The Tao of Pooh Read online

  THE TAO OF POOH

  Benjamin Hoff is an Oregon writer, photographer, musician, and composer with a fondness for Forests and Bears. A Bachelor of Arts (he thinks his degree was in Asian Art, but then, he hasn't looked at it for a while, and it may not be), he was until recently a Japanese-trained fine pruning specialist. He now writes full time.

  Well, most of the time. The rest of the time he practices Taoist yoga, Tai Chi Ch'iian, stunt kite-flying, boomerang shaping and (ouch!) throwing, and Taoist tennis, whatever that is. He also enjoys sleeping and lying about on the floor.

  He is the author of The Tao of Pooh, The Te of Piglet, and The Singing Creek Where the Willows Crow : The Mystical Nature Diary of Opal Whiteley (all of which are available in Penguin).

  For

  Han Hsiang-tse

  Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,

  A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly.

  Ask me a riddle and I reply:

  "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie."

  C O N T E N T S

  Foreword x

  The How of Pooh? l

  The Tao of Who? 9

  Spelling Tuesday 23

  Cottleston Pie 37

  The Pooh Way 67

  Bisy Backson 91

  That Sort of Bear 115

  Nowhere and Nothing 141

  The Now of Pooh 153

  Backword 157

  FOREWORD

  "What's this you're writing?" asked Pooh, climbing onto the writing table.

  "The Tao of Pooh," I replied.

  "The how of Pooh?" asked Pooh, smudging one of the words I had just written.

  "The Tao of Pooh," I replied, poking his paw away with my pencil.

  "It seems more like the ow! of Pooh," said Pooh, rubbing his paw.

  "Well, it's not " I replied huffily.

  "What's it about?" asked Pooh, leaning forward and smearing another word.

  "It's about how to stay happy and calm under all circumstances!" I yelled.

  "Have you read it?" asked Pooh.

  That was after some of us were discussing the Great Masters of Wisdom, and someone was saying how all of them came from the East, and I was saying that some of them didn't, but he was going on and on, just like this sentence, not paying any attention, when I decided to read a quotation of Wisdom from the West, to prove that there was more to the world than one half, and I read:

  "When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

  "What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

  "I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

  Pooh nodded thoughtfully.

  "It's the same thing," he said.

  "What's that?" the Unbeliever asked

  "Wisdom from a Western Taoist," I said.

  "It sounds like something from Winnie-the-Pooh," he said.

  "It is," I said.

  "That's not about Taoism," he said.

  "Oh, yes it is," I said.

  "No, it's not," he said.

  "What do you think it's about?" I said.

  "It's about this dumpy little bear that wanders around asking silly questions, making up songs, and going through all kinds of adventures, without ever accumulating any amount of intellectual knowledge or losing his simpleminded sort of happiness.

  "That's what it's about," he said.

  "Same thing," I said.

  That was when I began to get an idea: to write a book that explained the principles of Taoism through Winnie-the-Pooh, and explained Winnie the-Pooh through the principles of Taoism.

  When informed of my intentions, the scholars exclaimed, "Preposterous!" and things like that.

  Others said it was the stupidest thing they'd ever heard, and that I must be dreaming. Some said it was a nice idea, but too difficult "Just where would you even begin?" they asked. Well, an old Taoist saying puts it this way: "A thousand-mile journey starts with one step."

  So I think that we will start at the beginning . . .

  THE TAO OF POOH

  THE

  HOW OF

  POOH?

  "You see, Pooh," I said, "a lot of people don't seem to know what Taoism is .."

  "Yes?" said Pooh, blinking his eyes.

  "So that's what this chapter is for—to explain things a bit."

  "Oh, I see," said Pooh.

  "And the easiest way to do that would be for us to go to China for a moment."

  "What?" said Pooh, his eyes wide open in amazement. "Right now?"

  "Of course. All we need to do is lean back, relax, and there we are."

  "Oh, I see," said Pooh.

  Let's imagine that we have walked down a narrow street in a large Chinese city and have found a small shop that sells scrolls painted in the classic manner. We go inside and ask to be shown something allegorical—something humorous, perhaps, but with some sort of Timeless Meaning. The shopkeeper smiles. "I have just the thing," he tells us. "A copy of The Vinegar Tasters!" He leads us to a large table and unrolls the scroll, placing it down for us to examine. "Excuse me—I must attend to something for a moment," he says, and goes into the back of the shop, leaving us alone with the painting.

  Although we can see that this is a fairly recent version, we know that the original was painted long ago; just when is uncertain. But by now, the theme of the painting is well known.

  We see three men standing around a vat of vinegar. Each has dipped his finger into the vinegar and has tasted it. The expression on each man's face shows his individual reaction. Since the painting is allegorical, we are to understand that these are no ordinary vinegar tasters, but are instead representa tives of the "Three Teachings" of China, and that the vinegar they are sampling represents the Es sence of Life. The three masters are K'ung Fu-tse (Confucius), Buddha, and Lao-tse, author of the oldest existing book of Taoism. The first has a sour look on his face, the second wears a bitter expression, but the third man is smiling.

  To K'ung Fu-tse (kung FOOdsuh), life seemed rather sour. He believed that the present was out of step with the past, and that the government of man on earth was out of harmony with the Way of Heaven, the government of the universe. Therefore, he emphasized reverence for the Ancestors, as well as for the ancient rituals and ceremonies in which the emperor, as the Son of Heaven, acted as intermediary between limitless heaven and limited earth. Under Confucianism, the use of precisely measured court music, prescribed steps, actions, and phrases all added up to an extremely complex system of rituals, each used for a particular purpose at a particular time. A saying was recorded about K'ung Fu-tse: "If the mat was not straight, the Master would not sit." This ought to give an indication of the extent to which things were carried out under Confucianism.

  To Buddha, the second figure in the painting, life on earth was bitter, filled with attachments and desires that led to suffering. The world was seen as a setter of traps, a generator of illusions, a revolving wheel of pain for all creatures. In order to find peace, the Buddhist considered it necessary to transcend "the world of dust" and reach Nirvana, literally a state of "no wind." Although the essentially optimistic attitude of the Chinese altered Buddhism considerably after it was brought in from its native India, the devout Buddhist often saw the way to Nirvana interrupted all the same by the bitter wind of everyday existence.

  To Lao-tse (LAOdsuh), the harmony that naturally existed between heaven and earth from the very beginning could be found by anyone at any time, but not by following the rules of the Confucianists. As he stated in his Tao Te Ching (DAO DEH JEENG), the "Tao Virtue Book," earth was in essence a reflection of heaven, run by the same laws— not by the laws of men. These laws affected not only the spinning of distant planets, but the act
ivities of the birds in the forest and the fish in the sea. According to Lao-tse, the more man interfered with the natural balance produced and governed by the universal laws, the further away the harmony retreated into the distance. The more forcing, the more trouble. Whether heavy or light, wet or dry, fast or slow, everything had its own nature already within it, which could not be violated without causing difficulties. When abstract and arbitrary rules were imposed from the outside, struggle was inevitable. Only then did life become sour.

  To Lao-tse, the world was not a setter of traps but a teacher of valuable lessons. Its lessons needed to be learned, just as its laws needed to be followed; then all would go well. Rather than turn away from "the world of dust," Lao-tse advised others to "join the dust of the world." What he saw operating behind everything in heaven and earth he called Tao (DAO), "the Way." A basic principle of Lao-tse's teaching was that this Way of the Universe could not be adequately described in words, and that it would be insulting both to its unlimited power and to the intelligent human mind to attempt to do so.

  Still, its nature could be understood, and those who cared the most about it, and the life from which it was inseparable, understood it best.

  Over the centuries Lao-tse's classic teachings were developed and divided into philosophical, monastic, and folk religious forms. All of these could be included under the general heading of Taoism. But the basic Taoism that we are concerned with here is simply a particular way of appreciating, learning from, and working with what ever happens in everyday life. From the Taoist point of view, the natural result of this harmonious way of living is happiness. You might say that happy serenity is the most noticeable characteristic of the Taoist personality, and a subtle sense of humor is apparent even in the most profound Taoist writings, such as the twenty-five-hundred year-old Tao Te Ching. In the writings of Taoism's second major writer, Chuang-tse (JUANGdsuh), quiet laughter seems to bubble up like water from a fountain.

  "But what does that have to do with vinegar?" asked Pooh.

  'I thought I had explained that," I said.

  "I don't think so," said Pooh.

  "Well, then, I'll explain it now."

  "That's good," said Pooh.

  In the painting, why is Lao-tse smiling? After all, that vinegar that represents life must certainly have an unpleasant taste, as the expressions on the faces of the other two men indicate. But, through working in harmony with life's circumstances, Taoist understanding changes what others may perceive as negative into something positive. From the Taoist point of view, sourness and bitterness come from the interfering and unappreciative mind. Life itself, when understood and utilized for what it is, is sweet. That is the message of The Vinegar Tasters.

  "Sweet? You mean like honey?" asked Pooh.

  "Well, maybe not that sweet," I said. "That would be overdoing it a bit."

  "Are we still supposed to be in China?" Pooh asked cautiously.

  "No, we're through explaining and now we're back at the writing table."

  "Oh."

  "Well, we're just in time for something to eat," he added, wandering over to the kitchen cupboard.

  THE

  TAO OF

  WHO?

  We were discussing the definition of wisdom late one night, and we were just about to fall asleep from it all when Pooh remarked that his understanding of Taoist principles had been passed down to him from certain Ancient Ancestors.

  "Like who?" I asked.

  "Like Pooh Tao-tse, the famous Chinese painter," Pooh said.

  "That's Wu Tao-tse."

  "Or how about Li Pooh, the famous Taoist poet?" Pooh asked cautiously.

  "You mean Li Po," I said.

  "Oh," said Pooh, looking down at his feet.

  Then I thought of something. "That doesn't really matter, anyway," I said, "because one of the most important principles of Taoism was named after you."

  "Really?" Pooh asked, looking more hopeful.

  "Of course—P'u, the Uncarved Block."

  "I'd forgotten," said Pooh.

  So here we are, about to try to explain P'u, the Uncarved Block. In the classic Taoist manner, we won't try too hard or explain too much, because that would only Confuse things, and because it would leave the impression that it was all only an intellectual idea that could be left on the intellectual level and ignored. Then you could say, "Well, this idea is all very nice, but what does it amount to?" So instead, we will try to show what it amounts to, in various ways.

  P'u, by the way, is pronounced sort of like Pooh, but without so much oo—like the sound you make when blowing a bug off your arm on a hot summer day.

  Before we bring our Resident Expert in for a few illuminating remarks, let's explain something.

  The essence of the principle of the Uncarved Block is that things in their original simplicity contain their own natural power, power that is easily spoiled and lost when that simplicity is changed. For the written character P'u, the typical Chinese dictionary will give a definition of "natural, simple, plain, honest." P'u is composed of two separate characters combined: the first, the "radical" or root-meaning one, is that for tree or wood; the second, the "phonetic" or sound-giving one, is the character for dense growth or thicket. So from "tree in a thicket" or "wood not cut" comes the meaning of "things in their natural state"—what is generally represented in English versions of Taoist writing as the "uncarved block."

  This basic Taoist principle applies not only to things in their natural beauty and function, but to people as well. Or Bears. Which brings us to Pooh, the very Epitome of the Uncarved Block. As an illustration of the principle, he may appear a bit too simple at times . . .

  "I think it's more to the right," said Piglet nervously. "What do you think, Pooh?"

  Pooh looked at his two paws. He knew that one of them was the right, and he knew that when you had decided which one of them was the right, then the other one was the left, but he never could remember how to begin.

  "Well," he said slowly

  . . . but, no matter how he may seem to others, especially to those fooled by appearances, Pooh, the Uncarved Block, is able to accomplish what he does because he is simpleminded. As any old Taoist walking out of the woods can tell you, simpleminded does not necessarily mean stupid. It's rather significant that the Taoist ideal is that of the still, calm, reflecting "mirror-mind" of the Uncarved Block, and it's rather significant that Pooh, rather than the thinkers Rabbit, Owl, or Eeyore, is the true hero of Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Comer:

  "The fact is," said Rabbit, "we've missed our way somehow."

  They were having a rest in a small sand-pit on the top of the Forest. Pooh was getting rather tired of that sand-pit, and suspected it of following them about, because whichever direction they started in, they always ended up at it, and each time, as it came through the mist at them, Rabbit said triumphantly, "Now I know where we are!" and Pooh said sadly, "So do I," and Piglet said nothing. He had tried to think of something to say, but the only thing he could think of was, "Help, help!" and it seemed silly to say that, when he had Pooh and Rabbit with him.

  "Well," said Rabbit, after a long silence in which nobody thanked him for the nice walk they were having, "we'd better get on, I suppose. Which way shall we try?"

  "How would it be," said Pooh slowly, "if, as soon as we're out of sight of this Pit, we try to find it again?"

  "What's the good of that?" said Rabbit.

  "Well," said Pooh, "we keep looking for Home and not finding it, so I thought that if we looked for this Pit, we'd be sure not to find it, which would be a Good Thing, because then we might find something that we weren't looking for, which might be just what we were looking for, really."

  "I don't see much sense in that," said Rabbit

  "If I walked away from this Pit, and then walked back to it, of course I should find it."

  "Well, I thought perhaps you wouldn't," said Pooh.

  "I just thought."

  "Try," said Piglet suddenly. "We'
ll wait here for you."

  Rabbit gave a laugh to show how silly Piglet was, and walked into the mist. After he had gone a hundred yards, he turned and walked back again . . . and after Pooh and Piglet had waited twenty minutes for him, Pooh got up.

  "I just thought," said Pooh. "Now then, Piglet, let's go home."

  "But, Pooh," cried Piglet, all excited, "do you know the way?"

  "No," said Pooh, "But there are twelve pots of honey in my cupboard, and they've been calling to me for hours. I couldn't hear them properly before, because Rabbit would talk, but if nobody says anything except those twelve pots, I think, Piglet, I shall know where they're calling from. Come on."

  They walked off together; and for a long time Piglet said nothing, so as not to interrupt the pots; and then suddenly he made a squeaky noise . . . and an oo-noise . . . because now he began to know where he was; but he still didn't dare to say so out loud, in case he wasn't. And just when he was getting so sure of himself that it didn't matter whether the pots went on calling or not, there was a shout in front of them, and out of the mist came Christopher Robin.