— Wayne W. Dyer
Maui, Hawaii
(Editor’s note: Lao-tzu’s name has been spelled many different ways over the years, so in order to avoid confusion in this book, we’ll be using the spelling preferred by Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition.)
Of birds
I know that they
have wings to fly with,
of fish that they have fins to
swim with, of wild beasts that they
have feet to run with. For feet there are traps,
for fins nets, for wings arrows.
But who knows how dragons
surmount wind and cloud
into heaven? This day I have seen
[Lao-tzu] and he is a dragon.
— from The Way of Life According to Lao Tzu, translated by Witter Bynner
(This quote is attributed to Confucius, after he visited the elder Lao-tzu to seek advice on points of ceremonial etiquette.)
1st Verse
The Tao that can be told
is not the eternal Tao.
The name that can be named
is not the eternal name.
The Tao is both named and nameless.
As nameless it is the origin of all things;
as named it is the Mother of 10,000 things.
Ever desireless, one can see the mystery;
ever desiring, one sees only the manifestations.
And the mystery itself is the doorway
to all understanding.
Living the Mystery
In this opening verse of the Tao Te Ching, Lao-tzu tells us that the “Tao is both named and nameless.” This sounds paradoxical to our Western intellect—and it is! Paradoxical thinking is embedded in Eastern concepts such as yin and yang or the feminine and the masculine, and where things are comfortably described as both this and that. We in the West, by contrast, tend to view opposites as incompatible concepts that contradict each other. Yet this book is asking that we change our ingrained ways of thinking and see how our lives change as a result.
The Tao is an unknowable, unseeable realm where everything originates; while at the same time, the Tao is invisibly within everything. When we desire to see this invisibleness (mystery), we attempt to define it in terms of the outer world of form—what Lao-tzu calls “the 10,000 things.” He counsels us that letting go of trying to see the mystery will actually allow us to see it. Or, as I like to think of it, “let go and let God.” But how can we do that? One way is to permit ourselves to practice more paradoxical thinking by recognizing that desiring (wanting) and desireless (allowing) are different and the same . . . rather like the mysterious ends of a continuum.
Desiring is the physical expression of creating conditions that allow us to be receptive; that is, it’s in-the-world preparation for receiving. According to Lao-tzu, wanting to know or see the mystery of the Tao will reveal evidence of it in a variety of manifestations, but not the mystery itself. But this isn’t a dead end! From this ground of desiring, the flowering of the mysterious Tao grows. It’s as if wanting transforms into effortless allowing. Desiring, one sees the manifestations; desireless, one can see the mystery itself.
When we tune in to what Lao-tzu is telling us, it becomes readily apparent that our world produces abundant examples of this paradoxical process. Think of gardening and desiring those luscious homegrown tomatoes or spring daffodils: Allowing them to grow is ultimately what happens. Now think of the things in life that involve wanting and how they differ from allowing: Wanting to go to sleep, for instance, rather than going to sleep. Wanting to diet, rather than dieting. Wanting to love, rather than loving. In this reference to the Tao, desireless means trusting, permitting, and allowing. Desire is both the beginning and the ground of desirelessness, yet wanting is also the beginning and the ground of allowing. They are the same, and they are different.
Pay attention to times when you can feel in your body where you are on the continuum between desiring and allowing (or trying and doing). Trying to play the piano, drive the car, or ride the bicycle is the same as, and different from, actually playing the piano, driving the car, and riding the bicycle. Once those outer-world activities are desired and learned, there’s a time when allowing is what you do. The point here is to recognize the difference in your body between trying and allowing, and to then become aware of the effortless sensation of the latter. This practice will also lead to a greater awareness of the invisible mystery and the 10,000 things, which are the visible phenomena of our world.
The 10,000 things that Lao-tzu refers to represent the categorized, classified, and scientifically named objects of the earth, which help us communicate and identify what we’re talking and thinking about. Yet for all our technological expertise and scientific categorization, we can never truly create a human eye or liver, or even a grain of wheat for that matter. Each of these things—along with the remainder that comprise the known or named world—emerge from the mystery, the eternal Tao. Just as the world is not its named parts, we’re not exclusively the skin, bone, and rivers of fluids that we’re physically made of. We, too, are the eternal Tao, invisibly animating our tongues to speak, ears to hear, and eyes to see and experience the manifest and the mystery. Consciously allowing this nameless mystery is ultimately the way to practice the Tao.
Does that mean putting yourself in harm’s way? Of course not. Does that mean trusting the mystery at the moment
