Picture a scene in China long ago: a youthful
sage or sage-to-be is presented with a copy of the 'Tao
te Ching'.
The paper is of unrivalled quality, the calligraphy
exquisitely executed; it looks, feels, even smells
outstanding.
The sage places the precious manuscript reverently on a
high shelf, fully intending to keep it pristine and
perfect.
But the characters cannot settle for long in stillness;
a subtle energy flows through their elegant and delicate
forms;
they yearn to dance off the paper, and weave themselves,
unseen, deftly and skilfully through the life of the
world.
Many years pass: the sage is now ancient and
silver-haired, but still spry; with a penetrating eye
and a ready smile.
Having trod a winding and varied path through life, the
sage has long since given up attempts to preserve the
Tao.
The manuscript, though somewhat battered, tattered and
possibly tea-stained from much use, has worn well;
the lettering remains just as legible and clear, its
meaning just as perplexing and unclear, as when it was
new.
The sage still treasures it with great fondness and
respect; they have been the best of travelling
companions.
The sage no longer bothers to read the
manuscript, or even to remember its verses, as there is
no need;
script and sage have become as two-in-one, instinctively
finding both mystery and clarity in each other.
More years pass: sage-and-Tao are gone, having
accomplished their purpose and completed their journey.
The fine lettering has taken flight, mingled with the
breath of the sage, imperceptibly filtering into all
things;
inviting stillness to calm troubled waters, clarity to
disperse foggy confusion, balance to hold a steady
course onward.
