A Garden Without an East

No one knew where that garden lay. It could not be found on any map, and yet everyone had once visited it. Some in dreams, others while reading old books, still others in that rare moment when thought falls silent for an instant, and yet one does not fall asleep. There was neither east nor west there. The sun did not rise, and the moon did not set. The light came from nowhere, but was like a quiet presence that cast no shadows.

In the middle of the garden grew an old pine. Its roots disappeared deeper than the earth reached, and its branches stretched farther than the sky. Beneath it stood a stone seat. Empty. It remained empty for a long time. Then an old man on a water buffalo slowly approached along the path. No hooves could be heard. Only the wind rustled among the needles. The old man dismounted and stroked the animal’s neck. He looked neither to the sky nor toward the earth. He sat on the stone.

He was silent for a long time. Only when the wind again turned a few pine needles did he write in the earth before him with a broken piece of branch: Dao ke dao, feichang dao. 道可道，非常道。After a while he added a second line. Ming ke ming, feichang ming. 名可名，非常名。The name that can be spoken is not the eternal name. The words hung in the air like dew on a spiderweb.

Then slow footsteps were heard along another path. A man in simple clothing arrived. He bowed to the old man. 

“Teacher.”

The old man nodded.

“Qiu.”

It was Confucius.

For a while they were silent. Confucius looked at the empty stone beside him.

“It is strange,” he said. “When we last met, you told me to let go of arrogance, many desires, and learnedness. Only after many years did I begin to sense that you were not criticizing knowledge, but attachment to it.”

The old man did not answer.

Confucius continued.

“But people need words. Without them, one can teach neither children nor rulers.”

Then the old man slowly raised his gaze.

“Have you ever observed a valley?”

“Of course.”

“Does the echo belong to the valley or to the voice?”

Confucius fell into thought. The wind rustled again. The pine gave no answer. After a long silence, Confucius said:

“In the Lunyu I wrote: Zi yue: Junzi he er bu tong, xiaoren tong er bu he. 子曰：「君子和而不同，小人同而不和。」The noble person lives in harmony without being the same as others; the small person seeks sameness without attaining harmony.”

Laozi nodded.

“Beautiful.”

Then he asked:

“And what about trees?”

Confucius looked at him in surprise.

“Trees?”

“Do they grow in sameness or in harmony?”

Confucius did not answer.

Then laughter was heard from afar. Not mocking, but rather playful. Light. As if someone were laughing with the wind. Along the path came a man who did not walk straight. Every so often he stopped, looked at a butterfly, then a stone, then a cloud. It seemed as though he were being guided by something others could not see. When he reached the pine, he offered no greeting. He sat down on the grass. He picked up a cone and turned it between his fingers.

Then he asked:

“What are you two talking about?”

Confucius wanted to answer, but Laozi spoke before him.

“About words.”

The man laughed.

“Then you have come to the right place.”

Confucius looked at him.

“And who are you?”

The man gazed thoughtfully toward the butterfly, which at that very moment had settled on a branch.

“At times I did not know whether I was a man dreaming of a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of a man.”

Confucius smiled.

“Zhuang Zhou.”

Zhuangzi bowed only to the butterfly. Then he asked:

“Tell me something.”

They both looked at him.

“What remains ... when each person sets down his words?”

The pine did not rustle. The wind did not blow. For the first time, it seemed as though even silence was listening.

The Wind That Cannot Be Caught

No one answered Zhuangzi’s question. Not because they did not know the answer, but because they all sensed that words would at once cover it over. The wind passed through the crown of the old pine. It could not be seen. It could be heard only where it met the needles.

Then Laozi quietly said: Tianxia wanwu sheng yu you, you sheng yu wu. 天下萬物生於有，有生於無。“The ten thousand things arise from being; being arises from non-being.”

No one asked what wu (無) meant. They all knew that an explanation would already narrow its openness. Confucius slowly nodded.

“I have always wondered,” he said, “why you speak so little.”

Zhuangzi smiled and asked:

“Have you ever heard grass grow?”

Confucius wanted to answer, but stopped. No. He had never heard grass grow. Then Zhuangzi picked up a dry leaf and said:

“This leaf was once sap in the root. It was a branch. It was shade. It was a resting place for a bird. It was fire. It was smoke. It was rain. Tell me — in which of these forms was it most real?”

Laozi smiled, and Confucius answered:

“In all of them.”

“Then,” asked Zhuangzi, “why do people cling so tightly to only one?”

At that moment, a new traveler came along the path. He was not old. He was not young. His steps were so light that they seemed barely to touch the earth. It seemed the wind carried him more than his legs did. When he reached the pine, he did not bow. He leaned against the trunk and looked toward the sky.

“It is still blowing,” he said.

Zhuangzi greeted him.

“Lie Yukou.”

Liezi smiled.

“People still ask me whether I truly rode the wind.”

Confucius started.

“Did you not?”

Liezi laughed.

“If I answer yes, you will want to try. If I answer no, you will say the story was invented.”

Then he looked at Laozi.

“So I will leave the answer to the wind.”

They sat down and did not speak for a long time. Liezi was the first to break the silence.

“Once, I truly did ride the wind.”

Then he added:

“But even the wind grows tired.”

Confucius looked at him in surprise.

“How can something without a body grow tired?”

Liezi looked at him with a gentle smile.

“How can a thought without bones grow tired?”

Then he slowly recited lines attributed to his tradition:

Zhiren wu ji, shenren wu gong, shengren wu ming. 至人無己,神人無功,聖人無名。

“The perfected person has no self. The spiritual person has no merit. The sage has no name.”

Laozi closed his eyes.

Confucius then said thoughtfully:

“If there is no name, how do we recognize him?”

Liezi replied:

“When the sun rises, you do not call it by name.”

Then Zhuangzi looked toward the path.

“Someone is coming.”

This time the steps were not light. They were measured. Almost Roman. The man approaching them carried a scroll. He had neither an incense burner nor prayer beads. There was no rapture of a mystic on his face. It was the face of a person who had long observed nature with reason. When he came closer, he placed his hand on the old pine. Not out of reverence, but more out of curiosity. He examined the growth rings, touched the resin, and then said:

“Nature does not need miracles.”

Laozi looked at him.

“No.”

The man continued.

“The world did not come into being for the sake of humankind.

Nor for the sake of the gods.”

He unrolled the scroll.

At the beginning it read: Aeneadum genetrix, hominum divomque voluptas... “Mother of the Aeneads, delight of humans and gods.”

The assembled men did not know the letters or the words, but they felt the melodious rhythm.

Confucius asked him:

“What does it say?”

The man answered:

“I praise nature. Not because it is sacred like some mysterious deity, but as the eternal movement of things, from which everything that exists is born.”

Zhuangzi laughed.

“And who says that what is real is not sacred?”

For the first time, the man raised his gaze. Before him sat neither a priest nor a philosopher. There sat someone who did not separate heaven and earth in the way the Greeks were used to doing.

“I am Titus Lucretius Carus.”

Laozi nodded.

“Welcome. Tell us ... what remains when nature, too, sets down its name?”

Lucretius did not answer at once. He placed his palm on the bark of the old pine. For the first time in a long while, he did not observe the world, but listened for a moment.

(to be continued)

Yuan Weiqi