zhōng 中 – The Dào of Lâozî

shôu (守)

If Chapter 4 was the call to The Way of The Loose-Haired Chieftain, then Chapter 5 is where our hero does NOT jump at that call. There’s some doubt whether its even possible. Here is Chapter 5 in its entirety:

Heaven (that sky level above the human head)-Earth (this soil vagina)…
the husk of the initial protective bud casing—the sepal—but not really the true inner flower of
being a personable person relating to others;

this means
the myriad scorpion medicine-dancing Ten Thousand
Things cut off—all matter external to oneself like cows etc…
efforting—like lifting up an elephant…
wrapped straw-
dogs—decorated, symbolic sacrificial objects.

The grounded sage—listening and speaking, standing connected to earth as well as the heavens,
that person…
the husk of the initial protective bud casing—the sepal—but not really the true inner flower of
being a personable person relating to others;

this means
a hundred
family names that women, kneeling with breasts, sprout from the ground…
efforting—like lifting up an elephant…
wrapped straw-
dogs—decorated, symbolic sacrificial objects.

Heaven (that sky level above the human head)-Earth (this soil vagina)
has this
interstice—space where moonlight’s peeking leisurely through the double-winged gateway…

what it holds a basket of…
indeed, like a dog that rises to the top of the alcohol vat…
a bellows-flute—bamboo with three frets, played with the mouth;
—pah, can you?!

Emptying—like lifted land below tiger fur—
and yet now, bearded, you:
the husk of the initial protective bud casing—the sepal—but not really the true inner flower of
bending—like one who represents the dead in a rite, flexing to step out of a cave;

laboring—like moving heavy bags with great strength—
and yet now, bearded, you:
more and even more—like someone gathering themselves together from three sides by moonlight over their heart-core after a blade cut off their foot as punishment and now they’ve recovered from that illness—
stepping out of their cave.

Much more—like a double serving of meat—
speaking—words, like slaves or criminals branded by a chisel emerging from a mouth…
is counting up—like a mother, lightly hitting, scolding her daughter—to
being used up and destitute—your pregnant self, buried with a bow:

the husk of the initial protective bud casing—the sepal—but not really the true inner flower of
‘as if’—like a woman just doing as told—
hand-defending this—your building—
in the center—like that drum with a flagpole placed in the middle of a field to gather the people, detect the wind.

In addition to doubt, we also learn a bit more about what’s required in answering the call. It involves being like Heaven-Earth’s interstice. Specifically:

It’s like a bellows-flute—an instrument resembling a bagpipe. Like those bellows, can you empty like land lifted below tiger fur, and yet now, bearded, not really bend into that position of someone acting the part of a dead person in a ritual play or someone flexing at the waist to step out of a cave? The imagery is at once dire and also harkening back to when Being and Not-Being separated, stepping out of a cave, in Chapter 1. And we saw emptying before too—in Chapter 3. There we learned about “a sage’s governing: emptying what it holds a basket of… heart-core.”
Can you labor, and yet now, bearded, more and even more step out of your cave? The imagery gets even more dire. The pictogram for “more and even more” shows someone gathering themselves together from three sides by moonlight over their heart-core after a blade cut off their foot as punishment, and now they’ve recovered from their illness. Surely Lâozî didn’t personally undergo this? Maybe it was a punishment witnessed or heard of that made a big impression. A punishment for what? We can’t know, but the next sentence is cautionary, so perhaps they’re related…

“Much more speaking counts up—like a mother lightly hitting and scolding her daughter—to being used up and destitute—your pregnant self, buried with a bow.”

So, you must do this balancing act of emptying (without bending) and laboring (while stepping out of your cave more and more)… AND do it without saying much. Or else. Because speaking much more is not really as if you’re hand-defending this—your building—in the center—like that drum with a flagpole.

With such a vital calling, our hero needs to be able to step up. Lâozî needs some assistance. Join me next time to see if/from where that might come! Meanwhile, thanks for being here, and please continue to send me your impressions. If you haven’t yet, please don’t be shy. Use the contact form to write questions, ideas, or more about your experience of this mysterious text.

shî

Remember the many different pairs of “opposite” concepts in Chapter 2? We learned about how some pairs were formed, what that meant in terms of how some pairs mutually interacted, what that meant in terms of how some pairs played out in the sage’s life, and what THAT meant in terms of one particular man. Well… in Chapter 3, Lâozî continues the “opposites” theme to more completely give us a view of the world as it was.

First we learn that not-really-doing-certain things breeds (shî, 使) civilians to be not-really-doing-other things. This new list of opposites gives us these cause-and-effect relationships:

Not really doing this…	… breeds civilians who are not really…
Elevating important rich people	Competing
Treasuring hard-earning’s transformation of riches	Efforting thievery
Seeing what’s definitely wanting or missing	Having a heart-core of confused anxiety

Let’s just pause here and soak in the actual message before I get to exploring the translation. It all feels very true and free, doesn’t it? I’m enjoying thinking of examples I’ve witnessed of each case. And of the opposite. And also where I can relax into these not-real-ystates right now. Ahhh..

Presumably, if you, me, any leader, or a government DOES do those things in the left column, it causes themselves or others around them or under their leadership TO do the other things in the right column? Actually it’s not exactly phrased in a straight forward way. Maybe it’s written like it is because that “affirmative” causality actually doesn’t hold true? Or maybe it would have been impolitic to phrase it in that affirmative way—maybe it would alienate people currently in power when Lâozî was writing? We can’t say for sure. But refraining from the things in the left column does feel good.

If you read my complete translation of Chapter 3, you’ll see lots of interesting imagery built in to each of the words shown above in italics. I think a pivotal character in this section is the verb shî (使). See the left half of this character? It’s a drawing of a standing person in profile. And the right-hand sub-component comes from the following Western Zhou Bronze Inscription:

The bottom half of that drawing shows a hand…

… and it’s said to be holding what is believed to be a fountain pen. Some theorize that the hand and fountain pen are superimposed over a mouth, which you remember looks like this in the old bronze inscription scripts:

Others believe the fountain pen itself resembles the flagpole-and-drum structure that used to be placed in the center of a field to gather people. In the Western Zhou era it was drawn like this:

By the Spring and Autumn era, it had been simplified to very closely resemble its modern character:

We’ll see this character, zhōng (中), later in the Dào. Sometimes it’s a sub-component and sometimes its own word which I translate as in the center—like that drum with a flagpole placed in the middle of a field to gather the people, detect the wind.

But let’s get back to our main character. The above combination of the hand and pen is translated as history, historian, scribe. In the old days, it referred to a government official or gentleman. When combined with the the picture of a person, it makes our full compound character shî. That word’s modern translations are to order to do, to make (happen), to dispatch, and to employ, though in Cantonese it translates to have to or need to. In Quanzhou Min Nan (a Southern Mín dialect typical of Fujian province in southeast China before the 19th century), it’s used as a vulgarity comparable to English’s most famous four-letter f-word. Fujian is part of the territory of the Eastern Zhou dynasty where Lâozî was presumed to have lived. The Mín people are considered to be an ethnic-sub-category of the Hans, and interestingly enough, in our next post we’ll see them alluded to again.

In fact, most Dào translations don’t even specifically translate shî but rather just incorporate it in different ways with the word that follows it. A couple translators do call it out as the verb causes, but you know I like to get as complete of a visual image as possible in my mind’s eye for every character Lâozî might have drawn, so I translate shî as:

breeding—like a gentleman holding a fountain pen making something happen—

See how politely I included the Mín version?! Ahhhh…. just cracking myself up over here.

Please join me next time for more on the Mín people and on the other ways Lâozî used today’s word. Until then, thank you for being here, and please write me with any comments you have. I love hearing from you.