Straw Dogs
The rain falls on the farmer's field and on the empty road beside it.
The sun rises for the kind neighbour and for the unkind one.
Neither of them is being chosen.
天地不仁，
tiān dì bù rén,
Heaven and earth are not kind;
以萬物為芻狗；
yǐ wàn wù wéi chú gǒu;
they treat the ten thousand things as straw dogs.
聖人不仁，
shèngrén bù rén,
The sage is not kind;
以百姓為芻狗。
yǐ bǎi xìng wéi chú gǒu.
the sage treats the hundred families as straw dogs.
天地之間，其猶橐籥乎？
tiān dì zhī jiān, qí yóu tuó yuè hū?
The space between heaven and earth: is it not like a bellows?
虛而不屈，
xū ér bù qū,
Empty, and yet not used up;
動而愈出。
dòng ér yù chū.
the more it moves, the more comes out.
多言數窮，
duō yán shuò qióng,
Many words are soon exhausted;
不如守中。
bù rú shǒu zhōng.
better to keep to the centre.
The words
straw dogs, made for a ritual
Dogs made of bound grass, used in sacrifices in old China. The book of Zhuangzi describes them: before the offering they are kept in boxes, wrapped in embroidered cloth, and treated with great respect; after it, they are thrown on the road, walked over, and swept up for the fire.1 Not hated. Honoured while it is their time, and let go when it is over.
kindness, humaneness; the love of people for people
A person (亻) and the number two (二): what passes between two people. For Confucius, 仁 was the highest virtue. So when the Tao Te Ching says heaven and earth are not 仁, it is saying something deliberately shocking: the world does not love some people more than others. It has no favourites at all.
a bellows
The leather bag and the pipe a smith used to blow air into a fire. Squeeze it, and air rushes out; let go, and it fills again from nowhere. It is empty, and it never runs out.
Sitting with it
This is one of the hardest chapters to read, and one of the most misunderstood. "Heaven and earth are not kind." Is the book saying the world is cruel?
No. Cruel would be a kind of favouritism too, picking someone to hurt. The chapter says something stranger: the world doesn't pick at all. The spring doesn't love the flowers more than the weeds. The winter doesn't hate them. Everything is given its time, honoured in its time, and let go when its time is over. Like the straw dogs.
This can feel cold at first. Then, slowly, it can feel like a kind of peace. You are not being punished when things go wrong. You were not being rewarded when they went right. You are part of something very large that is turning, the way chapter 40 described: going out, and coming back.
And the sage? The sage, too, is "not kind" in this sense. Not unkind: impartial. Not loving the clever child more than the slow one, the useful friend more than the difficult one. Like rain, falling on every field.
Then the image changes. The whole space between heaven and earth is like a bellows: empty, and the emptiness is what makes it work, as in the last lesson. The more it moves, the more comes out. The world is not running down. It breathes.
And the chapter ends by turning to us. Many words are soon exhausted. Talk and talk, and you run out, like a bellows squeezed with no time to fill. Better to keep to the centre: the quiet place, the empty middle, where you can fill again.
A practice
Today, notice one moment when you want things to go your way rather than another person's: a seat, a turn, a decision.
Imagine for a moment that the world has no favourite, not you and not them. What would be fair, seen from there?
To carry
虛而不屈，動而愈出
xū ér bù qū, dòng ér yù chū
Empty, and not used up; the more it moves, the more comes out.
Sources
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Zhuangzi, chapter 14, "The Turning of Heaven" (天運). The Chinese text on Wikisource. ↩