The familiarity of the Tao

I've read very little non-Western philosophy, but I'm going to read a bunch in the next year or so. I'll begin a semester-long sabbatical in January of 2011, and I've promised Mercer that I would develop a few courses: Eastern Philosophy, Ancient Wisdom Traditions, and at least one Great Books seminar on one or both of those topics.

I am coming to this project with more modesty than it might seem. Yes, I'm proposing to develop college level courses on material that I have almost no familiarity with. That doesn't seem particularly humble. And, yes, I think that my education and experience teaching philosophy for 15+ years puts me in a solid position to know what I can and can't do with integrity in the classroom. That doesn't sound particularly humble either. But I'm liberated by the knowledge that I don't intend to present myself as an expert in Eastern Philosophy. I plan to present myself honestly, that is as someone with a strong education in the history of Western philosophy who has spent a year (or a little more) reading and thinking about some of the classic works of Eastern thought.

Years ago (hell, decades ago), a college friend of mine, Baxter Gillespie, paid me a complement that struck deeper than he could know. He was playing around at the time with painting characters, and he made a gift of one to me. The character was "shoshin," the beginner's mind (see image below). He said that when he read about the idea of the beginner's mind, he thought of me. I was a Junior and had only just found a Philosophy major, after running through 4 or 5 other courses of study. It seemed like everything I read, every subject I studied was interesting. I felt at home immediately in Philosophy, but I knew that had to do with its wide-ranging, interdisciplinary scope; in a sense, I'd decided not to decide. Baxter's complement touched me because it made an apparent virtue of what I thought was a vice--my openness to the promise of whatever I read, whatever I thought about; my disinclination to criticism. I still worry that I'm too broad, that I'm an intellectual everglades--a mile wide and an inch deep. But, there is power and virtue in that, too.

The first thing that struck me as I began to read the Tao Te Ching was how strongly its ethical teachings resembled stoicism. Take #13:

Accept disgrace willingly.

Accept misfortune as the human condition.

What do you mean by "Accept disgrace willingly?"

Accept being unimportant.

Do not be concerned with loss or gain.

This is called "accepting disgrace willingly."

What do you mean by "Accepting misfortune as the human condition?"

Misfortune comes from having a body.

Without a body, how could there be misfortune?

Surrender yourself humbly; then you can be trusted to care for all

things.

Love the world as your own self; then you can truly care for all things."

(Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching)

A purely stoic ethics would not promise that abnegation of the things of this world would return you to the world, that surrendering yourself would prepare you to be more caring; so, I'm already seeing both a connection and a distinction. That'll teach.

Perhaps in 2010 it is shameful to admit, but I have never had a blog. It seems like most folks I know have blogged over some period of time in the last few years. In fact, most of them have worked through their blogging phase and are now onto other things. This won't be the first time I come late to the fair!

I've had this account on Blogger for several years, now; but, it has sat empty and still. What draws me toward blogging today is not entirely transparent to me. The sources of my inclination, I think, are both physical and intellectual. Intellectually, I'm thinking in mystical and romantic terms, lately. Reading Wordsworth's Prelude a few weeks ago set me on that path, so I was particularly open to Henry Adam's romantic themes in Mont St. Michel and Chartres, which I finished day before yesterday. Today, reading Allan Bloom's introduction to Rousseau's Emile and the first 25 or so chapters of the Tao Te Ching (for the first time) my mind feels like one of those buildings with retractable roofs that sit on the tops of mountains and house huge telescopes. My roof is rusty and is opening slowly and not so smoothly, but the glimpse of the star strewn night getting through is more than enough motivation to continue trying to open up.

Physically, I've had a headache for two weeks. I saw the Dr. last week and I'm fairly sure that I'm just dealing with sinusitis, but such protracted discomfort changes the way one sees the world. I'm reminded of stories of Nietzsche lying in bed for months in a syphallitic haze then jumping up at the first twinge of healthy energy to write a book. I'm no Nietzsche (let me count the ways!), but I am experiencing an odd (apparent) clarity today. Most of my body no longer needs the rest it is getting, but my headache makes activity and socializing difficult. So, I am alone, more or less inactive, not at all fatigued, and not at all inclined to do anything but sit quietly and still.

So . . . I'm blogging. It will be interesting (to me, at least!) to see where this goes.