The bus that went to the small Chinese village on the way up to the Himalayas, where Li Tzu, the Taoist master, lives, had engine trouble. To continue the journey on the steep road, part of the weight had to be reduced. Half of the passengers would have to get off and wait for another bus. As usual, it was very cold, at least for someone who had always lived in the tropics at sea level. I suggested that we wait inside the vehicle to enjoy the comfort provided by the heating, which was unaffected by the engine failure. The driver explained that company rules stated that in situations like that, the decision rested with the person responsible for the transport, in this case, the driver himself. He clarified that the passengers’ level of vulnerability would determine who would continue and who would have to wait by the roadside for another bus. That was the established criterion. The sick, the elderly, and those with children would have priority. At first, I felt relieved. At the time, I was nearing sixty years of age. I hadn’t taken into account the longevity of the local inhabitants, who often reached almost a century of life in good health. Once the selection was made, I had to get off. I was still searching for my wool hat and gloves in my backpack when an elderly man came to speak with me. He said he was willing to give me his place. He knew I lived in a warm country and would have trouble dealing with the intense cold of the mountains. I thanked him but refused. He insisted. The other bus would take a long time to arrive. He explained that he had been born there. The cold had been his companion since childhood. He would have no difficulty waiting for a few hours in the open. The voice of convenience told me not to waste the opportunity, while the voice of conscience reminded me that principles and virtues are most valuable in moments of trial. In an intense inner struggle, I said I would be fine. He smiled and got on the bus. That was when, after rummaging through my backpack, I realized I had forgotten to bring my hat and gloves. My battle against the cold, already difficult, would now be even harder. Just before leaving, when he saw me through the window and noticed my problem, the old man threw a wool cloak in my direction as the bus drove away. Surprised and moved by his gesture, I shouted my thanks, though I didn’t know if he could hear me.
I arrived in the small Chinese village before dawn. The shops were closed, as was the only inn in town, where I always stayed. Shivering with cold, I headed to Li Tzu’s house. As usual, the gate was open. Since the kitchen door didn’t even have a lock, I went in. From atop the refrigerator, Midnight, the black cat who also lived there, looked at me lazily for a few moments before going back to sleep. The wood stove was lit, giving warmth and comfort to the room. I turned on the light. On the stove was a kettle. Next to it, in a teapot, some herbs waited only for hot water to become tea. I prepared the drink. Soon after, Li Tzu appeared in the kitchen, showing no surprise at my presence. He had already heard about the bus problem. Looking at the glowing embers in the stove, he said, “I figured this would be your refuge on such a cold night”. He pointed to the teapot with his chin and said, “I selected some herbs that strengthen the immune system and mixed them with others that bring a sense of well-being through relaxation. You’ll feel better”. The Taoist master’s gentleness was charming and contagious. Gentleness is a virtue typical of those whose way of life involves taking care to avoid causing harm, discomfort, or even the smallest inconvenience to others, no matter who they are. Then he served us tea and sat at the table beside me. I showed him the wool cloak and told him about the old man. I spoke of the sensitivity and concern they both had shown me. They had shown how much I mattered to them. The love expressed through such actions carries great meaning for the comfort and transformation it brings. I confessed that I wished I had such gentleness in my own manner. I had to admit that while some virtues were within my reach, others were inaccessible due to my personal characteristics. The Taoist master was firm: “You will be who you choose to be. No more, no less. Everyone carries within themselves the power over their own life”.
I disagreed. I argued that there are multitudes of people who wish for a different lifestyle than the one they have but will never achieve it, and they know it. I too wanted to be different from who I was. Although I had tried for many years, certain traits prevented me from making the necessary changes to achieve that longed-for transformation. Li Tzu did not hesitate: “If you speak of external results, then yes, your reasoning is correct. However, outer achievements do not guarantee inner victory. And it is there that the true meaning of life lies, not in the external”. I asked him to explain further. He clarified: “We have no control over the situations and circumstances of the world, for they depend on the will or interests of others aligning with our own. These are complex issues that do not always correspond to personal ability. When they do, it’s wonderful because we achieve our goal; when they don’t, it’s also wonderful, because we face new opportunities for growth. The strength of life lies in the personal power to understand priorities and refine choices. One must distinguish where the power of the world lies and where the strength of life resides. These paths are not always aligned. Understanding that difference, and tracing a route that satisfies you, defines a genuine lifestyle. Contrary to what many believe, lifestyle does not change with fame or money, but through the understanding of the importance of the taste and perspective one has toward oneself and the world. We change our way of living at the rhythm of our inner transformations, even if those around us don’t understand or wish to follow. There is no other way to evolve and find happiness. That is within anyone’s reach”.
I said it wasn’t quite so. I pointed out that we each have our own personality and temperament, and are also subject to other influences such as physical and cultural traits. Not to mention the impactful or traumatic experiences of the past, inseparable from who we are and how we understand ourselves. Without denying the beauty of uniqueness and the importance of change, some traits, especially the essential ones, cannot be altered. Li Tzu shook his head and said, “That reasoning contradicts the very idea of evolution. There are no harmful or unpleasant aspects in a person that cannot be refined to perfection. To evolve is to sharpen perception and sensitivity in order to structure a new way of acting and reacting to all kinds of situations. Only this changes a lifestyle. Anyone can do that”.
I argued that because of certain disastrous experiences, it’s common to develop a pessimistic outlook, distrust toward everyone, harshness in relationships, a tendency toward anger, resentment, insecurity, fear, and disbelief in virtue and in tomorrow. These are just a few of many aspects that end up shaping a person’s way of being and living. I was an example of my own argument. Born in a hostile, violent neighbourhood, within a family that neither understood nor met my emotional needs, there was no way to change the forge that had shaped me in the fire and hammer of experience. Some parts of me could be transformed; others, never. They were permanent marks, I said with conviction. Gentleness and patience, to name just a few, were not for me. The rough, irritable, and impulsive way I reacted whenever I felt wronged was a fight I knew was futile. The gentleness and serenity I so admired in others would never be available to me. Li Tzu looked at me sweetly and asked, “Are you telling me that many of the traits in your temperament and personality that you dislike so much, as well as the dysfunctional behaviours born from uncomfortable past experiences, will be carried as burdens and wounds until the very last day of the endless day? That we are victims and prisoners of traits, events, and circumstances with no possibility of healing or liberation?”. Yes, that was exactly it, I affirmed. Temperament and personality are innate or formed very early, solidifying over time, impossible to reshape later, despite one’s personal dissatisfaction. Some choices were available to me; others were not, I confirmed.
The Taoist master sipped his tea unhurriedly, as though searching for the exact words that could reveal the error of a belief that restricted and squeezed me within the limits of my own possibilities and abilities. He reflected, “You are less when you could be more. This happens to those who are afraid to grow”. I immediately refuted the absurdity of his statement. Of course, I wanted to change and evolve. The issue was that I needed to be aware of what could be changed and what was immutable. Li Tzu explained, “To evolve is to become someone you have never been before. You will have to relearn how to deal with results different from those you are used to. Frightened, you will doubt whether the change will be beneficial. Because it is a transformation of consciousness, a revolution within yourself, you fear not knowing who you will become. You will indefinitely postpone the moment of movement. The mind is fertile in producing excuses and subterfuges. You will choose to shrink within the absurd belief in immutability. You will repeat that you have no choice until you believe your own lie”. He tapped his index finger on the table and stated seriously, “Who you are has brought you this far; it will never be enough to take you further. To move forward, you must become someone else; you must go beyond yourself within yourself. And that necessarily involves a remoulding of temperament and personality as an indispensable method for a different and refined lifestyle”.
I found it strange that temperament and personality could serve to shape a lifestyle. Li Tzu clarified, “They are the central foundations that sustain all other aspects of transformation. A change in clothing, hairstyle, home, job, or profession, as well as tattoos or trips to exotic places, do not always reflect inner transformation. Often, they express inner dissatisfaction that cries out for understanding, while the individual fails to grasp the confusion within that drains the meaning from life. They act as escapes from an avoided solution. In truth and essence, lifestyle only changes through the remodelling of temperament and personality. Broadly speaking, since the subject is vast, temperament reflects how a person handles their emotions and feelings, how they react to adversities and difficulties. Personality, in turn, is refined as character and ethics become more valuable than material interests and mere sensory desires. The quality of choices and the gentleness of movements become substantially more refined. Consciousness, whether of oneself or in relation to all things, people, and situations, gradually gains clarity and loses bitterness. A new and genuine lifestyle is established through the creation of a transformed being. Priorities, attitudes, values, and directions change. There is no other way to discover the wonders of the world and the joy of life”.
According to those definitions, yes, it was possible to improve one’s personality. Without a doubt, character and ethics can be refined. I was proof of that. Priorities and choices that had once seemed natural were now inconceivable, given the mistakes and absurdities I could now see. From a moral standpoint, that former man no longer existed. Self-education has, among other purposes, the goal of sharpening one’s ability to discern right from wrong, of not resorting to evil under the mistaken belief of doing good. It is a necessary and endless learning process. That was the facet of conscious evolution that I accepted. On the other hand, I had plenty of reason to believe in the immutability of temperament. I was proof of that as well. For a long time, I had sought an improbable emotional balance that could keep me steady in the light when faced with the difficulties or provocations caused by others. I never succeeded; in the end, I gave up. To me, temperament was definitively an innate or early-acquired characteristic that, with time, became immutable. Li Tzu explained, “The root of the error lies in the premise of your reasoning. No one has the power to steal anyone’s peace. Each person does that to themselves. It happens when one allows oneself to be dominated by anger”. I interrupted to say that I didn’t like feeling angry. The Taoist master reflected, “No one likes it. It’s unpleasant, it makes us feel bad, it robs us of what is best within us. Anger is a nefarious ancestral inheritance. It has always been used as a tool of domination, subjugation, persuasion, to bend others to our truths and interests. Born of ignorance and selfishness, anger deprives us of serenity, reason, and balance. What harms me is not another’s anger, but my own. What damages me is not the behaviour of others, but my inability to interpret and respond to it differently”. Surprised, I asked if he was suggesting that feeling anger was simply my choice, with no connection to the actions directed at me. Li Tzu did not hesitate: “Yes,” he replied, as if no further word was necessary.
If that was the case, I asked why I couldn’t react without anger in situations of provocation, disagreement, or conflict. The Taoist master frowned and said, “Lack of courage”. I said that made no sense. Courage had nothing to do with anger, I argued. Li Tzu explained, “When faced with a problem, a difficulty, or any other existential challenge, our ancestral conditioning takes us to the sensation of war. Since time immemorial, anger and fear have been the common feelings of the battlefield. As fear renders us powerless, we learned to use anger to fight. Unconsciously, we believe anger to be the proper feeling for struggle. It is a behavioural addiction that we apply to all our current relationships, of every kind and nature. Anger brings the illusion of strength. To be stronger than another seems to mean winning the war. A common and vulgar mistake. It is at this point that we lose ourselves. We move away from the essence that individualizes, beautifies, and illuminates us. Then we fall into the emotional imbalance that so weakens us and diminishes our inner and outer mobility”. I asked where courage came into that process. He disconcerted me: “There is a lack of courage to go to battle without fear or anger. We are left with the mistaken sense of vulnerability”.
He took another sip of tea before continuing, “I refer to relationships as if they were battles of consciousness. And they are. There’s nothing wrong with that. The error lies in carrying the anger of ancestral wars into today’s existential challenges. The individual gets lost and shrinks; the world narrows and wounds; life becomes bitter and isolating. Choices diminish, not because they cease to exist, but because one loses the ability to see them. The fragility that comes from losing power over oneself opens the door to mental and emotional instability. The agony seems endless. We become less when we could be more. No one has taught us to fight without anger. We must learn. Then temperament, once believed immutable, will be reshaped by noble feelings and clear ideas through the manifestation of virtues such as humility, selflessness, simplicity, patience, compassion, and gentleness. There is love and wisdom in all virtues. The strength of movement will expand, and balance, once thought impossible, will finally be attained. Suffering will leave for lack of a place to dwell. One becomes master of oneself only upon learning to choose the feelings that govern one’s thoughts and choices. Otherwise, one remains enslaved by the emotions that have always diminished them”. Then he emphasized, “It is necessary to relearn how to feel feelings. Only the precise understanding of each one will allow them to be used in favour of one’s own evolution”. He opened a worn copy of the Tao Te Ching, which always sat on the kitchen table for occasional reference, and showed me the opening lines of poem thirty-three: To conquer others is power; to conquer oneself is enlightenment. Then he concluded, “To truly change a lifestyle means to change the battlefield. It will never be against anyone. Life finds meaning in the inner struggle to refine personality and redesign temperament as the only way to continue the journey toward the light. There is no other victory. All else is decoration, disguise, and illusion”.
The dawn was breaking. The students began arriving for class. We finished our tea without another word. None was needed. I stayed in the village for a few more weeks studying with the Taoist master. None was needed. The fundamental lesson for a new lifestyle, one that would help me better relate to myself and the world, had already been taught that very dawn.
Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic
