things. Only then can it harmonize the changing seasons and allow all things to flourish together.

“The seasons turn in succession, and all things grow in cycles. Where there is flourishing, there is decline, just as civil rule and military force take turns in their work. Where there is clarity, there is also murkiness: Yin and Yang Qi (vital energy) harmonize with one another, and sound travels like a streak of light. When hibernating creatures begin to stir, I awaken them with the sound of thunder.

“This music has no definite beginning or end, just as life moves in cycles: death gives way to life, and decline gives way to renewal. The patterns it embodies are eternal, yet their changes are mysterious and impossible to predict.”

As a further note, the Zhuangzi uses the Yellow Emperor’s voice to compare the workings of music with those of the Dao, emphasizing the cycles of the Dao of Heaven and the balance of Yin-Yang. “The alternation of civil and military rule” suggests that social governance, like music, needs a measured alternation of tension and ease. The “Five Virtues” refers to the important Daoist concept of the virtues associated with the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water).

I also perform it through the harmony of Yin and Yang (Yin-Yang), illuminating it with the radiance of the sun and moon. Its notes can be brief or sustained, gentle or forceful. Change holds unity within it, and it never clings to fixed conventions. It fills a valley, and the valley is full; it fills a hollow, and the hollow is filled. It seals the openings and preserves the spirit, while changing to match the capacity of whatever it encounters.

The sound is vast and far-reaching; its renown is lofty and bright. Thus the spirits dwell peacefully in darkness, while the sun, moon, and stars follow their appointed courses. I let this music come to rest within what is bounded, yet also let it flow into the boundless. Try to think about it, and it cannot be understood; try to look at it, and it cannot be seen; try to pursue it, and it can never be caught.

This passage comes from the “Heaven’s Cycle” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It uses music to explain how the Dao (the Way) operates. Yin-Yang refers to the two fundamental forces that constitute all things. “Preserving the spirit” is an important Daoist cultivation concept: it means maintaining inward focus and calm. Through this poetic description, Zhuangzi presents the Dao as formless and without shape, yet present everywhere.

This passage comes from the “Heaven’s Circuit” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It describes a spiritual state that stands beyond the things of the world and the natural course of the Dao (the Way):

The first part describes someone standing casually in the middle of a road open in every direction, leaning against a withered parasol tree and singing. Their eyes have taken in everything they wished to see, and their strength is spent pursuing what they wanted, yet in the end they still cannot reach their goal. Their body is full, but their inner self is empty, so they can only drift with the current. This state of drifting with the current leaves a person slack and listless.

The second part turns to the realm of the Dao: “I” — here, the Dao — begin playing a ceaseless piece of music, bringing things into harmony through the patterns of nature. This music is like the mingled growth of all things, like an orchestra of the forest with no fixed form. Its sounds carry far without lingering; it is deep and dim, yet not silent.

The third part continues to describe the qualities of the Dao: its movement has no fixed direction, and it exists in depths of mystery. Some call it death, others new life; some call it fruit, others blossom. It flows and changes, never holding to any fixed melody.

Here Zhuangzi uses music as a metaphor for the movement of the Dao, emphasizing its natural Wuwei (non-action) and its ever-changing character. Ideas such as weiyi (drifting with the current), “the sound that never grows weary” (unceasing music), and “the mandate of nature” (the patterns of nature) are central expressions of Zhuangzi’s thought about following nature and going beyond what is imposed by human intention.

When people are confused about the Great Dao, they turn to sages for confirmation. A sage understands the nature of all things and follows the mandate of Heaven. There is no need for a sage to deliberately display the workings of nature (the secrets of Heaven). The senses—eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body—are already complete and unimpaired. This is called “Heavenly Joy”: a joy that gladdens the heart without words.

That is why the ancient ruler Yanshi, a legendary sovereign of remote antiquity, praised it this way: “Listen, and there is no sound to hear; look, and there is no form to see. It fills all the space between Heaven and Earth and encloses the six directions, above and below.” You may try to hear it, but you cannot reach it, and so you become perplexed.

At first, this “joy”—the state of becoming one with the Dao—may inspire fear, and fear gives rise to reverence. Then it may bring weariness, and weariness makes one want to withdraw. In the end, it may leave one bewildered; through bewilderment, one returns to simplicity. This simplicity allows one to commune with the Dao, and the Great Dao can then bear all things and become one with them.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi. It recounts a conversation between Confucius and one of his disciples.

Confucius traveled west to the state of Wei. His student Yan Yuan (Yan Hui) asked Shijin, a musician from the state of Lu, “What do you think will come of our teacher’s journey this time?”

Shijin sighed. “Alas, I’m afraid your teacher is going to run into trouble!”

Yan Yuan pressed him: “Why do you say that?”

Shijin explained: “It is like a straw dog used in sacrifice. Before it is placed on the altar, people carry it in an ornate bamboo box and cover it with embroidered cloth. The officiating priests even fast and bathe before going to receive it.”

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi and tells the parable of the “straw dogs”—dogs woven from straw for ancient rites and discarded when the ceremony was over.

As soon as these straw offerings had served their purpose, passersby would trample on their heads and backs, and woodcutters would gather them up for firewood. But suppose someone picked up the discarded straw dogs, placed them in finely made boxes, covered them with embroidered cloth, and kept them close all day—living, eating, and sleeping with them. Such a person would not have pleasant dreams; instead, they would suffer one nightmare after another.

Some scholars today are like that. They retrieve ritual practices abandoned long ago by the sage kings—practices likened to used straw dogs—and have their disciples study and follow them day after day. That is why they face the humiliation of having trees felled in the state of Song, where Confucius was pursued by Sima Huan-tui; why they are driven out of the state of Wei; and why they fall into hardship in the lands of the Shang and Zhou. Are these not their nightmares? Later, when they were trapped between Chen and Cai, unable to eat a hot meal for seven days and nearly starving to death, did their nightmares not come true?

With this image, Zhuangzi mocks scholars who cling rigidly to outdated rites. Treating a straw dog left over from a sacrifice as a treasure is absurd; in the end, they bring trouble upon themselves.

For traveling on water, no tool is better than a boat; for traveling on land, none is more suitable than a cart. If you insist on pushing a boat onto land just because it can move through water, you could travel only a short distance in a whole lifetime. Isn’t the difference between ancient and modern times like the difference between water and land routes? And isn’t the difference between the Zhou dynasty and the state of Lu—between an ideal and reality—like the difference between a boat and a cart?

To insist on putting the Zhou system into practice in Lu is like pushing a boat across dry land: it wastes effort and invites disaster. Such a person does not understand the principle of transmission without fixed rules. Only by adapting to the nature and changes of things can one respond to circumstances without end.

Have you never seen a counterweighted well sweep, used to draw water? Pull the rope and it lowers; release the rope and it rises. It is moved by people rather than moving them, so whether it is high or low, it offends no one. This illustrates the importance of following the natural patterns of things.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explains why systems of ritual and law should adapt to changing times.

The rituals and laws established by the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, the legendary sage rulers of antiquity, mattered not because they were all the same, but because they each governed the state effectively. It is like hawthorns, pears, oranges, and pomelos: they taste different, yet each is delicious.

Rituals and laws should be adjusted as the times change. Imagine dressing a monkey in the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou, founder of the Western Zhou ritual system. It would bite and tug at them, and would not be comfortable until it had stripped them off. The difference between past and present is as great as the difference between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou.

The passage then uses the story of Dongshi imitating Xishi to show the absurdity of blind imitation. When Xishi, a renowned beauty of antiquity, furrowed her brow because of pain in her chest, she looked captivating. A homely woman from the village saw her and copied her, pressing a hand to her chest and furrowing her brow. The wealthy who saw her hurriedly shut their gates; the poor fled with their wives and children.

This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s political thought that one should respond to changing times. It opposes rigid adherence to ancient institutions and calls for flexibility guided by actual circumstances.

This passage from Chapter Fourteen of the Zhuangzi tells two stories.

The first is about someone who sees only that a furrowed brow is beautiful. “Furrowed brow” (pin) refers to the celebrated pose of the ancient beauty Xishi, who furrowed her brow when she was in pain. The observer fails to understand what truly makes the expression beautiful. The passage then laments, “How regrettable! Sir, your teachings cannot be put into practice!” The allusion to the furrowed brow suggests seeing only outward appearances without understanding their deeper cause.

The second story says that when Confucius was fifty-one, he had not yet understood the true Dao. He therefore traveled south to Pei to visit Laozi (Lao Dan). When Laozi saw him, he said, “You have come! I have heard that you are a worthy man from the north. Have you attained the Dao?” Confucius answered honestly, “Not yet.” This episode shows the difference between Daoist and Confucian attitudes toward the pursuit of the Dao.

Here, “Dao” means the fundamental order of the universe and the highest truth; “attaining the Dao” means understanding this ultimate truth.

Laozi asked, “Where have you been seeking the Dao?”

The other person replied, “I sought the Dao by studying the rules and institutions of ritual propriety. After five years, I still had not understood it.”

Laozi asked again, “And where did you seek it after that?”

The person said, “I then turned to the principles of Yin-Yang transformation. After twelve years, I still had not understood it.”

Laozi said, “Indeed. If the Dao (the Way, the fundamental pattern of the cosmos) could be offered to someone like a gift, everyone would offer it to their ruler. If it could be presented like tribute, everyone would present it to their parents. If it could be conveyed to others in words, everyone would tell it to their brothers. If it could be passed down like property, everyone would hand it on to their descendants.”

The reason none of this can be done is simple: without an inner foundation for realizing the Dao, it will not take root; without suitable conditions in the outside world, it cannot be put into practice. When the Dao is realized inwardly but not accepted outwardly, even a sage will not force it on others. When a teaching comes from outside but is not truly understood within, a sage will neither conceal nor withhold it.

Fame belongs to everyone and cannot be grasped for oneself. Benevolence, righteousness, and moral virtue are like a waystation where ancient rulers stayed on their journeys. One may stay for a night, but not for long.

This passage uses metaphor to show that the Dao cannot be conveyed through words or attained by force. Speaking through Laozi, Zhuangzi suggests that true realization requires inner and outer conditions to accord, and that worldly fame and moral conventions are only temporary aids to which one should not become attached.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes how the ancient Perfected Ones—people of the highest moral and spiritual cultivation—lived, and the pitiable condition of those fixated on wealth, fame, and power.

The ancient Perfected Ones lived this way: outwardly, they followed the principles of benevolence and righteousness, while inwardly they sought a state of freedom and ease. They ate grain grown through simple cultivation and lived in the countryside without needing to borrow. “Freedom and ease” meant following nature without deliberate effort; “simple living” meant having needs that were few and easily satisfied; and “needing no loans” meant having no need to seek anything from outside. The ancients called this way of life “wandering in the gathering of the real”—gathering one’s true nature and returning to simplicity.

Those who crave wealth and rank cannot bear to give up their stipends. Those who seek prominence cannot let go of empty fame. Those who are enamored of power are unwilling to share authority with others. They cling to these things in constant fear, grieve bitterly when they lose them, and never see the nature of their attachments; instead, they keep pursuing more. Such people are pitiable, as though punished by Heaven.

Resentment, favors, taking, giving, admonition, instruction, killing, and sparing life: these eight actions are all tools for setting the world right.

Only those who follow the fundamental changes of the natural Dao (the Way) without being misled by external things can truly put the Dao into practice.

Thus, the “right” way means keeping one’s original nature intact. If the heart does not accept this principle, the gateway to Heaven’s Way—the path to awakening to the Dao—will not open.

When Confucius went to see Laozi, also known as Lao Dan, they spoke about benevolence and righteousness. Laozi said:

“It is like chaff blown into your eyes: it blurs your sight until you can no longer tell the four directions of Heaven and Earth. A mosquito bite can leave you unable to sleep all night. The teachings of benevolence and righteousness that you promote sting my heart in just this way. Nothing could be more disruptive.

“You should let the people of the world preserve their natural simplicity. You yourself should act as freely and naturally as the wind, and live by holding fast to true De (Virtue). Why rush to proclaim benevolence and righteousness? That would be as futile as carrying a great drum while searching for a lost child. The swan stays white without bathing every day; the crow stays black without being dyed every day.”

Through these images, the dialogue presents the Daoist view that one should follow one’s natural nature. It criticizes the deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness, arguing that it disrupts people’s innate simplicity. Laozi’s everyday examples suggest that forcibly imposing these values interferes with the natural order and brings disorder instead.

First Modern Interpretation

A simple contrast between black and white hardly counts as a real debate; outward honors and reputation hardly amount to any lofty realm. It is like fish stranded on dry land after a spring has dried up, moistening one another with their spittle. This may seem moving, but it is less free than swimming in rivers and lakes, where they can simply forget one another and be at ease.

Second Modern Interpretation

After visiting Laozi (Lao Dan), Confucius returned and did not speak for three whole days. His disciples could not help asking, “Master, when you met Laozi, what teachings did you receive?”

Third Modern Interpretation

Confucius exclaimed, “Only today have I seen a true dragon! This numinous creature gathers itself into a complete form, then disperses into splendid patterns. It roams on clouds, nourished by the two energies of Yin and Yang. I was so astonished that my mouth fell open and my tongue tied itself in knots. How could I presume to pass judgment on Laozi?”

Here Confucius uses the “dragon” as a metaphor for Laozi, portraying his thought as elusive and transformative, and his realm as lofty. The allusion to fish “moistening one another” later became an idiom for helping one another in hardship. In the Zhuangzi, however, the emphasis is on the ease of natural freedom, which surpasses a relationship held together by effort.

This dialogue takes place between Zigong, a disciple of Confucius, and Laozi (Lao Dan).

Zigong asked, “So do people like this really exist in the world? They seem to sit motionless, like a corpse, yet appear like a spirit dragon; they seem as silent as an abyss, yet can sound like thunder. Their movement and stillness are as natural as the workings of Heaven and Earth. May I meet such a person?”

Zigong then went to visit Laozi in Confucius’s name. Laozi was sitting casually in the hall. In a soft voice, he said, “I am old now. Is there something you would like to tell me?”

Zigong continued, “The Three Kings and Five Emperors governed the world in different ways, yet all earned a reputation for being sages. Why, then, do you, Master, consider them not to have been true sages?”

Here, “sitting like a corpse, appearing like a dragon” describes the profound state of a Daoist adept: still as a corpse at rest, yet dragonlike in action. “The Three Kings and Five Emperors” refers to legendary sage rulers of antiquity; the specific figures meant vary across different accounts.

Laozi, also known as Lao Dan, said, “Young man, come here! Why do you say they were different?”

The other replied, “Yao passed the imperial throne to Shun, and Shun passed it on to Yu. Yu earned his authority through the hard work of controlling the floods, while Tang of Shang used force to overthrow the Xia dynasty. King Wen of Zhou obeyed King Zhou of Shang and did not dare defy him, but King Wu of Zhou raised an army and refused to submit. That is why I say their actions were different.”

Laozi continued, “Young man, come a little closer and listen. I will tell you how the Three Kings and Five Emperors governed the world. When the Yellow Emperor governed, he brought the people’s hearts back to unity and simplicity. In those days, when a family member died, people did not weep, and they did not think there was anything wrong with that.”

Note: The “Three Kings” usually refers to Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and King Wen or King Wu of Zhou. The “Five Emperors” refers to the ancient sage rulers, including the Yellow Emperor, Zhuanxu, Emperor Ku, Yao, and Shun. By contrasting the ways these sage rulers governed, Laozi introduces the ideal of a return to simplicity associated with the Yellow Emperor’s time.

When Yao governed the world, he made the people care only about family bonds. In those days, people who killed in order to show filial devotion to their parents—an extreme form of filial conduct—were not thought to have done anything wrong.

When Shun governed the world, he set the people to competing with one another. In those days, a child was born after ten months in the womb and could speak at five months, showing remarkable precocity. Before the age when a child could smile, it could already distinguish familiar people from strangers. And so premature death began to appear among humankind.

When Yu governed the world, he made the people’s minds grow complicated. People developed selfish desires, and the use of force came to be justified: killing a thief was not counted as killing a person, a sign of private punishment run amok. People formed factions around their own groups, and everyone in the world became wary and uneasy. Schools such as the Confucians and Mohists sprang up. At first, their teachings had some order; now they have become as trivial as women’s gossip. What more is there to say?

Let me tell you: when the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors—the legendary sages of antiquity—governed the world, they claimed to bring order, but in fact they caused a disorder greater than any other.

This passage from the Zhuangzi says:

The supposed wisdom of the Three Sovereigns—three legendary sage-kings of high antiquity—went against the natural course of the sun and moon above, damaged the life-giving spirit of the mountains and rivers below, and disrupted the changing order of the seasons in between. Their wisdom was more poisonous than the venom on a creature’s tail. Even the smallest beasts could no longer live in peace according to their own nature. And still they considered themselves sages. Were they not ashamed? They were utterly without shame!

Hearing these words, Zigong, a student of Confucius, was so shaken that he could neither sit nor stand at ease.

Later, Confucius said to Laozi (Lao Dan): “I have studied the six classics—the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, the Book of Rites, the Book of Music, the Book of Changes, and the Spring and Autumn Annals—for a long time. I thought I understood their principles…”

This passage shows Zhuangzi’s critical view of the ancient sage-kings revered by Confucians and of the classical texts. He suggests that human-made systems of ritual and law disrupt the natural Dao. Through the reactions of Confucius and his student, the passage implies that even Confucian sages feel unsettled when faced with the deeper wisdom of Daoism.

This dialogue from the Zhuangzi tells of Confucius seeking advice from Laozi on the art of governing:

Confucius said, “I have visited seventy-two rulers in succession, explaining to them the ways of governing practiced by the sage kings of antiquity and setting out the governing policies of the Duke of Zhou, a founding figure of the Zhou dynasty, and the Duke of Shao, a virtuous minister of that dynasty. Yet not one ruler was willing to adopt them. Alas! People are so hard to persuade, and the Great Dao is so hard to make understood!”

Laozi replied, “You should be glad you never encountered one of those so-called ‘enlightened rulers who bring order to the age.’ The Six Classics—the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, Book of Music, Book of Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals—are no more than worn-out footprints left by the sage kings of old. How could they be the source from which those footprints came? What you are talking about now is like studying footprints. A footprint is made by a shoe, but can the footprint be the same thing as the shoe?”

Laozi continued with examples from nature: “Look at the egrets. When they gaze at one another, their eyes do not move, yet they mate and reproduce naturally. Insects do the same: the male chirps upwind, the female answers downwind, and they mate naturally. If the true Dao follows nature, why would it need so much human preaching?”

Through these metaphors, the dialogue suggests that clinging to the specific methods of ancient sage kings is like studying footprints and forgetting the shoe. The true Dao means following nature and governing through Wuwei (non-action).

This passage from the Zhuangzi explains how all things change naturally and how we should follow the Dao, the Way.

Some creatures are both male and female—for example, certain worms can reproduce on their own—and so they multiply naturally. One’s nature cannot be forcibly changed, fate cannot be turned by human effort, time does not stop, and the Great Dao, the natural order, cannot be obstructed. When we follow the Dao, nothing is out of reach; when we go against it, no effort will go smoothly.

After three months in seclusion, Confucius understood this. He exclaimed, “I see! Crows and magpies reproduce through mating, fish reproduce by spitting, and the slender-waisted bee, a kind of parasitic wasp, brings forth larvae. When a younger brother arrives in a household, the older brother cries—this reflects the natural pattern of change and succession. For too long, I have been estranged from the transformations of nature! How can someone who cannot follow nature’s changes influence others?”

Hearing this, Laozi praised him: “Good! Kong Qiu, you have finally understood!”

Through everyday examples such as animal reproduction and the relationship between brothers, this passage shows that all things follow the patterns of natural change. In the story of Confucius seeking the Dao, Zhuangzi suggests that people should let go of contrivance and follow the natural Way. Only then can they live in harmony with the myriad things of Heaven and Earth.