VOLUME VII, CHAPTER 10, SECTION 3

VOLUME VII, CHAPTER 10, SECTION 3

Let It Be as It Naturally Is: This Book's Fate from Here On

The last section made plain that the one who truly does the great work is the reader, and at its end brought out this layer: once this book is written, its fate from here on is handed to what? The answer: to letting it be as it naturally is. The book is written. That heart has set into words. All that could be done has been done. From here on, how far it travels, who reads it, whether it lasts in the world, none of this can the one who wrote it force, and none of it should he force. Only let it be as it naturally is. The seed has been sown. As for which ground it falls on, when it sprouts, whether it grows up, that is handed to the season of heaven, the lay of the land, and the human heart. This letting go is exactly the last stroke of the ground color, originally, not a single thing, as it falls on how this book's fate is met.

One. What Could Be Done Has Been Done

First look at this layer: by the time the book is written, what the one who wrote it could do, he has done.

To set that heart into words, to make those reasons plain one by one, to say that set of institutions and that care as clearly and as thoroughly as he can, and so write a book like this: this is what the one who wrote it can do. Having done this much, that heart has been entrusted to the words, and that small oil lamp has been lit. As for how far the light of this lamp can reach, how many people can see it, how many other lamps it can light, that is no longer something the one who wrote it can sway by himself. What he can do is light the lamp and hold it up. As for which way the wind blows, how many people pass along the road, how many are willing to stop and look at this bit of light, those are things outside the lamp, things he cannot force even with all his strength. What could be done has been done. The rest can only be handed over.

Anyone who has truly got something done understands this layer. A farmer ploughs deep, works the soil fine, sows, waters. All he can do, he has done. As for whether the crop yields a full harvest in the end, that still hangs on the season of heaven: a rain that comes just right, a spell of fair weather at the right time, he cannot pray these in and cannot force them. What he can do is do his own share to the full. Having done it, he calmly hands the rest to the season of heaven. Writing a book is the same. The one who wrote it has spent his heart and strength, said the reasons through, set that heart into the words, and his share is done. As for the second half of this book's road, the half that needs the season of heaven, the lay of the land, and the human heart to bring it about, that is no longer in his hands. To insist on gripping and forcing even what is not in your own hands not only cannot bring it about, it breeds endless anxiety and clinging, and spoils that clear stillness of originally, not a single thing. So when you reach the point where all that could be done has been done, the wisest and the calmest thing is to open the hand and hand the rest over.

Two. The Rest, Handed to Letting It Be as It Naturally Is

The rest is handed to letting it be as it naturally is. These four characters are also a wisdom handed down by the sages before.

Letting it be as it naturally is does not mean passively leaving everything to fate and caring about nothing. It means that after you have done the share you ought to do, toward what is not yours to force, you do not cling, do not force, do not fret. Whether this book will travel, whether anyone will read it, when it will be read, what kind of people will read it, whether after reading they can grow that heart and do those deeds: none of these is something the one who wrote it can take into his own hand once the book is finished. To force it to travel down the ages is folly. To fret that no one will ask after it is clinging. Letting it be as it naturally is means setting down both the forcing and the fretting: what should be said has been said, what should be done has been done, and from here on its fate goes on, naturally, following the season of heaven, the lay of the land, and the human heart. If it is meant to give light in this age, someone will read it. If it must wait a hundred years before someone picks it up, then let it wait. If in the end it sinks without a trace, that is no harm either, so long as that heart once, in this shape, truly stayed in the human world.

This calm toward fate is easy to talk about and very hard to do. With a work you have poured your heart's blood into, the hardest thing is exactly this letting go. You always hope it will be seen, recognized, remembered. You always fear it will be passed over, buried, forgotten. Between this one hope and this one fear lies the clinging that cannot be set down. And letting it be as it naturally is means loosening that clinging exactly at this hardest place. It is not that you do not hope this book does well. It is that "hoping" and "forcing" have been pulled apart. To hope it does well is only human, and no harm. To force it to do well, to travel, to be remembered, is clinging, and troubles the heart. One who lets it be as it naturally is only sees to writing the book well with his whole heart. As for its fate, it is like setting a boat out on the river. Once the boat is well built and the sail is full, let it go with the current. As for which ferry landing it drifts to, whom it carries, when it comes to shore, these are no longer things the person on the bank can, or should, worry over. This calm of "once the boat is built, let it go" is the true meaning of letting it be as it naturally is.

Three. Why He Can Let Go Like This

Why can the one who wrote it let go like this, let this book's fate be as it naturally is? Because the ground color, originally, not a single thing, and the clear sight that "the one who does the great work is the reader," prepared this letting go long ago.

First, originally, not a single thing: the "I" in the heart has been set down very light. With no clinging to "I," there is no forcing of "my book must last through the ages, must make my name." The book is the shape of that great love, not a monument to the merit and fame of the one who wrote it. Whether a shape lasts or passes need not be clung to; the last chapter has already laid that down. Second, the one who truly does the great work is the reader, and this book is at most a spark, an oil lamp. Whether the spark catches a fire, whether the oil lamp lights other lamps, the power to decide was never in the book or in the one who wrote it. It is in the readers, in the human heart, in the season of heaven. Since the power to decide was never in your own hands, forcing is wasted effort and fretting is troubling yourself for nothing. See these two layers clearly, and letting go comes of itself: it is not making yourself let go against your will, it is that there was never anything you had to keep gripping. This easy calm in letting go is exactly the place where the ground color, originally, not a single thing, shows most what it is worth, and moves people most.

Since ancient times, those who set down teachings have mostly found this pass hard to get through. They pour their heart's blood into writing a book, and always hope it will be "hidden away in a famous mountain and handed down to the right people," and leave a name for a thousand ages. This hope is only human, yet it is exactly the "I" that cannot be set down, at work. And this book has set down even this, the clinging that a writer finds hardest of all to set down. It does not ask to be hidden away in a famous mountain. It does not ask for a name that lasts a thousand ages. It only asks that the heart of that great love truly, really stayed in the human world. As for how long it stays, how far it travels, it does not ask at all. This "not asking" is not not caring. It is moving what you care about from "my book, my name" to "whether that heart can stay in the human world." Once it has been moved, the clinging to "will my book last through the ages" naturally thins and is gone. Only by setting down clinging even here, in the writing of a book, the place where clinging grows most easily, has this ground color, originally, not a single thing, truly come down to earth and stood the test.

Four. Letting It Be as It Naturally Is Is Not Holding Back the Heart

One layer must be told apart: letting it be as it naturally is is never holding back your heart, never not striving, never letting things slide. Just the opposite. It is an easy calm you can only speak of after you have spent all your heart and strength.

If a person never gave his whole heart at all, and with the thing not done well says "let it be as it naturally is," that is not letting it be as it naturally is. That is passing the buck, that is laziness, that is finding an excuse for not giving his whole heart. True letting it be as it naturally is has a condition before it: you have already given your heart in full and your strength in full. The one who wrote it poured his heart's blood into this book and wrote it with all he could give. What should be said, he said to the end. What should be guarded, he guarded. There is not one place done carelessly, not one grain held back. Exactly because he has given his whole heart and strength like this, then toward the outcome, toward the outcomes that human strength cannot force, he can speak of calmly letting go. Do all that a person can do, and then accept what heaven decides. Doing all that a person can comes first, and is full effort. Accepting what heaven decides comes after, and is full calm. Letting it be as it naturally is speaks exactly to the second half of "do all that a person can, and then accept what heaven decides." And the reason it can stand, and stand calmly, rests wholly on the first half, that full giving of the heart, having already been done.

This must be told apart with special care, because people of this world most easily use the words "let it be as it naturally is" to excuse their own slackness. The thing did not get done, because in fact they did not try their hardest, yet they say "I did my best, let it be as it naturally is," and wrap laziness and carelessness in a coat of broad-mindedness. This is the worst misuse and spoiling of letting it be as it naturally is. True letting it be as it naturally is always has beneath it the condition "I have already done everything I could." Without that condition, "let it be as it naturally is" is empty, it is false, it is a cloth to cover the shame of slackness. So when you see a person say let it be as it naturally is, first look at how much of his heart he gave beforehand. If he gave it in full, that letting it be is true broad-mindedness. If he gave it by three tenths or half and then says let it be as it naturally is, he is fooling himself. The reason this book can bear the words "let it be as it naturally is" is exactly that the one who wrote it, in writing it, poured that full heart and strength into it without holding back a grain. Only because of this can there be, toward its fate from here on, a calm that is true and has nothing to be ashamed of.

Five. The Layer This Section Makes Plain

This section makes plain that this book's fate from here on is handed to letting it be as it naturally is.

By the time the book is written, what the one who wrote it could do has been done: that heart has set into words, that lamp has been lit and held up. All the rest, how far it travels, who reads it, whether it lasts, cannot be forced by human strength, and so is handed to letting it be as it naturally is: not clinging, not fretting, letting it go its own way with the season of heaven, the lay of the land, and the human heart. This letting go rests first on the ground color, originally, not a single thing, and second on the clear sight that "the one who does the great work is the reader." And it is never holding back the heart. It is exactly the easy calm of "do all that a person can, accept what heaven decides," after the heart and strength have been given in full. With this book's fate handed to letting it be as it naturally is, this volume, this book, draws near its close too. Further on, a few more things remain to be told: what the root purpose of all this lawmaking is; which vein of the ancestors this heart takes up; and last, one word to leave, solemnly, for the next generation of real humans, and for the AI of the future.

Credit to the ancestors; the mistakes are mine: Tiger Lyon.

Chapter Eleven. The Root, the Purpose, and Where It Comes From.