The Fluttering Butterfly: Zhuangzi’s Reality Check
- 6 days ago
- 7 min read
ZHUANGZI FOR CULTIVATORS
Issue 3
by Prof. Dr. Dan KJ Vercammen
One of the best known stories from the Zhuangzi is the one about the butterfly. You can find it at the end of the second chapter, a text about the (dis)similarities between things and creatures. And of course it is important to mention this before taking a look at this story.
When we differentiate between us and the other(s), when we find ourselves to be the most intelligent of all creatures, when we say that there are living things and dead ones, when we think and behave in a discriminating way, when we tell ourselves how different everyone and everything is, we’re far away from Dao, the Path. When we see the connections, the associations, the likenesses, the shared experiences, the solidarity between us and all others, we’re a lot closer to Dao. Then we stress that all is one and we come up with solutions for problems that we cause by discriminating and differentiating. We help each other, care for our surroundings, look for harmonious relationships and feel more fulfilled, less alone and experience more joy and warmth.
For a Taoist, looking for, holding on to, and guarding the One are fundamental courses of action. As I described in another blog post, Taoism refers to this as a reversal of the usual human direction: the common life we lead is one that finally leads us to death, which is a separation of qi, that which holds us together and therefore, once dead, we literally fall apart. It is the perfect example of what a life of discrimination and differentiation brings about. Not only is this the case for an individual human existence, but also for society. Wars, the ugly human occupation that leads to a massive death toll, start with differentiating oneself, one’s nation, one’s interests from the others. The reversal is what Taoists try to achieve: uniting one’s body (including the mind) to increase health, save vital energy, and prolong life. Care for the “other” by seeing the similarities and the common ground, understanding the position, circumstances, and views of the other. When the Daodejing (Chapter 42) says that Dao produces the One, the One gives birth to the Two, the Two to the Three, and the Three create the Ten Thousand Beings (all beings/things), that describes the path of development and differentiation. But this is not a one-way road: it is going both ways, according to Laozi, the Old Master, and all other Taoists. All things naturally return to the source, to Dao. However, especially we, human beings, are excellent at not returning by wanting always more and more and inflating the differences and our own ego. So, we need a method so that we, poor creatures, can find our way back home, to Dao. And that’s where all the Taoist practices come in. They all guide us to more unity, to more integration, to getting closer to Dao and merge with it. It’s going from ten thousand back to zero, the way of reversal.
In his Treatise on the Equality of Things/Beings (the second chapter), Zhuangzi uses stories and insights to make us understand how this works in reality. He tries to make us see the importance of the reversal. That’s the genius of Zhuangzi: you read a simple, often funny, story and you’re on your way to deep reflection and sound application of the principles.
Before I “met” Zhuangzi, I was in search of the connections in my life, of how I could gather everything into one lifestyle, of harmony and joy. Reading my first fragment of Zhuangzi’s text woke me up: here was my guide, my role model. There was no need for difficult, hard to understand philosophies invented by people that think too much and act too little. There was a need to act, live, experience from the perspective of relativity and connection. The combination of Zhuangzi and the things I was already doing (studying Chinese, Chinese culture, martial arts, plain living) made all the “difference” (I couldn’t express it any worse; in fact, it lifted the differences and the contradictions!). Just to make you see why Laozi points out that it’s better not to say too much about what you understand. The more you explain, the more difficult it becomes to maintain the unity of it all, since words are separate items and therefore tend to separate one thing from the other …
Time to go back to Zhuangzi’s story of the butterfly. A simple story about something we’ve all experienced (another stroke of genius: bring things closer to readers by using simple words and images, instead of putting up barriers by using fancy words and so-called deep thoughts). Here’s my translation:
Once Zhuang Zhou (note: Zhou is Zhuangzi’s first name and Zhuang is his surname; as “Zhou sounds like the English “Joe”, you can call him Joe Zhuang, if you like) was dreaming he was a butterfly, happily fluttering about being a butterfly, self-aware of his joyous mood! Yet he didn't know he was Zhou. Suddenly he woke up and was startled that he was Zhou and he didn’t know if Zhou had dreamt that he was a butterfly or if the butterfly dreamt that he was Zhou. If there must be a difference between Zhou and the butterfly, then let’s call it the transformation of a being/thing.
Dreams can definitely feel real, that’s what we all know. So, superficially, this is about such a feeling when waking up after a seemingly authentic experience. Zhuangzi wouldn’t be Zhuangzi if there isn’t some other layer. The clue is in the last sentence: “If there must be a difference between Zhou and the butterfly, then let’s call this the transformation of a being/thing.” The whole chapter is about equality and resemblance, similarity. Therefore, it should not be interpreted as if Zhou and the butterfly are different. They are not when seen from the One and unity. But we always make things different, sometimes for practical reasons, sometimes to (ab)use the “artificial” differences.
That's why I translate the first part of the sentence as “If there must be a difference”. In the classical Chinese there is a so-called particle at the end of the sentence, that heavily accentuates the sentence part and thus makes it important. There is also a character that expresses “must” or “need be”. If we follow the intention of the chapter, I assume that what Zhuangzi wants to do is contradict that there is a difference, hence my “If” at the beginning of the sentence and the relativity expressed in “then let’s call it the transformation of a being/thing”.
Transformation, change are happening all the time and everywhere, it’s the basic view of Chinese philosophy. If we call something a “Zhou” or a “butterfly” we do so from our habit to determine and separate things and freeze them in space-time. That is not how nature and the universe work: there is no unchanging condition. The change from Zhuangzi into a butterfly and vice versa is the most natural thing. It is our consciousness that is not limited to our temporary shape. Consciousness and awareness are never the same, they are the proof that change is constant. Our eyes may not see the changes, but we experience them all the time. Yet we prefer to hold on to the illusion that things remain the same. Open your eyes, says Zhuangzi, the real dream is not noticing the reality of dreams.
This story is about our realities.
“Different” realities, but all part of one human consciousness. Each reality is, of course, conditioned, but not completely separate from other realities we experience. We should recognize the different realities and their possibilities and conditions. We should also keep them united as parts of our entire conscious life, but not mix them, because the conditions differ and mixing them up brings doubt or confusion at best and serious mental illnesses in the worst cases.
A house has windows and doors. We can access the rooms through the doors and see other parts of the world through the windows. In our here-and-now reality we cannot walk through the walls to enter another room. In our dreams and in expanded consciousness we can, but “don’t try this at home” in the here-and-now reality. So, can we move through walls? Yes, we can. Anything is possible, just not in every condition. Within the “One” there are two, three, ten thousand and many more differentiations or, better, transformations, but they are all contained in one.
Fortunately, we have several realities existing simultaneously and we can switch from one to the other. This increases our awareness, expands our consciousness and awareness of the possibilities of transformation and so teaches us how to transform. It’s the basis of Taoist alchemical practice: there are no limits, no barriers we cannot cross. But we need guidance, so we don’t get lost.
Unfortunately, that’s also where the biggest dangers lie. If you don’t know about the doors and passageways, if you’re taught in the wrong way or if you suffer from a problematic personality, you’re in big trouble. You experience the transformations in a perilous way. It’s called “ru mo zou huo” in Chinese, the stage where illusions and hallucinations run wild and your realities get mixed up. You fail to understand what belongs to one reality and what to another. That is what Zhuangzi expresses in his story when he talks about being startled (when you’re not clear about which reality you’re in). Having gone through extreme, harmful experiences in your life makes you vulnerable to this. It is certainly not impossible to get out of this, but you need patience and good guidance.
In several instances Zhuangzi draws our attention to the joys of being able to live the transformation and be, for instance, a happy butterfly (there’s another story about the joy of being a fish at the end of chapter 17 that we might explore the next time). Zhuangzi knows how to transform safely and enjoy it. The ways of
should teach you how to unite and combine happily, without confusion or delusion. And learning from Zhuangzi certainly helps.
Comments