The Tao: Noun or Verb?

According to the World English Dictionary, in traditional grammar a verb is “any of a large class of words in a language that serve to indicate the occurrence or performance of an action.” The same source defines a noun as “a word or group of words that refers to a person, place, or thing” With this as a frame of reference, I believe that in order to properly understand the concept of Tao, it should be viewed as a verb.

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Tao (Wade-Giles), or Dao (Pinyin) is a conception of ancient Chinese philosophy–particularly Taoism–that is traditionally translated as “way,” or “path.” As such, it is typically viewed as a noun or name. During nearly 40 years of studying the contextual usage of Tao–both in Taoist and Buddhist texts–I have come to understand it as referring to an action (verb). In this sense, a more accurate translation might be “process.”

The foundational text of Taoism–the Tao Te Ching (Wade-Giles), or Dao De Jing (Pinyin)–dates back to the 6^th century B.C.E. and is considered to be the primary source for understanding the concept of the Tao. Using this as a guide, let us consider how one’s understanding of Tao changes with its use as a verb rather than a noun.

The first chapter of the Tao Te Ching (Feng & English, 1972) begins:

The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.

The name that can be named is not the eternal name.

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.

The named is the mother of the ten thousand things.

The first two lines indicate that the Tao that can be spoken of or named is not the eternal Tao. In an interesting bit of synchronicity, “name” is synonymous with “noun” in English grammar. Now I doubt that Lao Tzu–the mythological author of the Tao Te Ching–had English grammar in mind when writing about the Tao, but when translated into English, the text appears to be saying that the Tao cannot be named. Thus (at least from the standpoint of English grammar) it is not a noun.

The third line tells us that the “nameless” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. If the nameless is a verb, indicating an action, then the Tao is the process that begets the material Universe (matter = noun). Then in line four, matter (the named) becomes the origin of everything thereafter.

From this line of thought, the first four lines of the Tao Te Ching are in essence saying that an ineffable, nameless action gives rise to that which can be named–matter. Matter–that which can be named–in turn, gives us everything else.

If we apply this concept to modern astrophysics, we could interpret the Tao as the action underlying the “Big Bang.” After all, the “Big Bang” was an event–not a thing–because prior to it, “things” (matter and a Universe in which it could be) did not exist.

We can further apply this principle to virtually any other domain with the Tao being understood as a nameless action underlying its named manifestations– life, growth, evolution, etc.

This reinforces the idea that Taoism is essentially pantheistic in that the Tao is not a “creator” (noun) as such, but rather the action (verb) infused throughout creation. It would also lend support to the concept that matter is not the foundation of being. Rather it is action which gives rise to being.

As a side note, in another instance of synchronicity, while looking up synonyms for the word “process”–the word “route” was listed. This brings us full circle back to the English translation of Tao as path. Perhaps in the subtleties of translating Chinese into English over the year this concept of Tao as a verb, rather than a noun, was lost.

I would invite you to ponder these thoughts as you study the Tao.

Ann Druyan–Writer, Producer, Activist

I wanted to share a quote by Ann Druyan, wife of the late Carl Sagan. I believe it captures the essence of the Taoist and Pantheist vision.

"The God of Spinoza, the God of Einstein is our ability to understand nature. That’s how we worship what is sacred, what is holy, by trying to find the deepest understanding of nature. Our bias against this is so strong you can hear it in the word “supernatural”–above the natural. As if our fantasies and our little stories that we make up, whether we made them up 10,000 years ago, or 5,000 years ago, or this week, as if our stories could compete with the reality of nature as revealed by science."

The Tao that can be told

The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.

The name that can be named is not the eternal name.

The nameless is the beginning of heaven and Earth.

The named is the mother of the ten thousand things.

Ever desireless, one can see the mystery.

Ever desiring, one sees the manifestations.

These two spring from the same source but differ in name;

This appears as darkness.

Darkness within darkness.

The gate to all mystery.

Lao Tzu

Tao Te Ching

So begins the first chapter in the Tao Te Ching–the foundational text of Taoism. Taoism has existed as a philosophical system in China since about the 6^th century B.C.E. When I began my spiritual quest in earnest, Taoism was the first tradition that resonated with me. It’s difficult to encapsulate Taoism in just a few words. A fact made even harder due to their being at least 3 major divisions and an untold number of minor sects. However, my interest has solely been in Taoism as a philosophical system.

Perhaps the first thing that attracted me to Taoist teaching was that is essentially non-theistic (i.e., without a belief in a Deity). Instead, Taoism refers to the Tao–a word that is usually translated as “path” or “way.” The Tao is viewed as a cosmic force or energy that underlies all existence. As such, it is the source of the natural laws by which the entire Universe operates. The actions (the manifestations) of the Tao are best understood through studying the natural world. An analogy would be the wind. Think of the wind as the Tao, which cannot be seen (the mystery). We are only aware of the wind by its actions (the manifestations) within the physical universe (i.e., trees bending, leaves blowing, etc.). That which is not in harmony with the Tao will eventually cease to exist. Therefore, a follower of the Tao attempts to live his or her life in harmony with this cosmic force. This is also the philosophy behind the Taoist moving meditation and martial art, T’ai Chi. The practice is designed to help one harmonize with the Universe.

One of the essential aspects of the Tao’s manifestation in the Universe is constant change. The most recognized icon for Taoism is the T’ai Chi (usually referred to as the “yin/yang”). This circle divided into light and dark symbolizes the constant interaction of two complimentary elements–yin and yang–which are the source of everything (the ten thousand things).

That which engenders Creation is itself uncreated; that which engenders Change is itself unchanging. The Uncreated is able to create; the Unchanging is able to effect change. That which is produced cannot but continue producing; that which is evolved cannot but continue evolving. Hence there is constant production and constant evolution. The law of constant production and of constant evolution at no time ceases to operate.

Lieh Tzu

I like Taoism’s reverence for the natural world and the idea of trying to live in harmony with it. A good example of this can be seen in traditional Chinese landscape paintings. In these landscapes, people (or the evidence of people such as buildings, etc.) are virtually invisible–hidden among the majesty of the natural world. Most Taoists saw society as a corrupting influence on the individual and would often live as hermits in the forests or mountains. Thoreau–though not a Taoist in name–certainly lived in accord with many Taoist principles.

Taoists were–for the most part–very rational and scientific. They studied nature to understand the underlying principles at work. In so doing, Taoists by-in-large founded the principles of traditional Chinese medicine. They tended to see the “big picture” and knew that anything–even if left alone–would eventually change. It seems they viewed the Universe as a wondrous mystery just waiting to be explored.

A word of caution: If you decide you would like to do some study of Taoism, be aware that there is a magical-shamanic folk religion that uses the name Taoist and has little–if any–connection to Taoist philosophy. This is typically called “Religious” or “Popular” Taoism.

 

Spiritual Eclecticism

Most of my prior posts were about how I got to be who I am. My future posts will be more about who I am and who I am becoming.

One of the spiritual realities that I have learned in my wanderings is that no one tradition has a monopoly on truth and that by remaining open-minded I am able discover truth wherever it may be. I cannot with any degree of honesty pin myself down to any of the established spiritual or religious categories. Although I love dogs, I can’t stand dogmas. So let me begin to answer two seemingly simple questions, “What is my religion” and “Do I believe in God?”

I suppose my best answer to the first question would be to just say I’m a “Spiritual Eclectic,” meaning that I draw upon many religious/spiritual/philosophical traditions, but ally myself with none. If I had to put my beliefs in one sentence, the best I can come up with at the moment would be: I’m equal parts Taoist, Buddhist, Natural Pantheist, and Existentialist bound together with a liberal dose* of Amazonian shamanism. Maybe you can understand why I don’t normally like to get into casual exchanges with people about religion. If someone REALLY wants to know “what I am” the answer’s going to take awhile.

The second question is problematic on two levels. First, it is framed as a “yes” or “no” question. Second, it presupposes that there is a universal definition of “God” that both the person asking and the person answering agree upon. I’m not just being a smart ass (well, maybe a little) when I give my usual response: “First you have to tell me what you mean by God.” This usually ends the conversation (try it if you don’t believe me), but if it doesn’t–this answer’s going to take awhile as well. But you’ll have to wait for my next post.

*Yes, that pun was intended.

California Dreamin’

After a year in Virginia Beach, I was transferred to San Diego, CA. This came at the perfect time as I now had a direction for my spiritual quest and was heading to the center of the new age spiritual universe–California. I was assigned to the administrative staff of the Rear Admiral in charge of all surface forces in the Pacific Fleet (basically everything except submarines and aircraft). I was stationed at the Naval Amphibious Base at Coronado–home of Navy Seals basic training.

San Diego was paradise for someone who spent his first 18 years of life in rainy, gloomy Western Washington. Nearly perfect weather every day. It rained in San Diego about as often as it snowed in the lowlands of Western Washington. The other 360 days it was sunny and in the 70s during the “Winter” and in the 80’s during the Summer. Next door to a warm Pacific Ocean that you could actually swim in and only a few hours drive away from the San Bernadino Mountains and miles of desert that included Joshua Tree and the Coachella Valley.

I began reading every book I could find on Buddhism and Taoism (and there were a lot of them). I also began taking yoga classes along with practicing Transcendental Meditation (something I picked-up in Virginia Beach). In my readings, it seemed that the general consensus was that spiritual experiences via psychoactive substances were not the “real” thing–they could be a catalyst for beginning a spiritual journey, but they needed to be supplanted by more traditional practices if one wanted a permanent transformation. As Houston Smith–the great scholar of world religions–said, “Having a spiritual experience is easy, living a spiritual life as a result of that experience is what’s hard.”

During this time, the one writer primarily responsible for my initial understanding of Buddhism and Taoism was a popular interpreter of Eastern philosophy–Alan Watts. I liked Watts because, like me, he was a mostly self-taught religious scholar with a strong affinity for Eastern philosophy. Born in England, he served as an Episcopal priest for 5 years before moving to the United States in 1951 to accept a teaching position at the American Academy of Asian Studies in San Francisco. During his lifetime he also had a teaching fellowship at Harvard and was a frequent speaker at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California. Watts had a way of taking the most complex philosophical concepts and making them easily understandable, which was a big part of his popularity.

Alan Watts was close friends with a fellow British expatriate–Aldous Huxley. Like Huxley, Watts experimented with Mescaline, Psilocybin, and LSD in America. But unlike Huxley, Watts came to reject these substances as valid tools for a spiritual seeker. Ironic, because Watts died at age 58 due to heart failure exacerbated by his lifelong alcoholism.

Armed with a foundation of key concepts in Eastern philosophy thanks to Watts, I was able to gain a better understanding of source texts in Buddhism and Taoism. I found myself particularly drawn to Taoism. I think this was because I had not yet learned to separate the teachings of the Buddha from the religion that sprouted up around them. Later on, I would discover that the quickest way to destroy a spiritual teaching is to make it an organized religion.

Taoism led me to t’ai chi–the ancient Chinese slow-motion martial art based upon Taoist philosophy. Since learning Transcendental Meditation, I had experienced ongoing difficulties with seated meditation. For one, no matter what position I tried to sit in after about 5 minutes my lower back hijacked my attention leaving little left for meditation. Also, I seemed to have hit a wall with seated mediation and wasn’t getting much from it.

T’ai chi was often described as a “moving” form of meditation. I was ready to give it a try. All I needed to do was find a teacher. One Saturday I was strolling through Balboa Park, when I saw a group of about 10 people doing–you guessed it–t’ai chi. They were led my an elder Chinese man who simply went by “Mr. Leong.” All I needed to do to join the class was show-up on Saturdays and give Mr. Leong $5 when class was over. Sounded simple enough. I studied with Mr. Leong for about a year, learning Wu style empty hand and short staff t’ai chi forms.

The more I practiced t’ai chi, the more I wanted to learn–not only of t’ai chi, but of its sister arts. This has been a recurring theme in my life–if I decide to get into something, I jump in with both feet and don’t look back. I realized that continuing with Mr. Leong was no longer enough for me.

About this time, I met an interesting fellow from Oklahoma. He professed to not only teach t’ai chi, but many other Chinese martial arts. His name–Mike Brown. Mike had been into martial arts for quite some time before meeting a petroleum geologist from Taiwan, Her Yu Wong. Dr. Wong had studied Chinese martial arts since he was a boy in Taiwan. Since moving to the U.S. he continued his practice, but never took on any students thinking no one in this country would be interested. Mike was interested and soon became Dr. Wong’s first student.

Eventually, Mike Brown and Dr. Wong had started the Ching Yi Kung Fu Association to share Dr. Wong’s knowledge with others. In so doing, they set minimum standards for what anyone wanting to teach these arts needed to be considered proficient. So, if I wanted to teach t’ai chi as an instructor certified by the Ching Yi Kung Fu Association, I had to learn all the Ching Yi martial arts. This way, even if all I ever taught was t’ai chi, I would have a well-rounded background and understanding of the tradition from which t’ai chi emerged.

This was just what I was looking for. Now I could get a more comprehensive training in these disciplines from both the Taoist and Buddhist heritage. Through t’ai chi I had found a physical discipline that combined gentle exercise with meditative focus. Since I found the Taoist philosophical teachings so compelling, I wanted to see how the physical practices born of this philosophy could further my spiritual development.

After being discharged from the Navy, I stayed another two years in San Diego. During this time my life consisted of eating, working (just enough to pay expenses), sleeping, and practicing kung fu. I was learning everything I could from Mike and, eventually, helping him teach as an informal assistant instructor. At the time, I thought I would never return to Washington except to visit. San Diego was my new home. But shortly after passing my test to become a certified Ching Yi Kung Fu instructor, I decided it was time to head back North. My four plus years in the Golden State had come to an end. I loaded everything I owned into a VW Super Beetle and began driving North on I-5. The moment I crossed the border into Washington, it started snowing (this was in April). I should have seen that as an omen and turned around. I didn’t.

Leaving Home

Have you ever done something without really knowing why, only to find out later it was probably the best thing you could have done at the time? Before even graduating from high school, I had enlisted to enter the U.S. Navy following my graduation. At the time, I wasn't completely sure why I did it–but, in hindsight, it was probably the best choice I could have made at the time. Many of my friends were shocked. I'm sure if there had been a "Least Likely to Enter the Military" vote by my classmates, I would have finished at least in the top ten.
I could have gone to college like most of my friends, and was even accepted at The Evergreen State College. But some part of me knew going from high school straight into college would have ultimately been a waste of time (a very fun waste of time, but a waste of time nevertheless). I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and needed some time to "find myself." Having grown up in a small town where everybody not only knew me, but knew my parents and grandparents as well–I wanted to get as far away as I could. Somewhere where no one knew me and I could become whoever I wanted to be. Since I didn't have any money, I decided my best option was to spend a few years working for my Uncle Sam.
A couple weeks after my 18^th birthday, I left for boot camp in Orlando, Florida. I couldn't have gotten farther away from Washington and still remained in the continental U.S. Eight weeks in boot camp, a short visit home for Christmas, then back to Orlando for 12 weeks of Navy Personnelman school. After graduating, I went to my first duty station–Virginia Beach, VA–working in the Educational Services Office of a Naval Aircraft Squadron.
While stationed in Virginia Beach, I spent nearly every night in the base library studying the world's major religions. I had decided that I was going to see if any of them contained anything that made sense to me. I ended up focusing my attention on Buddhism and Taoism.
I liked Buddhism because it is a non-theistic religion. Although many Buddhist followers revere the Buddha in a god-like manner, the Buddha himself denied any divinity. Whenever he was asked if he was a god, he said "No, I am awake." This, in fact, is what the term "Buddha" means–awakened one. The focus of Buddhism is on the mind as the source of all existence. In his first discourse, the Buddha said "The mind is the forerunner of all things." For anyone who has delved into the world of substances such as LSD, this makes perfect sense.
Taoism, on the other hand, revered the natural world and viewed the divine as being expressed throughout the rhythms of nature. Although some try to equate the Tao with "god," there is little similarity with what most people conceive of as god. God in the Judeao-Christian tradition–as well as most other theistic traditions–is a supernatural being that exists outside of the natural world. The Tao on the other hand is a natural force that is both the source and substance of all existence. Out of it all things arise, while simultaneously it is a part of all things.
From that point on, Buddhism and Taoism became the primary focus of my study as I began in earnest my spiritual self-education. Where else to go, but California?