If the sage would guide the people,
he must serve with humility.
If he would lead them he
must follow behind.
LAO TZU
TALE 15
The Magical Singer
The woman looked poor, dressed as she was in layers of rags to keep out the cold winds of winter. She was of indeterminate age, her hair bound up in another of her rags. But she looked the noodle vendor in the eye while she told him that she had no money to pay for his noodles yet she was very hungry.
“Be off with you,” cried the noodle man. He had seen enough beggars in his day and was in no mood for charity. He turned away from her and went back to waiting on his paying customers, ladling the thick noodle soup, filled with succulent pieces of fungus, vegetables and tasty chicken. But when he turned again the woman was still there. “I thought I told you to be off,” he said, raising his soup ladle menacingly.
“Wait,” said the woman. “I will trade you for the soup.”
The soup vendor eyed her suspiciously. “And what, pray tell, have you to trade?”
“My songs,” she said and again looked him in the eye with that almost insolent look of hers.
A few of the other customers had been listening to this conversation and they now joined in. “Yes,” they cried, “let’s hear her songs. We have heard no good music since the harvest festival last fall.”
The noodle vendor looked around at his smiling customers and decided, just this once, to give in. “All right,” he said to the woman, “but first the songs, then the food.”
“How can I sing when I am starving?” asked the woman. “First feed me and then I will sing for you.”
The noodle vendor began to disagree but the other customers all shouted, “Yes, feed her, feed her, and then she will sing for us.” So, he begrudgingly ladled out a small bowl of his soup for the starving woman and then stood behind his counter to watch her wolf it down as if she had not eaten for many days.
“More,” she said, handing back the bowl. The noodle vendor, of course, wanted to deny her but the other customers all shouted out, “Give her more, then she will sing for us.” So he handed her another bowl.
It took a while, but finally after six servings of noodles, the woman set her bowl down on the counter and wiped her mouth with one of her rags and smiled at the noodle man and the other customers. She then sat down on a bench, alongside the others, and began to sing.
Her song was like no song anyone had ever heard. It seemed, at times, to be in another language entirely from the one spoken in that district, yet everyone could understand her. She didn’t exactly sing words but rather some kind of phrases or sounds that spoke directly to the hearts of the listeners. Each one of them heard a slightly different song, as each one of them listened with their own ears and hearts. Even the scowling noodle vendor began to smile, and years of tension began to slide away from his face. More people began to fill the tiny room and soon they were standing around outside the building listening with rapt attention.
A man who had been about to commit suicide that night because of his loneliness was suddenly heartened and looked around at all the other villagers listening and said, “Really, I am not so alone as I thought.” An old couple who had lost their children many years ago, suddenly saw them right in front of them and they laughed out loud. Another man who had been about to commit a murder that night found himself shaking with fear and asked himself, “What was I thinking?” A woman who had been sick for many years and who had given up hope of ever recovering, suddenly felt new strength in her limbs and began to dance.
All who heard the magical voice of that poor, ragged woman, felt lighter, happier and calmer than they had felt for a long time. Soon everyone had closed their eyes, the better just to listen. The songs went on and on, winding their way down into the people’s minds and hearts, down into the very root of their beings, down to where they were all small and often afraid. It lifted them then and brought them out to the glorious sunlight where they felt happy and safe.
Slowly the woman began to sing more and more softly. Then her voice became a sort of low hum. Several listeners opened their eyes then and saw, to their astonishment, that the woman was gone. But where was the sound coming from? They looked around themselves but could not see any sign of the woman. Still, the songs went on, soft and low and so beautiful it seemed as if it were the very gods themselves that must be singing.
After a while the noodle vendor himself looked up to the beams of the ceiling and it seemed as if he could make out the shadows of the traces of the songs up there, curling about the roof beams and raining down softly upon the people.
The songs continued for three days after that. Visitors came from far and wide to hear them. The noodle vendor sold many bowls of noodles and everyone who came for those three days left with a lighter and happier heart.
Much later, that same poor and ragged woman was still travelling. She was still very thin and she tried to bargain for a room in a small inn. It was very cold and she was afraid she would not last the night out in the open. But this time the innkeeper, a short and dried-up old man, would not listen to her pleas. When she tried to sing him a song to show him what she could do, he grabbed a stick of firewood and began to beat her with it, shouting for her to get out of his inn.
She retreated then to the courtyard and, looking at him with a wild and awful stare, began to sing a song so sad and mournful that everyone in range of her voice felt tears running down their cheeks. They felt themselves suddenly become so weak that they had to sit down, for fear they would fall right there in the street. The innkeeper fell back into his inn, and wrapped an old quilt around his head to shut out the awful sounds.
The longer she sang the louder it seemed her song became and soon everyone in the quarter could hear her and was affected. She sang a song so sad and low that there was not a person there who did not feel suddenly hopeless and beaten down. Couples fell into each other’s arms, weeping. Old people just crawled to their beds and prepared themselves for death. Even the children stopped their running and playing and began to cry, as if they had just lost their mother.
Long after the woman had left, trudging out into the cold, her song kept on going, swirling about the village like a malignant vapour cloud. Finally, after three days of this the village headman sent out a search party to find the woman and beg her to stop her song, lest everyone in the village commit suicide.
They found her out in the forest, half-frozen and near death. They carried her back to the very inn that she had been driven from and piled blankets upon her, heated bricks to warm her, and fed her strong nourishing soups until she had regained enough strength to take back her song.
She sat out in front of the inn then and began to sing. At first it was very difficult to hear her, she was so weak. But gradually, bit by bit, her voice became stronger and her song began to travel out into the village and everyone who heard it was suddenly cheered. Now her song seemed to revitalize everyone. It seemed to lift them out of their gloom and carry them out into the street.
From all parts of the village, people came dancing and waving their arms in the air. They gathered around the singing woman and began to sing along with her. She held her head up and, with tears running down her cheeks, she sang on and on into the night. A huge bonfire was built and people danced around it all night, listening to her song that filled them like good food; that reminded them of all the good things of life; that flowed through their veins like strong chi; that helped them to drop away their cares and woes like old clothing; that made them all feel years younger and somehow wiser.
When the mysterious singer had healed and was strong enough to resume her travelling she was sent off with great celebration and was never heard of in those parts again. But forever after, people from that village were famed for their ability to sing at weddings or funerals in such a way as to move their listeners to tears of joy or grief.
LIEH TZU
The softest thing in the universe
Overcomes the hardest thing in the universe.
LAO TZU
TALE 16
A Celebration of Death
Upon hearing of the death of Chuang Tzu’s wife, his good friend Hui Tzu went over to comfort him and found the sage sitting on the ground banging on an overturned pot and singing a song at the top of his lungs.
Horrified at such behaviour, Hui Tzu reproved him, saying, “This woman has lived with you, borne your children, grown old with you and now she has died. It is bad enough not to be weeping at this time but to be out here banging on a pot and singing is too much!”
Chuang Tzu replied, “You are mistaken my friend, at first I could not help but feel sad and depressed at my beloved wife’s death. But then I began to reflect. In the beginning, she had no life, and having no life she had no spirit, and having no spirit she had no body. But then she was given life, she was given a spirit and then she was given a body. Now things have changed again and she is dead. She has joined the great cycle of the seasons. Now she lies suspended between heaven and earth. Why then should I weep and moan over her. It would be as though I did not understand the process of life. Therefore I stopped and decided to celebrate.”
CHUANG TZU
TALE 17
Ai Tai To, the Ugly Man
Ai Tai To was an ugly man. That is true. As a matter of fact, he was more than ugly. He was monstrous. His head was huge, with thick black eyebrows that almost, but not quite, met in the middle. His brow likewise, was thick and stuck out from his forehead like a cliff. His nose was crooked, as were most of his teeth. His whole body seemed twisted and stumpy like an old tree trunk. His hands were huge, with thick hairy knuckles and blunt fingers like shovels. All in all he was a most ugly man. And yet …
Ai Tai To had many friends it seemed. When I arrived at his village, all I had to do was speak his name and the faces of the villagers would light up. “Ah, Ai Tai To, yes he lives here among us. And most fortunate are we. A greater friend and neighbour a man could never have.”
And most amazingly, when I would ask of some comely maiden, she would blush, cast down her eyes and say, “Ah yes, Ai Tai To, such a man,” with such admiration and longing in her voice that I nearly fell off my horse with amazement.
Is this the Ugly Man that I have been searching for I wondered. How could this be? I had expected people to shudder at his name. I had certainly expected young maidens to shrink with revulsion at the very thought of him yet here they were, acting as if he were a prize catch!
When my counsellors had told me about this man they intimated that perhaps he could somehow be useful to me in court. As Duke of Lu, I had need of such men, men who could give me useful and sage advice. It is not easy being a ruler. When the Great Sage, Kongfuzi (Confucius) said, “The people are like grass, the ruler is like the wind,” I do not think he knew then just how difficult it is to be a good ruler.
Push too far and the people rebel – lives are lost, crops are destroyed, soldiers are called out, and much money is lost in quelling the rebellion. On the other hand, be too easy on them and the people will not work, will not produce, will not cooperate with the tax collectors and again, revenue is lost.
My kingdom is small. I have alliances to keep up with my more formidable neighbours, expensive alliances. I am but a small frog in a large pond and am surrounded by large carnivorous beasts. I must constantly placate, supplicate and yet not appear too weak lest I be eaten up in one gulp.
Yes, I have need of good counsellors, men who have vision, insight and the ability to see into the future. The Great Sage has given us much direction from the past. If we only pay attention to the rites and the relationships between classes of men, we will prosper. Yet it is not always enough to see into the past. Sometimes it is imperative to be able to see into the future.
And so I had ridden to this dusty little village, far away from my court, dressed in humble raiment, to meet this very ugly man who was said to be wise and to have far-seeing eyes.
After riding through most of the village and meeting many friends of this man, Ai Tai To, I at last came to the door of his exceedingly humble, even ramshackle home. I drew up and called out his name. The door opened and out he came. He was indeed ugly, perhaps even more ugly than I had imagined, and yet …
He looked most ferocious at first, with his great dark eyes glittering at me like a just-wakened beast. I drew back a little, but then he smiled. His smile completely transformed his face. It was as if the sun had come out from behind a dark rain cloud. His smile somehow opened up his ugly face into something almost beautiful. I cannot say how exactly but I was instantly ashamed of my behaviour. I immediately dismounted and bowed. He too bowed his great head, with its wild mane of black hair sticking out like straw all about his face.
I did not tell him my true name at once, but told him that a friend in the capital had recommended him as a good person to meet in this area and since I was a stranger here, on business, I had sought him out.
I do not think that he believed me, even then, but he pretended to, and taking my hand, led me into his home. Once inside the door I could see that although it had looked very humble indeed from the outside, it had a kind of rough elegance on the inside. Everything was clean, from the floor to the ceiling, much more so than I was used to seeing in these rustic villages. There were tools – he was a carpenter by trade – lined up tidily on shelves that he himself had constructed, simple and sturdy. A small fire was snapping happily in the fire pit and a rice pot was bubbling away.
He led me then over to the fire and sat me down in the seat of honour and pressed a bowl of rice upon me. I had not eaten since leaving the capital, not wanting to arrive too late in the day, and so was very hungry indeed. He crumbled a bit of salt – poor villagers received very little of this precious ingredient – into my rice and added a few shreds of wild onion. I do not know why but the taste of that simple bowl of rice has remained with me to this day. Having lived all my life in the capital and most of it at court, I had of course eaten many wonderful and exquisite meals, but sitting at the fireside with this strange and wonderful ugly man and eating this simple meal has been one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life.
We spoke very little that first night. We simply sat by the fire, eating, and later drinking a very strong rice wine that Ai Tai To brewed himself, nodding to each other now and again. For some reason, I did not feel the need to speak much with this man. I felt comfortable just sitting there, eating and drinking and watching the strange shapes that the firelight made on the walls of his humble hut. Eventually, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier, I felt myself being led to a pallet in the corner of the room and, lying heavily upon it, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
In the morning, when I woke up, Ai Tai To was sitting at the small fire, just as he had the night before. I went over to him and, sitting beside him, began to tell him of myself. I held nothing back. I told him who I really was and what kinds of problems I had and what kind of help I was seeking. I spoke for a very long time and all the while Ai Tai To said very little. Every once in a while he would speak a word or two, gently pointing out some new approach to a problem that I had not considered. Once or twice he even laughed, mostly when I was in my deepest despair. Strangely though, I was not offended by this. His comments always struck me as inherently wise, yet very simple.
I could see then that he was no ordinary man. Even if his exceedingly ugly features would be out of place in the elegant court surroundings I was used to, I knew that to have him there would make my life so much easier and richer. He had a way of listening to what I had to say with absolutely no judgment. He just soaked up what I was saying and then reflected it back to me like a mirror. I saw then that many of my deepest fears were really of little importance. His solutions, given in the fewest words possible, appeared so simple and so obvious that it seemed as though I had thought of them by myself. Later on, of course, I learne
d that he had spent years studying with various Taoist sages but back then I knew nothing about Taoist sages. Our teacher, Kongfuzi, had looked askance at Taoist sages as being wizards and charlatans and had warned us against having anything to do with them.
But after spending that morning with him I knew that I needed this man by my side. I invited him, I entreated him, I practically begged him to leave his little back-country village and travel with me to the court, where he would live in a great house and have servants, fine food and clothes. He, of course, refused. At the time I did not understand this. I thought him merely perverse or prideful or perhaps a bit frightened of the big city. But however much I offered to reward him, Ai Tai To made it very clear to me that he had no interest in living in the capital. He liked living in a small village where he knew everyone and everyone knew him. Perhaps he was a bit shy about his strange looks and how they would be received by the sophisticates in the capital, but I now know that he had a strong aversion to what he considered the artificial court life.
Later on he would explain to me that living in this simple fashion allowed him to feel closer to the Tao in all its manifest and unmanifest glory. His teachers, simple rough men and women he had met in the mountains where he had gone to gather wood to work into furniture, had shared much of their wisdom with him when he was young and impressionable and he had never forgotten it.
“Be like water,” they had told him. “Water takes whatever shape it finds itself in. It does not judge, it does not complain, it does not try to change things. It is the source of patience. Given time it can wear away stone. Be like water.” And further, “Be like the young plants, pliant and supple. Plants, as they grow old, stiffen and become brittle and easily broken. Be like young plants.”
Tales From the Tao Page 4