◆The Barbaric Yawp Project

The Way Through I was the keeper of records at the Zhou court. I watched the court for a long time. I watched the kings accumulate and lose. I watched the dynasties rise with such certainty and fall with such surprise. When I had watched enough I saddled a water buffalo and rode toward the western gate. The gatekeeper stopped me. He said: before you disappear, write down what you know. I sat down. I wrote five thousand characters. Then I rode away. What I wrote, I will tell you again. You have had two thousand five hundred years to practice it. You have not practiced it. Perhaps this time. The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao. The man who puts his name on every building, every tower, every golden surface — that man has confused the name with the thing the name points toward. The name is not the thing. The map is not the territory. The finger pointing at the moon is not the moon. All the gold letters cannot name what is real. They can only name what is his. And what is his will not outlast him by very long. Nothing in the world is as soft as water. Nothing is better at wearing away the hard and strong. The water does not argue with the stone. The water does not force. The water simply finds every crack and keeps moving. Eventually there is no stone. There is only water and the shape the water has made. Every empire believed it would last forever. The water kept moving. I have watched many empires. I have watched the water outlast all of them. Thirty spokes share a wheel's hub. It is the center hole that makes it useful. Shape clay into a vessel. It is the space within that makes it useful. Cut windows in a room. It is the emptiness that lets in the light. The man who fills every space with his noise, his name, his face on every screen — that man has made himself into a solid thing with no hollow, no room for anything except himself. A solid thing with no hollow is useless. A room with no windows is a prison. The emptiness is not the absence of strength. The emptiness is where the strength lives. The best leaders — their people barely know they exist. Then those who are loved. Then those who are feared. Then those who are despised. The leader who requires the rally, the chanting, the crowd's roar, the enemy's humiliation — has already told you everything you need to know. The noise is not strength. The noise is the proof of the absence of strength. I have been watching for two thousand five hundred years. The man who grasps loses more than the man who holds loosely. The man who forces accomplishes less than the man who yields. The man who fills every silence with his name ends up with less than the man who is content to be unknown. You know this. You have always known this. The knowing and the doing are different things. That is the only problem. It has always been the only problem. Wu wei is not passivity. Wu wei is the action that fits the moment — the action without force, without grasping, without the need to fill every silence with the sound of your own name. The bamboo bends in the storm and does not break. The oak fights the storm and falls. Bend. I rode away from the Zhou court on a water buffalo. I did not think I was important. I thought the five thousand characters were important — not because they were mine but because they were true. The true thing does not need to be forced on anyone. The true thing simply remains. It has remained for two thousand five hundred years. The water is still moving. The stone is still wearing away. Return to the source. You know the way. You have always known the way. The way is through.