The Soft and Supple Belong to Life

Reading it step by step

Yesterday's willow survived by bending. Today Laozi takes that idea to its root: life and death.

First: what lives is soft. Look at a newborn: soft bones, soft fingers, and yet a surprisingly strong grip. Look at a spring shoot: it bends at a touch, and grows taller every day. When life ends, people go stiff and plants go dry. From this Laozi reads a basic direction: softness is a mark of life. “Soft and supple” doesn't mean powerless. It means still flexible, still able to change, still growing.

Third: “the strong and big end up below; the soft and supple rise above.” Look at a tree. The thick trunk and roots hold it up from below; the tender leaves are at the top, catching the light. Laozi isn't saying strength is useless. Strength belongs underneath, holding things up; the flowers open where it's soft. It echoes the water of Day 15: the softest thing in the world wears through the hardest stone.

This chapter is especially useful as we get older. Bodies stiffen: at school you leapt out of bed at the alarm; later, getting up becomes a slow business. So we stretch. Minds stiffen too: “I've always done it this way,” “What do young people know?” When those sentences come out, it's a sign the heart has started to dry. Arguments are the same. The harder the position, the easier it snaps.

Today, do one small thing to soften: stretch for five minutes, or listen all the way through to an opinion you disagree with without rushing to answer.

Softness is proof you're still alive.