I cannot recall when I developed a liking for certain things.

I mean things that embody a mixture of flowing nature and structure.

Intuitively, I think it’s a unique and individualized experience that we find such resonance, the correspondence between inner consciousness and the presentation of external things. My senses, disposition, and the specific objects and the fluid nature of the outside are co-arising.

Moonlight is white because my eyes are clear enough to receive it. Sometimes I’m seized by shifting emotions, especially when thinking of family. I am, nevertheless, drawn to the serenity of the moment, simply dwelling on the subtle experience of communing with the moonlight and the crystal clear atmosphere.

Somehow, it feels like a mystical experience in which my thoughts, emotions, and sentiments can interact with the moon, the wonder of nature. In a brief moment, my existence has become fluid, becoming one with the myriad things under the umbrella of the moonlight.

Such resonance happens to me when I interact with an artwork. There is a general sense of awe when I look at the calligraphy work by Yan Zhenqing (709-785 A.D.) in the photo below.

This piece was a draft letter Yan wrote to a colleague, reminding him of the seating arrangement for a political event.

Yet, it became an exemplary work, revealing flow within a natural framework. Through every character, every line, we can one step closer to his spirit, character, and skill.

I find a similar perfection of flow, symmetry, and structure in Bach’s chaconne (Partita for violin no.2). After years of keeping it a company, I’m still completely soaked in unspeakable feelings when I stay with it for a brief moment, with my spirit wandering along with the development of musical phrases.

The chaconne connects motifs that move apart and rejoin, creating dissonance, reconciliation, and inner lucidity, all of which lead to transcendence and harmony that feels inevitable.

I am amazed by the incredible, mysterious, and magical power of human creativity, the profound insights into life derived from actually going through it, naturally unfolding when connected with one’s medium of expression.

I think we all do in one way or another.

What Ziran means

Every one of us is a unique micro-universe, and we all correspond to the myriad things in various distinctive ways. There is something hidden, something unidentifiable within that drives us into the motions of life.

That human agency is invariably connected to our inborn nature and natural disposition.

Ziran, in the Taoist system, means so-of-itself. Taoists have the perception that the myriad things become what they are naturally, without the dictation of a preordained order or an external force.

To live in accordance with this innate nature, guarding it and being guided by it in the midst of living, is to be spontaneous and natural.

And to become natural is to be free, as one is living at ease with what is innately possible.

Everything that is spontaneous and natural has a mysterious kind of attraction, a silent quality that inspires, soothes, and calms.

For Chuang Tzu, ziran is a way of being, an existential alignment between one’s inborn nature and naturally flowing with the current of life.

Yet, this is not to suggest that such an alignment can be easily identified. Rather, it requires a spiritual journey of venturing into the unknown lands, an inward search that goes beyond the confines of the actual world, and breaking the barriers of one’s immediate realities.

To a large extent, it resembles the hero’s journey, and walking that path is the process of spiritual liberation.

To become awakened and liberated within, in this sense, is to redefine your own meaning of existence in the journey of self-discovery.

Going with the Tao

In Chuang Tzu’s system, Tao (dao 道) is the spontaneity of things.1 Instead of conceptualizing it as a mysterious entity, some divine existence, Chuang Tzu explains that there is no place it does not exist, or it flows everywhere in the world.2

The Tao is in the constant cycle of changing, moving, and transitioning. For the Taoists, following the Tao, therefore, means adjusting to varying circumstances, swimming with the current.

Like the wind, the clouds, and the river water, emerging, transmuting, and flowing into the unknown.

When commenting on the innate agency of the winds, as a symbol of the myriad things in nature, Guo Xiang (252-313 A.D.), a representative of the neo-Taoist philosopher during the Wei-Jin China period (220-420 A.D.), said,

That everything spontaneously becomes what it is, is called natural. Everything is as it is by nature, not made to be so.3

If things become themselves, it means they weren’t pushed and dictated by the outside. Not being made to be so reveals the quality of an internal autonomy.

For the person to embody one’s virtue4 (de 德), that is to say, in becoming spontaneous and natural, is to follow the Tao, to be the master of one’s own spiritual realm.

The Tao is a process of action and repose, the harmony of the yin and the yang. In this sense, following the Tao is to maintain a dynamic equilibrium and never go to one extreme.

The unity of the Tao and the de in a person manifests as a state of independent transformation (duhua 獨化)5. It entails leveraging inner freedom to navigate the tide of change into the unknown.

On a pragmatic level, independent transformation must be grounded in actual living —a concrete engagement with the minute details of reality —through which self-knowledge can be developed.

This is a spiritual journey of self-discovery, and it is not easy, as circumstances might be unfavorable.

In this sense, to become spontaneous and natural is both an arduous process of self-realization and returning. It requires, first of all, an understanding that personal transformation is a process of transitioning from an actuality to a possibility.6

Chuang Tzu’s spirit of interacting with the world while transcending it lies in trusting your limitless potential in self-transformation, but at the same time recognizing the limitations of convention. The conflict of these two constitutes the essence of the predicament of existence.

On the one hand, artificial forces, associated with the development of civilization, represented by various cultural ecosystems, create a ceiling and a cage for the average person. Everywhere, he or she is shackled by the control and limits of cultural systems, parochial worldviews, and conventional ways of doing things.

At the same time, the self may easily lose track of what it is that is worth pursuing in the midst of life’s entanglements. For the world is full of noise and allure that could make one deviate from the natural path.

Under such circumstances, Chuang Tzu was telling us this: You are a spiritual and limitless being, but only you can carefully preserve what is within you.

Returning to the genuine

The journey of self-discovery is also returning to your spontaneous and natural state of existence.

Return begins with subtraction—less clinging and clutching, more clarity and simplicity. It is about dissolving and forgetting the constraints of cultural and social conditioning, seeing through the limits of the ego while entangling with the conceptualizations of the phenomenal world, through which to get back to the authenticity within.

Genuineness, zhen 真, in the Taoist system, is a foundational value about human nature. Its opposite is insincerity, falseness, or arbitrariness.

The person who is inwardly genuine moves the external spiritually…The genuine is the means by which we draw upon Heaven, it is spontaneous and irreplaceable.7

What is derived from Heaven, or innately natural, is what defines the essence of being for a person.

Therefore, the journey of self-discovery involves navigating the intricacies and complexities of this world while preserving one’s authenticity.

For Chuang Tzu, the ideal of ziran, thus, is a spontaneous state of existence, a genuine way of living.

Still, ziran is very much a personal thing; that is to say, you need to awaken to see it, connect with it, and become it.

All of us are unique in terms of distinct virtues, capabilities, and possibilities. Accordingly, everyone’s journey is different.

Chuang Tzu advises,

Do not let the artificial submerge the natural. Do not for material purposes destroy your life.8

What matters the most is being true to your own natural self. Fundamentally, what is more heartbreaking and regrettable than giving up on yourself, on what you could have become?

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I once heard that when we become aware of our own aging, we tend to reflect on the past. Memories just come back to us in various uninvited ways.

And with a strange feeling, we can sense that time truly flies, like the sand slipping through our fingers, the river water flowing toward somewhere far away, somewhere we do not know.

Sometimes, I am seized by this fear of the unknown, fear of something lying ahead of my life, something beyond my understanding.

At other times, I am struck by a thought, which brings to mind something long buried in the corner of memory, reliving that particular moment in the past. But strangely, I get to see how I reacted in those lived moments.

I saw naivety, foolishness, anger, confusion, regret, passion, and dismay.

I saw the younger me, trapped in my own thinking and exhibiting headstrong, self-righteous behaviors.

I want to understand more about this version of me.

Buddhism says that we are like particles, mingled with the myriad things in the phenomenal world. It reminds us that aging and death are not to be feared because, at every moment, we are being recreated while some parts of us experience destruction.

Body cells die and renew. Thoughts and emotions arise and pass.

We are essentially co-originating with the entanglements in the material world. Our sense of being alive is dependent on something out here.

I am fascinated by the notion of “self.”

The ego and the “cage”

Intuitively, we know there is a difference between the body, or the physical self, and the intangible self, the spirit.

We don’t feel a sense of dissonance when they are aligned well. We are comfortable with our state of being, whatever it is that we are engaged with in life.

Yet, sometimes, an internal discord captures us, reminding us that something is wrong.

But that is not our problem.

We have been educated, trained, and conditioned to think and operate in this world through the lens of subjectivity. But that subjectivity is the product of our cultural contexts.

We assess, evaluate, and measure everything out there from a personal view.

We think that we are the benchmark for judging the myriad things in the world. This is the ego-centric and human-centric ways of understanding our state of existence. In other words, that is the problem of the ego.

A direct consequence of this effect, this cultural and social conditioning, the control of systems, is the separation of us and the world. We have, unfortunately, lost the capability to see the interconnections underlying the appearances of things, between ourselves and the multiple forms of existence in the world.

To some extent, we move about in life to satisfy the workings of the ego. We become trapped by the relative opposites of conceptualizations, the dualistic views on things. When the intuitive understanding of the holistic oneness is lost, distinctions and preferences arise.

Cultural systems, theories, beliefs, and ideologies lend a structured and systematic appearance to the bare ego, legitimizing themselves as the thinking mind makes sense of the world through them.

As a result, while these analytical frameworks and systems help us navigate the complexity of the phenomenal world, they have also assisted in inflating the ego.

When making distinctions becomes a habit for the mind, passions and preferences can be easily energized by artificial sources of influence.

I have realized that my fixations on things are the source of my distress. If I want clarity, then I need to see through the reality that I have been captured by a particular view and driven by my internal desires. And these excessive attachments are the real challenges that I must overcome.

Forgetting into oneness

Chuang Tzu depicts the Perfect Person as having no self.1 It can feel impossible, until we notice the moment it already happens.

Every day, we operate by habits, acquired ways of thinking, and familiar ways of doing things. Yet, intuitively, a flash of thought visits us, makes us wonder, “Why do I think or act this way?”

Like a glitch in a system that is driven by a predetermined script, sustained by auto-suggestion.

Chuang Tzu was suggesting a mystical experience of seeing, observing, and dissolving while moving along with the self, entangled in everyday activities.

When we can see and become aware, we can make the conscious choice of getting unattached.

Yet, this is not to suggest a complete withdrawal from the concrete motion of life. Everything we do, anything necessary for worldly engagement, becomes part of the preparation.

You can step out, not by fleeing the world, but by loosening who you assume you are within it.

I see that it’s possible to restructure my relationship with the world. Forgetting is the doorway.

Forget things, forget Heaven, and be called a forgetter of self.2

Forgetting is not erasing who we are; it is seeing through the identification with the “I” — the self entangled in the outside.

Forgetting allows me to see the artificial distinctions and fixations in my mind, reminding me that I am just one of the myriad things in the realm of being.

The others, the pine tree, the butterfly, the forest, we are each other’s destiny.

I stop asking questions about “where am I going” because I am not gripped by fear and worry derived from existential distress experienced by the ego. I see them, I understand them, and I am liberated.

I see the similarity between the recluses and me in the notion of self-preservation. I thought that there was a safe and solid foundation of existence waiting for me to discover and build.

You see, I am trapped by my petty, selfish desire and inclinations.

Externally, it’s a way of thinking that “I” can hide myself from the absurd, ironic, and cruel aspects of living, from the existential whole.

Internally, I am stirred by illusions, desires, and expectations in their limitless and unstoppable attack.

Many religious and philosophical teachings speak to this fundamental fear, this anxiety about the state of existence and ultimate destiny.

The person, the receiver of divine message and calling, the enlightened, being inspired to do good things while finding consolation and assurance in “union with God” or some authorities.

I admire their devotion, the purity of heart and spirit. And we need them in this world.

For me, I see my life as part of the eternal transformation of the myriad things in the universe.

The ground of my existence lies in this transformation,3 instead of some hierarchical systems, teleological purposes, or authority of any type. What is required of me is to find my path toward this spontaneous and natural transformation of life.

If I am lucky to find and connect with my gift, my natural endowment, I am grateful for the mysterious arrangement of fate, the infinite Tao, because I know it does not belong to me.4

I am grateful because to be spontaneous is to be free, in alignment with the transformation of the universe. What more do I need?

Every day from now on has become an opportunity to practice my understanding. So I let go of my fixations and ego to follow what is natural in the flow of life.

No more forcing, differentiating, or clinging. No more existential anguish.

Let us forget life. Let us forget the distinction between right and wrong. Let us take our joy in the realm of the infinite and remain there.5

Forgetting is the path for me.

My spiritual liberation lies in unity with oneness, entrusting myself to the forces of change, to the stream of life, where I transmute, evolve, and flow into the unknown.

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The moment came when I realized that, for years, I’ve been living inside a cage without noticing.

I tried to decorate it with all the credentials, specific roles, and footprints that can prove it is a meaningful life.

Until I discovered that I was just being fixated on finishing a tidy story that I tell myself. What I did in that story was turn myself into a tool to satisfy certain expectations.

Essentially, I was delivering myself into a generic script that has already been written.

I was deeply trapped in an existential cave.

Where did you go?

At some point in our lives, we can feel the urge within that stirs us to revolt against all these external constraints.

Structures, norms, and familiar ways of doing things start to become strange and remote to us. The things we have been attached to, invested so much in, have become lighter, even repulsive. We feel a deepening sense of dissonance, sliding toward disconnection.

The heart and mind are hanging on to something surreal, something not fixed, as if a simple push can make everything fall and crash.

We start asking questions. Why do we have to conform to what is defined as valuable and worthy by others? Why do we subject ourselves to conventional standards and mundane values? Can we not make ourselves an instrument for external things?

We are overwhelmed by an existential chaos. Grave and real.

Where am I going? What is it that I’ve been pursuing? While chasing, what is it that I’m running away from?

This reminds me of a short story told by Chuang Tzu. There was a man who got hold of a priceless pearl of a marquis.1 Perhaps being unaware of the value of this pearl, he used it as a pellet to shoot at a sparrow up high in the sky. Obviously, he was laughed at.

He did not know that what he was chasing after paled in comparison with what he used in the process of acquiring.

While walking in the woods, a thought came to me: Have you gone so far that you’ve forgotten who you are?

It’s a matter of time before we realize that most of the things we used to value and prioritize are not that important at all. They are the things somehow being packaged to convince us that we belong to this or that “cage.”

While we get busy picking up items to furnish the appearance of the cage so that we can fit in, we lose touch with something fundamental, something that should have been cherished.

It took me some time to arrive at the understanding that I do not belong.

But I have not lost anything.

The pine tree, the bamboo, the wind, the clouds, and the flowing water. They greet me with their serene smiles. They are my friends. They do not force me to belong.

With this realization, I’ve learned not to have expectations for whatever happens outside. Though a painful experience, I’ve understood that being at peace with an unconditioned state of living allows me to taste that absolute freedom within.

When the heart is agitated again, I ask myself: Isn’t your life more precious than the valuable pearl of the marquis? Don’t you see that being obsessed with worldly entanglements can make you live in a mirage?

No, I do not want to re-enter that cage.

Returning

The heart and mind, or the spirit, if you will, speak to us all the time. But it is up to us if we want to listen to its whispers.

Working with that inner voice is the start of the journey of self-discovery. This journey is destined to be a solitary path, leading you toward the unknown lands.

Because only you can decide what it is that you are willing to shed off, so you are no longer shackled to that cage of yours, or perhaps, those many cages you’ve been so attached to.

In this sense, self-discovery is to return to the spontaneous state of being, becoming reconnected with your natural endowment and inborn nature.

You don’t need to fight against external forces and disruptions, which can drain your spirit. As you start to see and embrace what is inherently within you, you are already in a process of reevaluating everything imposed on you. External values, narratives, and prescribed actions start to dissolve as you see through them by transcending the limits of your own self.

How can you be trapped and captured by those things when you can empty your heart, freely responding to external phenomena with ease?

I think Chuang Tzu wanted to tell us this a long time ago. His rejection of the offer of being the prime minister is symbolic,2 not simply a nonchalant attitude toward political power and worldly status, but more importantly, refusing to let his worth be defined by those in power.

He was telling us there was a way out of that existential chaos and confusion. His refusal to participate says that he does not want to be recruited into the system. The system empowers him, but also conditions and captures him.

To protect his spontaneous way of life, he must not cave in to conformity.

I think that moment, and the reflections out of that experience, were critical to Chuang Tzu. His life philosophy of xiaoyao was not simply the result of metaphysical work, but distilled from actual living and interacting with the mundane world.

Beneath the act of carefree wandering, there is a sense of absolute freedom in not having expectations of anything, not reconciling with the absurd, ironic, and sometimes dark realities of the world. Therefore, it must be endured in silence, in solitude.

It allowed him to walk the path of independent and spontaneous transformation, that is, roaming with the Tao.

I can see that, for Chuang Tzu, through wandering and mingling with the multiple forms of life, the woodcutter, the ferryman, the cook, the craftsman, the ordinary person, and the recluse sitting beside a pine tree, he finally understood the way of spontaneity.

To live spontaneously and naturally is to be free and simple. The heart and mind have become one with the flowing Tao.

In the midst of living, your spirit becomes clear and unperturbed in the face of personal tragedies, unexpected events, misfortune, and chaos. All these are part of the natural waves in the mysterious arrangements of fate.

You learn to acquiesce in the face of all those uninvited disturbances and move on from them without allowing the heart-mind to be shackled to those past occasions.

You are also detached from emotional and forced reactions, even pain, grief, and joy can gradually dissolve in the state of serenity.

This is the way of following the natural course; essentially, it is to embrace the seemingly unbearable occurrences and be at peace with your circumstances.

This is the way of protecting your spiritual autonomy and the wholeness of your spirit.

Your spontaneous and natural state of being is already meaningful enough. No one should take that from you.

And that’s the state of living with wu-wei: following what is natural for you while dwelling in simplicity, stillness, and flowing with the currents of life.

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The Warring States period (476-221 BC) was a time of dramatic change in ancient China. At this time, ideas were not simply debated; instead, they were traded, weighed, and recruited. Politically, seven powerful states competed for hegemony, while the old feudal order under the Zhou dynasty (ca. 1046-221 BC) started to collapse. With that upheaval came a rare kind of social mobility: new careers, new patrons, and new paths to recognition and self-establishment.

A distinctive social group rose to prominence in this marketplace of ambition: the shih 士, the “free-floating” scholars, either coming from the political system or arising from the lower nobility class, traveled from court to court, selling counsel, strategy, and doctrine.1

Around them were the foundational pillars of production and exchange — artisans, peasants, and merchants — whose roles became more sharply defined as economies expanded and social circumstances evolved.

Politics shaped thought, and thought reshaped politics. Some of the deepest cultural currents of an era do not drift independently from its material conditions. They could reinforce one another.

Such was the prevailing political theme of this era: the age of ambition and the quest for order amidst disorder. In other words, this historical period was characterized by the encounters between ambitious rulers and politically minded scholars of various types.

Given this climate, what did it mean for Chuang Tzu to choose not to enter the political game?

Relations with politics and the mainstream society

Being poverty-stricken and distant from mainstream academic, social, and cultural circles, Chuang Tzu would have been overlooked by many and written off as an ordinary person by later historians. But it wasn’t the case for the Taoist thinker.

The book that bears his name reveals a mind trained to the highest level of his time. With such a background, he would have built a solid career in the office or teaching, both conventional paths in his time.

Yet we know that he served only briefly as a low-ranking functionary (at a Lacquer Garden) for some time, with no other experience in government. While other wandering scholars moved from one patron to another, turning knowledge and insight into leverage, Chuang Tzu chose a different path: to drift among ordinary people, to watch life up close, and to cultivate an independence that could not be converted into rank in the political system.

Most people discover only later that choices have consequences. Restlessness often begins when we refuse to live with the choices we’ve made. And regret is frequently the mind’s protest against outcomes it just cannot reverse.

For the free-floating scholars, life was about achieving success in making their names recognized while helping rulers in political endeavors. Some may succeed while others may lose their lives in political gambling. To them, life was about jumping from one chessboard to another, one game to another.

But for Chuang Tzu, it was not worth it to enter the game. He sought a kind of inner freedom that did not depend on external circumstances. He refused the game itself. Not because he lacked ability, but because he would not make his heart-mind, his self, become a commodity. He was moving along with the world, while remaining conscious of his motions in it:

A person of true brightness and purity who can enter into simplicity, who can return to the primitive through wu-wei, give body to one’s inborn nature, and embrace one’s spirit, and in this way wander through the everyday world.2

But life is a continuum of choices in the face of multiple possibilities. The human heart is constantly at war with itself, as one navigates the intricacies of life’s episodes.

That is to say, if we do not learn to calm and control our heart-mind by ourselves, life remains a big prison everywhere we go. There is no inner freedom and serenity of mind. There is only disturbance, worry, fear, and anxiety.

For the free-floating scholars, life was about achieving success in making their names recognized while helping rulers in political endeavors. Some may succeed while others may lose their lives in political gambling. To them, life was about jumping from one chessboard to another, one game to another.

But in the eyes of Chuang Tzu, it was not worth it to enter the game. In this sense, the absence of political ambition or aspirations for worldly success made room for him to taste an alternative way of life. Since most scholars would choose political involvement, Chuang Tzu’s choice was very much unconventional.

Such a non-conformist stance reveals that there is actually no chessboard game in his world. In this sense, his understanding of things leads to a clear mind, but practicing is about making peace with one’s choice, regardless of the circumstances.

A person of true brightness and purity who can enter into simplicity, who can return to the primitive simplicity through wu-wei, give body to one’s inborn nature, and embrace one’s spirit, and in this way wander through the everyday world (夫明白入素，無為復樸，體性抱神，以逰世俗之間).3

So Chuang Tzu wandered and freely mingled with the muddy waters of everyday life. The book of Chuang Tzu records an anecdote that illustrates his general attitude toward political participation.

King Wei of Chu sent a delegation to invite Chuang Tzu to serve as chief minister.4 He then compared this reputable position to the ox offered as sacrifice for ritual ceremonies, saying:

Get out at once, don’t soil me; I would rather amuse myself swimming and playing in a filthy ditch than be made captive by the master of a state. All my life I shall refuse office and please my own fancy.”

It’s not difficult to interpret from the anecdote that Chuang Tzu held a skeptical attitude toward politics, or a non-participatory position on political involvement in general. He probably saw through the fact that what appears to be honor could easily turn into a loss of freedom.

A fair amount of healthy skepticism is warranted when reading about a story like this, as there may be elements of exaggeration. Still, the story conveys a vital message: Chuang Tzu’s impact as a thinker.

Sometimes, the paradox of human action reveals itself when one tries to act in accordance with shifting times, under confusing circumstances. Confucius, when asked by his disciple whether to make a valuable jade assessed at the market, alluded to timing the political climate for entering politics:

Zigong said, “If you possessed a piece of beautiful jade, would you hide it away with a locked box, or would you try to sell it at a good price?”

The Master responded, “Oh, I would sell it! I would sell it! I am just waiting for the right offer.”5

In an era when rulers competed fiercely for talent, turning intellectual capital into political power, such refusal runs against the current. From Chuang Tzu’s perspective, perhaps something mattered more than immediate gain or reputation: the integrity of one’s life.

Han Feizi 韓非子 (ca. 280-233 BC), the Legalist thinker, has pointed out that the popularity of some scholars, such as Yang Zhu 楊朱 (ca. 440-360 BC) — representing an influential part of the hermit tradition (more in part 6) whose fundamental principle is self-preservation — reveals that some rulers were not being selective enough to find the right scholars for state-building:

When the state is at peace, [the ruler] nourishes Confucians and bravoes, but when trouble arises, he uses armored soldiers. Those who are nourished are not the ones used, and those who are used are not the ones nourished — this is how turmoil comes about.6

Han Feizi’s comment implies two things:

1. Rulers at this time implemented the policy of recruiting scholars

2. The art of rulership lies in how the wise ruler selects capable scholars, which is the crux of efficacious ruling

Compared to Chuang Tzu, the Legalist scholars were politically pragmatic, as their essential political thinking focused on serving one’s ruler, either by cultivating the ‘right’ intellectual capital or by building a penal law system.

The Taoists at the Jixia Academy

Roughly between 375 and 220 BC, an intellectual movement took hold of the kingdom of Qi 齊國, which gave rise to the establishment of the Jixia Academy (Jixia xuegong 稷下學宮).

Under the reign of King Xuan of Qi (350-301 BC), scholars from diverse backgrounds were invited to the kingdom to deliver public lectures, engage in debates, and conduct research, with intellectual activities focused on governance, policy, and philosophical and metaphysical topics.

According to the historian Sima Qian’s records, these scholars could receive government stipends and support in exchange for their criticisms and advice without participating in the process of governing.7

In other words, scholars at the Jixia Academy were primarily responsible for producing policy and providing intellectual input into the system of governance. To some extent, this institution served as a prototype of a government-sponsored think tank as we understand it today.

Based on the archaeological discovery of the Mawangdui silk manuscripts, which date back to the Han period (206-220 BC), the Huang-Lao School of Taoism was a significant and influential group within the Jixia Academy.

Among the seventeen scholars with trackable names, seven Taoist scholars, including Tian Pian 田駢, Huan Yuan 環淵, and Shen Dao 慎到, were widely studied at the Academy. To be accurate, the Huang-Lao Taoists became a dominant force there, compared to two Confucian scholars, Xunzi 荀子 and Mencius 孟子.8

The significance of these Taoists at the Jixia Academy reveals that Taoism had become a significant force in the cultural sphere during the mid-to-late Warring States period.

Generally speaking, scholars came to the Academy with ambitions and plans. The Taoists, Confucians, and others were all socially and politically minded, and the difference was their separate approaches to solving the social and political problems of their time.

The essence of the Huang-Lao School can be summarized as their thesis linking personal cultivation and bringing peace and order to the state.9 Given their immediate realities within the Academy, their scholarly works and political utility were more closely aligned with the demands of the rulers.

The Huang-Lao Taoists, therefore, established their name as the most political among the three streams of early Taoism. In Taoist phraseology, the Huang-Lao School was more concerned with “outward kingliness” (waiwang 外王) than Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu.

Could it be possible that Chuang Tzu was aware of the general situation in the Jixia Academy? Very likely. His friend, Hui Tzu (380-305 BC), a compatriot, was actively involved in politics. Through their interactions, Chuang Tzu must have known something about the events in the State of Qi.

At this point, we can assume that Chuang Tzu decided not to join the Academy. The material comfort, the possibility of establishing one’s name, and the support for academic studies were quite appealing to any scholar pursuing self-realization.

But, essentially, this was still an exchange between the creative scholars and the political authority. And it might not be an equivalent exchange after all.

Despite having the guaranteed freedom for policy advising and criticism, the Jixia Academy was still part of the political system.10 Realistically speaking, these scholars played a significant role in shaping the institution’s trajectory in relation to the prevailing political order.

In other words, the personal and academic freedom allowed at the Jixia Academy must serve the political interests of the government.

Had Chuang Tzu entered such a system, his philosophy would likely have been translated into utility, and something essential in its spirit might have been lost, hence, the character of Taoism.

There was also a practical reason, a simpler possibility: Chuang Tzu may have found it unnecessary to attach the Taoist message to his name. If the teachings of Taoism are already circulating in the state of Qi, why insist on authorship or credit? In his own words:

The fish forget one another in the rivers and lakes, and men forget one another in the arts of the Way (魚相忘於江湖 人相忘於道術).11

The legacy of the Jixia Taoists

From the perspective of the totality of the Tao, the individual endeavors of the Jixia Taoists and Chuang Tzu’s carefree way of living and thinking were just separated paths of materializing their virtue (de 德), becoming one with the stream of the Tao. They must practice their philosophical and spiritual teachings.

On this note, three parts of the thought system of the Jixia Taoists, which are connected to Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu, have been influential historically.

1) The theory of vital essence (jing 精) and qi (breath 氣)

The Jixia Taoists considered one’s vital essence as the fountainhead of life:

“When the vital essence is present, it naturally produces life. Outwardly it produces a restful glow. Stored within, it becomes a fountainhead. Floodlike, harmonious, and smooth, it becomes the vital force’s wellspring. So long as the wellspring does not run dry, the four parts of the body will remain firm. So long as the wellspring is not exhausted, the passages of the nine apertures will remain clear.12

From the very beginning, the Taoists were attentive to the unity of body and mind and careful in using them. So, Taoism is inherently about the philosophical and experiential dimensions of living.

Moreover, the power of the heart-mind is derived from the qi. A person’s vitality, creativity, and wisdom rely on the stability and richness of the qi. To preserve it, one must not succumb to internal desires and external allures.

The vital essence is the essence of the vital force (qi 氣). When the vital force permeates, there is life, and with life comes thought. With thought comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes a stopping point.13

For practitioners of Qi Gong 氣功 and Taoist internal alchemy (neidan 內丹), some are familiar with the book The Secret of the Golden Flower (太乙金華宗旨 in the original Chinese version), translated by Richard Wilhelm and introduced to European readers by Carl Jung in the early 20th century. Some of the key insights of the book can be traced to the Jixia Taoists.

The Jixia Taoists believed that the clarity of the heart-mind and the ability to make sound judgment and follow along with the natural patterns of things depend on the emptiness and stillness within. In this sense, their teachings correspond to Chuang Tzu,

The spirit (qi) is an emptiness ready to receive all things. Tao abides in the emptiness; the emptiness is the fast of the mind (氣者 虛而待物也 唯道集虛 虛者 心齋也). 14

Fasting of the heart-mind, as a practice to reach a state of emptiness, is about dissolving the limits of ego, seeing through the shackles of preconceived notions, and dwelling in a state of open sensitivity and receptivity.

In other words, it is a process of shattering what is already built within, the mode of thinking that dictates one’s course of action. This, though it may sound impractical and challenging, is the precondition for following along with changes.

2) The importance of change

The three major streams of Taoism all recognize the necessity of change.

For Chuang Tzu, change is the fundamental rhythm of the transformation of things in the universe. Everything transforms itself spontaneously, permanently. For the person, the crux is to identify with one’s innate nature, be with transformations, and to find ease with the impermanence of life.

For Lao Tzu, evolution and change are the inherent patterns of the Tao, which constantly moves between action and inaction. To follow the Tao is to continually walk the path of self-realization. The wise ruler and the sage, who practice the art of wu-wei, are supposed to assist the people in their paths of self-transformation.

The Jixia Taoists, directly involved in governance, understood that it is essential to grasp the evolving nature of social changes in order to implement timely reforms and adaptations:

Spring and autumn, summer and winter, are Heaven’s seasons. Mountains and hills, rivers and valleys, provide Earth’s resources. Joy and anger, taking and giving, underlie man’s schemes. For this reason, the sage — in accordance with the times, is ever changing, but never forced to transform. In responding to things, he is ever flexible, but never inconsistent.15

On a fundamental level, it is a common thread among the three schools that social structures, ways of doing things, and rules must be reevaluated and adjusted to accommodate new realities and circumstances. That is the requirement of survival.

Most rulers and elites find it unacceptable to be forced to make changes due to established norms, habits, and vested interests. This partly explains why, after entering the dynastic period with Qin’s unification of China in 221 BC, dynastic rulers were generally more inclined toward recruiting and co-opting the Legalists and the Confucians into the court system, as these two schools were generally concerned with the preservation of the hierarchical order through bureaucracy, the penal system, rituals, and an artificial moral order.

3) Self-cultivation and governing

The Jixia Taoists considered self-cultivation and governing to be two aspects of the same thing. In other words, a ruler is not fit to rule if he or she cannot exercise self-control and rigorous self-management.

The essence of self-improvement lies in cultivating the emptiness, stillness, and clarity of the heart-mind. The ideal result of self-cultivation is to enable the ruler to respond and follow the natural patterns of things, particularly in navigating crises and seizing political opportunities for the public good.

In practice, ministers take charge of the concrete affairs of governance, while the ruler assumes the role of an observer. This division of labor operationalizes the principle of wu-wei in governance:

The way of wu-wei is to rely on things as they are. Relying on things as they are is neither to add nor to detract from them (無為之道 因也 因也者 無益無損也).16

In a sense, the ruler’s wu-wei is the opposite of non-action; rather, it is careful observation and thorough investigation of things through selecting and supervising the ministers. In this way, he or she can hold on to the crux that shapes the trajectory of the political machine:

The prince who adheres to the Way, when at rest, appears to lack knowledge; when responding to things, appears to be at one with them. This is the way of quiescence and relying on things as they are (有道之君 其處也 若無知 其應物也 若偶之 靜因之道也).17

Taken together, the Huang-Lao Taoists and Chuang Tzu sketch a fuller Taoist spectrum: governance and cultivation on one side, spiritual freedom on the other.

If Huang-Lao shows the political utility of its teaching, Chuang Tzu speaks with the voice of the ordinary person — wounded, observant, and sometimes skeptical and cynical.

Still, through his own experiences, Chuang Tzu shows the possibility of keeping one foot in a realm that refuses to be reduced to merely utility. In this sense, Chuang Tzu’s choice becomes the symbol of still water that the politically minded Huang-Lao Taoists can always return to for recalibrating their lives.

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The Hidden World Behind Chuang Tzu: Recluse Tradition and the Dawn of Early Taoism

A nine-essay guide that uncovers how early philosophical ideas, forgotten figures, and ancient stories shaped the Taoist world Chuang Tzu inherited and innovatively transformed, so you can see why his thought still speaks to the modern soul in the midst of living1

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Since ancient times, many people have read the Chuang Tzu 莊子 through a handful of popular parables: the butterfly dream,2 useless trees, ferrymen living in deep mountains and rivers, and carefree wandering sages.

Indeed, the historic Chuang Tzu was a master storyteller. And his philosophical insights are often couched in these imaginative stories and conversations. When you read Chuang Tzu, you are often entertained while enlightened.

But Chuang Tzu didn’t appear from nowhere.

Behind his writings is a whole cultural tradition, a landscape shaped by eventful, precarious political and social circumstances, and a long debate over how to navigate dangerous, confusing times.

Chuang Tzu lived during the Warring States period (475-221 BC), an age of ambition and profound social change.

Numerous thinkers proposed a range of ideas, plans, and policies to address issues related to the “right” forms of political systems and moral and social order.

Others were offering advice to rulers on national defense, diplomacy, and statecraft. Still, the early hermits lost interest in all of this and decided to withdraw completely from the mundane world.

Unlike them, Chuang Tzu was primarily concerned with the vulnerable fate of the individual in a world drifting into the unknown.

And perhaps because of this existential awareness, his voice actually travels across time and space.

Behind our interest in Chuang Tzu, we often find something personal: At some point in life, we feel ourselves walking on thin ice.

We feel shackled by roles and unavoidable engagement, rigid conventions, and prevailing opinions. We are in a state of existential, systemic entrapment.

We are often presented with limited choices: either continue to exist as a “thing” in the system while coping with constant pressure to perform, or completely withdraw from this world.

Yet can we know that we see all possible options? Most likely not, because choices can be artificially arranged.

The ancients had faced many of these scenarios.

It is an illusion to think that life’s problems will disappear from us. They always appear in this or that way.

And the world around us is getting more uncertain, more complex, and, to some extent, unrecognizable.

You feel the inner space being encroached by these external things.

But you’re not trying to escape society. You are trying to stop being defined by it.

No matter how hard it can get, you are still staying on the course to define your own sense of meaning.

Chuang Tzu had walked a different path, unscripted by the conventions of his time. Instead of a physical flight, he suggested that one could still make a shift in consciousness, cultivate inner freedom as a skill, and embrace internal agency in the face of suffocating external circumstances.

This series is written for that moment.

The encounter

“Glimpses into Chuang Tzu’s World” is not an academic introduction, and it’s not motivational writing either.

It simply serves as a signpost, a roadmap.

In essence, it’s a spiritual journey and an integrative wandering that fuses pragmatic insights and philosophies.

The path you’ll walk

1. Reconstruct the world Chuang Tzu inherited

You’ll enter the Warring States landscape that shaped early Taoism and the people living in it:

• Recluses and cultural loyalists

• Court intellectuals and wandering scholars like the Confucians (rujia 儒家) and the Legalists (fajia 法家)

• The Jixia Academy3 and the political Taoists

• Radical self-preservation thinkers like Yang Zhu 楊朱 (c. 440-360 BC)

• And a long debate over retreat vs action, withdrawal vs engagement, duty vs survival

2. Build a clear picture of early Taoism

You’ll get familiar with an intellectual map that reveals how fundamental streams differ and overlap:

• Chuang Tzu, Lao Tzu, Huang-Lao Taoism (Huanglao daojia 黃老道家), the recluse tradition (yinshi 隱士)

• The two foundational streams of interpreting the Tao Te Ching (Dao-de Jing 道德經)

• How Taoists interacted with other schools—and why those debates still matter

3. Acquire a method for reading Chuang Tzu

You’ll gain a guided approach to the historic Chuang Tzu, the book, and the philosophy:

• A biographical overview of Chuang Tzu

• The reading key: why “forgetting the self (wangwo 忘我)” is a critical thread to understanding his thought

• Carefully selected and arranged textual analysis from surveying various English translations and comparing them with the primary text

4. Translate Chuang Tzu’s “wandering” philosophy into a usable discipline

This is where spiritual growth becomes real: not as retreat from, or rebellion against the world, but as inner spaciousness within it.

You can expect to develop a tactical, Taoist orientation for modern life:

• How to stay spacious while moving through society with inner lucidity

• How to mingle with the turmoil of the world, without being possessed by societal roles and external scripts

• Chuang Tzu’s approach to cultivating a transcendent spirit without becoming cold or completely detached from life

• The Taoist way of engaging with the world with accumulated strength and enthusiasm while flowing with changes, and navigating life with an equanimous spirit (beyond optimism and pessimism)

You’ll find this series helpful if you’re:

• Curious about Chuang Tzu (and Taoism) and early Chinese thought, but want a guided path, not scattered fragments

• Experiencing value conflict, uncertainty, or anxiety, and want clarity without escapism

• Interested in ideas, and also drawn to how worldviews interact with lived experiences

• A thinker/doer/writer/leader/creator who wants frameworks and inspirations you can return to

How to open this series

To make this archive sustainable and valuable, and future revision and expansion possible:

• Essay #1-3 are free (a biographical sketch of Chuang Tzu + political Taoists)

• Essay #4-9 are for paid subscribers (the full map + the method + the immersive exploration)

If you only read the free posts, you’ll still get a coherent introduction.

But when you unlock the full series, you get the complete progression — from intellectual history to philosophical reflections from various schools to actionable insights. You make this project different, sustainable with your thoughts and feedback.

You can read through these essays in order:

1. The Life and Works of Chuang Tzu

2. A Mystic Wandering the World

3. Taoists in the Age of Ambition

4. Chuang Tzu, Hui Tzu, and the Path of Retreat

5. Lao Tzu and the Recluse Ideal

6. Against the Current

7. Between Mountain and Court

8. The Way of Wandering

9. Forgetting the Self and the Realm Beyond

Or you can take a look at a particular theme at one time, as you wish.

If you’ve ever searched for a way of being that helps keep your inner life in your own hands, this is your invitation to walk the path with Chuang Tzu and the ancients.

Read the full series

In the Warring States period (476-221 BC), most thinkers treated life as a problem to be solved. Similarly, many of us, in the midst of living, seek and apply all possible methods to make something out of this life.

Chuang Tzu did something stranger.

He considered life something to be experienced, yet not to cling to. Reading his life philosophy is itself an inward experience of allowing the heart-mind to dwell in a more spacious rhythm.

In this sense, his Taoism is not a doctrine, but an experience: wandering as a way of being.

Given the records we have about Chuang Tzu, we can infer a few things with caution. He was highly educated and possessed the kind of intellectual range that was difficult to attain without some access to elite learning.

Perhaps it was family influence that taught him how quickly power and fortune shift. A constant message can be found in his writings: he distrusts what is generally regarded as conventional and refuses to build one’s sense of meaning on popular conceptions and opinions.

To see and understand impermanence from a distance is one thing. Yet, to feel and witness it within one’s own history is another. It can produce disillusionment, but it also brings an inner lucidity that enables one to see through life: a compassion for the vulnerability of ordinary people in the face of life’s unexpected encounters and cruelty in its various forms.

Therefore, given the external circumstances in which one is positioned, we tend to act differently, but still within specific patterns. Some may choose to confront the world, sadly and unavoidably, becoming hardened in the bump and swirl of living. For them, success can become not just a reward for their sacrifice and suffering, but an ultimate vengeance, not against certain people, but a liberating sense of triumph against the brutality and inconstancy of fate.

A simple mystic

Chuang Tzu’s spiritual world is invariably connected to the infinite. His philosophy of treating all things equally (qiwu 齊物) dissolves the relative opposites by which we are inclined to categorize and organize the phenomenal world: success and failure, high and low, long and short, “this” and “that.”

From the perspective of the holistic Tao, these distinctions are reflections of the mind, situated in a particular context and structured by a specific way of viewing things; therefore, they do not capture the ultimate reality.

From the perspective of the everlasting Tao, everything is short-lived, going through the process of construction and destruction constantly. The endless and the temporary, the external world and the internal cosmos, are unified into the ultimate oneness. Therefore, human struggles, obsessions, and ambitions can appear futile and pointless in the context of the universe’s grand evolution. Chuang Tzu illustrates this shift in scale through a conversation about war.

The king of Liang loved wars of conquest. A scholar named Dai Jinren told him a tale about two kingoms: one on the tip of a snail’s left horn called Buffet, the other on the tip of its right horn called Maul. The two were constantly at war, leaving tens of thousands dead.1

The king assumed it was a parable, but Dai pursued the question.

“Do you think there is a limit to space in the universe?”

“No limit,” said the king.

“In that infinite space, there are vast lands. In the center of a vast land, there is your country, Wei, and in the center of the country, there is the city, Liang. In the center of the city of Liang, there sits the king. Do you think there is a difference between that king and the king of Maul?”

“No difference,” said the king. The scholar withdrew, and the king felt lost.

The king of Liang probably has sensed that, as the vision is broadened, some certainties can lose their weight. And the moment we feel our own smallness, we begin to ask a more intimate question: what are we even doing with our brief life inside the vastness?

Knowing, not-knowing, and the arrogance of certainty

There is always a season in a person’s life marked by struggle and confusion — a search for meaning that can swing between emptiness and grasping. In that moment, one either gives up or tries to numb the mind by clutching whatever looks solid.

Alternatively, one learns acceptance: to recognize limits, to stop fighting the inevitability of change, and to make peace with conditions without turning that peace into resignation.

Chuang Tzu’s path requires a different type of understanding and walking: to adapt to the rhythm of transformations is to become one with insecurity, uncertainty, and fear. They are not enemies to be conquered, but as dimensions within our realities to be lived with. With our finite knowledge and intelligence, we can perhaps, at our best, only capture a glimpse of a few aspects of the ultimate truth against the backdrop of the infinite universe.

A short dialogue between a Taoist master and a disciple captures this epistemic humility.

Nie Que asked Wang Ni, “Do you know what all things agree in calling right?”2

“How would I know that?” said Wang Ni.

“Do you know that you don’t know it?”

“How would I know that?”

“Then do things know nothing?”

“How would I know that? However, suppose I try saying something. What way do I have of knowing that if I say I know something I don’t really not know it? Or what way do I have of knowing that if I say I don’t know something I don’t really in fact know it?”

The problem is not necessarily ignorance. The deeper issue is the arrogance of certainty. We easily come to judgment based on a fragile understanding. When we encounter what exceeds us, we often submit to an authority: revelation, religious sanction, or a “God.”

But for Chuang Tzu, the confrontations between this and that authority, this orthodoxy against that orthodoxy, are manifestations of drama inside the world of appearances.

Tao as something to be followed, and then forgotten

In the Diamond Sutra, a Mahayana Buddhist sutra, we encounter a similar message about seeing through the illusions attached to specific objects in the phenomenal world:

Who sees me by form,

Who seeks me in sound,

Perverted are his footsteps upon the way;

For he cannot perceive the Tathāgata.3

若以色見我，以音聲求我，是人行邪道，不得見如來。

The “form,” in its various manifestations, a view, a relationship, an attachment to things, is ultimately empty because it is subject to a dependent relation with the external conditions in a flux, just like the human cell that constantly goes through the process of destruction and rebirth.

The Buddha is not an idol to be worshiped; it is within everyone’s heart-mind who is willing to wake up, listen, and see.

The Tao is not the ultimate authority. It is to be grasped and followed to the extent that it enables a transformation, and then it is to be released because ultimately there is no rigid distinction between “I” and the world:

Heaven and Earth and I came into existence together, and all things with me are one 天地與我並生 萬物與我為一.4

Chuang Tzu’s message—forgetting the self while following the Tao—speaks to the essence of Taoism as a lived practice, as wandering as a way of life.

In this sense, Taoism and Ch’an Buddhism/Zen are not a dogma, a religion, or even an ideology. They are simply something to be lived, tasted, felt, and experienced. In Chuang Tzu’s words:

The Way comes about as we walk it 道行之而成.5

Therefore, the path of the Taoist is defined by the unity of action and contemplation6 —a lifelong practice of achieving tranquility amidst disturbance7 (yingning 攖寧) in everyday life.

Poverty, not distress

This brings us to the important question of Chuang Tzu’s livelihood.

From surveying the book, we know that poverty accompanied his life. We can speculate that his post at the Lacquer Garden may be only temporary, which would not allow Chuang Tzu to support his family financially. It was recorded that someone had seen him living in poor alleys, weaving his own sandals, with a pale face.8

On another occasion, a ruler commented on Chuang Tzu’s patched clothes and worn shoes. In response, he candidly replied that he was poor, but not in distress:

When a man possesses the Way and its Virtue but cannot put them into practice, then he is in distress. When his clothes are shabby and his shoes worn through, then he is poor, but he is not in distress. This is what they call being born at the wrong time… If I should live under a benighted ruler and among traitorous ministers and still hope to escape distress, what hope would there be of doing so?9

This is obviously a value judgment, pointing out that the world is chaotic and countries are governed by incompetent leaders. Despite being aware of the general state of affairs in different societies, Chuang Tzu still preferred to live an ordinary person’s life, not intentionally seeking to distinguish himself from the rest of society.

A comparison with the Confucian approach toward political participation can help us understand Chuang Tzu’s choice. The fundamental spirit of Confucianism is about saving the world. In a practical context, the purpose of political participation is to assist the political establishment in governing.

In other words, the preservation of political order through one’s merit and capabilities is a primary concern for the Confucians. This well-known statement sums up the sequence of making progress for the Confucian practitioner:

The ancients who wished to illustrate illustrious virtue throughout the empire, first ordered well their own States. Wishing to order well their States, they first regulated their families. Wishing to regulate their families, they first cultivated their persons. Wishing to cultivate their persons, they first rectified their hearts. Wishing to rectify their hearts, they first sought to be sincere in their thoughts. Wishing to be sincere in their thoughts, they first extended to the utmost their knowledge. Such extension of knowledge lay in the investigation of things.10

Yet, this does not mean that the early Confucians made no political judgment when venturing into the political world. When being asked by a disciple about Confucius’ choice on political involvement, Mencius said,

Not to serve a ruler who was not his own, nor to lead a people not his own; to advance when there was order and to withdraw when there was disorder — this was Boyi 伯夷. To serve any ruler, to lead any people; to advance when there was order, and likewise to advance when there was disorder — this was Yi Yin 伊尹. To serve in office when it was proper to serve, to stop when it was proper to stop; to continue when it was proper to continue and to withdraw when it was proper to withdraw — this was Confucius.11

Therefore, we see that Confucius’ attitude toward political participation is flexible. His evaluation is based on whether a political system is favorable to nurturing a society with the ritual order, meritocracy, and culture, while embodying the ideals of human-heartedness (ren 仁) and righteousness (yi 義).

In other words, following the Tao (restoring cultural and social order in the Confucian way) was a higher pursuit than serving a ruler among the early Confucians:

A scholar-official must be strong and resolute, for his burden is heavy and his way (dao 道) is long. He takes up Goodness as his own personal burden — is it not heavy? His way ends only with death — is it not long?”12

Follow the Way, not your lord 從道不從君.”13

In essence, the early thinkers all shared the conviction that cultural tradition was more important than temporary political and worldly successes. This ideal was deeply rooted in the shih 士, a special elite group within the Zhou dynasty 周 (ca. 1046-256 BC).14

Saving the world goes beyond participating in politics; it also means assuming the responsibility of a cultural and social critic. Being maligned, persecuted, and chastened did not deter Confucius from fulfilling his calling in doing whatever was within his power. In Sima Qian’s (145-86 BC) records,

When the way of the Chou fell into decay and Confucius became Minister of Justice in Lu, the feudal lords harmed him, the dignitaries blocked his way. When Confucius realized that his words would not be used and that his way would not be put into practice he deemed “right” and “wrong” [deeds] over the time of 242 years, making this the ceremonial standard for All Under Heaven, blaming the Son of Heaven, pushing back the feudal lords, punishing dignitaries, all for nothing else than to fulfill the service to a rightful king.15

This means that, when making critical life choices, Confucius would also weigh the possibility of realizing his political ideals first, rather than blindly entering politics. In this sense, withdrawal from public life is also a significant choice that reflects dissatisfaction with the prevailing state of society and a deep-seated aspiration to make things right under the proper circumstances:

If the Way is being realized in the world then show yourself; if it is not, then go into reclusion.16

From this, we see an important difference between the early Confucians and Chuang Tzu, which lies in the fact that the Confucian scholars were invariably entangled with the two options of political participation and education as feasible career paths.

But, for Chuang Tzu, living a simple life as an average person is enough, even though it means learning to be at ease with whatever form life unfolds. In other words, as a value-conscious individual, he does not necessarily have to possess some titles in regard to social and cultural criticism.

In this sense, he may appear carefree while wandering in the world. Yet, as an educated person, he was aware of his calling as a defender of the Tao, his mission to protect and preserve the cultural tradition. On this ground, both Confucians and Taoists share the spirit of reevaluating conventions, values, and social practices from the perspective of the Tao.

A humorist

Despite financial hardship, Chuang Tzu seemed to possess a mysterious power that allowed him to transcend the limitations of his immediate circumstances, making him a Taoist legend who wandered above the material world.

For we see that, even being shackled and pinned down by poverty, he could still preserve a sense of humor and equanimity. On one occasion, he went to borrow some grain from a local marquis, and the marquis promised to help him after getting back his three hundred pieces of gold. Chuang Tzu replied with a parable:

“As I was coming here yesterday, I heard someone calling me on the road. I turned around and saw that there was a perch in the carriage rut. I said to him, ‘Come, perch — what are you doing here?’ He replied, ‘I am a Wave Official of the Eastern Sea. Couldn’t you give me a dipperful of water so I can stay alive?’ I said to him, ‘Why, of course. I’m just about to start south to visit the kings of Wu and Yue. I’ll change the course of the West River and send it in your direction. Will that be all right?’ The perch flushed with anger and said, ‘I’ve lost my element! I have nowhere to go! If you can get me a dipper of water, I’ll be able to stay alive. But if you give me an answer like that, then you’d best look for me in the dried fish store!”17

Without doubt, Chuang Tzu was a great humorist. Or, we should say that he was a mystic who wore the hat of a humorist when he spoke about his mind on life. There was always a humorous touch in his sharp cynicism, as humor is distilled from a clear mind peeling off the artificial layers imposed by oneself and lashing at oneself, after seeing through the follies, absurdities, and ironies of this earthly life.

In this sense, a humorist like Chuang Tzu would never be liked by the doctrinaires and the political and religious zealots of all sorts, for they take themselves too seriously by following something they presume to be fixed. Yet, Chuang Tzu is not someone to be tamed and controlled. Instead, he wanders at his own pace and mingles spontaneously with the world, just like the flowing water, the moving clouds, and a laughing, lost in the wind.

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Inside the Dialogue that Shaped Chuang Tzu’s Way of Seeing the World

From spiritual freedom to the philosophy of non-distinction, from living naturally to facing impermanence and life and death, this series introduces his core ideas through eight guided readings.

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Do you know why the book, Chuang Tzu 莊子,1 was treasured in traditional China?

Not as a book of ideas, but as a source book for inner inspiration and self-mastery — the kind that transforms your mind and spirit as you go through the parables, conversations, and insights in it, as you feel its subtle influence on your life.

The ancients returned to it century after century.

For the literary and philosophical mind, for the contemplative and artistic individuals, the book was read as “spiritual food.” They discovered, throughout its pages, the profound beauty of human thought, imagination, and poetry, the fountainhead of creativity and inspiration.

For the artisans, dedicated practitioners keen to excel in their craft and live a life in accordance with their nature and talent, the book was a lifelong guide, a silent companion.

And for the ordinary person struggling in the midst of living, while constantly wrestling with feelings of isolation and anxiety in the face of life’s inevitable challenges—loss, failure, uncertainty, and conformity pressures —Chuang Tzu was a friend, a voice of wisdom, consolation, and hope.

They knew it had a strange, invisible, and quiet power: it helps one develop the ability to stop injuring oneself from within, despite being spiritually exhausted, and, most importantly, to remain inwardly lucid, staying on the path that is authentic and natural to oneself.

It is a book that inspires different responses and sentiments in your life, in the changing shapes of reality.

And one also finds those deeper, hidden, sometimes even mysterious undertones beneath Chuang Tzu’s masterful use of language.

His words act as the bridge to his soul, reaching your soul, across time and space.

This series opens the book through dialogue. This is where Chuang Tzu’s thought is most vibrant: in clashes, jokes, parables, and stories.

Why these dialogues

The Chuang Tzu was written without a particular group of audience in mind.

Its substance and style — mostly composed of allegories, conversations, and scattered philosophical insights in essays — reveal that it is a book for all of us, the ancients and the modern individual.

Chuang Tzu does not offer a system to believe in. He offers a different way of seeing, a way of liberation.

And nowhere is that way of seeing more alive than in his conversations with Hui Tzu 惠子 (c. 370-310 BC): a brilliant rhetorician, a politician, and the friend who constantly challenged him.

Yet still, most conversations get lost in noise, misunderstanding, enforced silence, and oblivion.

But the ones that stand the test of time helped preserve the human spirit, the innermost wish of being truly understood.

These conversations of Chuang Tzu revolve around different themes that transcend their particular time.

A defining moment in reading them is encountering the note that resonates, offering us a window into the fundamental frequency where their reflections on value, friendship, love, life, death, and everyday intellectual sparring can become a spiritual sanctuary.

What you’ll encounter:

Chuang Tzu lived in one of the most turbulent times in the ancient world, the Warring States period (475-221 BC). So his writings, to some extent, reflect the disorder of the political and social atmosphere, the trepidation and worries of the many, and the agitations and aspirations of the thinkers and practitioners of the time (see the other series, Glimpses into Chuang Tzu’s World).

Yet in a world that was predominantly obsessed with utility and being useful, Chuang Tzu offered something contrarian: the big use of uselessness.

In a cultural context that prioritized hierarchy, control, convention, and worldly pursuits, Chuang Tzu wrote from the standpoint of the individual: awaken your soul within, cherish your natural talent, preserve your spirit, and give your heart the freedom to roam in the infinite, boundless realm.

Chuang Tzu’s writings are not abstract doctrine, but suggestive and provocative, and visibly existing as living moves of thought. They are never rigid or arbitrary, aligned with the Taoist spirit of letting things freely be.

In the face of the “muddy waters” of this world, his teachings, surprisingly applicable, can function as a guide to help you navigate the currents of chaos and uncertainty without losing your authentic core.

In this light, some of the main ideas you’ll see in this series are:

• Why xiaoyao 逍遙 (loosely translated as free and easy wandering, or a state of spiritual liberation) is the path toward inner freedom and a spontaneous, unbound, and natural way of existence

• The philosophy of non-distinction (qiwu 齊物): why relative opposites or duality (“right” and “wrong”) can trap the mind more than clarifying truth

• Chuang Tzu’s (and the Taoist) view on life and death, impermanence, and uncertainty

• Seeing friendship as resonance,2 mutual understanding, recognition, and long-lasting appreciation

Chuang Tzu tells us that, in the midst of living, the most practical skill is the mastery of one’s heart-mind.

But we are invariably entangled with the unease and sufferings of living — shattered dreams, failed undertakings, broken relationships, unbearable regrets, and even death itself.

Chuang Tzu would suggest: what if your greatest losses like these were simply “changes of season?” And what if it is possible to transform that grief into equanimity, and thus, a new way of seeing your life and the world around you?

This series unlocks that skillset with this key — not injuring yourself from within and living in accordance with your inborn nature, no matter the circumstances.

How to open this series

To make this series sustainable and to keep the archive valuable:

• Essay #1 and #2 are free (the doorway and context)

• Essay #3-8 are for paid subscribers (the full map + the immersive exploration and transformation)

If you only read the free posts, you still enter the door that leads to Chuang Tzu’s philosophy.

If you unlock the series as a paid reader, you’ll get:

• Full access to all readings

• A deeper understanding from rereading—so you can always return when the time comes

• Become an “Inner Circle Reader”: interact with me and take this as a collaborative project

I have extracted some of the essential teachings from the primary texts and various translations, and distilled them into theme-based pieces.

You can move through the essays in order, as a journey:

1. The Philosophy of Xiaoyao 逍遙

2. Who Can Find Ease in Life?

3. Becoming Who You Are

4. The Practice of Not Self-Harming

5. The Conformity Trap

6. Resonance beyond the Strings

7. Making Peace with the Inevitable

8. Imperishable Conversations

Or, you can simply choose the one that calls you most today.

If you’ve been craving a calmer, clearer heart-mind, a space to recover, navigate this life with internal order—this is the series you’ll come back to.

Not because it gives you answers, but because it changes the way you see and operate in the world.

The music may stop, but the echo remains. Join us in the space beyond the strings, where the conversation never ends.

Unlock the full series

Chuang Tzu (Zhuangzi 莊子) is generally regarded as a foundational figure of early Taoism in ancient China. Historically, Chuang Tzu has been paired with Lao Tzu, the alleged author of the Tao Te Ching (Dao-de Jing).

Similar to the mystery of Lao Tzu, we know very little about the historical Chuang Tzu as a person. What remains of him is not a public life recorded in detail, but a voice, sometimes laughing, sometimes severe, penetrating, and empathetic, speaking from the margins of the world.

Given the surviving records, we can only estimate that he was born in the 4th century BC and lived approximately between 369 and 296 BC.

Sima Qian 司馬遷 (145-86 BC), the father of Chinese historiography, did give us a short biographical sketch of Chuang Tzu:

Chuang-tzu 莊子 was a native of Meng 蒙. His praenomen was Chou 周. Chou once served as a functionary at Ch’i-yuan 漆園 (Lacquer Garden) in Meng. He was a contemporary of King Hui 惠 of Liang (370- 335 BC) and King Hsuan 宣 of Ch’i (342-324 BC).1

This sparse note tells us something crucial: Chuang Tzu did not leave the kind of footprint that political actors leave. And that is one reason the man remains elusive.

A comparison helps with the decoding process. Confucius (551-479 BC) and Mencius (372-289 BC), as representatives of pre-Qin Confucianism (referring to Confucianism before Qin 秦 unified China in 221 BC), left comparatively traceable life paths. A primary reason is that both these philosophers taught large circles of disciples. Confucius’s cultural status rests not only on his ideas, but also on his role as a teacher whose community preserved a long-lasting memory.

By contrast, Chuang Tzu had only one disciple, who was known as Lin Qie 藺且.2 It is possible that he had a few other students, yet we do not know their names.

Ancient China had a solid tradition in historiography. Its political history dates back to the early Shang dynasty 商 (ca. 1600-1046 BC), with both written and archaeological records. But it’s a daunting task to trace someone who was not active in public office, as the lives of most ordinary people were hardly recorded by early historians.

To reconstruct Chuang Tzu as a person, we therefore need a different method.

The text as biography

Compared to scattered anecdotes and later commentaries, our most reliable source is the Chuang Tzu itself: the thirty-three chapters that have come down to us. For a thinker this remote, the text is the closest thing to a biography, the source for us to enter his historical and philosophical worlds.

The existing version of the text was collated by Guo Xiang 郭象 (252-312 AD), a philosopher in the Wei-Jin period (220-420 AD).3 His revision of the Chuang Tzu has been considered authoritative among scholars and historians for centuries. Yet, there exist some discrepancies between his version and the records from Sima Qian.

According to the historian, Chuang Tzu’s writings exceeded the revised thirty-three chapters:

His works, over 100,000 characters, in general consisted of allegories.4

The current text has fewer than 70,000 Chinese characters, which is obviously different from Sima Qian’s records. He most likely had read about chapters that are missing from today’s version.

Do the 30,000 extra characters matter? One character in the traditional Chinese writing system can alter the entire meaning of a statement, the fundamental spirit of a text.

For instance, a well-known line in the Tao Te Ching reads “The person of superior character never acts (wu-wei), nor ever does so with an ulterior motive 上德無為而無以為.”

“Never acts, nor ever does so with an ulterior motive (wuwei er wuyiwei 無為而無以為)” indicates doing things spontaneously, without a hidden agenda or specific intentions. In contrast, “never acts, but with an ulterior motive (wuwei er youyiwei 無為而有以為)” signifies a way of doing things that is intelligent, not arbitrary nor impulsive, but with a clear purpose and intention. In other words, the gesture of non-action is used as camouflage for intended outcomes.

So if the character wu 無 (nonbeing) is changed to you 有 (being), the entire meaning would be distorted, and the fundamental spirit of Lao Tzu would have been changed.

This distinction matters for understanding Chuang Tzu. An essential aspect of his philosophy revolves around the idea of loosening: emptying the mind, unfastening the ego, and “forgetting the self (wangwo 忘我).”

This is a crucial point to understand Chuang Tzu, as compared to the recluse tradition that values self-preservation and a complete withdrawal from the world (more on this in a later post). This intellectual tradition is often associated with the anarchist interpretation of Taoist political thinking. Such a view misses a fundamental spirit of Taoism that is represented in “inward sageliness and outward kingliness (neisheng waiwang 內聖外王).” And forgetting the self is an essential element of the “inward sageliness” principle, the condition that makes outward action less colored by self-importance and egocentric behaviors.

Guided by the idea of practicing wu-wei, Taoists are supposed to do things in accordance with the natural course, without leaving traces, without seeking recognition or taking credit. In a nutshell, they should leave the scene once things are accomplished, which is captured in Lao Tzu’s saying, “Retire when your work is done, this is Heaven’s way (gongsui shentui 功遂身退).”

In this light, Chuang Tzu’s philosophy of “forgetting the self” is not escapism. It is an inner discipline of de-centering the “I” within the wider flow of life. And precisely because of the practice of rising above one’s obsession with the appearance of the “I,” it later served as a cultural bridge when Buddhism was introduced to China.

The successful integration of foreign ideas depends on whether a society already contains receptive elements. In this sense, Taoism, particularly the works of Chuang Tzu, provided conceptual and experiential affinities: emptiness (xu 虛) — a critical Taoist idea, non-distinction, the limits of language (an emphasis on intuitive thinking), and seeing the individual person as a range of self-realization through cultivation and transformation (echoing the attainment of enlightenment and liberation in the Buddhist way). Therefore, the gradual formation of Ch’an Buddhism (chan zong 禪宗) is, to some extent, invariably associated with Taoism as an endogenous cultural source.

In the book, we can find stories about Chuang Tzu, his conversations with all types of people, such as fishermen, butchers, craftsmen, woodcutters, cripple, recluses, and intellectuals like Hui Tzu 惠子 (ca. 350-260 BC), a philosopher of the school of Names (名家). Through allegories and parables, we glimpse Chuang Tzu’s imagination and his sharp sense for the ironies of the human world.

Two additional clues can help us trace the rough contours of his life. First, his influence on Chinese thought, literature, and way of life is widespread and pervasive, perhaps more impactful than that of Confucianism. Therefore, we can find repeated references to him in literary and artistic works, popular lore, scholarly commentaries, and religious traditions.

Another important clue is Chuang Tzu’s relations with politics and his acquaintance with Hui Tzu. Hui Tzu served in the state of Liang, which offers a rough chronological anchor. And through their interactions and accounts of Chuang Tzu’s declining political invitations, we can place him within a broader historical frame.

Family background

Sima Qian tells us that Chuang Tzu’s hometown was Meng 蒙, within the territory of the state of Song 宋, roughly located in today’s Shangqiu, Henan Province.

During the Warring States period (475-221 BC), the most ambitious scholars would travel frequently to offer counsel and seek political posts in various states. Confucius and Mencius, as representatives of Confucianism, Mozi representing Mohism, and Han Feizi representing Legalism, along with various other scholars from different philosophical and educational backgrounds, all went about the world against the backdrop of significant social, political, and cultural changes. They are generally referred to as the “wandering shih 士” or “free-floating scholars (youshi 游士).”5

Chuang Tzu was an exception. From his book, one senses that he spent most of his life in or near Song. Two anecdotes in the book tell the stories of Chuang Tzu’s encounters with people from his home country.6

Since no clear descriptions are offered regarding the time of these two stories, we only know that they happened in the state of Song. My guess is that, given his connection with his homeland, his general Taoist philosophical view of the state of things in the world, and, of course, actual constraints in life, devoting himself primarily to pursuits such as wealth and status, as many other scholars have done so, was not an option for Chuang Tzu.

Sima Qian’s brief assessment still says something important about Chuang Tzu’s intellectual inquiry:

There was nothing into which he in his learning did not enquire, but in its essentials it went back to the words of Lao-tzu.7 其學無所不窺， 然其要本歸於老子之言.

How could someone outside the political and elite social circles attain such breadth and depth in thinking? For any person during this time, two pathways were possible: one could either serve in government or come from a noble family. Aristotle’s academic achievements and the founding of the Peripatetic School, apart from his unparalleled genius, to a significant degree, were the result of the patronage of Alexander the Great.

This was also a transitional era; the collapse of the traditional feudal order led to the reshuffling of the social stratum and the rise of the shih 士.8 Before this seismic change, the right to education was reserved exclusively for aristocratic families. Individuals from a noble house must master the classical six arts: rites 禮, music 樂, archery 射, chariot-driving 御, calligraphy 書, and mathematics 數.

And most importantly, the role of education was controlled by the political authority, meaning private individuals in society could not access it. In other words, the center of political power was also the center of education. This is referred to as the integration of political authority and education 官師治教合.9

This situation changed amid social and political upheavals, in which the government could no longer remain the sole legitimate authority for education and academic studies. The greatness of Confucius, thus, lies in the fact that, for the first time in Chinese history, private education became possible due to his efforts.10 As a result, the “hundred schools” rose to the forefront of this era, leaving future generations with the wisdom of Confucianism, Mohism, Taoism, Legalism, the School of Diplomacy, the School of Military Strategists, the School of Yin-Yang, the School of Names, and so on.

With this background, we can speculate further about Chuang Tzu’s family lineage.

In Chuang Tzu’s time, and for many centuries thereafter, the opportunity to receive a well-rounded education, let alone become a well-known scholar, was still very much unattainable for most people with an average family background.

Given this historical context and the unique characteristics of the Chuang Tzu, it has been conjectured that Chuang Tzu may have been connected, by lineage, to an older noble house from the state of Chu 楚.11 The historic state of Chu was renowned for its distinctive cultural system, reflected in its literary works through elements of mythology, romanticism, and imagination. Many such elements appear throughout the Chuang Tzu. For some unknown reason, perhaps due to some misfortune in the midst of social changes, Chuang Tzu’s family was displaced to the state of Song.

The ethos of the state of Song, as a collateral line of the early Shang dynasty, was open, simple, mysterious, and distinctively spiritual and religious.12 Chuang Tzu’s prose writings are full of humor, limitless imagination, infinite thoughts, as well as parables and conversations rich in hidden meanings and profound wisdom.

Whether or not this conjecture holds, the text itself makes one thing unmistakable. Unlike other schools primarily concerned with pragmatic affairs — rituals, political institutions, military strategy, and administrative techniques, Chuang Tzu repeatedly turns to the problems of the heart-mind: inner suffering, fear, self-imposed constraints, and the possibility of spiritual freedom.

In other words, Chuang Tzu’s message can be dismissed as focusing on impractical things (as numerous commentaries and criticisms have done). He speaks with humor and cynicism about human ambition, and with pathos about the mysterious nature of life.

This personality and the general outlook on life derived from it are too complex to be categorized. At the same time, it’s not difficult to recognize: sensitivity, empathy, and deep thinking, with a cost: an irresistible inner force that makes Chuang Tzu detach from the phenomenal world.

Compared to the busy life of getting involved in social and political endeavors, which often makes the ambitious deeply devoted to the struggle for worldly things, Chuang Tzu preferred to live as an ordinary person, wandering the world as he pleased. Perhaps, deep down in his thoughts, we, as individuals, are too easily getting ourselves entangled with the irresistible illusion, that is, the mirage of life.

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Society has a way of making us believe that we are essentially a social being. Either in a subtle way or through external force, we are, to some extent, entrapped in a circumstance that never stops trying to shape us.

Expectations from our family and closest friends can often drive us to pursuits defined by social conventions: success, power, status, and possession, forcing us to accept the fate of being someone we can never be.

In moments of quietude, we can sense that dissonance within. We realize that while we get busy chasing those external things, we are actually walking away from the original self.

What’s even more painful is that, at some point in life, we realize that the people we trust the most no longer seem to understand us. Their misunderstandings and judgments often cut deeper than strangers’ criticism, as they indirectly challenge the path we’ve chosen and our meaning of existence.

The tension between the original self and the expectations of the external world is nothing new. Hui Tzu and Chuang Tzu had stepped into this clash of worldly pursuits and the inward search.

Sometimes, misunderstanding and distrust between friends can arise not from malice but from the subtle drift of fear, insecurity, aspirations, and differing values.

Yet, what often arises from these encounters is a clearer understanding of what it means to stay true to oneself in a world that attempts to submerge the inner voice.

When Hui Tzu became a politician…

When Hui Tzu was the prime minister of the state of Liang, Chuang Tzu visited him. Someone told Hui Tzu, “Chuang Tzu is coming because he wants to replace you as prime minister!”

Alarmed, Hui Tzu ordered a search all over the state for three days and three nights, trying to find his friend.

Then, Chuang Tzu came to see him and said, “In the south there is a bird called the Yuanchu — I wonder if you’ve ever heard of it? The Yuanchu rises up from the South Sea and flies to the North Sea, and it will rest on nothing but the Wutong tree, eat nothing but the fruit of the Lian, and drink only from springs of sweet water.

“Once, there was an owl who had gotten hold of a half-rotten old rat, and as the Yuanchu passed by, it raised its head, looked up at the Yuanchu, and said, ‘Shoo!’ Now that you have this Liang state of yours, are you trying to shoo me?”1

Be the guardian of the original self

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Life is an unfolding story with changing themes, plots, and trajectories. While in the story, we may not necessarily be aware of our entanglements in a specific situation.

Many times, after years of groping and wandering, a moment of clarity, perhaps when seeing the morning dawn while sipping a cup of tea, causes us to start reflecting on those dream-like episodes in the past.

What if I have done things differently? Is it true that there is an unavoidable certainty in the course of things? What’s real?

There will always be some fixations and regrets lingering over the mind and troubling the heart along the way. That’s part of living, and it’s up to us to decide how we manage them.

When we were young, we all may have entertained the thought of breaking away from the guardian (and possibly shackles) of family and school to do things our way. Yet, we may never realize that different types of nuisances, troubles, and challenges await us when we try to establish ourselves. And we may never know how and where the twists and turns of life will push us toward.

At some point in life, perhaps a moment of sudden awakening, you realize for so long, you have been living under the control of an external force. You are not holding the steering wheel of your vehicle. Your plans and original wishes are simply not enough to cope with the changing reality.

Dismayed by the difficulty of living, we start copying and following the examples of others — the ones we deem “successful” or someone else’s formula, such that we can “fix” our life as if there is something deeply wrong or problematic about us within.

Or, perhaps even worse, we choose to adopt a defeatist attitude toward life.

Nothing we’ve tried seems to be working as we expected. All the forces are against us. Gradually, we become accustomed to this way of thinking.

At the crossroads of life, should we work on planning thoroughly so we can be assured that nothing will “go wrong” again, or should we learn to resign ourselves to the forces of change and, therefore, let things freely be?

Is it possible to find ease from wherever we are in life, not constrained by our immediate circumstances?

Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu followed two different life paths: one unbounded by the mundane aspects of living, mingling freely with people while communing with nature, and the other preoccupied himself with standing out as an intellectual and elbowing his way into the political world.

Yet, they became best friends, constantly debating, savoring the little joys and sorrows of this unfathomable and temporary life without expressing their appreciation of each other’s presence.

Can you feel the joy of fish?  

One day, Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu were strolling along the dam of the River Hao, when Chuang Tzu said, “See how the fish come out and swim around where they please! That’s what they really enjoy!”1

Hui Tzu said, “You are not a fish, how do you know what fish enjoy?”

Chuang Tzu said, “You are not me, so how do you know that I don’t know what fish enjoy?”

Hui Tzu said, “I’m not you, so I certainly don’t know what you know. On the other hand, you are certainly not a fish, so that proves you don’t know what fish enjoy!”

Chuang Tzu replied, “Let’s go back to your original question, if you don’t mind. You asked me how I know what fish enjoy. Therefore, you already knew that I knew it when you asked the question. I know it by standing here beside the River Hao.”

Who are you traveling with? 

Life is a journey. Along the way, we will invariably have unexpected encounters, detours, and discoveries.

While it is essential to accumulate experiences, it is perhaps even more necessary to know when it is the time to let go of entanglements.

Though the journey can be winding and unpredictable, we can still decide who we will keep as companions.

The right people bring immense joy, delight, consolation, and shared memories, which can always soothe our souls when life becomes harsh and unbearable. Understanding this allows you to realize that no one can carry you to the destination. You will have to walk the path yourself.

In this sense, the phrase “strolling along” used in the text is key. The Chinese character is 逰 (you), translated as wandering, roaming, sauntering, or relaxed walking. It captures a carefree, satisfied, and lighthearted state of mind. Such a state comes back to us when we do not need to wear masks in a social setting. We can freely be ourselves without worry or additional concerns.

Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu wandered along the River Hao and left us this famous conversation.

It constantly reminds me of this message: looking at the thin door that separates life and death, in a limbo state of trying hard to figure out the differences between dream and reality, what truly matters is who we get to experience the world with, not necessarily what we do.

At a particular stage of life, we may be involved with grand and rewarding pursuits, chasing, struggling, lamenting, and rejoicing. Yet we may find out that all the things we do are essentially similar in nature: to make a living, to fulfill our expectations and aspirations, or simply to get by.

But, occasionally, at a moment of silence and quietude, is it really difficult to realize that a long walk or a night-long conversation you had with a dear friend on a rainy night many years ago can still cheer you up and make you smile at life?

Choosing how to live

Coming back to the story, we see two types of views on things. Hui Tzu, as a logician and philosopher (a representative of the school of Names) during the Warring States period), takes an analytical and interpretative approach to both the fish in the pond and his friend.

Underlying this approach is the question of whether we individuals, as subjects, can truly understand and know the external world, the object. The implication is that we may not truly capture the feelings and sentiments of others.

Chuang Tzu portrays him this way:

Hui Tzu, day after day, used all the knowledge he had in his debates with others, deliberately thinking up ways to astonish the rhetoricians of the world…Whatever contradicted other men’s views he declared to be the truth, hoping to win a reputation for outwitting others. This was why he never got along with ordinary people. Weak in inner virtue, strong in his concern for external things, he walked a road that was crooked indeed!…Chasing after the ten thousand things, never turning back, he was like one who tries to shout an echo into silence or to prove that form can outrun shadow. How sad!2

Differences in personality and character lead to distinct life paths. What Hui Tzu may have overlooked is that not everyone is interested in figuring out his argument or perspective on a particular thing. Thus, instead of imposing his views on others, he might try to understand first. Not everything in life can be easily categorized as right or wrong, good or bad.

Do we have to know exactly how a delicious meal is made in order to enjoy it? Or how a chip is manufactured before we use it in daily life?

By contrast, Chuang Tzu takes an empathetic approach, essentially an aesthetic attitude similar to sightseeing or appreciating the variations and colors of nature.

Individual beings as the subject, the fish in the pond, and the river in the natural world as the object are unified in a holistic system. For Chuang Tzu, this is realized through empathy, sensitivity of the heart-mind, and accumulated experiences.

We can understand the messages, emotional stretches, and hidden meanings of artistic works and life stories because they are rooted in shared human experiences, emotional underpinnings, and common sense.

So, who can better enjoy life, Chuang Tzu or Hui Tzu, or someone in between?

Despite their differences in views and philosophical outlooks, they were lucky to have each other as true friends.

They both understood each other so well, knowing how they would respond to the scenery and reply to each other’s observations. In a sense, they were probably less concerned winning any given argument than with the joy of having each other as partners in debate.

In life, we need a friend who understands and accepts us and can be at ease with who we are without judging but bringing out the best in us. As Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu’s example shows, through the exchange of views, both can freely express themselves, and as readers, we would understand what they are alike in life.

Inner joy is simple and easy to find. It comes from appreciating the beauty of simple things, chatting with an old friend about our whereabouts, sorrows, and regrets, or taking a walk in nature.

The mystery of life will not stop giving us all the unnecessary worries, anxieties, pressures, and disturbances, but it is within our control to learn to go along with things and dissolve our fixations, for we are all part of the ever-changing flow, confused while streaming, forgetting amid striving, awakening, and evolving.

For myself, I always return to the poetic writings of those who have truly lived. There I find quietude, inspiration, and lasting peace in the spiritual world:

In middle age I grow rather fond of the Way;

My late home is in a corner of Mt. Zhongnan.

When the mood comes, I always go out alone;

I myself know, emptily, of these splendid things.

I walk to where the waters begin,

I sit and watch when the clouds arise.

By chance I meet an old man of the woods,

We chat and laugh, no time we have to go home.3

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The world we live in is not real. The things we cling to, the emotional attachments lingering in the heart and mind, and the joys and sorrows filled within memories are like a dream, making us wonder, at some point in life, at the essence of our existence.

As the Diamond Sutra says,

One essential lesson from this Mahayana Buddhist classic is to learn not to fall into the grip of the appearance of things, for they are destined to disappear in the phenomenal world. We may realize that, after all, what we’ve been attached to can turn out to be something fleeting, like the moon in still water.

But reaching that spiritual state is extremely challenging, as we are everywhere entangled with this mundane world. We want material comfort, labels and recognition, achievements, and most importantly, a sense of satisfaction and assurance from the state of being in possession of them.

The question is: how long does it take to realize that attaining all this does not really lead to inner joy and calm?

Eventually, we reach the state where we have forgotten how to be ourselves, even with all the things within our possessions.

On an existential level, we are struggling because we have become accustomed to overreach and overstepping. We are not content with what is within our capacities and inherent endowment. So, we are inclined to overextend ourselves to imitate others, follow the trend, or convince ourselves that we are chasing some grand dreams that can make us fulfilled.

What is beneath this constant struggle is our submission to the control of internal desires. We cannot live with simplicity and contentment because we are constantly at war with the inner self. There is always that voice within that reminds us of the state of psychological insufficiency, even though we may already have more than enough.

Therefore, we are trapped, always entangled with external things, and catching ourselves in an endless loop.

Chuang Tzu understood this predicament, which is common to all of us. And he reflected on the possibilities of navigating this worldly life without being consumed by it. His conversations with his close friend, Hui Tzu, illuminates this universal tension.

Different perspectives, diverged life paths 

Hui Tzu once asked Chuang Tzu, “I have a large tree, its trunk is so irregular and bumpy that a carpenter cannot apply his measuring line to it, its branches so twisted that the square and compasses cannot be used on them. You could stand it by the road, and no carpenter would look at it twice.”

Chuang Tzu replied, “Probably you’ve never seen a wildcat or a weasel. It couches down and hides, watching for something to come along. It leaps and races east and west, not hesitating to go high or low—until it falls into the trap and dies in the net.

“Then again there’s the yak, large as a cloud covering the sky. It certainly knows how to be big, though it doesn’t know how to catch rats.

“Now you have this big tree, and you’re distressed because it’s useless. Why don’t you plant it in the domain of nonexistence, in a wide and barren wilderness? By its side, you can wander in a wu-wei spirit, or you may lie down to find xiaoyao (ease and leisure) from sleep. Axes will never shorten its life, nothing can ever harm it. If there’s no use for it, how can it come to grief or pain?1

The value of spiritual life

Chuang Tzu mentioned an interesting and important notion, “the domain of nonexistence 無何有之鄉.”2 On the surface, it refers to something intangible, unobtainable, and remote. Yet, it certainly has its own place there.

So, we see that the idea can be interpreted as the cultivation of one’s spiritual life. The assumption of Chuang Tzu’s thinking is that the flesh and sensual world are temporary, destined to pass. We are simply a fleeting existence in this world. After all, the human life is nothing but the accumulation of qi (氣):

Life is the companion of death; death is the beginning of life. Who understands their workings? Man’s life is a coming-together of breath. If it comes together, there is life; if it scatters, there is death. And if life and death are companions to each other, then what is there for us to be anxious about?3

What is more important is, perhaps, the spiritual dimension of existence. It’s like a garden; you give it proper care, and it provides you with consolation at the right moment. It is something entirely within our control — to provide it with nourishment and proper arrangements.

Chasing external and material things can hardly bring lasting fulfillment. When given the opportunity, desires, allures, and unrealistic adventures can trap us endlessly.

In contrast, the cultivation of the spiritual world would help you go through the storms in this earthly, unpredictable, and uncertain world. I’ve realized that in life’s gloomiest moments, it’s always the wise words, a spiritual lesson, a proper musical piece, a clip of beautiful memory — all the things that constitute the essence of our spiritual life — that encourage me to endure and move forward.

What is truly useful? 

Who can find ease in their positions in life? The yak, the wildcat and weasel, or you and me as individuals?

We know that everything has its own use and value in its specific context. However, we may not be able to see this from the first impression when judging things or even reflecting upon the meaning of our own existence.

From a holistic perspective, everything can be useful in a particular way but worthless in another. The Taoists understand that things spontaneously operate and constantly change in the universe. We can never truly know when the useless in one occasion can become functional in another.

Therefore, understanding what is within our power and limits is self-knowledge. And self-knowledge allows us to flow with change without obsessions and delusions, without being crushed by it.

Xiaoyao 逍遙 — a way of life 

From their conversations, we can identify two life philosophies between Hui Tzu and Chuang Tzu.

Hui Tzu is primarily concerned with utility and usefulness when approaching things. His heart-mind is always oriented toward the practical side of human affairs. Following this thinking, he is invariably entangled with the outside.4

Chuang Tzu, on the other hand, takes a detached view of the value of being useful. Contrary to the conventional perspective, he sees value in uselessness.

More importantly, instead of demonstrating one’s use, Chuang Tzu suggests being at ease with the state of uselessness as a way of preserving one’s inborn nature. In doing so, one follows the natural course, not harming the inner core to conform to society.

Indeed, such a view has its downsides, such as losing opportunities and wasting talent in not making things happen. Yet, who can know that fortune may not turn out to be misfortune?

This is Chuang Tzu’s life philosophy, the way of xiaoyao 逍遙. It recognizes that the essence of being lies in living in accordance with one’s nature, practicing one’s natural talent, and being at ease in a spontaneous mode of existence.

It indicates that it’s worthless to deviate from one’s natural course to imitate others or subject oneself to social influences and external judgment.

Essentially, xiaoyao is a life attitude. It suggests that despite the turmoil, storms, and vicissitudes of fortune in this mundane world, you can still preserve your innocence, authenticity, and natural way of living, even if that is contrary to popular norms and conventional practices.

It will certainly bring about a sense of unease in the face of temporary gains, losses, and setbacks. But choosing how to respond is the only thing within your reach in this game of life filled with uncertainty, unpredictability, and mysteries. What is detached, unbound, and untangled is not to be subdued.

The Song Dynasty (960-1279 AD) poet Su Dongpo (1037 - 1101 AD) understood and practiced the philosophy of xiaoyao when he wrote this famous poem,

Tune: Calming the Waves

Listen not to the rain beating against the trees.

Why don’t you slowly walk and chant at ease?

Better than saddled horse I like sandals and cane.

Oh, I would fain

Spend a straw-cloaked life in mist and rain.

Drunken, I’m sobered by vernal wind shrill

And rather chill.

In front I see the slanting sun atop the hill;

Turning my head, I find the dreary beaten track.

Let me go back!

Impervious to wind, rain or shine, I’ll have my will.5

Xiaoyao is, practiced in the right circumstances, a secret spiritual weapon that allows us to see through our attachments and predicaments, control ourselves in the midst of life’s twists and turns, and rise above the entanglements of the past and present. With a smile, when the tests of life are most arduous and menacing, we can still say to them, “I’ve passed through you all.”

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The attainment of inner peace looks like an elusive ideal in our fast-paced modern life, where expectations, responsibilities, and ambitions constantly pull us in various directions.

We often find ourselves shackled in cycles of emotional turbulence, constantly going through uninvited anxiety, worry, and the struggles between fulfilling desires and rational justifications for our behaviors.

We see that mental health issues are becoming more prevalent than ever. Yet, at the same time, we are still obsessed with approval, achievement, and control over our immediate circumstances that are fundamentally ever-changing. Is inner peace still possible for us to live in this world as it is today?

In the traditional Chinese cultural system, the core principles of Confucianism — benevolence and righteousness (or human-heartedness and justice), have existed as essential criteria to measure a person’s moral fiber.

“Restraining yourself and returning to the rites (keji fuli 克己復禮) constitutes Goodness. If for one day you managed to restrain yourself and return to the rites, in this way you could lead the entire world back to Goodness. The key to achieving Goodness lies within yourself — how could it come from others?”1

To this Mencius further added,

The mind’s feeling of pity and compassion is the sprout of humaneness ren 仁; the mind’s feeling of shame and aversion is the sprout of rightness yi 義; the mind’s feeling of modesty and compliance is the sprout of propriety li 禮; and the mind’s sense of right and wrong is the sprout of wisdom zhi 智.2

These principles are derived from the essence of our common human nature. Yet, it is a different thing to observe them in real life. There is an inherent focus on the social dimension of these ideas, as they constitute a moral framework for social and ethical conduct in mingling with others.

While it is important to acknowledge these principles in navigating social relations, one still needs some inspiration on how to live with oneself, especially how we interact with external influences, which have become much more complex than in traditional societies.

A more critical question is: Are there any other alternative criteria for evaluating a person’s inner strength that does not rely on prescribed principles or external recognition, for instance, something based on unshakable tranquility from within?

In one of Chuang Tzu’s parables, we see such an alternative perspective that allows us to see the embodiment of an internal state of being rather than external virtues. What is the power of Chuang Tzu’s mysterious characters that can preserve their inner calm in the face of status, fortune, or hardship in life?

Chuang Tzu’s view of the perfect character 

Duke Ai, from the state of Lu, consulted Confucius about a man named Ai Taituo, saying, “This Ai Taituo is an ugly man. The men who lived with him thought of him so much that they could not be away from him. Of the women who had seen him, ten and more said to their parents: ‘I would rather be his concubine than to be another man’s wife.’3

He was never heard to lead in anything; he just followed others. His knowledge did not go beyond his immediate neighborhood. Yet both men and women gathered around him.

When he had lived with me less than one month, I began to pay attention to his personality. Before he had lived with me for a full year, I trusted him thoroughly. As my state wanted a prime minister, I offered him the government post. He responded to my proposal quietly and indifferently, as if he would decline it. In a short time he left me and went away. I was sorry and felt that I had sustained a loss. What sort of man is he?”

After hearing this person and Duke Ai’s confusion, Confucius explains that such a person can be said to embody perfect character and unmanifested virtue.

We are curious to know what a perfect character is from Chuang Tzu’s perspective.

Someone is in control of their inner calmness, regardless of their circumstances. The assumption underlying this view is that it is possible to respond to life’s variations and changes with self-awareness and a detached attitude.

“Death and life, existence and peril, ill and good fortune, wealth and poverty, worth and worthlessness, praise and blame, hunger and thirst, cold and hot — these are changes of events and the operation of destiny… One should not allow such things to disturb one’s harmony. One should not allow such things to enter one’s mind. If you can harmonize and delight in them, master them and not be at a loss for joy, if you can do this day and night without a break and prepare your heart for the change of events, this is called the perfect character.”4

So, we see that Chuang Tzu’s idea of the essence of a character lies in an undisturbed mind in the face of life’s fluctuations. This does not indicate a passive withdrawal from everyday life but a mindful practice of detachment.

Harmony with the self  

The problem with achieving inner peace is that we are easily triggered, annoyed, and disturbed by the petty things in everyday life. Someone makes a negative comment about you, and you become irritated. You have an unpleasant encounter with someone in a situation, perhaps a stranger, that makes you sullen and even resentful.

Or you’ve read some news about something nasty, and like many others who complain about something and accuse someone you barely know, you start to develop opinions on things. You become emotionally attached to those perspectives. Your attention is always on the outside.

From Chuang Tzu’s view, all of these external things that cause emotional ups and downs should be left outside the mind. They are unavoidable occurrences, and they do not really matter.

The serenity of the mind is cultivated in the process of going through these common phenomena in life. More than that, the come and go of fortune and fame, the rise and fall in this temporary life’s trajectory, are the things that should not become a source of disturbance.

We live in the surroundings of the natural rhythm while we are not necessarily aware of our state of existence. In the face of the constant seasonal changes, we may feel a sense of melancholy, in particular, the fleetingness of spring and the falling leaves in autumn, but we are never extremely attached to these slight emotional changes.

Therefore, inner peace allows us to watch, observe, and experience the turn of events, transitions between misfortune and fortune, successes and failures, and complex human interactions without too much emotional involvement, just like going through seasonal changes. That’s Chuang Tzu’s perspective on the cultivation of a perfect character.

Such a view of the serenity of the mind is developed from the understanding that everything is in flux in the universe, and therefore, we should accept and learn to embrace changes. It is also derived from an inherent empathetic spirit that every person is going through various struggles and challenges amidst the constant evolution of life’s changes.

So, achieving understanding is what really matters. It allows us to discover ourselves in new ways and develop a better perception of things instead of exerting ourselves in external entanglements. This is the essence of “unmanifested virtue.”

“Perfect balance is the virtue of still water. This is the model for us. The inner peace is preserved and no disturbance is received from the outside. Virtue is the perfect attainment of harmony.”5

In essence, developing inner peace is a spiritual practice of becoming harmonized with the inner self. It is a detached view that allows us to peacefully accept the spontaneous evolution of things in the world. Even in the face of things beyond our control, we can still learn to focus our attention within, manage emotional turmoil, and adjust our positioning amid external circumstances that we know are destined to change.

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“Idly they roam beyond the dust and dirt; they wander free and easy in the service of inaction (wu-wei). Why should they fret and fuss about the rituals of the vulgar world and make a display for the ears and eyes of the common herd?”

Chuang Tzu

What is happiness? Is it possible to find it in life? Can it be measured? The idea of happiness is commonplace in everyday life, but it seems quite challenging to grasp.

For some, happiness brings to mind the images of great food, luxury goods, easily obtainable entertainment, the freedom to travel here and there, and the things that bring about sensual pleasures.

For others, happiness is found by chasing and attaining socially desired objects: a shining label, a reputable identity, formidable power and status, and impressive wealth and possessions, which make one stand out in the eyes of others.

Still, happiness is not exclusively defined this way, as there exist individuals who care more than just senses and material satisfaction. This suggests the incalculable and innate nature within us to explore the variety of life’s forms.

In this sense, we see some individuals devoted to an ideal, somewhat peculiar way of life, less materialistic and more spiritually driven. For these individuals, happiness cannot be quantified, as they are inclined to think that freely exercising their natural endowment and talent as a way of life is more valuable than other worldly pursuits.

So, it’s easy to see that happiness is open to interpretations rather than being taken as a specific way of living. Nevertheless, we can still agree that, compared to defining what it means to live a happy life, it’s easier to identify what unhappiness is.

No one likes to be forced to change course in life, whether it’s about changing a habit or shifting career paths. Similarly, no one would peacefully accept their life patterns to be abruptly ended. Happiness, therefore, becomes a state of living that must be grounded in a concrete touch with reality, from which one can derive a sense of earth-bound stability.

There is nothing wrong with these popular conceptions of happiness. They are all conventional standards or prescriptions on how to live a joyful and rewarding life. After all, we live in human societies that invariably value these pursuits and artificial criteria.

Yet, this does not mean that we should simply conform to society’s definitions of happiness. In essence, whether we are happy or not is very much a private matter. This means that only we can decide what kind of happiness we can resonate with, instead of following conventions and prevailing opinions.

On this note, the Taoists have long had a different understanding of self-fulfillment (if we consider happiness as important for a carefree living) than others, for instance, the Confucians and Legalists, who, during times of chaos and instability, sought to preach their teachings to rulers while positioning themselves as close associates to political leaders. Power, status, and the application of their theories and doctrines become a source of satisfaction to the Confucian and Legalist scholars.

Indeed, our choices have consequences. And, sometimes, we are not aware of the ramifications of our actions. The politically minded Confucians and Legalists were enthusiastic about political participation while not necessarily understanding what kind of games they were playing.

Chuang Tzu was quite straightforward in his comment on those chasing worldly things,

Nowadays, however, when men speak of the fulfillment of ambition, they mean fine carriages and caps. But carriages and caps affect the body alone, not the inborn nature and fate. Such things from time to time may happen to come your way… Those who destroy themselves in things and lose their inborn nature in the vulgar may be called the upside-down people.1

Aren’t we, the modern individual, sometimes get overly entangled with our everyday pursuits? And even to the extent of losing our essential self?

From a Taoist perspective, happiness is derived from inner peace. And inner calm enables one to be at ease with the vicissitudes of external changes. That’s the absence of worry and anxiety, a transcendent attitude toward the evolution of adversity and fortune.

Observing the process of change

While Disjointed Decrepit was accompanying Slippery Decrepit to take the sights at the Mound of the Arcane Lord and the Wastes of Kunlun, where the Yellow Emperor took his ease, suddenly a willow sprouted from his left elbow, which seems to have startled and annoyed him.

Disjointed Decrepit asked, “Do you find it annoying?”

Slippery Decrepit replied, “Not at all—why should it annoy me! Life is something borrowed. That which is borrowed so it may produce life is but dust and dirt, and death follows life as does night the day. Now while you and I have been observing how transformation works 觀化, it so happened that transformation caught up with me, so why should I go on being annoyed at that?”2

The willow is a symbol, if left unattended, it becomes an inner thorn that disturbs us thereafter. Perhaps it’s someone’s opinion, or a past episode of failure, or anything that annoys us but we have not yet said to them that they do not matter. So, they will pop up some time to sting us.

Therefore, we are still vulnerable as we move about in life, putting on layers of social approval while assuming we’ve changed in a good way. Yet, the truth is that we still dare not look within. For inner peace is attained with a detached attitude toward the inevitable and evolving nature of changes.

But we are always emotionally engaged with the things that we care about. Anxiety, restlessness, worry, fear, and excitement constantly go through us because we cannot disengage with our pursuits and entanglements.

To obtain rewards from our goals, in the conventional sense, brings us happiness and joy. Are these worldly chasing, worrying, and struggling really about happiness? If not, where can we find it?

Tranquil and mild like water

Happiness is the absence of worries. When we realize we do not need to follow popular opinions so that we can be accepted by others, we will no longer live in anxiety and worry. As Slippery Decrepit’s words demonstrate, happiness is being at ease with the self, a release of control, and not contending against our circumstances.

This is Chuang Tzu’s perspective on happiness: adopting a wu-wei attitude toward life changes. It asks us to transcend worldly values, appreciate the sense of simplicity, see through the futility of unnecessary striving for outcomes, and not be wearied by worldly undertakings.

The saying goes, ‘Calm, detachment, silence, quiet, emptiness and wu-wei, these are what maintain Heaven and Earth, the Tao and virtue.’ The saying goes, ‘The sage rests, truly rests and is at ease.’ This manifests itself in their calmness and detachment so that worries and distress cannot affect them, nothing unpleasant can disturb them, their Virtue is complete and their spirit is not stirred up.3

Taoist metaphysics believes that things spontaneously operate by themselves in the natural world. Excessive meddling and intervention cannot change the natural order of things.

Therefore, wu-wei allows one to enter a state of stillness, to be in harmony with oneself, and accordingly reach harmony with one’s surroundings. The one who practices wu-wei can follow along with the natural course of things. External changes will no longer cause disturbance and worries as one does not engage emotionally.

The conventional perception of happiness is usually accompanied by unhappiness, manifested as anxiety, worry, and all kinds of negative feelings coming from failing to attain worldly goals, such as money, power, status, validation, and all the things belonging to social constructs.

Chuang Tzu suggests a different understanding of happiness. This taste of happiness is mild like water, found in the state of wu-wei, effortless moving about in life. And there is no anxiety and disturbance within, as wu-wei enables us to transcend the narrative of looking at things with a distinctive attitude.

It allows you to arrive at a lasting state of inner peace. With inner peace, you can observe the transformation of things with calm and clarity. This type of happiness is different from the conventional one, without the excitement of the senses. Inner peace is often overlooked or underestimated. It can only be realized after one has gone through struggles, confusion, and loss until one sees clarity amidst the changes of fortune.

In the beginning, it’s really hard and terrifying to give up identifying with the conventional understanding of happiness. It seems everybody around you has been doing similar things. But if you realize how much your understanding of happiness is shaped by conventions, you can observe, watch, and change.

The allures presented to you by social constructs like power and possessions give you an immense yet temporary sense of pleasure, but they are the cause of your unhappiness and discontentment with life. And then everything will become clear to you: look within and you will find answers.

Happiness is found when you are at ease with your essential self. It’s a spiritual state that allows your heart to roam and rise above the shackles of surroundings, seeing through entanglements with human affairs.

Perhaps this is why I love the story of “the Shawshank Redemption.” Andy can live through all those years in Shawshank as he is simply not controlled by the values and norms there. He does not easily subject himself to the convention of that circumstance. And he does not make his soul serf to an environment he does not belong. Breaking out of a prison must have brought about a great sense of excitement, but it is really the overdue inner serenity, to be free from conventions and worldly judgment that matters in the end.

If the mind is not free, there is no free space in the world. If the heart cannot taste and appreciate a shred of simple peace within, then it still lives on the outside and is shackled there.

Some days ago, a friend asked me, “Are you happy?” It’s the kind of conversation that usually ends up without a clear response. Still, it’s a recurring question in these past years, reminding me of the reality of a rather floating life.

What do you think is human life like here or there?

It seems like a swan’s traces on mud or on snow.

See the claw and nail prints by chance mud and snow bear.

Will the flying swan care what it has left below?4

When we cling too tightly to the pleasures of worldly happiness, we sometimes forget that, after all, we are simply part of the transformation of things. And when we care too much about enjoyment from material life, we’ve already forgotten about the evanescence of life.

I think now I can say that perhaps my sense of happiness is a bit different, less expectations on what’s to come in life, more serenity within while peacefully seeing and flowing with the changes of things. To me, it’s an increasing appreciation of Chuang Tzu’s words, “Perfect happiness is to be free of joy 至樂無樂.”5

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