Blending Traditions:
On Taoism, Chan Buddhism, Confucianism, Humanistic Marxism
By
Kevin M. Brien
Part One takes the form of a brief original story involving both a Taoist character and a Chan Buddhist character. The story is intended as an artistic symbol pointing beyond itself toward an ideal mode of being that I take to be common to both Taoism and Chan Buddhism. It is a mode of being of peace; a mode of being that is at once aesthetic and spiritual, that involves a holistic existential awareness of the interconnection of human beings with one another and with nature at large, as well as a lived attunement to the interconnection of all things with all things. Part Two takes the form of a dialogue involving five characters who come together to discuss aspects of Chinese philosophy in relation to humanistic Marxism. They critically discuss some main themes associated with Taoism, Confucianism, Chan Buddhism, and humanistic Marxism. The dialogue works toward a tentative critical synthesis of these perspectives. >Blending as it does the humanism of three great mainstream Chinese traditions with humanistic Marxism, such a synthesis if fully carried out, could, I believe, potentially go a very long way in helping to reinforce efforts to guidethe "great tide of human reality" in the direction of social justice and world peace.
Part One
When they first glimpsed each other that day, it was shortly after Lao Zi,[1] the older, had emerged from his crude wooden hut. It was before dawn. For a moment he stopped on the door step as he lightly touched the large pocket of his robe to assure himself he had his writing materials with him—brush, ink stick, and rice paper. The soft breeze sent long strands of his gray hair gently circling in the air. The younger, Kumarajiva,[2] approached from below toward the hut set on the side of a hill sprinkled with small trees. Older and younger greeted each other with smiles, but no words.
They both walked to a place where there was a clear view of the bay below; both sat down cross-legged; both listening to the sound of the distant waves advancing and retreating, both breathing slowly, quietly, deeply in-and-out—both becoming one with the sound of the waves rolling in and rolling out, one with the breath, one with everything. [3]They went on like this for a while as the dawn slowly approached. Muffled voices began to come up from below where the village fishermen were preparing their nets as well as their small boats for the day's work; their voices mixed with the sounds of birds already beginning to greet the new morning. As it grew lighter still, more and more birds joined in the lovely chorus.
But just as the sunrise was about to happen, the sounds of the fishermen below, and those of the birds all around, became completely silent; the only sound remaining was the rhythmic sound of the waves advancing and retreating. Then, all of a sudden, the new sun springs up over the horizon sending a long banner of liquid gold shimmering over the surface of the bay. After a few moments the voices of the fishermen and the birds begin to pick up again—and the day had begun.
Still no words being said, the two friends stood up, smiled at each other, and walked down hill, turned left at the bottom, walked along the bay, and then through the main village, passing children here and there, and women working outside their huts, as well as some old men who were not working with the fishermen by the bay or out in the fields with the farmers. The villagers smiled and waved at the two friends, and they smiled and waved at them. Soon they had passed out of the village and were facing open country.
The pair walked on, and the symphony of the insects and the birds was all around them—crickets, cicadas, bees, insects of all sorts; and many different kinds of birds—all singing, playing happily together. The pair stayed one with the symphony, one with their breathing, one with their walking, one with everything; and they mused on the interconnection of all things with all things.[4]
Soon the path they had taken brought them through the village fields, where they could see the farmers already at work in the distance. Five or six plows were fanned out across the sprawling field moving in huge concentric arcs in their general direction. As they kept walking along the path they would soon pass close to one of the plows; and as they came closer and closer, the water buffalo pulling the plow became larger and larger. They could hear the sound of the crude wooden plow furrowing through the earth, the sound of the straining hemp rope of the harness that connected the animal to the plow, and the animal itself farting in the harness.
When they were very close the farmer and the two friends all smiled as one, and nodded hello; and almost simultaneously the water buffalo let out a resounding bellow, as if to join in the greeting. So close were they that the two friends could see their reflections in the huge brown pools of the animal's eyes; and they mused on
the interconnection of all things with all things. As they kept walking the plow passed them, and gradually the sound of the furrowing plow faded away as the sounds of crickets, cicadas, bees, and birds became prominent again; the air was full with the smell of the newly turned earth; the air currents caught long wisps of Lao Zi's grey hair and sent them fluttering in the breeze.
As they continued walking, the terrain changed and the flats of the farmers' fields gave way to gently rolling hills at first; they walked up one hill and down another, with the hills becoming gradually higher and higher. At one point they reached the top of a hill from which they could see a small pond in the distance below, partially shaded by a lone gnarled and twisted tree; but in the far distance they could make out rocky, craggy mountains that seemed somehow to beckon them. They would stop at the small pond to rest a while in the shade of the tree—for most purposes a useless tree, one that seemed planted in "the realm of Nothingwhatever," but awaiting them to take a nap if they wished. [5]
They walked downhill toward the pond. Approaching it, they could see stands of bamboo close to the pond's edge, also clumps of tall cobalt-blue iris swaying in the breeze, their long shadows rippling on the pond surface in the late afternoon sun, their sweet fragrance enveloping them. New voices joined the symphony of nature here. Frog Island was not very far out in the pond. All the frogs on Frog Island—all except Old Frog—were playing and cavorting, sliding off the rocks into the water, pulling themselves back onto the rocks again, sliding, pulling back, ever again, advancing and retreating it seemed.[6] Their frog voices—rivet!, rivet!, rivet!—intermingling with the hum of bees, the songs of birds, the cadences of insects.
Only Old Frog remained still, and quiet too. But as Lao Zi and his friend drew close to the edge of the pond and slowly sat down there, Old Frog looked at them out of one eye; when he saw it was Lao Zi, though, he know everything was all right and the eye closed; for Old Frog and Lao Zi knew each other well. The two friends went on being one with their breathing, one with the rhythm of the in-and-out. Not far from where they sat they noticed a skinny little frog at the edge of the pond. It was afraid; it would reach out to the water with its trembling frog's leg, pull it back again, reach out again, pull back again. The other frogs on Frog Island continued to cavort, but paid no attention to skinny little frog.
The friends could see skinny little frog's pulsating, beating breast; they knew it was very afraid. Witnessing skinny little frog's fear, but without speaking to one another, both friends mused on their own fears, their own apprehensions, their own doubts. They knew everyone had their own skinny little frogs. They mused and felt compassion for the little frog, wondering just how long skinny little frog would stay there at the edge of the pond afraid to join the other frogs. Each felt that he himself was that skinny little frog in a way, and that the frog was him.[7]
After a while Old Frog began to stir; they sensed that he was going to do his trick, and wondered if perhaps this would provide the diversion that would allow skinny little frog to finally enter the water and join the other frogs. Slowly Old Frog moved over to a rock overhang just a few feet above the water, positioned himself at the very edge of the overhang, and in one motion pivoted up on his head, so that his back legs were straight up in the air, while his front legs touched the ground balancing himself.
As Old Frog stayed suspended like that, all the other frogs that had been cavorting with one another scrambled up on Frog Island, stopped their motion and, mesmerized, they stared at Old Frog because none of them could do this trick. However, skinny little frog does not move; he too is mesmerized! After what seemed the longest time Old Frog suddenly pivots off his head, and in a slow-motion summersault tumbles down into the water, with all four legs splayed out as far as possible so as to catch the air like a falling leaf riding the wind.Then plop! Old Frog hits the water.
As Old Frog pulls himself out of the water and goes back to his original position, all the other frogs resume their playing and cavorting. Still, though, skinny little frog does not move. Nor do Lao Zi and his friend the monk, Kumarajiva, move. Sitting cross-legged at the edge of the pond, both stay one with their breathing; both muse on the interconnection of all things with all things. Kumarajiva himself muses again on his own shortcomings, his own apprehensions, his own doubts, his own skinny little frogs. He feels he is that frog, and that the frog is him. But he knows, too, that below such apprehensions is that great well spring within him into which he can reach, that great well spring that is the "Buddha nature" itself, that great well spring of calm and tranquility from out of which the currents of creative energy can flow when one is ready to draw from that well.[8]
Slowly Kumarajiva reaches out, puts his hand into the water, reaches right down to the bottom, feels for a suitable rock, then picks up a small, round, flat stone which he slowly removes from the water. He lets the water drip off the stone he continues to hold. Just as Kumarajiva does all this, the many frogs cavorting around Frog Island freeze in panic—all except Old Frog. They realize something has entered the water, perhaps a predator, perhaps a snake. After a few seconds the frogs realize it is safe and resume their cavorting. In the meantime skinny little frog had entered the water, rapidly swam out to Frog Island, and joined all the other frogs!
Still holding the wet stone in his hand, Kumarajiva softly motions to his friend with his other hand. Lao Zi smiles, reaches for the ink stick, brush, and rice paper in his pocket, slowly hands them to Kumarajiva, who proceeds to grind the ink stick into the wet stone to make ink. When ready, he carefully writes out some characters in calligraphy that say:
Oh skinny little frog!
Sentient beings all know fear.
Don't stop the struggle.
Kumarajiva is not far away.[9]
The friends were happy to see skinny little frog now playing with all the other frogs on Frog Island, sliding into the water, pulling himself back out, sliding in and pulling out again—all the frogs happy together—rivet!, rivet!, rivet! Lao Zi smiled broadly, then said: "I like frogs too!"; he paused, then said: "It seems to me that the 'Buddha nature' is rooted in the Great Tao. What do you think?" [10] "Perhaps so!" responded Kumarajiva. Both remained silent for a while, musing on the interconnection of all things with all things.
Before leaving the pond the two friends shared dried fruit, tree nuts, rice cakes, and refilled their makeshift flasks with clear water from the pond. When ready, they stood up, and began to slowly move away from the pond so as not to disturb the happy frogs. After a few steps, though, Kumarajiva glanced back over his shoulder to look at the little frog a last time. The little frog was happy; Kumarajiva smiled a deep but barely perceptible smile. Then the two friends picked up their pace, for they still had a long distance to go as they headed for the foothills of the mountains. The sun glided beneath the horizon behind them; it got darker and darker; the ground gradually got steeper and steeper, then leveled off somewhat, then got steeper again.
They continued onward and upward like this for a long time, staying one with their breathing, one with their walking; until finally they were climbing the last hill they would climb that day. At the top of this hill they would stay up all night visiting with the full moon. Finally they reached the top; from there they could now see the full moon in the distance, caught in the rocky arms of two mountain crags like a gigantic ball clutched by a massive giant's arms. After a while the mountain's arms release the moon from their embrace. The moon gradually rises higher and higher in the sky, and then rises higher still, spreading its light everywhere, kissing the ground everywhere.
Both friends remain very quiet, musing on the interconnection of all things with all things. Then after a long while, Lao Zi reaches into the pocket of his robe, takes out a small flask filled with water, cups one of his hands, and carefully pours water into the cupped hand. He puts the flask down, brings both hands together still holding the water; then looks into his hands, and sees therein the moon's reflection in the little pool of water standing in his cupped hands. In one very slow motion he bends over slightly while bringing his hands slowly upward toward his face. Lao Zi slowly drinks the full moon! [11]
Both friends stay awake all night as companions of the full moon; both continue to muse on the interconnection of all things with all things; both continue to stay one with the full moon; both continue to stay one with their breathing; both continue to stay one with everything.
Part Two
It is a warm summer day and a few graduate students have gathered at an outside café shortly after a session of their summer school class on Chinese philosophy. They continue to explore various strands of the Chinese philosophical perspectives they have been studying.
Keith: Rachael, how do you feminists react to the comments our teacher just made about Confucius himself, and the Confucian view of women? [12]
Rachael: Well, this feminist believes he was somewhat heavy handed in his comments. Perhaps he's unconsciously trying to curry the favor of the women in our class. You know, evaluation points, and all! Think of the ancient Greeks who also saw women as inferior to men. That does not stop us from finding value in the writings of Aristotle and Plato, say. And what of our whole Western tradition concerning women; and the fact that even in our own country, it took so long for women to be allowed to vote? Not that I'm endorsing what seems to have been Confucius' own attitude toward women.[13] But those times were those times!
Alisha: For my part I can't help but think about what Lao Zi must have thought about Confucius: Too much male! Too little female! [14]
Arnold: You must have in mind the female metaphors for the Great Dao that Lao Zi presents in the Dao De Jing—the Dao as "the subtle and profound female organ," as "the mother of all things under Heaven," as "the mother of the universe";[15] and, in contrast, perhaps the Confucian tradition that construes women to be inferior to men?[16]