《南華真經循本》Vol. 4

Human life is finite, yet the desires for knowledge are boundless. To pursue infinite knowledge with limited life is perilous indeed. Persisting in such pursuit despite knowing its dangers makes the situation even more precarious. When doing good, do not deliberately seek fame; when committing wrongs, avoid incurring punishment. Take conformity with the natural Dao as your constant principle—this way you can preserve your body, complete your lifespan, support your parents, and fulfill your heavenly years.

Let me clarify several key concepts: "Yuan" (缘) means following along with nature's flow, while "Du" (督) refers to the central path (like the straight back seam of a garment). Doing good easily brings fame, while wrongdoing invites punishment. Those truly skilled in nurturing life relinquish cleverness and transcend distinctions between good and evil. Thus their good deeds don't attract reputation, and what might appear as wrongdoing brings no calamity. Leaving no traces of good or evil, they naturally transcend rewards and punishments. By adhering to this internal central path, one endures—this "center" is the middle way Laozi described as "embracing the One and guarding the center," not some compromise between good and evil. Zhu Xi's interpretation of this may have been somewhat misguided.

The parable of Cook Ding carving an ox illustrates the way of nurturing life: When butchering an ox for King Hui of Liang, Cook Ding's every movement—hands touching, shoulders leaning, feet stepping, knees pressing—was perfectly measured. The sounds of his blade slicing, "hua" and "huo," kept rhythm like musical performance. These movements matched both the cadence of the "Sanglin" dance (performed during King Tang's rain prayers) and the tempo of the "Lishou" melody (played during feudal lords' archery rituals when attending the Son of Heaven). This metaphor shows that nurturing life requires mastering natural patterns like Cook Ding carving an ox—making every action accord with heavenly principle.

This passage recounts the story of Cook Ding carving an ox, where a dialogue between the cook and Lord Wenhui illustrates how the Dao (the Way) transcends mere technical skill.

Upon witnessing Cook Ding's extraordinary skill in butchering the ox, Lord Wenhui was deeply impressed. The cook explained that what he pursued was the realm of the Dao, which had surpassed mere technique. When he first began carving oxen, he saw only the whole animal. After three years, he no longer perceived the ox as a complete entity but rather its anatomical structure. Now, when he butchers an ox, he relies entirely on spiritual intuition rather than visual observation—his senses are stilled, yet his spirit (Shen) remains active.

Cook Ding elaborated on his method: he follows the natural grain and structure of the ox's body, guiding his blade through the gaps between bones and tendons while avoiding areas where they tangle. An average chef changes his knife once a year (because he only cuts meat, not bones), while a mediocre chef replaces his blade monthly (as he frequently hacks through bones). Yet Cook Ding’s knife has lasted nineteen years, having carved thousands of oxen, and its edge remains as sharp as if freshly honed. This is because the blade is thin, and the spaces between joints are wide—a thin edge moving through ample gaps naturally glides with effortless ease.

Nevertheless, whenever he encounters complex tangles of sinew and bone, Cook Ding proceeds with extra caution, slowing his movements and making delicate cuts. Only when the ox suddenly falls apart with a sound like crumbling earth does he stand upright, surveying his work with satisfaction before wiping his blade clean and storing it away.

After hearing this, Lord Wenhui remarked: "From Cook Ding’s words, I have grasped the principle of nurturing life." Though the cook’s skill was extraordinary, he still approached difficult sections with care, never acting recklessly. Similarly, in nourishing life, we must align with the natural order (Dao) and exercise particular caution at critical moments.

The passage recounts several parables about natural endowment versus artificial contrivance, which I'll explain one by one:

When Gongwen Xuan (a Song state official surnamed Gongwen) met the Right Minister (a deputy chancellor position in Song), he was startled to see the man had only one leg. He pondered whether this was innate or man-made, ultimately concluding it was the mandate of heaven. Just as humans naturally have two legs, this single-legged condition demonstrated celestial design rather than human interference.

Next comes the metaphor of a pheasant: A marsh pheasant takes ten steps before pecking once for food, a hundred steps before drinking. Though laborious, it would never choose captivity. While caged birds enjoy abundant food and appear vigorous, they've lost their freedom—this isn't true wellbeing. Similarly, though the Right Minister held high office, his missing limb rendered him like a caged bird violating natural principles (Dao).

Finally, when Laozi died, his friend Qin Shi (also called Qin Yi) came to mourn, weeping just three times before leaving. Disciples criticized his insufficient grief, to which Qin Shi responded: "I thought you were all enlightened (having attained Dao), but I see you remain bound by worldly attachments." This illustrates how true Daoist practitioners follow nature's flow—birth and death being cyclical manifestations of heavenly Dao (Tiandao)—without excessive sorrow.

These stories collectively expound the core Daoist principle of "following nature's course" (Ziran): Whether physical disability, official rank, or life-and-death matters, one must recognize them as expressions of natural Dao. Forced striving or attachment leads to losing one's fundamental authenticity. Like caged birds trading freedom for comfort, excessive pursuit of external forms makes one deviate from the essential truth of nurturing life (Yangsheng).

This passage expounds Zhuangzi's profound understanding of the Dao (the Way) of life and death. When I went to offer condolences, I saw elders weeping as if mourning their sons, and youths grieving as if bereft of their mothers. Such excessive sorrow arises from violating natural principles and forgetting humanity's fundamental alignment with heavenly decree. The ancients termed this extreme mourning "the transgression against celestial order."

Zhuangzi teaches that human birth occurs through the convergence of timely circumstances, while death follows the inevitable course of natural law. Those who can rest content with temporal fate and flow with transformation remain unperturbed by emotional extremes. The ancients called this state "release from celestial bonds" (Di zhi xuanjie - the Emperor's liberation). Like kindling ignited by an eternal flame—though the firewood burns away, the spark continues endlessly—so too the physical form perishes while the vital spirit (Shen) of life endures.

In ancient times, those who perceived life and death with equanimity, like the sage Qin Shi mentioned by Zhuangzi, would mourn with just three cries before departing. This reveals a fundamental truth: excessive grief violates celestial harmony. True masters of life-nourishing (yangsheng) see through the illusion of birth and death, maintaining inner serenity. The first two sections discuss nurturing life, while the concluding passage illuminates life and death as two phases of one continuum. Comprehending this unity constitutes the essential art of cultivation.

(Note: "Di zhi xuanjie" signifies liberation from the constraints of heavenly Dao; "Qin Shi" represents Zhuangzi's archetypal ancient sage.)