Wandering Far and Unfettered, Part I

Unlike its more famous counter-part, the Tao Te Ching, which is comprised of eighty-one poems akin to French aphorisms, the Zhuangzi delivers its wisdom through allegories and parables. Each chapter touches upon a particular set of motifs and themes, some of which are made apparent while others are embedded in archetypal symbolism. In these meditations, I will do my best to communicate my understanding of the Zhuangzi as in brief as I experience it for the first time—though after having analyzed the Tao Te Ching in full. I do not doubt my prior philosophical reading will color my impressions here, and I likewise acknowledge that much of what I will claim will require citations that I don’t have time to provide here. Therefore, I request you take these meditations with a grain of salt, or perhaps a mountain. They are merely a first impression which, I hope, precede a much larger, more detailed, and more profound body of thought. With that said, let us start.

There is a fish in the Northern Oblivion named Kun, and this Kun is quite huge, spanning who knows how many thousands of miles. He transforms into a bird named Peng, and this Peng has quite a back on him, stretching who knows how many thousands of miles . . . This bird begins his journey toward the Southern Oblivion. The Southern Oblivion—that is the Pool of Heaven (Zhuangzi).

So is how the Zhuangzi opens, with a mythological story reminiscent of a cosmogonic tale. In order to understand the theme, we must first interpret the present symbols: the setting, the characters, and their actions. Fortunately, the translator, Brook Ziporyn, has provided numerous notes in this copy of the Zhuangzi with which an English speaker can better comprehend the intended metaphors.

Let us begin with those notes, namely those explaining the immense fish Kun and the heavens-spanning Peng. “Kun” means “a fish egg,” likely an intentional paradox on the part of the author. There are also alternative readings of the Chinese character that would render it as “elder brother.” As for Peng, his name is derived from “Feng,” meaning “phoenix.” Peng itself means “friend, classmate, comrade, or peer.”

With these translations, we can order abstract as to interpret the meaning—something we’ll be doing quite a bit of in this blog series. Doing so results in the following:

There are two ‘Oblivions.’ These oblivions are abysses, bodies of water which in Jungian psychoanalytics represent the unknown and the unconscious. It is noteworthy that these Oblivions are located to the north and south, thus making them polar opposites. In other words, they are two aspects of the same unknown. In Taoism, they are like the black Yin and the inner darkness within the white Yang; or perhaps they are Yin and Yang respectively, together making up the ineffable source of the Tao. Either way, we know that the Northern Oblivion is positioned opposite of its Southern counterpart, and therefore it is positioned opposite of the Southern Oblivion’s Pool of Heaven. Though this pool is not explicitly described, the notion of a heavenly body within a greater unconscious fits with the Jungian concept of the Self Archetype, otherwise known as the God Image or the human instinct toward a higher, potential self. This concept is comparable to the actualized self as well as Nietzsche’s Will to Power.

Now we’ve established the lower and higher aspects of the unconscious. In the northern, lower unconscious is a fish as vast as a sea himself. This is Kun. Kun’s name has two meanings when written, both of which abstract into his symbolic significance. He is an egg as well as the elder brother—this makes Kun that which comes before in order of succession, and it also makes him that from which something else is born. Beyond his name, Kun being a fish is significant. A fish is a being which can live only under the water. Symbolically, Kun is a being which exists in an unconscious form. But he being a fish has yet another significance. The fish is a symbol in Christianity for Christ because the Christ figure is a redeemer of souls. In Jungian psychoanalytics, the fish represents much the same thing—it is the self archetype yet made conscious, yet to be discovered by the conscious mind, but containing the potential to redeem the current flawed and ‘sinful’ iteration of that conscious self. Lastly, Kun is akin to the alchemical Rotundum, a primordial and unrefined sphere containing the four elements which must be broken apart as to be reconstituted into the Lapis Philosophorum—the Philosopher’s Stone.

In short, Kun is the potential self yet unconscious and yet made manifest.

It only makes sense, then, that Kun transforms into Peng—a phoenix whose name implies a companion. Peng, being a phoenix, is a being of balance and rebirth. This is true of both western and eastern phoenixes, although it is represented in different ways. In the west the phoenix burns to ash from which a new phoenix is born. This is representative of a cycle of dissolution of the old self so that a new self can come forth. In the east, the phoenix represents a balance of Yin and Yang. This distinction can be bridged using Jungian analytics. To bring balance to the self is to bring elements of the self that are unconscious into consciousness, to integrate them so that denied, ignored, or shameful aspects of the self do not accrue in the unconscious. This always involves a painful process of allowing a prior concept of self to burn away—not incidentally, this also describes the first step in constructing the Philosopher’s Stone, what the alchemists called the Nigredo, the Blackness. However painful, this process is necessary to clear away presumptions and preconceptions so that there is room within the conscious model of oneself to integrate the previously unconscious elements. This provides balance between the conscious and unconscious aspects of oneself, bringing inner peace and inner cooperation instead of conflict. This makes the unconscious a companion as opposed to an enemy—or worse, a ‘spirit’ or ‘demon’ who takes possession of your moods, motivations, attitudes, and even behaviors.

Lastly, we ought to interpret the journey to the Pool of Heaven, especially in regard to the chapter title, “Wandering Far and Unfettered.” Together, it is implied that the journey toward the symbol of our higher selves is one of integrating our denied aspects of selves as to become free of their possession—free to wander, specifically, because the Tao; the road, the path, and the way; is not a straight line of continuous progress. It is sometimes winding, sometimes cyclical, and sometimes in the midst of changing even as one walks it. And it makes sense: recall that the first step is to understand one’s current understanding is insufficient. If one already knew the path, had already attained the higher self, then where in the world would he be going? And for what purpose? Why bother, he’d already be enlightened. Therefore, it is necessary that the journey toward the higher, potential self be one of wandering voluntarily in an uncertain direction, free of the trepidation which formerly kept him ignorant of what he might become.

And that is where our journey will end for today. When we return, we will discuss the relationship between the higher and the lower—the Master-Slave Dialectic as it manifests in the Zhuangzi.

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