The Primacy of Nourishing Life

For the scholarly-minded, it is easy to forget that philosophy is meant to be applied. In fact, we often allow ourselves to get so caught up in concepts that thinking itself interferes with our ability to act. Colloquially, one may here this phenomenon called “over-thinking,” “analysis-paralysis,” or some other catchy short-hand. While these descriptions of crippling worry certainly work as examples of the conscious mind preventing decisive action, this problem runs deeper than that. In fact, it runs right down to the very base: our prioritization of values—i.e. our value hierarchies. In his Enchiridion, Epictetus puts it thusly:

The first and most important field of philosophy is the application of such principles such as ‘Do not lie. . . .’ Next come the proofs . . . The third field supports and articulates the proofs . . . Thus, the third field is necessary because of the second, and the second because of the first. The most important, though, the one that should occupy most of our time, is the first. But we do just the opposite. We are preoccupied with the third field and give that all our attention, passing the first by altogether. The result is that we lie—but have no difficulty proving why we shouldn’t. (Epictetus 244-245)

As you can see, this inversion of values results in hypocrisy. It is a betrayal of the very reasons for learning philosophy in the first place. We ought not fall into this trap, lest we’re comfortable calling ourselves hypocrites and pseudo-intellectuals—those detestable beings who do harm to others’ understanding of the Truth by siding with it while being a bad example.

But actually arranging one’s value’s properly is more difficult than merely making it one’s stated goal. Why else would so many people be so incredibly vulnerable to becoming the aforementioned intellectual-hypocrites? Hence the purpose of the Zhuangzi’s third chapter. By analyzing the story of King Hui’s butcher, we might learn a bit about the “Primacy of Nourishing Life”—and how Taoist philosophy can be applied toward that end.

From Chapter Three:

The cook was carving up an ox for King Hui of Liang. Wherever his hand smacked it, wherever his shoulder leaned into it, wherever his foot braced it, wherever his knee pressed it, the thwacking tones of flesh falling from bone would echo, the knife would whiz through with its resonant thwing, each stroke ringing out the perfect note . . .

The king said, “Ah! It is wonderful that skill can reach such heights!”

The cook put down his knife and said, “What I love is the Course, going beyond mere skill. When I first started cutting up oxen, all I saw for three years was oxen, and yet still I was unable to see all there was to an ox. But now I encounter it with the imponderable spirit in me rather than scrutinizing it with the eyes. For when the faculties of officiating understanding come to rest, imponderable spiritlike impulses begin to stir, relying on the unwrought perforations. Striking into the enormous gaps, they are guided through those huge hollows, going along in accord with that is already there and how it already is . . .

“Nonetheless, whenever I come to a clustered tangle, realizing that it is difficult to do anything about it, I instead restrain myself as if terrified, until my seeing comes to a complete halt. My activity slows, and the blade moves ever so slightly. Then Whoosh! All at once I find the ox already dismembered at my feet.” (Zhuangzi 29-30)

It should be no surprise that our story begins with the king’s butcher at work, applying his skills. He does so with such grace and efficiency that not only his cuts, but everything about all that he does is compared to music. Why music? What significance does a melody hold? Perhaps I am going out on a limb to say this, but I think it is fair to say that music is our most direct representation of experience itself. Music moves us emotionally, even when the sounds contain no words or obvious connotations. There is something about the rhythm itself which maps onto some deep primordial pattern—perhaps the same “pattern” or “shape” to which our human experience and perception conforms in its making-sense of the objective world.

So the king’s butcher moves with such grace that his knife produces music—in time with the rhythm of the objective world—in accordance with the “Course” with the Tao, he says so himself. This is what we philosophers ought to be after.

How do he accomplish this tremendous feat? Counterintuitively, at least for the rationally and empirically minded. The butcher realized through years of practice that there is more to the oxen than merely itself material parts. He realized that the spaces where is knife would cleave were just as real—maybe more real—than the meat and cartilage and bones themselves. Those spaces are, for him, opportunities. They are potentials present and ready to be exploited by those who can “see” them.

But this is where we encounter another conflict, that is, “seeing.” We are material, fleshy beings, and we rely on our sense organs to inform us about what is in the world. Though we ought not discount the reality of our senses out of hand, we should also acknowledge that our senses are intrinsically limited. They are specialized senses, and they work through their exclusive, reductive function. Eyes cannot hear or smell, and they can’t even see everything possible to be seen, but only a particular spectrum of light at a particular magnification. They work because they are limited, but that means there are things “to be seen” outside of those limitations. The trick, then, is how one goes about accessing the information—the “enormous gaps” of potential.

The butcher teaches us to stop and let go. Just like how each of our sense organs works via its own specialization, out sense of these opportunities works best when isolated on its own. We need quietude of the mind, of the vision, and of other senses that we may “hear” what our instincts have learned through repeated interactions and practice of some skill. Repeated practice is key here. I do not believe Zhuangzi is suggesting anything mystical or magical, merely that through continual, active engagement, one learns more than he is aware that he does. His body—his unconscious, instinctive, animal self—adapts and encodes patterns onto its nervous system. After so much time and dedication, and only after, can the last step be taken. The consciousness can step out of the way and allow for the instincts to take over with greater confidence and efficiency. If you’ve ever trained in martial arts (or practiced any art long enough), you’ll have experienced this phenomena before: you fight or spar, and sudden it is over. Your body just moved of its own accord and found the most effective techniques it was capable of in those moments.

In sum: remembering that the most fundamental aspect of reality is potential, prepare yourself through diligent, conscious, and continual practice. Realize that it is not the conscious decision in the moment that leads to proper application, but the conscious decision before hand so that the ego can be let go and the instincts given rein. To follow the Course—the Tao—means just this. Make yourself into a proper vessel in which the proper Path may reveal itself.

Epictetus. Enchiridion. Discourses and Selected Writings, translated and edited by Robert Dobbin, Penguin Books, 2008.

Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi; The Complete Writings, translated by Brook Ziporyn, Hackett Publishing Company Inc., 2020