The Nüwa Newsletter, Edition 5
Thought Pieces, Cultural Journalism and Extracts exploring Buddhism, Daoism and their Intersection with Western Culture.
Welcome to this edition of the Nüwa! Before you start reading, please take a moment to follow these simple instructions. They’re intended to calm the mind, harmonise the body and open a deeper connection to spirit.
Place both feet flat on the ground, straighten your back and suspend the crown of your head to elongate the torso.
Become aware of the breath, spend a minute slowing it down. Without force, breathe deeply into the lower abdomen.
Daoist Practice & Skilled Craftsmanship
The following section is taken from an interview I recently conducted with James Cattermole, senior Chinese medicine practitioner at Miller’s Way Project, London. James came to Chinese medicine from a background in carpentry, and it was fascinating to see the connections he drew between skilled craftsmanship, Chinese medicine, and Daoist cultivation more broadly. Our full interview will be published in the Nüwa Newsletter, Edition 8.
Q: James, could you speak a little about your background in skilled craftwork?
I started off as a carpenter in the late 80s, early 90s. At the time, power tools were becoming increasingly available and traditional craftsmanship in England was dying. People were able to overcome their lack of skill with equipment. There were many people that looked skilled until they got down to working with proper hardwoods — the kind of materials you use to make things that last hundreds of years. I was lucky enough to be working with people who had this level of skill, and my job at the time was to work for people who had a lot of money — aristocrats that owned stately homes or perhaps Arab clients.
I’ve always been fascinated by highly skilled people. Not just because of their skill in accomplishing a certain task, but because of the qualities they possess in order to use those their skills. When you see a great carpenter touching a piece of wood, you know they are learning about it in such an extraordinary way. You can spot craftspeople a mile away — you can tell from their body language that they have patience and receive a huge amount of information from their hands, which usually lie at the sides of their bodies along really relaxed arms and shoulders.
An important quality in great craftspeople is that they’ve changed a lot about themselves in order to be humble in the face of their material — whether it’s plaster, wood or metal. They’re natural, living materials that you have to understand and you cannot impose upon them what you want to do. You must understand the fabric, you must understand gravity, you must understand many things — including your own moods.
Q: Hearing you speak about craftwork in this way, and how it affects the practitioner makes me think of inner cultivation. The Zhuangzi is full of stories — a cook able to cut an ox in such a way that his knife doesn’t blunt, a fisherman able to swim through river currents that should drown a person. They can do these things because they align with the object in question.
Yes — you align with things you actually have no control over. And it's only when you understand the things that you have no control over that you have any control at all. Even if you start off in a clumsy, hacking manner, simply due to the necessity of preserving energy, you will realise that it is much easier to understand the nature of things. It’s the same in carpentry — you want to be going with the grain. That's why carpenters feel a piece of wood. They ask, how does this wood want to behave? It's a sheet of wood, but still it's got movement in it. It's got quality and speed of movement in it. Every grain in this piece of wood on this desk here in front of us was once a growing limb of a branch. It still wants to follow that pattern. And if we stop it, there are consequences. It's energy inefficient.
Hellenistic & East Asian Spiritual Practice
This piece continues a number of thoughts first introduced in the second edition of the Nüwa Newsletter.
In the second edition of the Nüwa Newsletter, I introduced the French historian and philosopher Pierre Hadot (1922-2010). He suggested that classical philosophy, especially Stoicism and Epicureanism, should not be understood as systems of disembodied, speculative thought. Instead, he argued, they were intended as holistic systems of self-transformation, achieved through the practice of spiritual exercises. Here, I want to go a little deeper into what Hadot meant by this, and then compare his conception of ancient Greek spiritual exercises with Buddhist and Daoist practice.
But first, I want to share with you why I think this comparative study is important. Comparison throws one’s own tradition and practice into new light, and we develop a greater understanding of our own path by seeing how things can be, and have been done differently. It’s necessary to strike a balance between developing a deep, authentic and tradition-based approach to one’s art, whilst also allowing space to learn from and be inspired by paths other than our own.
Before thinking about classical philosophy’s relationship to Buddhism and Daoism, here are three passages from Hadot’s Philosophy as a Way of Life (1995) that nicely summarise his understanding of classical philosophy. First, this is how he spoke about its holistic, transformative nature:
“The philosophical act is not situated merely on the cognitive level, but on that of the self and of being. It is a progress which causes us to be more fully and make us better. It is a conversion which turns our entire life upside down, changing the life, the person who goes through it. It raises the individual from an inauthentic condition of life, darkened by unconsciousness and harassed by worry to an authentic state of life in which he attains self-consciousness, an exact vision of the world, inner peace and freedom.”
Second, this philosophical process of transformation unfolds through the practice of spiritual exercises. Here, Hadot explains his choice of the word ‘spiritual’:
“None of the other adjectives we could use such as psychic, moral, ethical, intellectual, or ‘of the soul’ covers all aspects of the reality we want to describe… These exercises, in fact, correspond to a transformation of the world and to a metamorphosis of our personality. The word spiritual is quite apt to make us understand that these exercises are the result, not merely of thought, but of the individual’s entire psychism… The world spiritual reveals the true dimensions of these exercises.”
Third, Hadot suggests that spiritual exercises were specifically aimed at freeing human beings from ‘passions’:
“In the view of all philosophical schools, mankind's principal cause of suffering, disorder and unconsciousness were the passions. That is, unregulated desires and exaggerated fears. People are prevented from truly living, it was thought, because they're dominated by worries. Philosophy, thus, appears in the first place as a therapeutic of the passions. Each school had its own therapeutic method, but all of them linked their therapeutics to a profound transformation of the individual's mode of seeing and being. The object of spiritual exercises is precisely to bring about this transformation.”
To summarise:
Classical philosophy is a holistic process of internal transformation, accomplished through the practice of spiritual exercises. Spiritual exercises act by regulating the passions, which are the principal cause of human suffering.1
Moving to the second section of this piece, I want to explore how Hadot’s formulation of classical philosophy compares with Buddhist and Daoist practice. First, I would say that classical philosophy has far more in common with Buddhism than it does with Daoism. This is for two reasons. First, both classical philosophy and Buddhism base their systems on ameliorating suffering. On the other hand, Daoism emerges from a more complex, perhaps muddied, array of human instincts and drives. Yes, the desire to reach a point of transcendent union with the Dao is the ultimate goal, but the Daoist motivation for doing so seems to arise more from a sense of curiosity, meandering-ness, almost humour, rather than deep longing for cessation of suffering.
The second reason why I suggest classical philosophy has more in common with Buddhism than it does with Daoism is because of the nature of their respective practices. Here we need to provide a little more detail about the spiritual exercises found in classical philosophy. A good overview of these are found in a number of lists of Stoic practices written by Philo of Alexandria (20BCE-50CE). These include activities such as: research, thorough investigation, reading, listening, attention, meditation on certain ideas and events, and self-mastery. The fundamental purpose of these practices is to align oneself with the basic axiomatic statements that underpin the Stoic attitude towards life. From this information, we can see that what the spiritual exercises found in classical philosophy are solely mind-based and, therefore, parallel Buddhist practice. Daoism, on the other hand, is based on the joint cultivation of mind and body; body-based energetic practice is essential to Daoism, but does not feature in classical philosophy and (most) forms of Buddhist practice. For those with a little background in Daoism, we could say that whilst Daoism is characterised by the joint cultivation of ming and xing, both Buddhism and classical philosophy focus solely on xing.
I’ll finish by saying a few words about the relationship between Buddhism and classical philosophy. The two are also very similar in the sense that they take the quality of ‘attention’ as the essential foundation in their respective systems. In classical philosophy, attention is developed in order to align oneself with the philosophical perspective of a particular school. Similarly, in Buddhism attention (mindfulness, sati) is a technique to keep the mind properly founded in the present moment in a way that will keep it on the path. The realisations of Buddhist practice — such as the three marks of existence and the four noble truths — could be said to play the same role in Buddhism as central axioms do within each school of classical philosophy.
Despite their similarities, I don’t want to give the impression that the spiritual exercises of classical philosophy are identical to Buddhist practice. There are a number of notable differences — here’s the one I think is most important. The spiritual exercises of classical philosophy are far more verbal and based in what we might call the ‘thinking mind’. Yes, Buddhism includes numerous practices of a kind also found in classical philosophy (e.g. textual study, charnel ground contemplation, contemplation on the unsatisfactory nature of the body). However, the real heart of Buddhist practice is the development of specific qualities of mind — things like the Seven Factors of Awakening (mindfulness, investigation, energy, rapture, tranquillity, concentration, equanimity). These qualities are non-verbal and sit deeper than the stream of thought.
The kinds of spiritual exercises found in classical philosophy went on to influence Christian practice and, if you look at texts such as St. Ignatius of Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises (1524), you’ll find a similar emphasis on the use of intellect, imagination, and emotions. Western spiritual exercises are best described as contemplation. Although Buddhism (and Daoism) also include contemplation exercises, they place greater emphasis on working with deeper and more subtle layers of mind, a path that only becomes accessible through the practice of seated, stillness meditation.
Zhousheng & Hokusai
Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849) is probably the most celebrated artist in Japanese history, and creator of such iconic images as Under the Wave. During the 1820s-1840s, he produced an illustrated encyclopaedia called The Great Picture Book of Everything, which was recently the subject of a fantastic exhibition at the British Museum. Here is one of the most striking images from the collection:
I love the coiling and ribboning shape of Zhou Sheng’s robes, moving in the same way as the clouds. Fluidity and grace — the idea of a person so aligned with their environment that it’s unclear where the distinction between the two lies. This is an idea found throughout classical Daoist texts and a prominent theme in Daoist mythology. Being as a constant merging and emerging. How does the mind of someone able to do such things function?
To give you a little more detail about this image, it depicts a scene from a story found in the Taiping Guangji, which I’ve translated below. The original story is slightly different to the one depicted by Hokusai — Zhou Sheng uses a ladder of white chopsticks to ascend to the moon, rather than clouds.
During the Taihe period of the Tang Dynasty (827-835 CE), a certain Zhou Sheng built a residence on Dongting Mountain and used Daoist arts to help poor people in the regions of Wu and Chu. He was deeply respected by all. Later, whilst on his way to the region of Luogu, he stopped over in Guangling and stayed at a Buddhist temple just in time to run into three or four fellow travellers. It happened to be Mid-autumn festival, and the night was cloudless and the moon shone brightly. As is traditionally done at Mid-autumn festival, they all stood together reciting poetry and gazing at the moon. Someone then mentioned a story about Emperor Xuanzong (685-762 CE) in which he visited a palace on the moon. Everyone sighed, and said, “We are just people of the mundane world — it goes without saying that we’re unable to reach such a place. There’s nothing to be done about it!”
Zhou Sheng smiled and said, “I once studied with a teacher who taught me a method to take down the moon and place it within the folds of my robe, against either my breast or in my sleeve. Do you believe me…?” Some anxiously thought that he was lying, whilst others were amused by how bizarre he was. Zhou Sheng then added, “If I can’t do it, then you’ll know that I am lying.”
Then, he ordered someone to vacate a room and cover the four walls so there weren’t even the smallest cracks through which light could pass. He ordered someone to bring several hundred pairs of white chopsticks, and told his servant to use string to bind them together. Zhou Sheng then said to the other travellers, “I will climb this ladder made of chopsticks and take down the moon. When you hear me call, you may come and have a look.”
The door was then closed for a long time, and the other travellers went for a walk in the courtyard and waited for him. Suddenly, the sky seemed to grow fainter and the ground darker. They all turned their faces to look upwards, but could not see even the faintest sign of light. Not long after, they heard Zhou Sheng shout, “I’ve returned!”
He then threw open the door to the empty room and said, “The moon is inside my clothes, please, I invite you to come and have a look.” After they had entered, he loosened his robe to reveal an inch of the moon, which was there nestled within it. Immediately, the entire room was bright, and the cold light soaked their flesh and bones. Zhou Sheng said, “you didn’t believe me, but what about now?”
The travellers bowed repeatedly, expressed gratitude and asked that he take the moon back to its original place. Then, he once again closed the door and everything returned to complete darkness. After a while, the moonlight returned to as it was previously.
— Taiping Guangji (Extensive Records of the Taiping Era), completed 978 CE.
Notes on Inner Cultivation
Reading, writing, thinking — they unfold far more effectively when approached with a mind and body imbued with the fruit of inner cultivation. In this section of the Nüwa, you’ll find thoughts, experiences and insights gleaned over the past week of meditation, neigong, and taiji practice.
Over time I have come to see that all things are related to the process of inner cultivation. Life unfolds as a constant stream of experience, and with each passing moment we respond in ways that lead away from or towards Dao/God/etc. It is in this sense that “all things are practice”.
Conceptual, intellectual thoughts are like platforms upon the sea of constant change. Not all platforms are equally beneficial; which ones are able to embrace the winds of grace that blow across the ocean’s surface?
It is good when the body is tired and sore as a result of long hours of training. If my body doesn’t ache, I know I am not training hard enough! The Daoist path begins and continues with the restructuring of the physical body; this is the essential physical anchor for all further development.
The Making of an Ink Painting
The following short video recreates how Sesson Shukei (1504-1589) painted 'Image of Jurojin’, the Japanese god of longevity. Jurojin originated from the Chinese Daoist deity The Old Man of the North Pole, who is in turn a deification of Canopus, the brightest star in the constellation of Carina.
I came across this as part of the online content from the Mind Over Matter: Zen in Medieval Japan exhibition, currently on at the Smithsonian's National Museum of Asian Art.
I am so grateful to the friends, teachers and family that suggest content for the Nüwa. In particular, thank you to Olivia Cowley who has passed so many things my way and who, through our conversations, has helped me to develop a broader appreciation of human experience and beauty.
In truth, Hadot’s ideas on this subject are far more complex, but we can use this simplified framework for now. For a general overview of Hadot’s work on classical philosophy as spiritual exercise, see Philosophy as a Way of Life (1995). For specific studies — see The Inner Citadel (1998) and Plotinus (1965).
Good work, Oscar, i enjoy reading these newsletters. Keep them coming :)