Zhuangzi, Zen, and the Humor That Unties Knots – Talk 3

In this session, Tim Burkett continues his series on Zhuangzi with a deep exploration of humor as a spiritual tool in Taoism and Chan/Zen. He begins by situating Zhuangzi as the second great Taoist sage, whose playfulness influenced how Buddhism transformed once it entered China. Taoism had already inverted Confucian categories with lightness and irreverence; when Buddhism arrived, Taoism did the same, fusing with it to form Chan. Humor became a way to collapse rigid distinctions—sacred/profane, beautiful/ugly, enlightened/deluded—and loosen the mind’s habitual knots.

Tim reads Zhuangzi’s story of Ziyu, whose body becomes twisted by illness, yet who experiences no resentment. Ziyu accepts transformation with equanimity, describing life and death as natural shifts within the Tao. This “untying of knots” becomes a central theme: humor dissolves fixation and frees us from taking categories and identities as fixed.

Tim contrasts Taoist humor with early Indian Buddhist seriousness. In the Vinaya, laughing aloud is considered an offense; in early Buddhism, open laughter is associated with frivolity. But once Buddhism entered China, Taoist influence reintroduced full-bodied laughter and play. Stories arise of sages laughing at the moon so loudly that whole villages wake, or Zen masters answering questions with wooden balls, raised fingers, or quiet amusement.

Tim highlights three iconic images: Hanshan and Shide laughing over a blank scripture, the big-bellied frog as a Taoist/Zen teacher, and the Three Laughing Monks who traveled from village to village spreading joy by presence alone. He explains the Chinese restaurant “Laughing Buddha” as Putai—an incarnation of Maitreya—whose belly symbolizes hara, grounding, and a relaxed relationship with life.

The talk moves through additional tales of Taoist-Zen eccentricity: Ryokan hiding so thoroughly during children’s games that he nearly gets lost in a hay bale; a dying master who revises his own metaphor (“truth is like a river… okay, truth is not like a river”); and another master whose last words are simply praise for a piece of cake. These stories demonstrate a consistent letting-go of conceptualization, identity, solemnity, and spiritual pride.

Tim shares personal stories from his own practice. He recounts an early opening experience at Tassajara and a humorous exchange with his teacher about “ugly ducklings” and “swans,” illustrating how quickly the mind re-attaches to identity. He emphasizes that lineage, roles, and spiritual achievements are useful but easy to cling to—and humor helps dissolve their rigidity.

He also tells the story of Suzuki Roshi visiting his grandmother—arriving in robes, playing with the family kitten, and delighting everyone while confounding her expectations of what a priest “should” be. The theme returns again: roles are constructs; laughter reveals the unbounded reality beneath them.

Toward the end, Tim speaks about acceptance, aspiration, and imperfection. Discipline matters—meditation, daily practice, showing up—but perfection is a trap. Real opening happens through embracing flaws, one’s own and others’. Letting go of dualistic thinking allows us to feel held by something larger, described in Taoist terms as the Tao or “the valley of the universe”—a maternal, boundless presence that supports all beings without becoming an object of belief.

The concluding stories return to impermanence and freedom: the “already broken glass,” Zhuangzi’s cosmic view of his own funeral, and the naturalness of forming and unforming. Humor, in Tim’s telling, is not escape but a doorway into non-duality—meeting life without tightening around identity, certainty, or control.

The class ends with questions from participants about Buddhism entering China, non-duality, discipline, aspiration, and the relationship between acceptance and intention. Tim emphasizes that aspiration remains meaningful, but clinging does not; duality softens when we stop rejecting the moment we are in.