On Taoist Butchery
A meditation on doing things effortlessly
Dear Friend,
If you find that life has been harder than usual lately, that you have had more stress and less success, more anxiety and less energy, you may want to step back and see if you’re working too hard.
Last year we took on some projects that failed. The signs were there if I had paid attention, people not in alignment on the goals of the project, a lack of investment from some critical players, a sense of dread before the project meetings.
But I ignored the resistance and pushed through anyway. Some progress was made, some deadlines achieved through herculean efforts and sleepless nights, dipping into my personal resources to bridge gaps.
Most of the projects succeeded, but the cost of the failures didn’t have to happen if I had just taken a moment to observe the situation as it really was. To see the things that were broken and created fault lines that were destined to break if too much pressure was placed.
Resistance is a signal
Prince Wen Hui’s cook
Was cutting up an ox.
Out went a hand,
Down went a shoulder,
He planted a foot,
He pressed with a knee,
The ox fell apart
With a whisper,
The bright cleaver murmured
Like a gentle wind.
Rhythm! Timing!
Like a sacred dance,
Like “The Mulberry Grove,”
Like ancient harmonies!
“Good work!” the Prince exclaimed,
“Your method is faultless!”
“Method?” said the cook
Laying aside his cleaver,
“What I follow is Tao
Beyond all methods!
“When I first began
To cut up oxen
I would see before me
The whole ox
All in one mass.
“After three years
I no longer saw this mass.
I saw the distinctions.
“But now, I see nothing
With the eye. My whole being
Apprehends.
My senses are idle. The spirit
Free to work without plan
Follows its own instinct
Guided by natural line,
By the secrets opening, the hidden space,
My cleaver finds its own way.
I cut through no joint, chop no bone.
“A good cook needs a new chopper
Once a year — he cuts.
A poor cook needs a new one
Every month — he hacks!
“I have used this same cleaver
Nineteen years.
It has cut up
A thousand oxen.
Its edge is as keen
As if newly sharpened.
“There are spaces in the joints;
The blade is thin and keen:
When this thinness
Finds that space
There is all the room you need!
It goes like a breeze!
Hence I have this cleaver nineteen years
As if newly sharpened!
“True, there are sometimes
Tough joints. I feel them coming,
I slow down, I watch closely,
Hold back, barely moving the blade,
And whump! the part falls away
Landing like a clod of earth.
“Then I withdraw the blade,
I stand still
And let the joy of the work
Sink in. I clean the blade
And put it away.”
Prince Wan Hui said,
“This is it! My cook has shown me
How I ought to live
My own life!”
Translated by Thomas Merton (The Way of Chuang Tzu, 1965)
We used to have a mechanic at Consolidated Auto Sales who was young and strong and would use that strength to force things apart, force them back together, and would break the tiny body clips and fasteners that keep your car together.
Our shop manager took him aside and showed him the right way to dismantle a door panel without breaking things, to squeeze the prongs of the clips with a special tool, to feel for resistance and use that resistance as a signal that something was about to break, that things weren’t meant to go this way, that he should take a moment before breaking things.
When you figure out how things are put together, you learn more about how to take them apart. Deconstruction is the art that creates the foundation for reconstruction, for fixing things that are broken, making things that are more perfect.
An oncologist I know shared the poem above, with its vivid description of the elegance of effortlessness, the smooth groove carved through thousands of hours of careful observation and slow practice. None of us hit that groove all the time, or even most of the time, but our efforts to get there make life all that much better.
Go out today and let the joy of the work sink in.
Yours truly,
Nick