My curiosity in eastern ways of living began when I stumbled across a 1960s black and white television show on YouTube: Eastern Wisdom and Modern Life, presented by Alan Watts. Watching Watts for the first time -- loud flute-like instruments screeching in the theme, his back turned to the camera, glitches of lines running across the screen -- was interesting to say the least. Still, there was something in me that urged to continue watching, listening to Alan's muffled yet distinct, knowledgeable voice. His first intrigue into eastern philosophy was through traditional paintings.
Art is what I like to think of as expression, of the human nature to create, to create reflections of one's internal monologue in the external air. Literature, music, paint on paper, dance, architecture, equations, laws of physics; all are ultimately subjective, and so all are a form of art. There is something natural in patterns and spontaneity alike. This was one of the first things I noticed and loved about about eastern philosophy; the balance between poetic techniques and the way.
I recently had a conversation with my philosophy and religious studies teacher. He asked, "Why are you here? Why do you study religion?", to which I replied, "Studying Buddhism is so engaging, I've always generally been interested in eastern thought."
"What is it about eastern ways that you like?"
"Well, for one their texts are much more lyrical than that in the West. Take the Tao Te Ching, there is something so natural about the way it flows as poetry that draws us as creative humans in, and this flow reflects the essence of what Lao Tzu was ultimately describing."
"Okay, so, if western texts were more poetical as you say, would that make you inclined to like them more?"
"No, not necessarily." There has to be a balance between what is said and the way it is delivered. A poem without the right words is just the outline of a shape on a page, it might look pretty, but how do we relate meaning to it? And this rounded balance is really what eastern philosophy is all about, whereas in the west the path is rather linear.
The eastern way of not describing crucial concepts in their religion and philosophies is another difference from the west that I find fascinating. When Confucius was asked to specifically define jen, the central idea of humanness or human-heartedness in Confucianism, he refused. When Lao Tzu was asked to define the way, he would refuse; his first words in the Tao Te Ching being, "The way that can be spoken of / Is not the constant way". When one asks a Buddhist to define nirvana, they will refuse. There is a Buddhist story known as the eightieth dilemma in The Questions of King Milinda; the King asks the sage Nagasena about nirvana, to which he replied, "Like the sea, nirvana is boundless."
If describing is avoided, then, how does poetry work? After reading some ancient eastern poetry, I quickly realised that they focus on observations, especially that of nature. Poetry is often very small, in the sense that it isn't used to ask some big philosophical questions about the existence of the universe. Instead, it is finely tuned into the simplicities of what is. Haiku, for example, a traditional Japanese style of poetry that is only three lines long and consists of seventeen syllables, allows the poet to hone into only the most miniscule moments. There is a poem by Li Bai (Po), one of the greatest poets of the Tang Dynasty, that is a favourite of mine demonstrating this simplicity:
The birds have vanished into the sky,
and now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.
Here is my own retelling of the poem:
The feather pen flies into the sky,
and the last ink drop drains away.
We sit together, the notebook and me,
until only the notebook remains.
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