The beginning of a series of explorations of Billeter’s work on Zhuangzi. This exploration is on the connections developed in https://www.eastasianhistory.org/sites/default/files/article-content/09/EAH09_02.pdf
Zhuangzi (庄子), “the pivotal figure in Classical Philosophical Daoism” (4th century BCE), is known for his distinctive tales and explorations, which often focus on finding harmony within the natural flow of life.
Milton Erickson (1901-1980), was an American psychiatrist and hypnotherapist.
In his article "Études sur sept dialogues du Zhuangzi” (translated into English by Mark Elvin, see link above), Swiss sinologist Jean François Billeter builds connections between Zhuangzi's (庄子) philosophy and Erickson's therapeutic approach.
Does the idea of finding a connection between Zhuangzi and Erickson across 2500 years of history seem surprising?
In the following we’ll explore the sense of possible connections inspired by Billeter but without necessarily using Billeter’s examples. I’ll focus on passages in the Zhuangzi that I’ve previously come across and that struck a chord with me.
Zhuangzi's teachings emphasize the importance of adaptability and the cultivation of inner resources. Here’s an extract (in Burton Waton’s translation) about a butcher/cook and the art of cutting meat. The story illustrates how one can achieve mastery by connecting with the Dao (道) or the natural way of things.
Cook Ting was cutting up an ox for Lord Wen-hui. At every touch of his hand, every heave of his shoulder, every move of his feet, every thrust of his knee — zip! zoop! He slithered the knife along with a zing, and all was in perfect rhythm, as though he were performing the dance of the Mulberry Grove or keeping time to the Ching-shou music.
“Ah, this is marvelous!” said Lord Wen-hui. “Imagine skill reaching such heights!”
Cook Ting laid down his knife and replied, “What I care about is the Way, which goes beyond skill. When I first began cutting up oxen, all I could see was the ox itself. After three years I no longer saw the whole ox. And now — now I go at it by spirit and don’t look with my eyes. Perception and understanding have come to a stop and spirit moves where it wants. I go along with the natural makeup, strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the big openings, and following things as they are. So I never touch the smallest ligament or tendon, much less a main joint.
“A good cook changes his knife once a year — because he cuts. A mediocre cook changes his knife once a month — because he hacks. I’ve had this knife of mine for nineteen years and I’ve cut up thousands of oxen with it, and yet the blade is as good as though it had just come from the grindstone. There are spaces between the joints, and the blade of the knife has really no thickness. If you insert what has no thickness into such spaces, then there’s plenty of room — more than enough for the blade to play about it. That’s why after nineteen years the blade of my knife is still as good as when it first came from the grindstone.
“However, whenever I come to a complicated place, I size up the difficulties, tell myself to watch out and be careful, keep my eyes on what I’m doing, work very slowly, and move the knife with the greatest subtlety, until — flop! the whole thing comes apart like a clod of earth crumbling to the ground. I stand there holding the knife and look all around me, completely satisfied and reluctant to move on, and then I wipe off the knife and put it away.”*
“Excellent!” said Lord Wen-hui. “I have heard the words of Cook Ting and learned how to care for life!”1
Similarly, Erickson's therapeutic techniques focused on utilizing a patient's own internal resources and strengths. In his approach, Erickson believed that individuals possess the ability to overcome challenges and effect change in their lives. He often employed indirect suggestions and storytelling to guide patients toward self-discovery, enabling them to tap into their unconscious minds for solutions.
… Erickson learned by accident during a seminar that one of his students, Kathleen, was affected by a vomiting phobia, a syndrome that is one of those psychiatrists term the 'social phobias': she had a pathological fear of contacts with others and was gripped by an irresistible desire to vomit when she had to meet them, and this provided her with a welcome excuse for avoiding such encounters. Erickson suggested that she sat beside him and, once she was in a trance, spoke to her about the penguins and sea-lions in the Antarctic and their adaptation to their environment. He called up the image of whales who feed on plankton, and so have to pass tons of sea-water through their mouths every day. Likewise the images of the sharks who filter water through their branchia in order to extract the oxygen from it. He described to her how the green woodpecker predigests the insects she catches for her fledglings and regurgitates them into their gullets, and observed that the breast-feeding practised by human beings seemed to him, all things considered, to be more convenient. Beast -feeding is a natural form of exchange with the environment, he told her, and vomiting is another, one that there is no reason to fear. The body knows when it has to vomit. Our physical reactions, he added, are more intelligent than our mental reactions. After further developing this way of thinking, in order to consolidate the change that had taken place in the patient's system of representations, he invited her to come out of her trance.2
The therapeutic process in Erickson's approach might be compared to the concept of "spontaneity" (zìrán 自然), which Zhuangzi develops in some of his passages.
Zhuangzi believed that true wisdom and understanding come from embracing the natural flow of life, allowing one's thoughts and actions to arise without the constraints of preconceived notions or rigid dogma. This idea is beautifully illustrated in the parable of the "useless tree," where an old, gnarled tree's apparent lack of utility actually becomes its greatest strength, as it remains untouched by woodcutters and grows to a venerable age.
Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, "I have a big tree of the kind men call shu. Its trunk is too gnarled and bumpy to apply a measuring line to, its branches too bent and twisty to match up to a compass or square. You could stand it by the road and no carpenter would look at it twice. Your words, too, are big and useless, and so everyone alike spurns them!"
Chuang Tzu said, "Maybe you've never seen a wildcat or a weasel. It crouches down and hides, watching for something to come along. It leaps and races east and west, not hesitating to go high or low-until it falls into the trap and dies in the net. Then again there's the yak, big as a cloud covering the sky. It certainly knows how to be big, though it doesn't know how to catch rats. Now You have this big tree and you're distressed because it's useless. Why don't you plant it in Not-Even-Anything Village, or the field of Broad-and-Boundless, relax and do nothing by its side, or lie down for a free and easy sleep under it? Axes will never shorten its life, nothing can ever harm it. If there's no use for it, how can it come to grief or pain?"3
Erickson's innovative hypnotherapy techniques similarly emphasized the value of spontaneity and the unconscious mind's capacity for problem-solving. He believed that tapping into an individual's inner resources could reveal solutions previously hidden by conscious thought patterns. Erickson's approach often involved utilizing a patient's own metaphors and language to bypass their conscious resistance and access the transformative potential of their unconscious mind.
In both Erickson's therapy and Zhuangzi's philosophy, there is a profound respect for the individual's innate ability to adapt and grow. Zhuangzi's emphasis on the ever-changing nature of reality (wànwù 万物) and the importance of remaining flexible in the face of life's challenges is echoed in Erickson's therapeutic approach. Erickson encouraged patients to trust their own instincts and develop a sense of autonomy in addressing their difficulties, aligning with Zhuangzi's belief that individuals possess the capacity to navigate their own unique paths through life.
万物 (wànwù) is a Chinese term that can be translated as "the myriad things" or "the ten thousand things." In classical Chinese philosophy, especially in Daoism, this phrase refers to the countless entities, objects, and phenomena that make up the natural world. It encompasses everything from living beings like plants and animals to inanimate objects such as rocks and rivers.
The concept of 万物 is central to Daoist thought, as it represents the interconnectedness and interdependence of all things in the universe. According to Daoist beliefs, everything in existence is constantly in flux, undergoing transformation and following the natural course of the Dao (道), the ultimate principle that governs the universe.
The famous Daoist text, the Dao De Jing (道德经) by Laozi (老子), discusses the concept of 万物 and emphasizes that the Dao pervades and unites all things. This understanding leads to the Daoist teachings of embracing the natural flow of life, accepting change, and finding harmony and balance by aligning oneself with the Dao.
The concept of 万物 also appears in other Chinese philosophical traditions such as Confucianism, where it is used to emphasize the importance of understanding the relationships among various aspects of the natural world and human society.
ChatGPT 4.0: “Tell me about 万物 in the context of Chinese Philosophy”
The connection between Zhuangzi (庄子) and Milton Erickson shows how ideas and techniques can connect across time and cultures. The power of stories to connect with and express our most fundamental human experiences is timeless. Billeter’s genius lies in identifying and developing connections like this in full. His work has a hypnotic quality of its own.
Burton Watson’s translation, Chapter 3: “The Secret of Caring for Life.”
Page 31 in https://www.eastasianhistory.org/sites/default/files/article-content/09/EAH09_02.pdf
Burton Watson’s translation, Chapter 1: “Free and Easy Wandering.”