《莊子》Vol. 19

Someone who truly understands the nature of life does not seek what life itself does not need. Someone who sees the truth about fate does not force what the mind’s powers cannot change. Caring for the body does require material resources, yet some people have plenty and still fail to care for their bodies well. Life depends on physical form, yet some people have healthy bodies and still lose their vitality.

We cannot refuse life when it comes, nor hold it back when it departs. How sad! People assume that caring for the body can preserve life. But if tending the body cannot keep life from passing, what purpose do all these efforts serve? They may ultimately be futile, yet people still have to make them. This is the inescapable predicament of human life.

Here, “Understanding Life” means grasping life’s essential nature; “tending the body” means caring for it through material means. Zhuangzi suggests that excessive attachment to bodily care can lead us away from the natural Dao (the Way), and advocates following life in its unforced, natural state.

This passage from the Zhuangzi (Classic of the Way and Virtue) describes how transcendence can bring one into harmony with nature:

For those who wish to free themselves from the constraints of the body, the best approach is to let go of worldly entanglements. When these are set aside, there is no burden; without a burden, the mind becomes calm and balanced. In that calm, one can renew oneself together with nature. To reach this state of renewal is to draw close to the Dao (the Way).

What is there in worldly affairs worth clinging to? What is there in life worth remembering? Set aside worldly concerns, and the body will not be wearied. Let go of thoughts of life and death, and the spirit will not be depleted. When the body is whole and the spirit full, one can become one with nature.

Heaven and Earth are like the parents of all things. When the two Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang come together, life takes shape; when they disperse, it returns to its source. To keep body and spirit undiminished is called “being able to move with change”—that is, to follow nature’s transformations. When spiritual cultivation reaches its height, it can in turn assist nature in its workings.

Here, “being able to move with change” is a Daoist cultivation term for a state in which body and mind are deeply harmonized and can follow nature’s transformations. “Assisting Heaven” means supporting nature’s workings and reaching a state of unity between humanity and Heaven.

Liezi, a leading figure of Daoism, asked Guan Yin, a perfected Daoist: “Those who have attained the Dao can enter water without choking, walk across blazing fires without feeling burned, and move among all things without fear. How do they reach such a state?”

Guan Yin replied: “They do so by guarding the pure Qi (vital energy) they received from the beginning—not through cleverness or courage. Sit down, and I will explain. Everything with a body, a form, a sound, or a color belongs to the realm of things. Why do things differ from one another? How could one surpass another? These are only outward appearances.

“The true creator has no form, and its transformations leave no trace. For someone who understands this and probes it deeply, how could external things bind them? Such a person keeps to due measure and does not go to excess, dwells within the order that has neither beginning nor end, and roams at the source of the arising and passing away of all things. They unite their nature and nurture their original Qi.”

Here, “guarding pure Qi” means preserving the purity of one’s innate Qi through Daoist cultivation. “Keeping to due measure” means maintaining the Middle Way in practice, without excess or deficiency.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the state of “whole spirit”:

When a person’s De (Virtue/Power) is completely joined with the Dao (the Way) of nature, they can reach the source of all things. Their inborn nature is then whole and without flaw, and their spirit has no opening through which outside things can intrude. How could anything disturb them?

Consider a drunk person who falls from a carriage. Though injured, they do not die. Their bones are like everyone else’s, yet they are hurt differently because their spirit remains whole. While drunk, they did not know they were riding in a carriage, and they do not know they have fallen from it. Fear of life and death cannot enter their heart, so even an accident does not frighten them.

If a person can reach this state through drink, how much more so through following the Way of Heaven? The spirit of a sage—a person who has realized the Way—is one with nature, so nothing can harm them.

The image of drunkenness here represents a state of “forgetting the self.” It illustrates the special protection that comes when a person fully lets go of self-awareness and becomes one with nature, a vivid expression of the states cultivated in practices such as “sitting in forgetfulness” and “fasting the mind.”

1. A person seeking revenge would not break the precious sword once used by their enemy—famous blades such as Moye or Ganjiang. Nor would someone narrow-minded resent a roof tile blown down by the wind. If everyone in the world could think this way, fairness and harmony would naturally follow. So the key to ending war and disorder, and abolishing executions and killing, is to follow this principle.

2. Do not impose deliberate human contrivance—“opening up what belongs to the human”—but instead follow the nature of things—“opening up what belongs to Heaven.” Following nature nurtures De (Virtue or Power); contrivance only breeds harm. When people neither violate the natural order nor disregard human needs, the people can preserve their unspoiled nature.

3. Confucius was traveling to the state of Chu. As he passed through a grove, he saw a stooped old man catching cicadas with a bamboo pole tipped with sticky material. The man’s movements were so skillful that the task seemed as easy as picking something up by hand. The passage should continue with the old man explaining his story of cultivating single-minded concentration, but the classical text provided here ends at this point.

Confucius said, “Your skill is remarkable! Have you mastered some technique of the Dao?”

The man replied, “I have indeed mastered the Dao. When I first began practicing, it took me five or six months to stack two pellets without letting them fall, and I still failed often. Once I could stack three without dropping them, my failures fell to one in ten. By the time I could stack five without dropping them, it felt as easy as picking something up.”

“When I stand, my body is as steady as a wooden stake. When I raise my arm, it is as motionless as a withered branch. Though Heaven and Earth are vast and all things abound, I focus only on the cicada’s wings. I never let my attention wander or allow anything else to distract me. How could I fail to catch the cicada?”

The story of the cicada catcher illustrates a state of complete focus and self-forgetfulness. The word tiao here means “cicada.” “Steady as a wooden stake” describes his motionless posture, while “an arm like a withered branch” compares his still arm to a dead limb. These images give concrete form to the Daoist practice of zuowang, “sitting in forgetfulness.”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When a person devotes himself wholeheartedly, without distraction, his spirit can reach a high degree of concentration. Is this not what we see in the hunchbacked old man?”

Yan Hui (Yan Yuan) asked Confucius (Zhongni), “I once crossed a deep pool called Shangshen. I saw a ferryman handling his boat with astonishing skill and asked him, ‘Can the art of rowing be learned?’ He replied, ‘Yes. Those who swim well can master it through practice.’”

Yan Hui continued, “But people who are skilled divers can handle a boat with ease even if they have never seen one before. I asked one of them how this was possible, but he would not explain. What does this mean?”

This passage uses a conversation between Zhuangzi’s Confucius and his disciples to describe two states of cultivation: concentration without distraction, and a natural state of becoming one with the Dao, as if one were ‘no one.’ The hunchbacked old man is the cicada catcher mentioned earlier; the ‘no one’ refers to the skilled divers. Both serve as images of those who have attained the Dao.

Confucius said, “A skilled swimmer soon learns to row because he is familiar with the nature of water and does not take it too seriously. Those skilled at diving can handle a boat as soon as they climb aboard, even if they have never seen one before. They look at an abyss as though it were level ground, and watch a boat capsize as calmly as they would watch a cart roll backward. With capsizing and carts overturning before their eyes, their minds remain completely undisturbed. What could they not do with ease and composure?”

Consider gambling as an example: when a tile is the stake, people play with skill; when a belt hook—a valuable ornament—is at stake, they grow tense; when gold is wagered, they become dazed. Their gambling skill is the same in each case, but concern over winning and losing lets external things control them. Those who place too much value on external things become clumsy in mind.

In another story, Tian Kaizhi visited Duke Wei of Zhou. The duke asked him, “I have heard that Zhu Shen, an ancient practitioner of health cultivation, is studying the art of nourishing life. You know him. Have you learned anything from him?”

Tian Kaizhi said modestly: "I am but a humble sweeper at the gate—how could I possibly comprehend the profound teachings of our master?"

Duke Wei encouraged him: "Master Tian, please don't decline. I sincerely wish to hear your insights."

Thereupon Tian Kaizhi relayed: "I once heard our master say: 'Those who truly understand the art of nurturing life are like shepherds—when they see a lamb falling behind, they gently urge it forward with a whip.'"

Duke Wei asked in puzzlement: "What does this mean?"

(Here Zhuangzi uses sheep-herding as a metaphor for cultivating life. The ancients believed that nurturing life doesn't mean blindly pursuing strength, but rather maintaining overall balance. Just as a shepherd wouldn't let the flock scatter too far, nurturing life requires adjusting one's condition—gently urging the lagging aspects forward to maintain harmonious unity of body and mind.)

Tian Kaizhi told a story:

In the state of Lu, a man named Shan Bao lived deep in the mountains, drinking spring water and competing with no one for worldly gain. Even at seventy, his complexion was rosy like a baby’s. Sadly, he later encountered a hungry tiger and was eaten. Another man, named Zhang Yi, spent his days rushing between the homes of the wealthy, ingratiating himself wherever he went. He died at forty from an internal fever.

Shan Bao valued inner cultivation, yet died from an outside threat. Zhang Yi pursued wealth and status, yet an inner illness took his life. Neither man managed to keep the inner and outer in balance.

Confucius heard the story and said, “Do not withdraw completely from the world, and do not show yourself off too much. Stand steadily in the middle, like a tree. If you can manage these three things, you will reach the highest level. It is like traveling on a dangerous road: out of every ten people, one will die.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes how people often overlook what they should truly be wary of, while taking excessive care over minor matters.

The first section says that when fathers and sons, or brothers, warn one another, they insist on gathering a large retinue before daring to go out. Isn’t that ridiculous? The passage mocks people for turning simple matters into complicated ones: their excessive caution makes them seem foolish.

The next section makes the point clear: what people should really be wary of are the pleasures of everyday life, such as sexual pleasure and the desire for food. Yet people often ignore the very things that call for restraint. That is their greatest fault.

The passage then offers a sacrificial parable. A ritual officer, dressed in formal robes (xuanduan), comes to the pigsty and says to a pig: “Why fear death? I will feed you well for three months, fast and purify myself for ten days, and observe the three-day purification before the sacrifice. I will spread white grass for you and place your shoulders and haunches on an ornate sacrificial stand (diaozu). Would you be willing to accept that?”

Zhuangzi ends with a sharp observation: if you were making plans for the pig, you would do better to let it eat grain scraps and stay in its pen. But what about people themselves? In life, they covet high rank and fine robes (xuanmian); in death, they hope to lie in a painted coffin (zhendun) and an ornate hearse (julu). By comparing people with pigs, the passage ridicules the absurdity of chasing splendor: people are clear-sighted when telling pigs not to seek luxury, yet become absorbed in it themselves.

This story from the Zhuangzi is an allegory about Duke Huan of Qi, who fell ill after seeing a ghost while hunting.

The first part uses pig-raising as a metaphor: when people make plans for pigs, they take away their lives by slaughtering them for meat; when they make plans for themselves, they greedily pursue their own interests. How are people any different from the pigs they treat this way? The passage satirizes human selfishness.

The story then describes what happened. Duke Huan was hunting in a marsh, with Guan Zhong driving his carriage. Suddenly, the duke said he had seen a ghost. He seized Guan Zhong’s hand and asked, “Father Zhong, did you see it?” Guan Zhong replied that he had seen nothing.

After returning to the palace, Duke Huan came down with a strange illness. Eyi refers to a condition of mental confusion. He stayed indoors for several days. A worthy man from Qi named Huangzi Gao’ao came to explain the cause of his illness:

“You frightened yourself. How could a ghost harm you? When pent-up anger and Qi (vital energy) become blocked: if they dissipate and do not return, Qi becomes deficient; if they only surge upward and do not descend, a person becomes irritable; if they only sink and do not rise, a person becomes forgetful; and if they remain lodged in the middle of the body, around the heart, they cause illness.”

The passage explains how disturbances in the movement of Qi can cause illness through emotional distress, a principle central to traditional Chinese medicine. Huangzi Gao’ao says Duke Huan’s illness arose from the disorder in his Qi caused by his own fearful suspicions.

Duke Huan of Qi asked, “Are there really ghosts in this world?”

The reply was, “Indeed there are. In the filthy ditches lives a ghost called Lü; in the stove lives one called Ji. In places indoors where dust has piled up, there are spirits called Leiting. Beneath the northeast corner of a wall, spirits called Beia and Guilong leap about; beneath the northwest corner lives a ghost called Yiyang.

“In the water lives a water spirit called Wangxiang. On the hills there is a mountain spirit called Zu; deep in the mountains lurks Kui, a one-legged creature. In the wilderness wanders a ghost called Panghuang, while in the marshes lies in wait Weishe, a snake-shaped monster.”

This passage names various spirits from ancient legend, reflecting the way people personified natural phenomena. Zhuangzi uses them to express the Daoist view that all things possess spiritual life. Many of these names refer to spirits associated with particular environments.

Duke Huan of Qi asked, “Could you describe the mythical serpent Weishe for me?”

Prince Huangzi replied, “Weishe has a body as thick as a chariot’s wheel hub and is as long as a chariot pole. It wears a purple robe and a red crest. This spirit creature hates the sound of the thunder chariot—the vehicle said to carry the Thunder God. As soon as it hears that sound, it clutches its head and rises upright. Anyone who sees it can nearly be called a ruler of all under Heaven.”

After hearing this, Duke Huan laughed with delight and said, “That is exactly what I saw!” He then straightened his robes and cap, and sat facing Prince Huangzi for a solemn conversation. Before a day had passed, his illness had quietly and unexpectedly vanished.

This passage comes from a parable in the Zhuangzi. The tale of Duke Huan encountering the spirit creature Weishe and recovering from illness suggests that guidance from a wise person, or insight into the Dao (the Way), can heal ailments of both body and mind. The claim that “anyone who sees it can rule all under Heaven” also reflects the political culture of the Warring States period, when wonder-workers often persuaded feudal lords by invoking auspicious omens.

Ji Xingzi, an expert in training birds in ancient times, was training fighting cocks for the king. After ten days, the king asked, “Are the chickens ready?” Ji Xingzi replied, “Not yet. This one is still too restless and relies only on brute force.”

Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Xingzi said, “Not yet. It still reacts at once when it hears another chicken crow or sees a shadow.”

After another ten days, the king asked for a third time. Ji Xingzi replied, “Still not yet. Its gaze remains fierce, and its bearing is too aggressive.”

This passage uses the story of training a fighting cock to suggest the Daoist discipline of stillness. True strength needs no show of force; the highest state is to be like a wooden cock, unmoved by external things. “Restless and proud, relying on its strength” describes a vain, arrogant state of showing off one’s toughness and eagerness to fight. “Reacting to sounds and shadows” means being overly sensitive to external stimuli, while “looking fiercely and radiating aggression” describes an excessively combative state.

These two stories from the “Understanding Life” chapter of the Zhuangzi present two different states of attaining the Dao (the Way).

In the first story, by the tenth day of training, the fighting cock has reached the highest level. Though it can still crow, it shows no sign of agitation and looks like a wooden cock. This shows that its inner cultivation is complete. The other fighting cocks dare not challenge it; when they see it, they turn and flee. Here, the “wooden cock” symbolizes a state in which cultivation has reached its height: self and world are forgotten, and everything unfolds with effortless naturalness.

The second story tells how Confucius witnessed a perilous scene at Lüliang. The waterfall was thirty ren high—more than fifty meters by modern measure—and its torrent sent spray and foam stretching for forty li. Even giant turtles and crocodiles dared not swim there. Yet a man was swimming in the water. Thinking he was trying to take his own life, Confucius quickly sent his disciples downstream to rescue him. The man emerged after swimming several hundred paces, then let his hair hang loose and sang as he wandered below the embankment. This scene depicts the state of one who has attained the Dao and become completely at one with nature.

Confucius caught up with him and asked, “At first I thought you were a ghost. Looking closely, I see you are a man. Is there some special way you swim?” The phrase “swimming in water has its own way” hints that such extraordinary ability comes from insight into the Dao.

This passage from Zhuangzi explains the principle of following nature:

“I can move freely in water because I follow its ways completely. Born on land, I became accustomed to life on land—this is gu (what one starts from). Growing up in water, I adapted to its nature—this is xing (what one develops through experience). In the end, I reached a state of acting naturally, without effort—this is ming (what one fulfills). I dive beneath the water with the whirlpools and rise with the currents, following the nature of the water without imposing my own will. That is the secret of swimming freely.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by ‘starting from gu, growing through xing, and fulfilling ming’?”

Zhuangzi explained, “Born among the hills, I became accustomed to life there; that is gu, the environment one begins in. Growing up by the water, I adapted to its nature; that is xing, the habits formed through experience. Finally, I reached a point where I could do this naturally, without having to think about it. That is ming, a state of being in accord with the Dao.”

In this exchange, swimming serves as a metaphor for the Daoist idea of accepting the times and following what comes naturally. It emphasizes living in harmony with the patterns of nature and adapting to one’s surroundings.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells the story of Qing the woodworker, who made a gui, an exquisitely crafted ancient wooden musical instrument.

After Qing carved the gui from wood, everyone who saw it marveled that it seemed to have been made by spirits. The ruler of Lu saw it and asked him, “What wondrous method did you use to make it?”

Qing replied, “I’m only an ordinary craftsman. What wondrous method could I have? But I have learned something. Before making a gui, I never dare let my Jing and Qi be depleted; I always fast and quiet my mind. After three days of fasting, I no longer think about rewards or rank. After five days, I no longer care whether people praise or criticize my craft. After seven days, I even forget that I have limbs and a body. By then, I have forgotten the affairs of the court, and my mind is wholly focused; all distractions from the outside world have vanished. Only then do I enter the mountain forests and observe the trees in their natural forms...”

These two passages from the “Attaining Life” chapter of the Zhuangzi describe what happens when a craft reaches its highest level.

The first passage is about a craftsman making a ju—a crossbar on an ancient stand for bells and stone chimes. When the craftsman gives himself completely to the work, he even forgets his own body. Only then can he see clearly the ju he is about to make and begin shaping it. If he cannot reach this state, he should not attempt the work. This state of “joining the natural with the natural” is the secret behind creating an object so skillfully that it seems to surpass nature.

The second passage tells of the expert charioteer Dongye Ji. Before Duke Zhuang of Lu, he demonstrated his driving: his forward and backward paths were straight as an ink line, and his turns to either side were as round as if drawn with a compass. The duke thought that even the finest patterns could not match such precision, and ordered him to make a hundred circuits in succession.

Yan He, a wise man who saw the display, went in and told the duke, “Dongye Ji’s horses are about to collapse from exhaustion.” The duke fell silent and did not reply. The story shows that however exceptional a skill may be, forcing it against the laws of nature will ultimately lead to failure.

After a while, the horse did indeed return, exhausted. The ruler asked, “How did you know this would happen?”

He replied, “The horse was already worn out, yet it was still being driven onward. So I said it was bound to fail.”

Next comes the story of the craftsman Chui, a legendary artisan from the time of Emperor Yao. Chui could draw a circle freehand more skillfully than someone using a compass. His fingers adapted naturally to whatever he worked with. He did not need to calculate or exert his mind deliberately, so his spirit remained clear, focused, and unconstrained.

The passage ends with two comparisons: when a shoe fits perfectly, you forget your feet; when a belt is perfectly comfortable, you forget your waist. This illustrates how, when a skill reaches its highest level, one can enter a natural state in which the distinction between self and things falls away.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes two ways of living.

The first is the state of “comfort found by forgetting comfort”: when you let go of judgments about right and wrong, your mind becomes free. You neither become entangled in your own thoughts nor blindly follow the world around you, so you can respond naturally to whatever arises. To be at ease from the very beginning and never lose that ease is the highest state: forgetting comfort itself.

The second part tells of a man named Sun Xiu, who complains about his fate. He visits Bian Qingzi and says, “In my home village, no one says I lack Virtue; when danger comes, no one says I lack courage. Yet when I farm, the harvest is never good; when I serve the ruler, the times are never right. I am unwelcome in my village and pushed aside in the district. What have I done to offend Heaven? Why am I so unlucky?”

Bian Qingzi replies, “Have you never heard how the Perfected Person lives? They forget their liver, gallbladder, and other organs, and leave their ears and eyes behind. They rise above the things of the world, roam beyond the dusty realm, and live freely in Wuwei (non-action). They act without relying on their actions, and guide the myriad things without ruling over them.”

Here, “forgetting the liver and gallbladder, leaving the ears and eyes behind” describes a distinctive Daoist state of practice: the spirit moves beyond the limits of the body. “Acting without relying on one’s actions, guiding without ruling” expresses the Daoist ideal of governing through Wuwei.

(This passage comes from the “Attaining Life” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It recounts a conversation between Pianzi and Sun Xiu and highlights the difference between the Daoist ideal of the “Perfected Person” and ordinary ways of seeing the world.)

You, Sun Xiu, deliberately flaunt your intelligence to startle the foolish and polish your own conduct to expose the faults of others. Such self-display is as glaring as walking with the sun and moon held aloft. You have kept your body whole and your nine openings—the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and other apertures of the body—in good order. You have not died young or become deaf, blind, or lame. You can still count yourself among ordinary people, and that is already good fortune. How could you have time to complain that Heaven is unfair? Go now!

After Sun Xiu had left, Pianzi went inside and sat quietly for a while. Suddenly, he raised his head to the sky and sighed deeply. A disciple asked, “Why are you sighing, Master?”

Pianzi replied, “Sun Xiu came to see me just now, and I told him about the Virtue of the Perfected Person, one whose cultivation of the Dao has reached its highest level. I fear that hearing it will frighten him and leave him even more confused.”

This conversation reveals a Daoist idea: deliberately proclaiming one’s intelligence and criticizing others goes against the natural course of things. True cultivation means returning to simplicity and naturalness. Excessive concern with outward display can instead lead one to lose sight of one’s original nature.

The disciple said, “That is not so. Does it mean that what Master Sun (Sun Wu) said was right and what you, teacher, said was wrong? An error cannot confuse what is right. Or was Master Sun wrong and you right? If he came because he was already confused, then what was his fault?”

Bianzi replied, “That is not so. Long ago, a bird settled in the outskirts of Lu. The ruler of Lu loved it dearly and entertained it with a grand sacrificial feast of ox, pig, and sheep, while the finest music, the Nine Shao, was played to delight it. But the bird grew anxious and sad, became dizzy and disoriented, and dared neither to eat nor drink. This is what it means to care for a bird by the ways one cares for people.

“If you care for a bird in the way suited to a bird, let it roost in a deep forest, drift over rivers and lakes, feed on insects and small fish, and roam freely over open ground. That is enough. Now, let us leave it there.”

This exchange uses the story of caring for a bird to show that how one conducts oneself should accord with one’s natural disposition. The disciple assumes that right and wrong have fixed answers. Bianzi’s counterexample—“raising a bird by the way one raises oneself”—shows that imposing one’s own way can cause harm. He advocates instead “raising a bird by the way suited to a bird”: letting it follow its nature. “Grand sacrificial feast” refers to the highest grade of ancient offering, consisting of ox, pig, and sheep; the Nine Shao was court music associated with Emperor Shun. Here, both illustrate excessive human interference.

Zhuangzi is saying: “If I were to tell ordinary people, whose vision is narrow and learning limited, about the Virtue (De) and state of those who have truly attained the Dao, it would be like carrying a little mouse in a magnificent carriage, or entertaining a tiny sparrow with bells and great drums. How could they not be startled?”

Here, “the Perfected” refers to sages who have reached the highest level of Daoist cultivation. The “mouse” and “sparrow” are vivid images for ordinary people with limited understanding. Through these comparisons, Zhuangzi suggests that people may struggle to grasp the state of sages; trying to explain it to them too forcefully may only leave them bewildered and alarmed.