The Power of the Herd (29 page)

How might our world look different? How might we then respond to our world? How might the world change in response to us?

For our purposes here, I'd like to focus on one long-neglected topic: non-predatory wisdom. In this case, while Confucius and Muhammad were significant visionaries with much to offer on other topics, let's concentrate on three religious figures who changed the world by explicitly recommending and, most important,
living
a “yin” approach to power.

While characteristics of predatory versus nonpredatory power in nature are discussed in Guiding Principle 8 (see
chapter 20
), it's important to recognize that we still live in a culture where brute force, predatory behavior, and opportunistic dominance hierarchies proliferate. As a result, the very idea of nonpredatory power initially seems elusive, overoptimistic, even mystical — mostly because the emotional- and social-intelligence skills involved are hard to photograph, dissect, or translate into words. Perhaps this is why nonviolent alternatives to civilization's predatory orientation were initially exemplified by religious leaders who, as mentioned earlier in this chapter, promoted mutual aid over competition for limited resources, tend-and-befriend behavior over flight-or-fight, and the ability to calm and focus others over the age-old practice of scaring people to gain control (Guiding Principle 7;
chapter 19
). These men also exemplified emotional heroism (Guiding Principle 11;
chapter 23
) and the related ability to feel vulnerable without becoming aggressive or defensive (Guiding Principle 5;
chapter 17
).

As oxytocin research suggests, some of these qualities are instinctual in women. But in relation to
social evolution,
it was a significant, paradigm-busting move for
men
like Lao-tzu, the Buddha, and Jesus to further develop these principles, urging large groups of people to temper aggressive, knee-jerk survival mechanisms for the short- and long-term benefit of the
entire human race
(not merely the local tribe). That all three expressed this goal as being inspired by a “higher source of wisdom” is appropriate considering how dramatically these innovators strayed from the callous, destructive, sometimes blatantly murderous behavior that was both common and often lawful during their lifetimes.

A compassionate, mutually supportive approach to power was, and still is, counterintuitive for many humans. Yet — whether by divine intervention or by a strange evolutionary mutation that occurred, virtually simultaneously, in China, India, and the Middle East between twenty-five hundred and two thousand years ago — it's clear that these ancient innovators somehow made the idea of following a nonpredatory path compelling, influencing billions of followers who have, throughout history, tried to understand and live up to the potential their leaders tapped millennia ago.

There's a serious lack of information on the Chinese sage Lao-tzu. Some historians suggest his name, a pun that simultaneously means “old master” and “old child,” may have been the pen name for a group of anonymous sages who wrote the Tao Te Ching in the sixth century
BCE
, but there's no question that someone associated with that book had a vision. Taoism represented a dramatic, unprecedented departure from the philosophy of the warring tribes and equally aggressive city-based monarchies running amok in ancient China.

At a time when women, and most men for that matter, were made slaves to whoever was strong and ruthless enough to seize power and struggle to hold it, the Tao Te Ching recommended that people “know the yang” (the active, masculine principle), “but keep to the yin” (a nurturing, feminine principle). With this seminal statement, Lao-tzu was quietly urging his followers to temper their predatory tendencies by emphasizing the supportive, benevolent qualities inherent in nature. What's more, by aligning with the Tao, the “way of things,” the primordial essence of the universe, people could achieve peaceful coexistence with each other, not through rigid human laws, but through a fluid connection with life-giving forces, unified somehow through a coordinating intelligence that was both purposeful and adaptable.

Lao-tzu avoided characterizing the Tao as a deity; it was infinitely larger than all the ancestors, nature spirits, and gods in the Chinese pantheon combined, encompassing the qualities they personified and so very, very, very much more. Even so, the Tao wasn't flashy, bombastic, or vengeful, and it didn't play favorites. In his many metaphors on the subject, Lao-tzu described this elusive principle as the
root
of existence working quietly underground to seed, stabilize, and nourish the growth that appeared, flowered, and shriveled, only to flower again and again. Lao-tzu often referred to the Tao as the “mother” of creation, without forgetting that it also contained the yang, the father. He also emphasized that each created being was simultaneously an expression of a certain
aspect of the Tao and, at a deeper level, a holographic image of the Tao's most basic principle:
“Everything has both yin and yang
in it,” the Tao Te Ching revealed, “and from their rise-and-fall coupling comes new life.”

Human holograms were, in essence, mini-universes. Still, they gained power not by striking out on their own but by aligning with the original source of what they mirrored. Lao-tzu observed that sacrificing one's petty concerns and willful, shortsighted ways to harmonize with the Tao allowed individuals to achieve “effortless action” in concert with an innovative yet primarily nonverbal force of creative ebb and flow. People couldn't misuse the Tao, because they had to give up their human ambitions to follow it. The Tao was inherently virtuous because it enfolded the needs and talents of the individual into the trajectory of the whole, giving rise to everything seen and unseen, spoken and unspoken, through a constant, eternally morphing play of opposites symbolized by the yin/yang circle itself.

The author of the Tao Te Ching spent much time distinguishing this nameless, formless “way of things” from the countless nameable things, forces, and ideas that are manifestations of it. Descriptions of the Tao place it
firmly
in the realm of the “other 90 percent,” in that it can never be defined or expressed in words. And yet, Lao-tzu insisted, it could be
known
and
experienced.
Its primary operating principles could be observed and most efficiently accessed in nature, which is why early Taoist sages were always emerging from the wilderness radiating immense peace and wisdom, saying a few choice words, gathering a few students, and disappearing back into the trees, sometimes never to be heard from again.

As a force of social evolution during the rise of city-based cultures, however, Taoism had limited appeal. People had to be adventurous
and
sensitive, willing to
feel
rather than force their way through life. They also had to leave the security of the known, spend some time away from the herd, and be transformed in ways that would make it hard to reenter their old lives. So while I personally would rather be a sage than a slave, I must also appreciate the reality of what people are willing to endure — and give up — to stay with family and friends.

Taoism had no overt, tangible social context for the wider view of freedom and connection it represented. But it did give people a glimpse of an egalitarian, nonpredatory form of power. Everyone had direct access to the Tao. It wasn't thriving at anyone's expense; it was sustaining each unique being born into the world while also acting for the good of the whole. No one had to serve a tyrant to get close to the Tao, or become a bully to protect his stake in it. It was like traveling a river downstream: all you had to do was lift your feet out of the
sand and float. You didn't even have to jump in and catch a wave, because the Tao was already flowing everywhere around you. You only had to relax into this buoyant force and a wave would catch
you.

For most humans, this deceptively simple concept was incredibly threatening. Throughout the Tao Te Ching, Lao-tzu observed how civilization's most cherished habits of perception and social organization worked in opposition to the “way of things.” Unfortunately, the
unproductive
forms of leadership, competition, and self-interest Lao-tzu described are as common now in the West as they were in China twenty-five hundred years ago. This does, however, make it easy for modern humans to understand the classic Taoist dilemma: When you've spent your entire life trying to possess and control the river, frantically swimming upstream, any advice to let go is an affront to your human ego and, most likely, the habits of your ancestors. More distressing is the
sensation
of release: The moment you stop struggling and allow the current to carry you, you not only seem to be sliding backward, the sudden rush of power feels like certain death.

At that point, most people panic, dog-paddling ferociously, struggling to regain their balance by pushing against the river again. What they don't realize is that by refusing to trust this much larger fluid force, they're striving, ponderously, strenuously, desperately, to swim back toward the
past,
to where the river has
been
— and not getting very far in the process. Because as the current surges relentlessly downstream, sparkling in sunlight, glistening in moonlight, singing softly in the darkness, those who fight the Tao are mostly treading water.

When I first encountered the words of Lao-tzu in a college religion course, they sounded so whimsical, so paradoxical, so delightfully mystical. But his advice turned out to be incredibly practical when it came to training horses, prompting me to realize that this shrewd and compassionate Chinese master was actually offering helpful,
grounded hints
on how to succeed in life with the least amount of grief and effort possible. From this perspective, the Tao Te Ching was clearly an ancient improvisation on the theme of “what got you here won't get you there,” written for the entire human race. (See my discussion of the book by this name in
chapter 6
.)

But Lao-tzu's words, no matter how intriguing, didn't come close to teaching me what I needed to know. They were a thin layer of icing on one massive cake. In my early thirties, I was compelled, more by necessity than philosophical curiosity, to explore the deeper, experiential wisdom of the Tao — focusing, as it turns out, on the opposite of Lao-tzu's advice for feuding Chinese war lords.

Growing up in the 1960s, before the women's liberation movement, I had been trained to submit, to be a “nice girl,” to intuitively feel what others were too proud to ask for in order to soothe, support, and please them, to let beauty speak louder than words while saving sex for marriage. My yin had been overemphasized, and distorted, stretched in seemingly opposing directions by fashion magazines, movie stars, and conservative, understandably paranoid parents. Well into adulthood — despite one divorce, a brilliant second marriage, and, at a professional level, numerous management opportunities — I realized that I most certainly did
not
know the yang. Outside the pleasures of romantic relationships, I didn't even
want
to know the yang: the competitive, survival-of-the-fittest, adolescent-alpha models of leadership I witnessed actually made my stomach turn.

And that's where horses, masters of nonpredatory power, became my greatest teachers. Through years of frustration, trial, and error, they helped me understand what power really was — and, initially at least, what it was not.

When I bought my first mare, Nakia, in 1993, I assumed, like many people, that riding horses would somehow be easy, natural. As a child, I found my equestrian ambitions thwarted by parents, who sprang for music lessons instead, hoping I would grow out of that horse-crazy stage. Even so, I was allowed to assist a friend at fairs and horse shows and occasionally ride her pony in exchange for cleaning stalls. But it wasn't enough to satisfy my urge to spend time with these soulful animals, alone, on my terms.

And so for years I lived a secret life, sneaking over to a nearby horse trader's farm after school to cavort with members of his transient herd. The old man caught me a few times and threatened to tan my hide, but I persisted. Like a deer, cautious and observant, camouflaged by the brush, I became increasingly invisible to him as I slipped through barbed wire into a secluded back pasture, knowing that the herd would alert me to his predatory gaze in a thousand subtle ways.

There I'd lure the calmest, friendliest horses to the nearest fence or tree stump and ease onto their backs. But without a bridle or lead rope, I had to go wherever the spirit moved them. Most of the time, they simply grazed, unconcerned, effortlessly hauling me about, indulging the tiny two-legged creature who brought them carrots in exchange for informal rides. I spent hours stroking their shiny coats and hugging their big strong necks, feeling peaceful, connected, expanded, aware, and ecstatic all at once, addicted, I now realize, to an oxytocin high contagious to the entire herd.

On days the trader went to auction, I tested the trust growing in my skittish, younger companions by encouraging them to run and leap next to me,
sometimes enticing them to the fence and getting them to stand still long enough to slip onto their backs for a clandestine trot or gallop. And I'd laugh, flopping about, hanging on to their manes, sliding off and squealing when they made an unexpected turn. For five years, I let my parents believe that I was out climbing trees, catching butterflies, eating blackberries, and picking wildflowers, which I truly was doing — on my way over to the farm. Had they known about my real hobby, they surely would have locked me in my room or invested in a much safer course of riding lessons.

As an adult, however, I discovered that horses held me to a different standard. Or perhaps more accurately, I was holding
myself
to a different standard in presuming that these proud, agile, thousand-pound animals would accept me as their leader. Massages, apples, and walks through the desert helped my first mare and me bond — as companions. But that didn't mean she thought I was in charge, not by a long shot.