Ed Lewis: a scientist with the heart of a Taoist

Edward B. Lewis

In the current era of brutal competition for scare research funding and recognition among scientists, it may seem that the only scientists who rise to the top of their fields are those with an unhealthy share of narcissism, self-aggrandizement, hyper-competitiveness, and, frankly, ruthlessness.  In the midst of a scientific culture rife with understandable anxiety about survival of labs and never-ending fretting about “getting ahead,” it is easy for scientists to begin to lose sight of what fascinated them about science and nature in the first place (see my earlier post Finding Tao in science).  That’s why the life and career of Ed Lewis (1918-2004) can be so refreshing to recall.  How is it possible that this man who was so successful, ultimately winning the 1995 Nobel Prize in Physiology and Medicine for his work on genetic control of embryonic development, also could be so kind, so generous, so unconcerned with external signs of prestige, so lacking in unhealthy narcissism, and so focused on his love of nature itself, rather than artificial measures of his own glory?  Could adopting Lewis’s attitude, his values, still be a possibility for us today?

As Welcome Bender describes in an obituary, Lewis was independent-minded, yet humble, and was guided by his own observations of the fly model of embryonic development that he was studying:

“Lewis was guided by what he saw in his flies and was rarely directed by the models of other biologists.  He generally avoided molecular explanations for his observations, in part due to a feeling of humility towards most things biochemical, and in part from a suspicion that the available molecular mechanisms couldn’t explain the complexity he saw in the flies…No doubt Lewis’s mutations hint at other molecular phenomena yet to be discovered.”

–Welcome Bender (2004) “Edward B. Lewis:  1918-2004,” Nature Genetics 36:919.

This reminds me of a quote from Stephen Mitchell’s translation of the Tao Te Ching:

“A good scientist has freed himself of concepts

and keeps his mind open to what is.”

–Tao Te Ching, Stephen Mitchell translation, chapter 27

In another obituary, Matthew Scott and Peter Lawrence recall that Lewis seemed to lack interest in the competition to get papers published in the highest-prestige, highest-profile scientific journals, a major preoccupation of many modern scientists, whose self-esteem seems to ride so much on the impact factor of the journals in which they publish (see my earlier post non-striving):

“For those who suspect that the present emphasis on publication [in science] is overdone, Lewis provides a superb role model.  He published rarely and did not seem to care where.  Some of his papers came out in such obscure journals that they were exchanged, like samizdat, as faded Xerox copies…A sweet, courteous and humble man, Ed worked in his lab to the end, probing possible connections between Hox genes and the cancer from which he was suffering.”

–Matthew P. Scott and Peter A. Lawrence (2004) “Edward B. Lewis (1918-2004),” Nature 431:143

I find the last paragraph of Bender’s obituary for Lewis, quoted below, especially moving.  In  Lewis’s personal qualities and values, there is so much resonance with the values of Taoism—-kindness, generosity, humility, cheerfulness and lack of anxiety, a deep-seated fascination and love of nature, rather than of empire-building—qualities that seem so rare, so precious, and so needed in our world:

“Those who knew Ed regarded him with something between affection and devotion.  He was exceeding generous; it was impossible to pay for any meal shared with him, he readily gave away compound mutant chromosomes that had taken years to construct.  His modesty was genuine and was not the least eroded by the attention that came with his honors.  He was cheerful by his genetic constitution; even his final affliction with cancer he took on as an interesting problem.  Mostly we will remember Ed for his infectious enthusiasm for the study of life.  He would raise desert tortoises, or octopi, or tarantulas with the same excitement he had for his mutant flies.  The aquariums and terrariums shared space in his cluttered office with his fly station, his accumulated figures and photos, and his flute music.  He never had more than two or three students or postdocs, he avoided academic politics, and he did most of his science by himself, in the middle of the night.  Ed reminded us of the challenge of a good problem, the delight of a surprising result and the wonder that first drew us to science.”

–Welcome Bender (2004) “Edward B. Lewis:  1918-2004,” Nature Genetics 36:919.

©2009-2012 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

beyond words

“Pastel Plum Blossoms” by Ren Adams

www.etsy.com/shop/plasticpumpkin

Although I love words and spend much of my time reading and writing, words seem limited in their power to communicate.  Some things can’t be described, and just have to be experienced directly.  I don’t think 1,000 words or more could ever be adequate to describe the feelings evoked by looking at the art by Ren Adams above, or could be adequate to describe the experience of listening to certain music that you love, or being with someone you love.  Writers know this.  I was struck when I came across this quote by the great American writer, William Faulkner:

“I would say that music is the easiest means in which to express, since it came first in man’s experience and history.  But since words are my talent, I must try to express clumsily in words what the pure music would have done better.  That is, music would express better and simpler, but I prefer to use words as I prefer to read rather than listen.  I prefer silence to sound, and the image produced by words occurs in silence.  That is, the thunder and the music of the prose take place in silence…”

–William Faulkner, from an interview conducted by Jean Stein.  Jean Stein, “The Art of Fiction XII:  William Faulkner,” Paris Review, 4 (Spring 1956):28-52.

The ancient Taoist masters, particularly Lao-Tzu and Chuang-Tzu, were great writers, and made masterful use of language to describe Taoist principles.  Yet despite this, they recognized and repeatedly pointed out the gross limitations and inadequacy of language for conveying the meaning of Tao.  Lao Tzu states this in the very first lines of the Tao Te Ching:

“The tao that can be told
is not the eternal Tao
The name that can be named
is not the eternal Name.

The unnamable is the eternally real.”

–Tao Te Ching, Chapter 1, Stephen Mitchell translation

Language tends to define things by contrasts and dualities, and these logical distinctions can be more of a hindrance than a help in developing a deep understanding of Tao.  Lao Tzu indicates that those individuals who have gained insights into Tao tend not to talk much about it, as their understanding is at a level beyond words:

“Those who know don’t talk.

Those who talk don’t know.”

—-Tao Te Ching, Chapter 56, Stephen Mitchell translation

Even our most sophisticated science, with its technical language, symbols, and mathematics may well be inadequate to fully describe and comprehend the reality of nature, as Albert Einstein pointed out (these Einstein quotes also appear in my earlier post Finding Tao in science):

“All our knowledge is but the knowledge of school children.  Possibly we shall know a little more than we do now, but the real nature of things, that we shall never know, never.”

–Albert Einstein, quoted in “The Expanded Quotable Einstein,” Princeton University Press, p. 207

Niels Bohr and Albert Einstein

Perhaps the closest we can come to approaching the Tao is not by talking, but by doing—by practicing a way of living and way of being that is attuned to Nature.  This way of being involves opening ourselves to a sense of awe at the beauty and power of Nature, without struggling too hard to express it in words.   To quote Einstein again,

“The most beautiful and most profound experience is the sensation of the mystical. It is the sower of all true science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms – this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.”

–Albert Einstein – “The Merging of Spirit and Science”

In my earlier posts awareness, tranquility and bare attention, I discussed a meditative state of awareness, which Alan Watts described as an “idealess, wordless state,” (Alan Watts, Tao:  The Watercourse Way, 1975, chapter 2, p. 36) that may be particularly useful for attuning ourselves to the flow of Nature, including our own inner experiences.

Chaung-Tzu pointed out that language is useful as a signpost pointing towards meaning and experience, but can’t fully capture and covey meaning and experience:

“When speaking to people, you must use words to explain that reality is beyond words.”

–Chaung-Tzu as paraphrased in Stephen Mitchell’s The Second Book of the Tao, Penguin Books, 2009, p.50

“The fish trap exists because of the fish.  Once you’ve gotten the fish, you can forget the trap.  The rabbit trap snare exists because of the rabbit.  Once you’ve gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare.  Words exist because of the meaning.  Once you’ve gotten the meaning, you can forget the words.  Where can I find a man who has forgotten the words, so I can have a word with him?”

–Chaung-Tzu as quoted in Great Minds of the Eastern Intellectual Tradition, Lecture 8, Professor Grant Hardy, The Great Courses, Course 4620, The Teaching Company

Chan or Zen Buddhism, which was highly influenced by Taoism, also emphasizes that the highest truth is inexpressible in words.

I’ll keep writing this blog to help myself, and hopefully other people, to explore Taoist principles…but I’ll remember the limitations of these words…and, as Chuang-Tzu said, once you and I have gotten the meaning, we will have gone beyond the words and can let them go….

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

one with Tao

“Square Stillness” by Ren Adams

www.etsy.com/shop/plasticpumpkin

I just came across this passage from Chuang Tsu, which I thought was worth quoting here, because it touches on so many important themes in Taoism:

“The next day the two went again to see Hu Tsu.  As the shaman left, he said, ‘Your master is never the same.  I have no way to read his face.  Wait until he settles down, then I shall examine him again.’

“Lieh Tsu went in and told Hu Tsu.  Hus Tsu said, ‘I have just shown him the ultimate harmony, where there is perfect balance.  Probably all he saw was the depths of my vital energy in its perfection.  When the waves swirl in a torrent, there are dark depths.  When the water is still, there are dark depths.  When the water flows, there are also dark depths.  There are nine names for the dark depths.  I demonstrated only three of them.  Try to bring him again.’

“The next day the two came to see Hu Tsu again.  Before they even sat down, the shaman lost his nerve and fled.  ‘Run after him!’ Hu Tsu said.  Lieh Tsu ran but could not catch up with the shaman, so he returned and said to Hu Tsu, ‘He has disappeared.  He is gone.  I could not find him.’

“Hu Tsu said, ‘I just showed him what existed before the beginning of things.  Completely open and yielding, I show myself, without a care, like grass bending before the wind and water flowing in waves.  That is why he ran away.’

“Whereupon Lieh Tsu realized that he had not yet begun to understand.  He went home, and for the next three years he did not go out.  He did the cooking for his wife and fed the pigs as though they were human.  He took no interest in worldly affairs.  He stopped making complications and returned to simplicity.  Rooted in the earth and centered in his body, amid all the confusion and distractions of life, he remained one with Tao until the end of his days.”

–Chaung Tsu:  Inner Chapters, chapter seven, translated by Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English

Claudio Abbado: leading orchestras in harmony with the Tao

In the high-powered world of professional symphony orchestra conductors, outsize egos and domineering leadership styles have been the stereotypical characteristics of many conductors, at least, perhaps, until quite recently.  One who helped to break this mold is Claudio Abbado, one of the great conductors of our generation, the former conductor of the La Scala Opera House, the London Symphony Orchestra, the Vienna State Opera, the Berlin Philharmonic, and the founder and current conductor of the Lucerne Festival Orchestra.  He also is a leading interpreter of the music of Gustav Mahler (see my earlier post Gustav Mahler—a Taoist?).  Despite his lofty career accomplishments, Abbado has a soft-spoken, gentle, and warm-hearted manner.  His conducting has been motivated not by a desire for power or fame, but by a deep love of music and a commitment to encouraging orchestra members to listen to each other and work together to create great music.

In the DVD Claudio Abbado:  Hearing the Silence, members of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra note that, instead of being autocratic (a discrete reference to Abbado’s predecessor, Herbert van Karajan, and other earlier conductors of the orchestra), Abbado was more democratic, and changed the culture of the orchestra to one that emphasized music-making as a joint enterprise, and emphasized mutual respect, and above all, listening to one another (see previous post listening).  This emphasis on mutual respect and listening tends to defuse the competitiveness that can be rampant in the world of classical music, and brings the musicians closer together, making it more enjoyable to work together, and allowing the musicians to reach new heights together (see previous post following).  This passage recently appeared on the website of the Berlin Philharmonic:

“‘I am Claudio to everyone.’  With these words, Claudio Abbado introduced himself in 1989 to the Berliner Philharmoniker, who had just elected him as their chief conductor.  With this invitation to use his first name, Abbado made it immediately clear that his working methods were different [from] those of his more aloof predecessor, Herbert von Karajan.  The Abbado era was indeed a departure from both a personal and an artistic perspective.”

An article by Daniel J. Wakin entitled “Not Just Another Pickup Band,” in the September 30, 2007 New York Times focused on the Lucerne Festival Orchestra, which Abbado founded, and Abbado’s leadership style:

“Here, ‘every day has an optimistic beginning,’ [a player] said. ‘You can guarantee that it will be a good day. Nobody is against another colleague.’…What comes through in conversations with dozens of orchestra players, staff members and other musicians is the degree to which Mr. Abbado’s presence brings them together….‘Without Abbado, my life would not have been the same,’ Mr. Zoon, the flutist, said at a postconcert dinner. Mr. Zoon joined the European Union Youth Orchestra under Mr. Abbado in 1981 and has played with him in the Chamber Orchestra of Europe and now the Mozart Orchestra. In between, he held two of the best solo flute jobs in the world: principal with the Royal Concertgebouw and Boston Symphony orchestras…He said the Lucerne orchestra ranks as about the best. ‘Normally if you put a lot of soloists together, it’s a mess. But here they are collectively connected by Abbado.’…”

As the passage above mentions, Abbado has been committed to fostering the careers of young musicians, and founded and conducted the European Union Youth Orchestra and the Gustav Mahler Youth Orchestra.  Members of Mahler Youth Orchestra also knew him as “Claudio,” not the more formal Maestro.  He is unpretentious, un-authoritarian, and has no interest in intimidating (see previous post child and parent, student and teacher ).  In an Amazon.com customer review of the DVD Claudio Abbado:  A Portrait, the reviewer refers to Abbado’s goal of conducting without forcing, without dominating:

“This set of four videos presents a wonderful insight into the spirit of one of the greatest conductors of all time. He has lived up to his goal, stated early in his career, of discovering a way to conduct an orchestra ‘without all that bullying.’ With the greatest of respect for musicians (especially young ones), Abbado leads elegant performances with monumental knowledge, vision, and love.”

–Amazon.com

“The Tao nourishes by not forcing.  By not dominating, the Master leads.”

Tao Te Ching, Chapter 81, Stephen Mitchell translation

The genuine connection between Abbado and the orchestra members is visible, and when the orchestra plays well, Abbado has a smile that is so warm, so genuine, so filled with joy in the music and pride in the orchestra, that it’s the kind of smile that anyone would wish from their parent.

As the conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic, starting in 1989, Abbado was at the very pinnacle of the position that any conductor could have, the most “powerful” position in orchestra conducting in the world.  This was an appointment for life.  However, in 2002, in his 60’s, still a relatively young age for conductors, Abbado decided to voluntarily resign his position.  This came as a shock to the orchestra and the music world, because no previous conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic orchestra had voluntarily resigned.  People don’t tend to give up their position at the top of the heap voluntarily.  In retrospect, it became apparent that this decision was due to health concerns.  But many others, in this same situation, would have clung to this highest of positions at all costs.   Abbado’s decision to retire engendered a feeling of respect and admiration among the orchestra.  As one orchestra member said in Claudio Abbado: Hearing the Silence, his decision impressed upon them his qualities as an independent spirit.  After leaving the Berlin Philharmonic, he founded the Lucerne Festival Orchestra, which performs during summers and whose players are “friends” of Abbado’s from the Berlin Philharmonic and other great ensembles.  I have no idea if Abbado has any feelings of kinship with Taoism.  But it seems to me that his work, life, and leadership style illustrate the value of principles that resonate with Taosim–that it is possible to achieve without forcing, to lead without dominating, and, even in an elite, competitive field, to foster a culture in which listening to others carefully and working together are among the highest values.

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

wu wei

“Plum Blossoms Green Wash” by Ren Adams

www.renadamsart.com

In my earlier post like a tree in the wind, I described a Taoist approach to dealing with stress and adversity.  An important part of this approach involves the Taoist concept of wu wei—translated as non-acting, or spontaneous, effortless acting—which has come up in several other previous posts, such as non-striving.  As I’ve mentioned before, wu wei often involves following and yielding to the forces of nature, but it does not imply passivity or lack of any response.  This is a difficult and subtle distinction that is hard to describe, but you can start to feel the meaning of wu wei more deeply by studying and practicing Tai Chi Chuan.  In addition to taking lessons in Yang style Tai Chi Chuan (Cheng-Man Ching form), I’ve recently started to take lessons in Chen style Tai Chi Chuan, and have been reading an excellent book recommended by my Chen teacher entitled Chen:  Living Taijiquan in the Classical Style by Master Jan Silberstorff.  In the chapter “Taiji—A Philosophy,”  Master Silberstorff does an excellent job of describing this subtle concept of wu wei, and how it applies to dealing with incoming forces or stresses in the context of Tai Chi Chuan, but also in many other contexts.  Below, I quote several paragraphs from Master Silberstorff’s description of wu wei in Chen, because I can’t do justice to it by summarizing it or paraphrasing it.  I really like this passage because it ties together many themes that I’ve tried to address separately in previous posts.  For example, he uses this analogy of a tree, with a strong root, powerful trunk, but flexible branches that reminded me Lao Tzu analogy’s about a tree in the wind (see my post like a tree in the wind).  He also touches upon the theme of following (see my previous post following) and becoming one with nature (see several previous posts on Becoming Tao).

“Following the natural course of affairs, not to intervene but to act spontaneously instead means Wuwei.  Wuwei, mostly translated as ‘non-acting,’ doesn’t necessarily mean to lie back and view things from outside.  Neither is it something like ignorance or sufferance, a sort of refraining-from-defence.  The soft defeats the hard—every human knows it, but nobody acts on it, Laotse says.  The reason is that wrong images on this issue are epidemic.  If the concept of Wuwei, of non-acting, according to the Daoist view is pure passivity, then Taijiquan as a martial art as well as for healthcare is hardly worth its reputation.  How am I to protect myself from something, be it aggression or illness, without any reaction?  And here precisely is the answer.  One principle of Taijiquan is to give way, receding however without losing personal stability.  This is not like a piece of cotton flying away, but giving way on the basis of a strong centre, a strong root with a powerful trunk and flexible branches…It involves yielding out of a strong structure, without having to abandon my own centre.  It’s the centre that I find within oneness, within Wuji.  Out of this, of Wuji, Taiji will arise, the change, and with this the choice of being able to give way.  To yield without having a foundation would mean to stray off the path.

“With Wuwei another important point is introduced.  Non-acting indicates a condition of spontaneity, namely, acting in accordance with the actual situation, backed by all my expertise, but within the here and now.  Therefore my actions are never rigid, not following any stiff dogmas established in the past; instead my actions grow afresh within the situation they arose from.  Therefore Wuwei does not represent an ideology, but the wise and not predetermined spontaneous action which is part of the great whole, adapted to the course of nature from where its decisions evolve.  Or even better:  spontaneous action depicts acting out the nature of things.  The same goes for one’s personal nature as well.  Knowing about my nature, perceiving it and being able to understand my inner voice in a clear and lucid way means that decisions are no longer determined by results.  What remains is simply to flow side by side with our own naturalness.  The only thing required is just to follow, following being the only thing that happens…Within a deep level of meditation ‘non-acting’ literally means reaching the spiritual experience of emptiness….

“The sage will therefore act in the way the situation suggests him to.  He is one with nature and with himself.  In this way he evolves harmony and peace with himself and all other creatures, all things and conditions…

“Taijiquan centres our body and our mind; it creates a strong centre and harmony within.  It gives us the knowledge and feeling that enable us to act adequately by intuition.”

–Jan Silberstorff, Chen:  Living Taijiquan in the Classical Style, 2009, Singing Dragon,  pp.50-51

By developing a strong sense of our own center, our own root, together with our flexibility and spontaneity, we can remain solid within ourselves and yet flow with the ups and downs and changes of life, while having a sense of inner peace.  Chuang-tzu, the great Taoist master and disciple of Lao-tzu, described this state.

“Birth and death, profit and loss,

success and failure, health and sickness—

these qualities are the world

in its constant transformations.

Day in and day out

they vanish into each other

before our very eyes,

and we don’t know where they come from.

“The Master maintains his balance

whichever opposite he enters.

He lets things go through their changes

And stays focused on what is real.

He is like the ocean:

though there are waves on its surface,

in its depth there is perfect calm.”

–Chuang-tzu, quoted in the The Second Book of Tao, Chapter 17, by Stephen Mitchell

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

learning to move like a cat

“Loki Tiger” by Ren Adams

http://www.etsy.com/shop/plasticpumpkin

During my daily practice of Tai Chi Chuan, our family cat always comes into the room with me, rubs her head and back on my legs several times, lies down in the middle of the floor space, and purrs continuously as I practice.  It can be a bit of a problem to avoid stepping on her as I practice…I often have to step around her or pick her up and move her, because she won’t move, even if I nudge her.  Her reaction to Tai Chi is curious to me, because I’ve never seen her purr for such a long time at a stretch, without being petted.  Perhaps watching the slow, flowing movements of Tai Chi is fascinating to cats, as watching a fish gliding through water would be.  Or maybe she enjoys the novelty of seeing a human being neither rushing about doing errands, nor lying asleep, but rather moving through space slowly, deliberately, mindfully.  Or maybe she recognizes something feline, something of herself in the movements.  I remember my wife commenting a long time ago that our cat is the embodiment of Tai Chi, that every movement she makes looks like Tai Chi—slow, graceful, relaxed.

When I began to read more about Tai Chi, I realized just how right my wife was.  In the collection of sayings and Tai Chi instructions known as the Tai Chi Classics, Wu Yu-hsiang instructs the practitioner to emulate a cat.

“Walk like a cat.”

–quoted from The Essence of T’ai Chi Ch’uan:   The Literary Tradition, translated and edited by Benjamin Pang Jeng Lo, Martin Inn, Robert Amacker, and Susan Foe

When a cat walks, it places it paw softly on the ground and does not commit weight to it at first.  If necessary, the cat can lift that same paw up without losing balance, because no weight has been committed to it yet.  Only when it feels the ground firmly under its paw, does it gradually shift weight onto the paw.  Tai Chi trains one to step in the same way, softly with sensitivity, feeling the ground beneath your feet.  If a cat is pushed when it does not want to move, it does not push back or lift its weight up higher into its body, but instead  sinks its weight and energy down lower into its body and paws, sinking, rooting.  I’ve witnessed this with my own cat, when trying to nudge her out of the Tai Chi practice area.  When pushed, and therefore stressed, we humans tend to lift our tension and stress up into our upper bodies, and resist and push back against the force, all of which makes us more susceptible to losing our balance and toppling over.  However, Tai Chi teaches us the cat-like skill of sinking our weight into our legs, being firmly rooted, and redirecting or absorbing an incoming force either by shifting our center, or by absorbing the force down into the ground, into our root.

Cats are known for their grace and beauty in movement, the flowing way that their bodies move through space.  They move from the center of their bodies, and the motion and energy flows out from the center to the extremities.  For example, I’ve seen this when our cat lifts her paw to her mouth to begin grooming.  It is a quick motion, but when I watch it carefully, she does not just stick her paw in her mouth.  Instead, the energy of the movement of lifting the paw seems to begin in the center of her body, and flows up like a wave through her shoulder, and down her leg, and then finally ending in her paw.  This  continuous wave-like motion can be compared to the reeling of silk and is emulated in Tai Chi Chuan.  In fact, “silk reeling” is a skill set developed in the practice of Chen style Tai Chi Chuan.  To the best of my understanding (I’m just starting to learn about this), silk reeling involves learning to use the energy focused in the center of your body (i.e. using the chi in your dantien) and learning to let that energy flow out to your extremities in a continuous manner, which leads to a smooth, circling, and spiraling type of motion of your body and extremities while practicing.

“When changing position, you should move like a cat.  Exercising the internal power is like the delicate reeling of silk.”

– Wu Yu-hsiang quoted in T’ai Chi Classics, translated by Waysun Liao

As the quote above implies, this silk reeling leads to movements that are slow and graceful, yet have an underlying energetic power.

Cats tend to alternate between states of meditative stillness and motion.  Another saying by Wu Yu-hsiang in the T’ai Chi Classics instructs the practitioner to practice both stillness, as well as a fluid quality of movement, which is graceful and powerful:

“Be as still as a mountain,

Move like a great river.”

– Wu Yu-hsiang quoted in The Essence of T’ai Chi Ch’uan:   The Literary Tradition, translated and edited by Benjamin Pang Jeng Lo, Martin Inn, Robert Amacker, and Susan Foe.

Much of cats’ gracefulness comes from their ability to relax their muscles.  They use the minimum muscular tension necessary to move, and relax the rest of their bodies.  Because there is no unnecessary tension in the muscles, there are no blockages of kinetic energy, and everything flows.  Even when in a physical confrontation or in imminent physical danger, cats are able to maintain muscular relaxation and coordination.  My Yang style Tai Chi teacher repeatedly reminds us that most important principle of Tai Chi is “Sung,” i.e. relaxing the muscles, letting go of tension, while maintaining posture.  Through practice of the Tai Chi form, and particularly the practice of Push Hands with a partner, one learns the difficult and counterintuitive skill of relaxing, even when in conflict or under stress.  One learns that it is precisely this cat-like ability to relax that sharpens one’s sensitivity, enables one to more quickly respond and better cope with the situation.

The Tai Chi Classics also describe the apparent “mindset” of a cat…while a cat appears placid and calm, it is nevertheless able to respond in an instant to its environment…a striking, and seemingly paradoxical combination of serenity and alertness:

“Your mind should be centered, like the placid cat—peaceful but able to respond instantly to the scurrying mouse.”

– Wu Yu-hsiang quoted in T’ai Chi Classics, translated by Waysun Liao

This description of a centered mind combined with a finely tuned awareness of one’s environment, likened to that of a cat, is an unusual state of mind that the practice of Tai Chi Chuan develops.  During push hands practice, one works on simultaneously being exquisitely aware of the other person’s movements and sensing them, “listening” to them very closely, moment by  moment, but also remaining continuously aware of one’s own center…thus harmonizing and integrating the outer world and our own inner world.  One of Master Yang Cheng-Fu’s ten important points about Tai Chi Chuan was to “Harmonize the internal and the external.”

Although I have not been the most physically graceful person for much of my life (my wife would laugh at the understatement here, as I am prone to Inspector Clouseau moments), practicing Tai Chi Chuan gives me an opportunity to focus on, and become more mindful of the way I move, and where my body is in space.  A book that has been helpful as well is Peter and Laura Ralston’s book Zen Body-Being:  An Enlightened Approach to Physical Skill, Grace, and Power.   Hopefully this regular practice of Tai Chi Chuan will begin to affect the way I move throughout each day.

 

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

bare attention

“Green Bamboo” by Ren Adams

http://www.etsy.com/shop/plasticpumpkin

My previous post, Content with this moment, following the natural flow, quoted Chuang-tzu as saying, “Be content with the moment…” and mentioned discontentment/suffering as the central problem that the Buddha also addressed.  But this idea of being content with the moment does not imply that one should try to artificially force oneself to be happy at every moment, even if something sad or upsetting is happening.  Being “content,” in this context, does not necessarily mean being “happy,” but rather implies being aware, being open and receptive, taking what comes in the moment, including one’s own feelings—whatever they are—but not rejecting, judging, or clinging to what is happening in the moment.  The Tao Te Ching seems to describe this state-of-mind that involves awareness, openness, acceptance, but nonattachment to what is happening in the moment.

“Things arise and she lets them come;
things disappear and she lets them go…”

Tao Te Ching, Chapter 2, Stephen Mitchell translation

A related concept in Buddhism is “bare attention,” which was mentioned in a quote of Phil Jackson in my previous post following.  I’m really intrigued by this idea of bare attention.  It seems like a state-of-mind that is extremely valuable, though not easy to attain without lots of practice.  Bare attention can be cultivated through meditation, and can be extended beyond meditation to periods of one’s daily activities, including interactions with others, as Phil Jackson describes in the passage I quoted in following.  In his book Thoughts Without a Thinker, Mark Epstein does a wonderful job of describing bare attention in detail.  Because I can’t really do this justice by paraphrasing, I included a lengthy quote—multiple excerpts from the book–below:

“Defined as ‘the clear and single-minded awareness of what actually happens to us and in us at the successive moments of perception,’ bare attention takes this unexamined mind and opens it up, not by trying to change anything but by observing the mind, emotions, and body the way they are.  It is the fundamental tenet of Buddhist psychology that this kind of attention is, in itself, healing:  that by the constant application of this attentional strategy, all of the Buddha’s insights can be realized for oneself.  As mysterious as the literature on meditation can seem, as elusive as the koans of the Zen master sometimes sound, there is but one underlying instruction that is critical to Buddhist thought.  Common to all schools of thought, from Sri Lanka to Tibet, the unifying theme of the Buddhist approach is this remarkable imperative:  ‘Pay precise attention, moment by moment, to exactly what you are experiencing, right now, separating out our reactions from the raw sensory events.’  This is what is meant by bare attention:  just the bare facts, an exact registering, allowing things to speak for themselves as if seen for the first time, distinguishing any reactions from the core event….

“The key to the transformational potential of bare attention lies in the deceptively simple injunction to separate out one’s reactions from the core events themselves.  Much of the time, it turns out, our everyday minds are in a state of reactivity….With bare attention, we move from [an] automatic identification with our fear or frustration to a vantage point from which fear or frustration is attended to with the same dispassionate interest as anything else.  There is enormous freedom to be gained from such a shift.  Instead of running from difficult emotions (or hanging on to enticing ones), the practitioner of bare attention becomes able to contain any reaction:  making space for it, but not completely identifying with it because of the concomitant presence of nonjudgmental awareness…

“This state of simply listening, of impartiality, is at once completely natural and enormously difficult…Bare attention requires the meditator to not try to screen out the unpleasant, to take whatever is given…

“The next important quality of bare attention—openness—grows out of this ability to take whatever is given. ..This type of openness, which is not interfering, is a quality that meditation reliably induces…

“As noted before, bare attention is impartial, nonjudgmental, and open.  It is also deeply interested, like a child with a new toy.  The key phrase from Buddhist literature is that it requires ‘not clinging and not condemning’…

“A further quality of bare attention, its unafraid nature, grows out of this interest…

“Neither intense emotion nor intense stimulation need disrupt [bare attention], because its mirrorlike clarity can reflect whatever enters its field.  An image that is sometimes used to convey this constancy is that of a stream rushing under a stone bridge.  Through bare attention, it is said, the meditator becomes not like the stream but like the bridge with the stream rushing underneath…

“Out of this constancy comes the ability to contain, or to hold, experience…

“This is the promise of bare attention and the great discovery of the Buddha.”

– from Thoughts Without a Thinker:  Psychotherapy from a Buddhist Perspective, by Mark Epstein, Basic Books, 1995, excerpts from pp. 110-127

I’ve been trying, with variable levels of success, to use bare attention when listening to and talking with other people, especially people who are important to me.  It is not easy at all, and I feel that I’m just at the beginning of my efforts, but it seems to me that this attitude of listening with an open state of mind, noticing your own reactions but not getting too caught up in them, can allow you to really hear and connect with another person much better, as I alluded to in my previous posts listening, child and parent, student and teacher, listening and understanding in Tai Chi Chuan, and following.  This seems to me to be something worth practicing consistently, over a lifetime.

 

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

Content with this moment, following the natural flow

Lao-tzu, who lived ~2,500 years ago, is the author of the Tao Te Ching, one of the most important Taoist texts.  Chuang-tzu, who lived after Lao-tzu, wrote extensively on the principles that Lao-tzu laid out in the Tao Te Ching.   As I’ve been reading Alan Watts’s book Tao:  The Watercourse Way, in the chapter entitled “Te–Virtuality,”  I came upon Chuang-tzu’s beautiful reflections on Lao-tzu’s birth, death, and way of being:

“Lao-tzu” by Ren Adams

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“The Master came because it was time.  He left because he followed the natural flow.  Be content with the moment, and be willing to follow the flow; then there will be no room for grief or joy.  In the old days this was called freedom from bondage.  The wood is consumed but the fire burns on, and we do not know when it will come to an end.”

–Chuang-tzu, quoted in Alan Watts’s book Tao:  The Watercourse Way, in the chapter entitled “Te–Virtuality”

Another translation of this passage is below:

“I obtained life because the time was right.  I’ll lose life because it’s time.  Those who go quietly with the flow of nature are not worried by either joy or sorrow.  People like these were considered in the past to have achieved freedom from bondage.  Those who can not free themselves are constrained by things.  However, nothing can overcome heaven. It’s always been so.  Why should I dislike this?”

–Chaug Tzu as quoted in Great Minds of the Eastern Intellectual Tradition, Lecture 8, Professor Grant Hardy, The Great Courses, Course 4620, The Teaching Company

“Be content with the moment…”–it’s worth dwelling on that phrase, worth considering it at length and repeatedly.  Lately I’ve been watching David Grubin’s PBS video “Buddha:  The Story of Siddhartha.”  Siddhartha was the Buddha, and the founder of Buddhism.  Siddhartha’s central dilemma was how we as humans can deal with suffering, e.g. the inevitability of our and our loved ones’ eventual aging, illness, and death.  The commentators in the video point out that the word that Siddhartha used for “suffering” might be better translated as “dissatisfaction” or “discontentment.”  If I understand the video correctly, we are chronically discontented because we don’t realize that this moment is all that we have, that this moment—right now—is everything, is Nirvana, if we could only recognize it as such.  The 13th century Japanese Zen Master Dogen wrote,

“Each moment is all being, is the entire world.  Reflect now whether any being or any world is left out of the present moment.”

–Dogen, “The Time-Being” in the book Moon in a Dewdrop:  Writings of Zen Master Dogen, 1985, p. 77

Like the present moment that contains the entire world, a single dewdrop reflects the entire moon and sky.  Dogen writes,

“The whole moon and the entire sky are reflected in dewdrops on the grass, or even in one drop of water…The depth of the drop is the height of the moon.  Each reflection, however long or short its duration, manifests the vastness of the dewdrop, and realizes the limitlessness of the moonlight in the sky.”

–Dogen, “Actualizing the Fundamental Point” in the book Moon in a Dewdrop:  Writings of Zen Master Dogen, 1985, p. 71

Rather than being centered and aware in the moment, most of us are dissatisfied, thinking about what we would want to be different, or worrying about what happened in the past or what might happen in the future.  What the Buddha and Lao-tzu and Chuang-tzu seem to agree on is the inestimable value of being aware of what is happening in this moment, right where you are, right now; being content with this moment, valuing this moment, whatever is happening (easier said than done!); and allowing yourself to follow the natural flow.

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

awareness, tranquility

“Tree Dreams in Winter” by Ren Adams

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I’ve been reading Alan Watts’s book Tao: The Watercourse Way and came across his wonderful description of a way of practicing awareness, of practicing being present in this moment—a very Taoist way of being:

“You are asked—temporarily, of course—to lay aside all your philosophical, religious, and political opinions, and to become almost like an infant, knowing nothing.  Nothing, that is, except what you actually hear, see, feel, and smell.  Take it that you are not going anywhere but here, and that there never was, is, or will be any other time than now.  Simply be aware of what actually is without giving it names and without judging it, for you are now feeling out reality itself instead of ideas or opinions about it.  There is no point in trying to suppress the babble of words and ideas that goes on in most adult brains, so if it won’t stop, let it go on as it will, and listen to it as if it were the sound of traffic or the clucking of hens.

“Let your ears hear whatever they want to hear; let your eyes see whatever they want to see; let your mind think whatever it wants to think; let your lungs breathe in their own rhythm.  Do not expect any special result, for in this wordless and idealess state, where can there be past or future, and where any notion of purpose?  Stop, look, and listen…”

Alan Watts, Tao:  The Watercourse Way, 1975, chapter 2, p. 36

Later in the book, Watts quotes Chuang-tzu, a quote that Watts describes as the closest that Chuang-tzu came to outlining a method of attaining the Tao.  In this passage, Chuang-tzu writes in the voice of Nu Chu, a sage who is teaching another sage, Pu Liang I, about the Tao:

“There was Pu Liang I, who had the genius of a sage, but not the Tao.  I have the Tao, but not the genius.  I wished to teach him, so that he might really become a sage.  To teach the Tao of a sage to a man who has the genius, seems to be an easy matter.  But no, I kept on telling him; after three days, he began to be able to disregard all worldly matters [i.e., anxieties about status or gain and loss].  After his having disregarded all worldly matters, I kept on telling him; after seven days, he began to be able to disregard all external things [as being separate entities].  After his having disregarded all external things, I kept on telling him; after nine days, he began to be able to disregard his own existence [as an ego].  Having disregarded his own existence, he was enlightened.  Having become enlightened, he then was able to gain the vision of the One.  Having the vision of the One, he was then able to transcend the distinction of past and present.  Having transcended the distinction of past and present, he was then able to enter the realm where life and death are no more.  Then, to him, the [end] of life did not mean death, nor the prolongation of life an addition to the duration of his existence.  He would follow anything; he would receive anything.  To him, everything was in destruction, everything was in construction.  This is called tranquility in disturbance.  Tranquility in disturbance means perfection.”

I love this quote.  It reminds me of the John Blofeld quote toward the end of my earlier post, Liberation from the fear of death.

 

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved

following

“Goldfish at Sunset” by Ren Adams

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Our modern American culture tends to value leadership and devalue following.  “Be a leader, not a follower.”  This message is ingrained in us, starting from an early age.  Our TV ads and movies repeat and reinforce the message.  Many schools or colleges state that they aim “to educate the future leaders of America.”  Although we are a democratic country, we still tend to value “movers and shakers” and charismatic, assertive political leaders who can inspire or goad others to follow their own goals, agenda, or priorities.

In contrast, Taoists don’t emphasize the importance of attaining leadership, at least not in the sense of out-competing others, gaining and asserting power and control over others, or achieving recognition, popularity, prestige, or fame.  None of these things appeals to them (see my earlier post non-striving).  Typically, Taoists are not even in the mainstream of society, but rather are often nonconformist,  sometimes even recluses.  They are independent minded, and are not impressed or swayed by charismatic, manipulative leaders.

Perhaps the one sense in which Taoists themselves might be considered leaders is in setting an example of a way to live that is simple, unconventional, and centered on the Tao.  If they are leaders in their chosen fields of endeavor, it is out of sheer love for the work itself, rather than out of grasping for fame and glory.  Although Taoists don’t tend to seek political power, the Tao Te Ching includes advice for political leaders, and emphasizes the seemingly paradoxical need for leaders to follow the people they are leading, to show humility, to respect and listen to and understand the people, to put the best interests of the people ahead of their own desires for power and control.

“All streams flow to the sea
because it is lower than they are.
Humility gives it its power.

If you want to govern the people,
you must place yourself below them.
If you want to lead the people,
you must learn how to follow them.”

-Tao Te Ching, Chapter 66, Stephen Mitchell translation

“If you want to be a great leader,
you must learn to follow the Tao.
Stop trying to control.
Let go of fixed plans and concepts,
and the world will govern itself.”

– Tao Te Ching, Chapter 57, Stephen Mitchell translation

This idea that leaders should stop trying to control and start following the people and the Tao was a particularly radical idea at the time that the Tao Te Ching was written in China, when emperors and warlords held total power over the population.  But this Taoist goal seems difficult to fully attain even in our modern, Western democracy.  Even in a democracy, in which the people can vote, political leaders’ efforts to follow the people are not necessarily sincere.   Insincere, Machiavellian “following” involves determining what is currently popular and fashionable, following the daily poll numbers, and tailoring your message to the polls to attain or hold on to power.  In contrast, the Tao Te Ching encourages a sincere, non-manipulative form of following that is not motivated by a desire for power, but rather by an interest in following the Tao.

“The Master is above the people,
and no one feels oppressed.
She goes ahead of the people,
and no one feels manipulated.”

-Tao Te Ching, Chapter 66, Stephen Mitchell translation

A leader’s sincere following of the people is not, however, passive and indiscriminate.  It doesn’t mean being a slave to the superficial whims, fashions, fads, prejudices, or hatreds that can spread quickly through a crowd, and that are often transient emotional reactions.  Rather, sincere following, in the Taoist sense, seems to mean following the people’s deepest and most enduring values, the part of them that is centered and peaceful, the part of them that is attuned with Tao.  This probably sounds overly idealistic, virtually impossible to achieve….even the Tao Te Ching itself admits it…but it is worth aspiring to:

“Some say that my teaching is nonsense.
Others call it lofty but impractical.
But to those who have looked inside themselves,
this nonsense makes perfect sense.
And to those who put it into practice,
this loftiness has roots that go deep.”

—Tao Te Ching, Chapter 67, Stephen Mitchell translation

The usefulness of following applies not only to political leaders, but to leaders in all sorts of areas.  In his book Sacred Hoops: Spiritual Lessons of a Hardwood Warrior, the  coach Phil Jackson, writes  about applying Buddhist and Taoist principles of listening and following to leadership in the high pressure world of professional basketball:

“Though there are occasions when a firm hand is needed, I learned early that one of the most important qualities of a leader is listening without judgment, or with what Buddhists call bare attention.  This sounds easier than it is, especially when the stakes are high and you desperately need your charges to perform.  But many of the men I’ve coached have come from troubled families and needed all the support they could get.  I find that when I can be truly present with impartial, open awareness, I get a much better feel for the players’ concerns than when I try to impose my own agenda.  And, paradoxically, when I back off and just listen, I get much better results on the court.

“In The Tao of Leadership, John Heider writes:

‘The wise leader is of service:  receptive, yielding, following.  The group members’ vibration dominates and leads, while the leader follows.  But soon it is the member’s consciousness which is transformed.  It is the job of the leader to be aware of the group members’ process; it is the need of the group member to be received and paid attention to.  Both get what they need, if the leader has the wisdom to serve and follow.’”

–Phil Jackson Sacred Hoops: Spiritual Lessons of a Hardwood Warrior, p. 67-68

Learning to “follow” another person or group of people, and to engage in a form of mutual, interactive following with others, is an important Taoist skill.  Again, this type of following does not involve a passive surrendering of one’s will to another, nor does it involve giving in to peer pressure.  It does not need to involve one person gaining power or control over another (except, perhaps, when the principle of following is used in the context of competitive sports or martial arts—see the discussion of basketball and Tai Chi Chuan below—but in those cases, paradoxically, it is the one who is most skilled at following who is able to achieve mastery and control over the interaction).  Rather, it involves a way of listening and connecting to each other, of understanding each other more deeply.  If we devalue and neglect this type of listening and following, and value only “leadership” in the modern American sense—asserting and imposing ourselves on others— we risk becoming more and more self-involved and more disconnected from the people and things around us, which can end up limiting and hindering us.  To continue the basketball example, even with the superstar Michael Jordan on their Chicago Bulls team, Phil Jackson and his assistant coach, Tex Winter, had the team work on de-emphasizing the dominating leadership presence of Jordan, and work on functioning together better as a team.  Jackson and Winter taught their players to use a strategy called the triangle offense, that Phil Jackson said is best described as “five man Tai Chi.” The triangle offense requires continuous moment-to-moment awareness and following, both of teammates and members of the opposing team.  In addition to the talents of the team members, it was this training in awareness, listening, following, working together as a team that Jackson believes led to their successes.

Another example that comes to my mind of the value of listening and following comes from my experiences playing in musical groups.  When I was in high school, I studied the clarinet quite seriously, and played in various youth orchestras.  I remember a conductor who I played under for about 4 years urging the orchestra members to listen to each other and follow each other and him while playing together.  To illustrate this type of following, he asked one of the violinists to stand up and walk while the conductor tried to follow his walking pace.  First, the conductor acted out the type of following he didn’t want.  The violinist walked, and the conductor walked along with him, but was always lagging slightly behind the violinist, never really with him.  Then, the conductor illustrated true “listening” and following…this time, as the violinist walked, the conductor stayed exactly with him, so the two looked perfectly in sync, and it was difficult for the onlooker to tell who was leading and who was following.  This type of following takes a high level of awareness and attunement to the other person, and an instantaneous translation of this attunement into motion.  This illustration, however, just shows one side of the following.  In playing music together, there would ideally be a mutual, reciprocal type of listening and following that goes on between performers that results in an exhilarating type of communication and attunement.  This is where the magic can happen in musical performances.   BBC Music Magazine recently wrote this about a performance by the Berlin Philharmonic:  “What’s extraordinary about the the Berlin ensemble is not just their clarity of sound, nor their crisp articulation, but the level of freedom with which the players move as one, each tracking the other like swallows in flight.”

This type of following also can be learned and strengthened in practicing the Taoist martial art, Tai Chi Chuan.  In Tai Chi Chuan, one learns to follow the teacher in the class, and carry out the movements in synch with the teacher.  Also, in learning push hands with a partner in Tai Chi Chuan, the challenge is to learn to very sensitively perceive what your partner is doing or intending to do, and to follow your partner’s movements so closely that you stay in continual, steady contact.  As your partner advances towards you, you yield, while remaining in contact; as your partner retreats away from you, you advance towards him, while remaining in contact.  My Tai Chi teacher quotes his teacher, Dr. Tao Ping-siang, who said repeatedly when instructing students in pushing hands, “Don’t push back, and don’t pull away.”   The other person may try to increase or decrease the pressure in the contact between you, but you stay with them, and don’t allow any change in pressure between you to occur.

“If your [opponent's] side is hard, change your own side to make it soft.  This is called following.  If your opponent is moving and you adhere to him while following in the same direction, it is called sticking.  Then you are attached to your opponent:  when he moves faster, you also move faster; when he moves slower, you move slower, thereby matching his movement…When he moves forward, he should feel that he cannot reach you, and when he retreats, he should feel that he has nowhere to escape to…If you achieve this level of sensitivity, there is no force that will defeat you…The T’ai Chi principle is as simple as this:  yield yourself and follow the external forces.”

– “T’ai Chi Classics II.  Treatise by Master Wong Chung-yua” in T’ai Chi Classics, translated and with commentary by Waysun Liao, 1990, pp.99-107

This is much easier said than done, and requires an inner calm, a deep state of relaxation, a continuous, moment-to-moment awareness, and a “listening” and sensitivity to your partner. (See three of my previous posts: inner quiet, relaxation and serenity, listening.)

Chen Ziqiang, on left, practicing an advanced form of Push Hands called DaLu

As you read this, you might be wondering about what seems to be a contradiction in Taoist values.  Why is it that Taoists tend to be so independent and unconventional,  so uninterested in following the crowd or domineering leaders, and yet, in another sense, value certain types of following so highly?  Chapter 20 of the Tao Te Ching emphasizes the independence and unconventionality of Taoists, their lack of susceptibility to peer pressures.

“Must you value what others value,
avoid what others avoid?
How ridiculous!

Other people are excited,
as though they were at a parade.
I alone don’t care,
I alone am expressionless,
like an infant before it can smile.

Other people have what they need;
I alone possess nothing.
I alone drift about,
like someone without a home.
I am like an idiot, my mind is so empty.

Other people are bright;
I alone am dark.
Other people are sharper;
I alone am dull.
Other people have a purpose;
I alone don’t know.
I drift like a wave on the ocean,
I blow as aimless as the wind.

I am different from ordinary people.
I drink from the Great Mother’s breasts.”

– Tao Te Ching, Chapter 20, Stephen Mitchell translation

The seeming contradiction between independence from others, on the one hand, and the high value placed on following, on the other hand, can be resolved by understanding that what Taoists value is to be attuned to the Tao, to be “immersed in the wonder of Tao,” to follow Tao, as indicated in the last line just quoted from Chapter 20 of the Tao Te Ching.  Taoists are independent of superficial fads and fashions, independent of peer pressures or pressures from “charismatic leaders” that are not deeply rooted in the Tao.  But they are very interested in listening to and connecting with others on a much deeper level, and in sensing and following Tao in others.

“Therefore the Master concerns himself
with the depths and not the surface,
with the fruit and not the flower…”

—Tao Te Ching, Chapter 38, Stephen Mitchell translation

©2009-2011 Aspiring Taoist.  All Rights Reserved