Like water: Lessons from Taoism in modern Korea

River flows smoothly between moss-covered rocks with lush greenery and clusters of pink flowers. Courtesy of Jaesung An

That things were different here in Korea first became apparent to me when I started watching the movies: "Oldboy," "JSA," "Seopyeonjae," "Memories of Murder," "Peppermint Candy," and many many more. I would get to the end of these outrageous dramatic journeys and the climax would just punch me in the face. I was used to the good guy winning, defeating evil, kissing the girl, and riding off into the sunset as the credits rolled.

Here, however, the whole thing was flipped. The good guy died. The story left unresolved. And all sorts of other mental twists that didn’t make sense to me. I sat there, open-mouthed. What the hell kind of movie was this? Meanwhile, the Korean people around me in the cinema or at home, nodded silently as if to say, “Yep. That’s how it goes.”

Then a friend told me that the thing I’d grown up fearing was little more than a cultural construct that didn’t really belong in East Asia. The devil, Satan, Mephistopheles, Beelzebub — whatever name you give it — wasn’t a central figure here.

Yes, the culture has dokkaebi (goblins), mangtaehalabeoji (bogey man), tigers and all sorts of other things that go bump in the night. And of course, with the spread of Christianity in the last century or so, ideas of Satan and eternal damnation eventually became part of Korean religious life. But in traditional folklore and philosophy, the personification of evil, the eternal opposite of the good, wasn’t the defining story.

Over time I came to see that the worldview I had inherited was not a universal truth but a local way of making sense of things. It was a story my community told to explain life, to bind people together, and to offer meaning. Elsewhere, people told very different stories, with other characters and other endings.

So like many who leave home, I only began to understand my own culture once I had lived inside another. And in Korea, confronted by films that refused neat resolutions, I found myself encountering Taoism, with its paradoxes and parables, its way of seeing the world as flow rather than finality.

Taoism

Taoism is like water. It yields. Is flexible, and flows around obstacles; Confucianism is like the mountains: rigid, structured, and upright. One emphasizes adaptability and harmony with change, while the other prizes hierarchy, ritual and stability. Together, they form the two great poles of traditional Korean morality. The tension between them is a wonderful dance. The kind man likes the mountains and the wise man likes the water, so the proverb tells us.

One of my favourite stories is that of the farmer and his horses (Saiweng Shima). All my Chinese students know it and nod approvingly when I begin to tell it. My western students gaze at me with the same kind of face I used to have when I started watching Park Chan-wook movies. For one half of my class, I’m basically telling them something they’ve heard a 1,000 times before, something like the story of Santa Claus, Easter, Jesus, or Robin Hood. For the others, they begin to wonder what else they’ve been missing out on.

I tell it somewhat like this: A Chinese farmer has a farm (obviously) and on his farm he has a horse to help him with his work. However one day, his horse gets up and runs away. Seeing this, the farmer’s neighbor comes to commiserate him. “Your horse has run away. Now who’ll work on your farm? That’s terrible news!”

Ever the good Taoist, the farmer looks ahead calmly and says, “Good news. Bad news. Who knows?” The neighbor is a bit weirded out by the reaction. How could it not be bad news if your horse runs away?

A few days later, the sound of hooves breaks the morning calm. The farmer’s horse comes running back. But because horses like running in groups, it has brought 5 other horses with him. The farmer now has 6 horses! Gripped with excitement, the neighbor comes to visit him once again. “Six horses? Wow! That’s fantastic news for you.” The farmer, like last time, remains calm and says, “Good news. Bad news. Who knows?”

“You’re definitely a wrong ‘un,” the neighbor mutters to himself.

The next week, the farmer’s son is riding one of the new horses, trying to break it in so that they can use it for work. As he does, the horse suddenly bolts, sending the young man flying to the ground. He breaks his leg and cries in pain. No longer able to work, he lays down on the floor. “Oh no!”, the neighbor says. “With harvest just around the corner as well. Your son was always a good worker. That’s terrible.”

By now, you can guess the answer. And my students often say the line for me: “Good news. Bad news. Who knows?” And the farmer was right. Because the following day the army come round looking for young men to recruit for their latest war. A likely death sentence. Upon observing the farmer’s son sprawled out on the floor, his leg bandaged, they see no need for him and move on to the next town. The farmer’s son is saved.

The message is the same as we find in Korea’s most famous Buddhist story, that of Monk Wonhyo and the Skull Water. What was good news became bad news. What was bad news became good news. Day becomes night. Night becomes day. Summer turns to winter. But, in time, spring returns. What might seem like the worst thing in the world could soon have a very positive impact on your life.

Good and bad aren’t mutually exclusive. They are deeply connected. The yin and the yang chasing each other around and around in an eternal dance, just as the seasons change, and flowers grow and then eventually wilt. As the apple falls from the tree, so you find yourself in this big wonderful game of life. And once you realize that, that the Tao is everything, like the force flows through life in "Star Wars," you can become a little more like the farmer. Like water.

Like Water

And why is Taoism like water? Around 70 percent of the Earth’s surface is water. And 60 percent of our bodies is water. We came from water. To be water, one could say, is our nature.

Because water is formless. You put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put it into a tumbler, it becomes the tumbler. Water does not seek anything except the path of least resistance. It nourishes all things without seeking recognition. It goes around obstacles rather than smash though them. But over time it can wear down even the greatest of mountains. Water has no intentions yet it nourishes existence quietly, without force or pride.

So, when I get some good news, perhaps a television appearance or something, my wife will look at me and, without missing a beat, say, “Be careful.” She knows that I am becoming too attached to my good news. I am seeing something wonderful right now but who knows what will happen next? Who knows how these things will pan out? Certainly not us. For how can we expect to know the ways of the universe? Sometimes, the proverb tells us, monkeys fall from trees. So, we have to be like water. To go with the flow. And even in the rush of modern Korea, this message can still be heard.

Look at the Korean flag, the Taegeukgi, and notice that big red and blue circle in the middle. This is the Taegeuk. The symbol showing the balance of the universe. The red is positivity and the blue negativity. It dates back to Taoism and the Chinese often refer to it as the Taiji. In the West, we call it yin-yang. It’s the great ultimate. The balance of forces. Where one begins, the other ends. And knowing these patterns is to be able to navigate existence and find yourself constantly in the right place at the right time. The person follows the pattern of earth. Earth follows the pattern of Heaven. Heaven follows the pattern of Tao. And Tao follows the pattern of nature.

In Korea, people see the Taegeuk on their flag every day, but perhaps they don’t stop to realize what it really means: that balance, change, and flow are not just ideas from the past, but living truths. To see this, you only need to look again at the water around you, within you, and before you. And then flow.