Chapter 15: The Butterfly and the Fish Trap: Living More Lightly

One Year Later in the School Car Park

A year has passed since Paloma, the deputy head we met in the first chapter, sat in her car in the school car park, unable to make herself go in. Much has changed since then. She talked with her doctor, who helped her understand what was happening and what she needed. She stopped answering emails after nine in the evening. She asked her colleagues to share some of the tasks she had carried alone. She began to walk in the park at lunchtime, to leave work at a reasonable hour most days and to keep Sunday afternoons free.

Paloma still works hard. She is still a dedicated teacher and a devoted mother. But she no longer lives on tiptoe. She has learned to notice when the bowl is full, to look for the natural joints in difficult tasks, to rest without guilt and to let some things go. Her colleagues say she seems calmer. Her children say she laughs more. She says she feels like herself again, though a slightly different self from the one who used to keep going no matter what.

This morning, Paloma arrived at school early, as she still often does. But instead of rushing in, she sat in her car for a few minutes, not because she could not move, but because she wanted to. She watched the sun rise over the playground. A few birds were hopping on the grass. She felt a quiet happiness that she had not felt for years. Then she went inside and began her day.

As she walked to her office, Paloma realized something that made her smile. When she first began to change her life, she had approached it the way she approached everything: with a plan, a list and great determination. She had tried very hard to stop trying so hard. Only slowly had she learned that the art of not forcing could not itself be forced. It had to be held lightly, like a bird in an open hand.

In this final chapter, we will look at three stories from the Zhuangzi that speak of lightness: a dream of a butterfly, a fish trap that can be forgotten and two friends watching fish from a bridge. They remind us how to carry the ideas of this book without turning them into one more heavy load.

The Butterfly Dream

At the end of the second chapter of the Zhuangzi, there is a short passage that has become one of the most famous in all of literature. In my own words: once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed that he was a butterfly, fluttering happily here and there, enjoying himself and doing as he pleased. He did not know that he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke up, and there he was, solid and unmistakably Zhuang Zhou. But he did not know whether he was Zhuang Zhou who had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming that it was Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and a butterfly, there must be some difference. This, he says, is what is called the transformation of things (Zhuangzi, chapter 2).

This passage has been read in many ways. Some readers see it as a reflection on the nature of reality: how do we know what is real and what is a dream? Others see it as a reflection on change: we are always transforming, from one state to another, and our sense of a fixed self is less solid than we think. Both readings are interesting. For our purposes, it offers something simpler: a picture of lightness.

Think about the butterfly in the dream. It flutters here and there, happily, doing as it pleases. It does not know that it is Zhuang Zhou. It does not carry his worries, his plans, his reputation or his list of things to do. It is simply alive and light, enjoying the air and the flowers. Then Zhuang Zhou wakes up, solid and heavy, back in his ordinary self. And he wonders which one is really him.

People who try too hard often feel very solid and very heavy. They are certain about who they are: the responsible one, the hard worker, the person who keeps everything going. This certainty can become a burden. The butterfly dream gently loosens it. Perhaps we are not as fixed as we think. Perhaps there is a lighter self within us, one that can flutter and enjoy, that we have forgotten in our busy lives. And perhaps, like Zhuang Zhou on waking, we can wonder whether the heavy, serious self is the only one, or whether the butterfly is also us.

Paloma felt something like this in the car park, watching the birds. For a few minutes, she was not the deputy head with a list of tasks, not the mother with lunches to make, not the person who used to keep going no matter what. She was simply someone watching the sunrise, light and happy. Then she went inside and became the deputy head again. But she had remembered the butterfly.

The Fish Trap and the Words

In the twenty-sixth chapter of the Zhuangzi, one of the later chapters, there is a passage that speaks directly to how we should hold the ideas in a book like this one. In my own words: a fish trap is for catching fish. Once you have caught the fish, you can forget the trap. A rabbit snare is for catching rabbits. Once you have caught the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words are for catching meaning. Once you have caught the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find someone who has forgotten words, so that I can have a word with them? (Zhuangzi, chapter 26).

The last line is a joke, and a good one. The speaker wants to talk with someone who has forgotten words, which of course would require words. But the main point is serious. Tools are for their purpose. Once the purpose is achieved, we do not need to cling to the tools. A fisherman who carried his fish trap everywhere, admiring it and polishing it, but never ate the fish, would have missed the point.

This passage is a gentle warning for anyone reading a book of ideas, including this one. The ideas in this book, the bowl filled to the brim, Cook Ding's knife, the useless tree, the soft strength of water, the fasting of the mind, are tools. They are fish traps. Their purpose is to help you live more lightly, rest more fully and stop forcing what does not need to be forced. Once they have done that, or once they have done as much as they can, you do not need to hold on to them tightly.

This matters especially for people who try too hard, because they are very likely to turn any set of ideas into another heavy task. They may make a list of all the exercises in this book and try to do them perfectly. They may judge themselves for not resting well enough, not being soft enough, not fasting the mind properly. They may carry the fish trap everywhere and forget to eat the fish. That would be a very sad way to read a book about not forcing.

So the fish trap passage suggests a lighter way of holding these ideas. Take what helps. Use it. When it has done its work, let it go. If an idea or exercise does not help, set it aside. You do not need to remember every story or follow every step. The aim was never the trap. It was always the fish: a life with more ease, more rest and more joy in it.

The Happiness of Fish

In chapter 17 of the Zhuangzi, there is a delightful story about Zhuangzi and his friend Huizi, the clever philosopher who appears in many of the stories. The two friends were strolling on a bridge over a river. Zhuangzi looked down at the water and said, "Look at the little fish darting about so freely. That is the happiness of fish." Huizi, who loved arguments, said, "You are not a fish. How do you know what the happiness of fish is?" (Zhuangzi, chapter 17).

Zhuangzi replied, "You are not me. How do you know that I do not know what the happiness of fish is?" Huizi said, "I am not you, so of course I do not know what you know. And you are not a fish, so it is clear that you do not know the happiness of fish." Zhuangzi said, "Let us go back to where we started. You asked me how I know the happiness of fish. So you already knew that I knew it when you asked. I know it here, standing on this bridge over the river" (Zhuangzi, chapter 17).

This story has been discussed for centuries, and its arguments are tricky. Huizi is reasoning carefully about what can be known. Zhuangzi is playing with his friend's words, and also, perhaps, pointing to something that reasoning cannot quite capture: the simple, direct experience of standing on a bridge on a fine day, watching fish dart through clear water, and feeling their freedom and joy. He does not need to prove it. He knows it there, on the bridge.

For people who try too hard, this story offers a picture of a different way of being in the world. Huizi is always analysing, questioning and arguing. He is clever, and his arguments are not wrong. But he is not enjoying the fish. Zhuangzi is enjoying them. He is present on the bridge, with the water and the fish and the day. His knowledge is not a conclusion reached by effort. It is something received by simply being there.

Many of us live more like Huizi than like Zhuangzi. We analyse our lives, question our choices and argue with ourselves about what we should be doing. All of this has its place. But sometimes, the most important thing is simply to stand on the bridge and watch the fish. To be present, light and open to the joy that is available in ordinary moments, without needing to prove or achieve anything.

Saanvi and the List of Calm

Saanvi is thirty-four and works as a manager in a company that organizes trade exhibitions. After a period of exhaustion, she began reading about Laozi and Zhuangzi, and she found their ideas deeply helpful. She was so enthusiastic that she made a detailed plan. Every morning, she would do five minutes of the fasting of the mind. Every lunchtime, she would take a walk without her phone. Every evening, she would write in a journal about where she had forced things that day. Every weekend, she would spend an hour being useless.

For a few weeks, Saanvi followed the plan perfectly. Then, one busy week, she missed the morning practice twice and forgot her journal three evenings in a row. She felt guilty and anxious, as if she were failing at not forcing. She began to set reminders on her phone for each practice and to track her success in a chart. The practices that had brought her peace began to feel like more tasks on her list.

One evening, Saanvi read the passage about the fish trap. She laughed out loud, because she recognized herself. She had been carrying the trap everywhere and polishing it, and she had forgotten the fish. The practices were meant to help her live more lightly. She had turned them into another heavy load.

Saanvi let go of her plan. She deleted the reminders and threw away the chart. She kept a few practices that she genuinely enjoyed, such as walking at lunchtime and sitting quietly for a few minutes in the morning, but only when she felt like it. Some days she did them, and some days she did not. She stopped writing in her journal about forcing, because she noticed that writing about it every evening had become a kind of forcing too.

"I was trying so hard not to try so hard," Saanvi says, smiling. "The fish trap story set me free. The ideas are there when I need them. I do not have to carry them every minute." Saanvi's story is a reminder that the art of not forcing must be held lightly, or it becomes its own opposite. Use the ideas. Enjoy them. And when they have done their work, let them rest.

Ludovic on the Bridge

Ludovic is fifty-eight and works as a quality inspector in a factory that makes glass for windows. For most of his life, he has been serious, careful and hard-working. He worries about mistakes, about the future and about whether he has done enough. His work requires him to look for flaws, and he has developed a habit of looking for flaws everywhere: in his home, his garden, his own behaviour and, sometimes, in the people around him.

Recently, Ludovic's daughter asked him to look after her two young children, aged four and six, on Saturday afternoons. Ludovic was nervous at first. He was not used to small children, and he worried about doing it wrong. On the first Saturday, he took them to a park with a pond. The children ran to the edge of the water and pointed at the fish, shouting with delight. "Look, Grandpa! They are so happy! They are playing!"

Ludovic's first thought was that fish do not play, and that they could not know whether the fish were happy. It was the kind of thought Huizi would have had. But then he looked at his grandchildren's faces, shining with joy, and at the fish darting through the sunlit water, and he decided to set the thought aside. He knelt down beside them and watched. After a while, he said, "Yes. They do look happy." The children nodded seriously.

That afternoon changed something in Ludovic. He began to look forward to Saturdays. He let the children show him things: ants carrying crumbs, clouds shaped like animals, the way the wind made the trees sound like the sea. He discovered that, through their eyes, the world was full of joy that he had stopped noticing. He was still a careful inspector during the week. But on Saturdays, he was standing on the bridge, watching the happiness of fish.

"I spent my life looking for flaws," Ludovic says. "My grandchildren look for wonders. I think they are closer to the truth than I was." Ludovic's story is a reminder that lightness and joy are often closer than we think, and that sometimes the best teachers of the art of not forcing are those who have not yet learned to force: children, animals, the natural world. They know the happiness of fish without needing to prove it.

Practical Steps: Holding It All Lightly

The first step is to choose a few ideas, not all of them. Look back over this book and notice which ideas have helped you most. Perhaps it was the bowl filled to the brim, Cook Ding's knife, the empty space, the useless tree or the storm that passes. Choose two or three to carry with you. Let the others rest. You can always come back to them.

The second step is to use the ideas when you need them, not as daily duties. The art of not forcing is not a programme to complete. It is a set of tools to pick up when life calls for them: when you notice the bowl overflowing, when you are hacking at a problem, when your inner taskmaster grows loud, when a storm comes. The rest of the time, simply live.

The third step is to notice when you are turning these ideas into another burden. If you find yourself feeling guilty about not resting properly, not being soft enough or not doing the exercises, remember the fish trap. The ideas were meant to make your life lighter. If they are making it heavier, set them down for a while.

The fourth step is to remember the butterfly. From time to time, let yourself be light: playful, curious, unhurried, without a purpose. Watch the sky. Listen to music. Dance in the kitchen. Let the serious self rest for a moment, and remember that there is a lighter self within you too.

The fifth step is to stand on the bridge. Look for moments of simple, present joy in your ordinary days: the light on a wall, a child's laugh, a good meal, fish in a pond. You do not need to analyse them or prove them. You can know them where you are, as Zhuangzi knew the happiness of fish from the bridge over the river.

The sixth step is to keep learning from nature. The images in these old books come from the natural world: water, trees, seasons, fish, birds, butterflies. Spend time in nature when you can. Watch how things grow, rest and change without forcing. Let the natural world remind you of the Way.

What These Old Books Can and Cannot Do

As this book ends, it is honest to say what the Daodejing and the Zhuangzi can and cannot do for a tired heart. They can offer images and stories that help us see our lives differently: the bowl filled to the brim, the cook who follows the joints, the empty space that makes things useful, the water that wears down stone, the useless tree that lives, the archer whose hands tremble for gold, the monkeys and their chestnuts, the turtle in the mud, the fasting of the mind, the storm that passes. They can remind us that effort has a natural limit, that rest is part of the work and that there is a way of acting that does not exhaust us.

They cannot remove the real pressures that many people face: demanding jobs, financial worries, caring responsibilities, illness, unfairness. They cannot replace practical help, fairer conditions at work or the support of other people. If you are exhausted for a long time, if rest does not help, if your mood is very low or if you are struggling to cope, please talk to a doctor or another qualified professional. If you ever feel that you might hurt yourself, contact a helpline or a medical facility right away, and in immediate danger call your local emergency number.

What these books can do, perhaps most of all, is give permission. Permission to stop before the bowl overflows. Permission to rest without guilt. Permission to be useless for an hour. Permission to let a storm pass without fighting it. Permission to watch the fish. For people who have spent their lives trying too hard, this permission can be a great gift. It does not come from a doctor or a manager or a book of rules. It comes from two old, wise, playful voices who knew, more than two thousand years ago, that the Way does not force, and yet nothing is left undone.

A Short Exercise: A Letter From the Butterfly

This final exercise is light, as befits a chapter about lightness. It takes about fifteen minutes, and there is no right way to do it.

Imagine that, like Zhuang Zhou, you have dreamed that you were a butterfly: light, free and happy, fluttering here and there, without any worries or tasks. Now imagine that the butterfly could write a short letter to the person you are when you are awake: busy, serious and trying hard.

Write that letter. Let the butterfly speak in its own voice, which may be playful, gentle or even a little cheeky. What would the butterfly want you to know? What would it remind you of? What would it invite you to do? Do not think too hard about it. Just let the words come.

When you have finished, read the letter. Notice how it feels to hear from your lighter self. You might keep the letter somewhere you will find it on a heavy day. Or, in the spirit of the fish trap, you might simply read it once, take whatever meaning it has for you and let it go.

Paloma wrote her butterfly letter on a Sunday afternoon, sitting in the garden. It was short. "Dear Paloma," it said. "You do not have to carry the whole school on your back. You are allowed to sit in the sun. The emails will still be there tomorrow, and so will you. Come and look at the flowers with me sometime. Love, the butterfly." She laughed when she read it. Then she put down her pen and went to look at the flowers.

Chapter Summary

In chapter 2 of the Zhuangzi, Zhuang Zhou dreams that he is a butterfly, light and happy, and on waking cannot be sure whether he is a man who dreamed of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of being a man; this is called the transformation of things. In chapter 26, a fish trap is for catching fish and can be forgotten once the fish is caught, just as words can be forgotten once their meaning is grasped. In chapter 17, Zhuangzi, standing on a bridge with Huizi, knows the happiness of fish directly, without needing to prove it.

Paloma a year after her exhaustion, Saanvi who turned calm into another list and Ludovic who learned from his grandchildren to watch the fish all found that the art of not forcing must itself be held lightly. These old books cannot remove real pressures, but they can give tired hearts permission to stop before the bowl overflows, to rest, to let storms pass and to enjoy the happiness of fish.

Throughout this book, we have met many people who tried very hard: teachers and mechanics, farmers and students, carers and managers, parents and grandparents. None of them stopped caring or stopped working. All of them learned, in their own way, to stop forcing: to follow the joints, to leave empty space, to bend like young trees and to flow like water. May you find your own way to do the same, lightly, without forcing, like water finding its way to the sea.