From Jigsaw Puzzle Chaos to Clarity: Rediscovering Our Natural Roots

My wife's perspective on a missing puzzle piece can guide our return to the uncarved block.

Image from Unsplash

My wife loves puzzles, but I do not. She has a felt mat where she builds them and rolls up the mat after she’s done for the day. Then, when she’s ready, she’ll unroll the mat across the kitchen or dining room table and get back to work scouring a sea of cardboard for one tiny piece. Thousands of pieces of different shapes and colors cover our table some days. I’m always worried the dogs will pull the felt mat off the table, scattering a thousand tiny species all over the kitchen floor.

When we first married, my wife, Jessica, wanted puzzles to be an activity we did together. I don’t know if it’s some ADHD, anxiety, or both, but I hate putting puzzles together. I get bored and frustrated, and I wanted someone to tell me where the piece went! How could she expect me to find where a blue, dime-sized piece of paper fits among a sea of blue dime-sized pieces of paper?

However, because I always wanted to spend more time together, I agreed to help her with her puzzle a few times, maybe for an hour or two. After watching me fail to find a single connection while she completed entire rows, Jessica resigned to putting it together alone. I remember one such instance where she completed a massive puzzle, all by herself, only to find a single piece missing. Where did it go? Who knows.

We had multiple children under 7 years old then, and we weren’t the best cleaners in the world. In my mind, the puzzle was now ruined and useless, but my wife saw a job well done— hours spent examining, thoughtfully testing, and keeping her family company put into one 3x4-foot puzzle. To her, while she regretted losing only one piece, she felt a deep sense of accomplishment. I thought, how did she and I look at the same puzzle, live the same experience of its construction, yet come to two different conclusions?

In Taoism, a no matter which text you read, Laozi or Zhuangzi, you’ll discover an idea commonly referred to as the “uncarved block.” In Chinese, the character is pronounced, “pǔ,” (pooh). Pǔ is vitally important and is mentioned several times in Zhuangzi’s work and Laozi’s Tao Te Ching, the seminal text of Taoism. It’s so important that American author, and New York Times Best Seller, Benjamin Hoff wrote a book using Winnie the Pooh as the embodiment of pǔ named The Tao of Pooh.

I want to deeply examine pǔ today and explore its roots in Taoism.

Let’s get into it.

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Like all Chinese symbols, pǔ has different meanings based on it’s context. I’ll list a few of them:

• unworked (uncarved) wood

• cut down, felled trees

• nature; essence; intrinsic quality

• simple; plain; unadorned; unaffected

(left: modern “pǔ” Right: primitive“pǔ.” Image credit fourthwaytoday.org)

Growing up, we learn to be good people through rules, structure, and dogma. While there are times children are allowed to be their unfiltered, natural selves, more often parents teach their children through a series of “don’ts.”

Don’t put that in your mouth.
Don’t touch that.
Don’t come into my bedroom before 6 AM.
Don’t eat ketchup straight out of the container.

These are simple, obvious rules for safety and sanity. However, as children age, rules become more abstract, obtuse, and confusing.

Don’t have too many partners.
Don’t trust people who live in that country.
Don’t vote for that person.
Don’t believe in that religion.

In Taoism, there is a concern that the longer we allow societies and cultures to influence us, the further away from our true nature we grow— we lose ourselves.

A Chinese philosopher, Zhuangzi, wrote of the concept of the uncarved block. Zhuangzi lived before 286 BCE. Unlike Laozi, most scholars believe Zhuangzi existed and credit him for his work. While there are writings with his name whose authenticity is debated, the work ascribed to him without ambiguity is known as the Inner Chapters. A humorous and quick-witted writer, some prefer his storytelling method to the philosophical poetry of Laozi in the Tao Te Ching.

Drawing of Zhuangzi (credit: wikimedia.commons)

One of my favorite Zhuangzi stories is the crooked tree.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “This old tree is so crooked and rough that it is useless for lumber. In the same way, your teachings have no practical use!” Zhuangzi replied, “This tree may be useless as lumber, but you could rest in the gentle shade of its big branches or admire its rustic character. It only seems useless to you because you want to turn it into something else and don’t know how to appreciate it for what it is. My teachings are like this.”

Laozi, in Tao Te Ching chapter 28, defines it more poetically.

Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English
When the block is carved, it becomes useful.
When the sage uses it, he becomes the ruler.
Thus, "A great tailor cuts little."

As is so perfectly explained, nothing is useless. Every person and object can be utilized, but our cultural and personal ability to define the world around us limits our expectations. For example, the tree won’t make a serviceable boat, table, or chair in Zhuangzi's story because the wood is too crooked and rough. But Huizi expectation of uselessness fails to see the bigger picture. He only knows the tree can be turned into objects, but fails to understand that a tree is exactly what it needs to be.

Photo by Gilly Stewart on Unsplash

What about our bodies? As doctors and scientists, we define how a human body should look, function, and act based on averages. If most people are 5’9”, then 5’9” is normal; shorter and taller people are now not normal. Perhaps a fancy word is prescribed to those who are not 5’9”, and maybe medications or surgeries are created to adjust their bodies.

What about mental health? Is the human too active, loud, outgoing, sad, happy, or unhappy? Does the person enjoy being alone, quiet, still, or solemn? Then medications and treatments are needed because the majority of bodies don’t work the same way.

Yet, when we look at a tree, it is perfect. It grew in the direction of sunlight—the direction of life. It had to grow that way because it’s the only way the tree knows. So too are our bodies. They grow the way they do because they have to. Barring injury or injustice, our bodies grow naturally all on their own. As someone who has a body that is VERY different from birth, let me be very clear:

There’s nothing wrong with you. Like the tree, you reached for the light and won.

The tree does not feel shame for having too many branches or anxiety for what object it might be turned into when it is dead. Why should a tree care if it was a seed before it sprouted or if its roots will become a new tree after it is dead?

A tree is a tree, and it is the best tree it can be.

It’s not enough to examine our physical self, however. We must also examine our potential and nature.

Nature and the universe are destructive and creative. So, too, are people. We murder, kill, destroy, but also birth, create, and save. Our existence mirrors the Tao. Let’s use a dog as an example.

Dogs might be the closest animal to Tao that we have regular contact with. Dogs experience a wide range of emotions like people, but when dogs see the sky, they only see the sky. Dogs don’t worry about a giant rock raining down on us or if the moon will move too far away. They also don’t stop to appreciate the blue sky or the white fluffy clouds. Dogs don’t worry about next week or regret last year. When my dog eats my food, he feels ashamed and puts his tail between his legs, yet mere minutes later, he is happy and ready to play and be petted.

When people do something wrong, we might remember it for decades. In fact, even though I’m 42 years old, I remember accidentally taking my shirt off in class when I was six years old in kindergarten. I was given a yellow behavior card for it and had to tell my parents what happened. I can still feel the embarrassment and shame over 35 years later. Do you think my dog worries about the scraps of pizza he stole off my plate last week? No, of course not.

Our true nature, the way Tao moves to create life, is not riddled with anxiety or stress. Those are conditions we create by the rules and expectations of ourselves or each other. Through dedicated and thoughtful practice, we can return to our natural state—to the uncarved block.

I’m not stating that you should act like a baby with your language or bathroom habits. Instead, I’m asking you to let go of what is not naturally you. Don’t allow others to change what you feel inside, no matter who it is. Only you know the true you. Only you know how you feel.

Sometimes, we have to unlearn our lessons to see our true nature, even when we must forget who we have become.

When we lose ourselves, we find ourselves.
When we unlearn, we become smart.

My wife doesn’t have much time to complete puzzles anymore. The kids have grown into teenagers, and our evenings are filled with volleyball in the spring and football in the fall. Now, the kids stay up later, and I’m usually asleep by 10:30 PM. So, the days of large puzzle making are over for now.

Puzzles come in several shapes and sizes. Most are paper or cardboard, but some are flesh and blood. Our lives often feel like a massive jigsaw puzzle that we are missing a piece to. However, the trick is to think more like my wife thought about that puzzle. Due to the world we are raised in, it’s natural to feel like a piece is missing sometimes, but it is not.

In embracing the philosophy of pǔ, we learn to see our lives as my wife saw her puzzle—not as incomplete or flawed, but as beautifully whole, even with a perceived missing piece. By letting go of societal expectations and returning to our natural, unadorned state, we can find peace in simply being, like a crooked tree that thrives in its own unique way. This perspective invites us to cherish our imperfections and trust that, like a puzzle, every piece of our existence fits perfectly in its own right.

Ultimately, the uncarved block reminds us that our true nature is enough. Taoism calls for us to live authentically and without pretense. By unlearning the rules that bind us, we can rediscover the simplicity and wonder of who we are, finding harmony in our lives’ beautiful, uncarved essence.

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