Ancient and Classical South and Southeast Asian Ideas of Nature

Vedas, Buddhism, Taoism

In the Mediterranean conceptions of nature that we investigated last time, we found a trend which emphasized the role that knowledge plays in securing our place in the cosmos. The power structures of the Sumerians were based around the idea of the more perfect knowledge of the Ensi, whose understanding of the desires of nature supposedly allowed them to bring human civilization into a position that allowed us to subdue and master it. In the Israelite conception, it was the word, with its supposedly unchanging nature, that gave us the fixed laws which told us how to put nature to our best use. The Greeks’ emphasis on logos, on reason, was an important part not just of understanding the world, but in devising systems of control that allowed us to impose order, kosmos, on the world. And in the Roman writers, agriculture was seen as the finest human activity because it allowed Rome to master and control nature as a means of securing the ongoing existence of the Roman State. In these conceptions, which as we will see in coming weeks are central to nearly all American ideas of nature, looking past the uncertainty of nature’s sometimes violent vicissitudes to the unchanging laws that govern it is one of the most essential tasks of human labor. Uncertainty is, in these conceptions, an obstacle to human progress, and the uncertainty of natural systems is the most fundamental hurdle in the development of human society. As we will see today, this differs in many ways from the major ideas of nature that emerged from other bronze age civilizations in the wake of the discovery of agriculture. In the Indian, Chinese, and Japanese civilizations of antiquity, nature’s uncertainty is fundamental to what it is. The process of coming to have an idea of nature is, in these traditions, almost always itself a part of what nature is understood to be.

As stated in the last post, humanity spread out over the face of the earth beginning around 130,000 years ago. Then, approximately 12,000 years ago, evidence of settled, agricultural civilization begins to appear in the historical records. The beginnings of agriculture in India and China, two of the world’s oldest continuous civilizations, date back to the early Neolithic period, around 7000–5000 BCE. In India, evidence from sites such as Mehrgarh in present-day Pakistan reveals early farming of wheat, barley, and the domestication of cattle. In the Chinese Yellow River and Yangtze River valleys, millet and rice became staple crops, with archeological sites like Banpo indicating a thriving Neolithic agricultural culture as early as 5000 BCE. While the domestication of plants and animals in these regions occurred around the same period as early agriculture in the Near East, the question of whether these developments were connected through diffusion or arose independently has been a subject of hot debate. The diffusionist theory posits that knowledge of agriculture might have spread eastward from the Fertile Crescent, given the movement of peoples and trade across Central Asia. However, evidence suggests that both India and China may have independently developed agricultural practices suited to their local environments, possibly in parallel with, but not directly influenced by, Near Eastern civilizations.

The possibility of independent discovery of agriculture in India and China is supported by the distinct crop varieties and farming techniques that emerged in these regions. For instance, rice cultivation in China appears to have no direct parallel in the Near East, where wheat and barley were dominant. Similarly, in India, the early domestication of zebu cattle and unique forms of irrigation adapted to the subcontinent’s varied climates suggest indigenous innovation rather than external influence. This view is reinforced by the relative geographic isolation of these early Neolithic communities from the core agricultural zones of Mesopotamia and the Levant. While cultural exchanges with the Near East certainly occurred over millennia, the emergence of agriculture in both India and China likely reflects a combination of local experimentation with plants and animals and possible long-distance exchanges of ideas, leading to convergent, rather than derivative, agricultural developments.

Whether it was derived from the areas investigated last week or not, the civilizations of what are today called the Harappan people, show signs of settled, cultural development as early as 5000 BCE. The Harappan civilization, also known as the Indus Valley Civilization, flourished between approximately 3300 BCE and 1300 BCE in the northwestern regions of South Asia, primarily in what is now Pakistan and northwest India. This civilization, one of the world’s earliest urban societies, developed along the fertile floodplains of the Indus River and its tributaries, benefiting from an abundance of water and rich alluvial soil. The Harappans constructed advanced cities such as Harappa, Mohenjo-Daro, and Dholavira, characterized by sophisticated urban planning, drainage systems, and other impressive architectural achievements. Their economy was largely based on agriculture, supplemented by trade with distant regions, including Mesopotamia. The vast spread of the civilization, covering over a million square kilometers, allowed for a variety of agricultural practices tailored to the region’s diverse ecological conditions. The populations of these areas, also, far exceeded those of their neighbors in the middle east, with some estimates reaching as high as 5 million people at its height.

As in Sumeria, the ecological conditions of the Indus region played a critical role in shaping the Harappans' farming practices. The annual flooding of the Indus River and its tributaries deposited nutrient-rich silt onto the surrounding plains, creating ideal conditions for the cultivation of staple crops such as wheat, barley, and pulses, or edible roots. The relatively stable climate, with seasonal monsoons, ensured a reliable water supply for irrigation. Harappan farmers also practiced mixed cropping and likely rotated their fields to maintain soil fertility. In addition to cereal crops, the civilization cultivated cotton, one of the earliest known examples of textile production, which played a significant role in their trade networks. The Indus Valley’s diverse microclimates, ranging from arid areas near the Thar Desert to more temperate regions, necessitated innovative agricultural techniques, including the use of water management systems and well-digging to irrigate crops in areas distant from rivers.

The political organization of the Harappan civilization and their contemporaries in Sumeria presents a striking contrast in terms of governance, leadership, and societal structure, despite both being early complex urban societies. The Sumerians, located in Mesopotamia, developed a highly centralized and hierarchical political system, with city-states like Ur, Uruk, and Lagash being governed by powerful kings or priest-kings known as ensi. These rulers not only held political authority but also religious significance, often seen as intermediaries between the gods and their people. Sumerian city-states frequently engaged in warfare with each other, competing for resources and territorial control. Their society was marked by clear social stratification, with the king and priestly class at the top, followed by landowners, merchants, and artisans, and finally slaves at the bottom. Political power was concentrated in urban centers, where rulers managed irrigation projects, military defense, and religious rituals, creating a theocratic state system.

In contrast, the political organization of the Harappan civilization remains more enigmatic due to the absence of direct evidence of kings, palaces, or clear hierarchical governance. Archaeological findings suggest a more decentralized or corporate political system, where power may have been distributed among various administrative and civic leaders rather than being concentrated in a single ruler. The uniformity in city planning, standardized weights and measures, and the lack of monumental tombs or palaces imply a relatively egalitarian society, at least in comparison to the Sumerians. Harappan cities such as Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro demonstrate a high level of civic organization, with advanced drainage systems, granaries, and public baths, indicating a focus on communal welfare and collective decision-making rather than the glorification of individual rulers. While religious practices were important, there is little evidence of a centralized religious authority comparable to the temple complexes of Sumeria.

Another key difference lies in the external relations of these two civilizations. While the Sumerians were often engaged in conflict, as evidenced by their frequent wars with neighboring city-states, the Harappan civilization appears to have been more peaceful. Not just with respect to other people, but with the natural world as well. There is little evidence of warfare or large-scale military activity within the Indus Valley, suggesting that Harappan society might have prioritized trade and internal stability over territorial expansion. In contrast to the Sumerian rulers who commanded armies and built fortifications, Harappan cities lacked significant fortifications and seem to have been more focused on maintaining economic networks, including long-distance trade with Mesopotamia. This suggests that while both civilizations developed complex political structures, the Sumerians were more hierarchical and militaristic, while the Harappans may have operated under a more cooperative and less centralized system of governance.

Over time, however, the ecological conditions that once sustained the Harappan civilization may have contributed to its decline. Evidence suggests that changes in river patterns, possibly due to tectonic activity or climatic shifts, led to the drying up of the Saraswati River, a key waterway for Harappan agriculture. The reduced flow of the Indus River and a weakening of the monsoon system likely exacerbated food shortages and hindered the ability to maintain large urban centers. As agricultural yields declined, the cities of the Indus Valley may have become unsustainable, leading to a gradual dispersal of the population. The interplay between environmental changes and social stresses highlights the importance of the ecological foundations upon which the Harappan civilization was built, underscoring how its rise and fall were closely connected to the region's natural conditions.

The migration of people from the north into the Indian subcontinent during this period of dispersal, traditionally dated around 1500 BCE, occurred in an ecological context that played a significant role in shaping both their culture and their interactions with the existing populations. The Aryans, as they have been called, a name etymologically related to their original provenance in Iran, had developed their culture in the steppes of Central Asia, and were pastoral nomads whose lifestyle was deeply connected to the grasslands and the mobility required to tend their cattle. Their worldview, as reflected in the Vedas, was shaped by this relationship with nature, emphasizing the power of the sky, fire, and wind, which mirrored the open, expansive environments they came from. When they migrated into the fertile river valleys of northwestern India, they encountered a landscape defined by the monsoon-fed rivers of the Punjab and the Ganges plains, vastly different from the arid regions they had known. This new environment allowed for more permanent forms of settlement and agriculture, which in turn began to influence Aryan society’s evolving relationship with the land.

Ecologically, the Indian subcontinent offered a diversity of landscapes, from fertile plains to dense forests and rivers that regularly flooded, providing nutrient-rich soil. The pre-existing Harappan civilization, which had long adapted to the annual rhythms of the Indus River, had developed a sophisticated understanding of nature’s cycles, including flood management and irrigation techniques. This knowledge, coupled with the rich biodiversity of the region, had fostered a settled agricultural society in harmony with the land. The Aryans, initially unfamiliar with intensive farming, gradually adapted to these conditions, incorporating agriculture into their largely pastoral way of life. This shift not only altered their material practices but also led to changes in their ideas about nature. The sacred significance of rivers, for instance, became central in Aryan religious practices, as seen in the importance of the Saraswati and Ganges rivers in Vedic texts.

Both Aryan and Harappan cultures viewed nature as a force to be respected, but their approaches differed. The Harappans had developed a more settled, cooperative relationship with the land, focusing on managing the resources of the river valleys to sustain their cities. The Aryans, with their pastoral roots, initially saw nature in a similar manner to the Sumerians, as something to be tamed and harnessed, evident in their reverence for powerful natural deities representing the forces of the sky, wind, and fire. However, as they integrated into the ecological and cultural landscape of India, their ideas of nature evolved. The Vedic texts increasingly reflect a reverence for the earth’s fertility and the cyclic patterns of life, suggesting that the Aryans, through their encounter with the ecological conditions of India, developed a more integrated and holistic understanding of nature, blending their earlier nomadic traditions with the agricultural practices of the indigenous cultures they encountered.

In the selections from the Rig Veda, we can notice some interesting points of contrast and comparison with the ideas we last encountered in the Middle East and Mediterranean holy texts, especially in the context of the conceptions of nature that come along with it. The word veda is a cognate with some words we have already encountered in other contexts, meaning something similar to ‘idea’ or ‘knowledge’ or ‘wisdom’. It derives ultimately from the proto-Indo-European root weid, meaning “to see,” and thus has the same association with vision as the Greek idea or eidos. The “Hymn of the Origins,” however, one of the later books added to the Veda, is striking in its acceptance of uncertainty. “At first was neither Being nor Nonbeing/ There was not air nor yet sky beyond./ What was its wrapping? Where? In whose protection?/ Was Water there, unfathomable and deep?” and later, “Who really knows? Who can presume to tell it?/ Whence was it born? Whence issued this creation?” It goes on to say that “Even the Gods came after its emergence./ Then who can tell from whence it came to be?” and finally “That out of which creation has arisen, / whether it held it firm or it did not,/ He who surveys it in the highest heaven,/ He surely knows” but then adds, “or maybe He does Not!”

Compared to the texts of the mediterranean cultures we’ve seen so far, this is an extraordinary amount of ambiguity. As in the Sumerian contexts, the irregularity of nature’s cycles is something that presents problems to the people of the Indus valley. Unlike the Sumerians, however, the authors of the Vedas do not assert that this uncertainty need be met with the supreme authority of a single politico-religious figure like an Ensi, a god-king. This is not to say that there was not hierarchy in the Vedic culture. It was through the subjugation of the indigenous people by the coming of people from the north, as in Greece with their great, patriarchal sky gods, that the caste system we are familiar with first emerged. It was not, however, through the power and knowledge of the brahmins, however, that such uncertainty was conquered. This state of unknowing was, instead, simply fundamental to the Vedic relationship to the cosmos. A wide variety of practices, such as meditation, ascetic fasting, sitting indefinitely on top of tall pillars, tantric and other forms of yoga, devotional prayer, long bouts of sitting facing the sun, and so on, emerged in the absence of any single, central doctrine or practice as in the near east. 

At the end of the Vedic period, another set of texts, referred to as the Upanishads emerged as a kind of post-note to the Vedas. These texts, which mean something near to “sitting close to the teacher,” began to focus less on the rituals of the earlier Vedic period, and turn more directly to the practical approach to knowledge that are reflected in the practices just mentioned a moment ago. These texts, taking as their jumping off point the fundamental uncertainty of the Vedas, emphasized the role that one’s own practices have in attaining knowledge, as opposed to the earlier emphasis on our relation to the gods through nature. Behind the chaotic fluctuations of nature, whose character is Maya, or illusion, was a less material, more spiritual relationship to the principles of existence that one attained through a relationship with Brahman, who is “the beginning and end and life of all.” In the Upanishads, “Man in truth is made of faith. As his faith is in this life, so he becomes in the beyond: with faith and vision let him work.” The Upanishads emphasize that “There is a Spirit [i.e. Brahman] that is mind and life, light and truth and vast spaces. He contains all works and desires and all perfumes and all tastes. He enfolds the whole universe, and in silence is loving to all.” This Brahman, which is the life of all and which enfolds all of nature, is in these texts identified with atman, or the individual soul. As such, Brahman “is in my heart, smaller than a grain of rice, or a grain of barley, or a grain of mustard-seed.”

In the period of the Upanishads, beliefs concerning uncertainty in the Vedic literature, especially in relation to nature’s cycles and forces, also deeply influenced the development of ideas about reincarnation (samsara) and liberation (moksha). The Vedic worldview saw nature as inherently cyclical—marked by the recurring patterns of seasons, the rising and setting of the sun, and the growth and decay of life. This perception of nature’s rhythms, coupled with the unpredictability of natural events like droughts, floods, and storms, fostered a sense of uncertainty about the transient nature of life. Just as nature seemed to move through endless cycles, so too, it was believed, did human existence.

The connection between nature’s cycles and the soul’s journey became central to the idea of reincarnation. The continuous renewal in nature—the death of one season giving rise to another—was mirrored in the belief that the soul, bound by the laws of karma, undergoes birth, death, and rebirth, just as plants and animals follow natural cycles of creation and destruction. This natural repetition reinforced the idea that life is not a singular, linear experience of moving from ignorance to knowledge, but part of a greater cosmic process, with the soul returning in new forms based on its past actions.

Liberation (moksha) emerged as the aspiration to break free from these natural cycles of reincarnation. While nature’s cycles were seen as inevitable and powerful, they were also associated with impermanence and suffering. The quest for moksha—liberation from the cycle of birth and death—was akin to transcending the limitations of the natural world and attaining a state of eternal stability beyond the fluctuations of nature. In this way, the Vedic understanding of nature’s cyclical uncertainty provided both the framework for reincarnation and the impetus for seeking liberation from the impermanent, ever-changing world.

One of the most famous of the brahmin caste who experimented with these practices of uncertainty was a sixth century prince named Siddhartha Gautama, who would become known as the buddha, or “the one who is awake” or “has awakened.” At approximately the same time as the cultural renaissance led by the Sophists and Socratic philosophers of the Mediterranean, Siddhartha introduced a new vision of vedic philosophy that deeply affected many east Asian cultures in the centuries to come. In Vedic philosophy, particularly in its earlier forms, nature is seen as imbued with divine forces that require ritual sacrifice and worship to maintain cosmic harmony. The natural world and its cycles, such as the seasons and agricultural patterns, were governed by the gods, and humans participated in sustaining this order through elaborate rituals. By contrast, the Buddha’s teachings focus less on nature as a cosmic force governed by deities and more on nature as a reflection of impermanence (anicca). For the Buddha, nature’s cycles—birth, growth, decay, and death—illustrate the fundamental impermanence of all things, including human life. Rather than viewing nature as something to be either controlled or harmonized with through rituals, early Buddhism emphasizes understanding nature’s impermanence to cultivate detachment from desires and the illusion of permanence. This shift represents a move away from the ritualized interaction with nature seen in Vedic practice toward a more philosophical and introspective engagement with the natural world’s transient realities. It can, in other words, be understood as an extension of the philosophical turn taken in the Upanishads.

One of the primary differences between the philosophies of the Upanishads and early Buddhism is that while the former sees the process of reincarnation and liberation as a fundamental characteristic of the processes of nature, the latter stresses that it is possible to remove oneself from this cycle of suffering and rebirth. What this looks like differs widely in the various schools of Buddhism, with some varieties believing that this is something that can happen at the individual level, and others holding that this liberation cannot occur without the liberation of all living things that are also enfolded in this churning dynamo of death and rebirth. That is, unless all of nature is also liberated.

From its origins in India in the 6th century BCE, Buddhism quickly spread to every corner of the Asian continent. In China, one of the first foreign civilizations it came in contact with, Buddhism met with indigenous belief systems such as Taoism that had developed for several centuries before its arrival. 

As in India, the first agricultural settlements emerged in China around 7000 BCE along the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers. Rather than being centered around wheat and other related crops, these civilizations arose around the cultivation of rice. One of the most significant differences that such a crop has had on the various cultures of China is given in what is known as the Rice theory of culture. The Rice Theory of Cooperation posits that the agricultural methods required for cultivating rice, particularly in East Asia, have significantly shaped the cooperative nature of the cultures that emerged in those regions. Rice farming, unlike wheat cultivation, demands intensive labor, intricate irrigation systems, and close coordination among large groups of people to manage water resources and ensure successful harvests. This interdependence for survival is believed to have fostered a culture of collectivism and cooperation, where community well-being is prioritized over individual goals. Studies suggest that societies with a history of rice farming, such as in China and other parts of East Asia, developed social norms that emphasize interdependence, harmonious group dynamics, and a greater tolerance for hierarchical structures, all of which contrast with the more individualistic tendencies seen in regions historically dependent on less labor-intensive crops like wheat. 

As such, while in Sumeria the ensi’s rule was one that was maintained through force of arms, the hierarchical social structures that emerged in early Chinese civilizations was one that might be said to have emerged out of necessity. Because complex, large scale agricultural practices were not the result of an artificial imposition on the ecological context, as in Sumeria (and to a lesser extent in India), but rather a result of the type of agriculture that was part and parcel of the environment itself, larger, more bureaucratic governments emerged alongside the development of civilization in the bronze age. Late Bronze Age Chinese beliefs about nature were deeply intertwined with cosmology, ritual practices, and the concept of harmony between heaven, earth, and humanity. During the Shang (1600–1046 BCE) and Zhou (1046–256 BCE) dynasties, nature was viewed as a dynamic system governed by the will of the heavens (Tian), which exerted control over both the natural and human realms. The Chinese saw natural events, such as floods, droughts, and eclipses, as signs of heaven's approval or disapproval of a ruler’s virtue and governance. This led to the development of the Mandate of Heaven (tien ming), where the harmony between humans and nature was thought to reflect the moral order of both the political state and the cosmos as a whole. As in other Bronze age civilizations, rituals and sacrifices were performed to appease natural forces and maintain cosmic balance. As in later Greek philosophy, the natural world was categorized into elements such as wood, fire, earth, metal, and water, which were believed to interact in cycles that influenced both the physical world and human affairs. These beliefs emphasized that human actions, particularly those of kings, emperors, and rulers, had to align with natural rhythms and principles to ensure prosperity and stability. The influence of the collective nature of agricultural practice also led to the emergence of classical philosophies of the Chinese, such as Taoism and Confucianism, in the seventh and eighth centuries BCE.

Taoism, named after the principle of Tao, or the “formless yet complete” emptiness, nothingness, inaction which gives rise to “the ten thousand things,” was said to be introduced by the mythical Lao Tze, or “Old Master”. As the story goes, Lao Tze, fed up with the corruption of the Chou dynasty, decided to leave his country and go west. On the road, he was stopped by Yin Hsi, who recognized that the country was about to lose a great sage, and demanded that he first leave a record of his wisdom before departing. Lao Tze then wrote a series of statements that were collected in the book we now know as the Tao Te Ching. Then he left, and it is said that he later became the teacher of the Buddha in India. Whether this is true or not, the book has served as an ongoing source of inspiration for thinkers all over the globe, particularly because of its profoundly obscure approach to stating the Old Master’s beliefs. As in the Vedic texts, the Tao is “formless yet complete,” existing “before heaven and earth, without sound, without substance, dependent on nothing, unchanging, All pervading, unfailing.” While the Vedas turn this unknowable, fundamental origin of all things into a question, the Tao Te Ching takes a different approach to its mystery. Through its attempt to say everything by saying nothing, and to say nothing although it says many things, the text performs its central thesis: that nothing and the many things that we perceive in nature are inextricably bound to one another. Or, as it says at one point, “for though all creatures under heaven are the products of Being, Being itself is the product of Not-Being.” 

Nature appears in the text as the emanation from, as well as the cause of, this unknowable nothingness that is everything. “The ways of men,” the author writes, “are conditioned by those of earth,” which are in turn conditioned by “the ways of heaven,” which is in turn conditioned by “the ways of the Tao,” which is in turn conditioned by “the ways of the self-so (tzu-jan),” the unconditioned, which is often translated as “the nature of things.” This perspective, which sounds self-contradictory to our minds conditioned by the logos of the Greeks and the unidirectional creativity of the monotheistic religions, is further elaborated in the work of Chuang-Tzu, a later Taoist from the Song dynasty. In Chuang Tze, there is an emphasis on the existence of the Tao in all things, even “the piss and shit.” Because of the unity of the Tao which is at once nothing and everything, the ground and result of all the things of nature, we can see in his work an interdependence of all of nature, just as there is an interdependence of all people on one another. Everything is in everything else, for Chuang Tze. This is nowhere better reflected than in his most famous passage in which he dreams he is a butterfly. One night, Chuang Tze writes, he went to sleep and dreamed that he was a butterfly. He dreamt that he was flying around from flower to flower and while he was dreaming he felt free, blown about by the breeze hither and thither. He was absolutely certain that he was a butterfly. But when he awoke he realised that he had just been dreaming, and that he was really Chuang Tzu dreaming he was a butterfly. But then Chuang Tzu asked himself the following question: "was I Chuang Tzu dreaming I was a butterfly or am I now really a butterfly dreaming that I am Chuang Tzu?"

At a practical level of human action, the Taoists emphasized the importance of what they called wu wei. The concept, which is often translated as "non-action" or "effortless action," is not about inaction or passivity. Instead, wu wei refers to the art of aligning oneself with the natural flow of the universe, acting in harmony with the Dao (the Way) without forcing or striving against the current of life. It suggests that the most effective actions are those that arise spontaneously and effortlessly, in accordance with the rhythms of nature and without unnecessary interference. In this state, one achieves balance by allowing things to unfold as they naturally should, leading to a life of simplicity, ease, and profound effectiveness. Wu wei encourages individuals to let go of rigid control and trust in the natural order, knowing that the universe’s inherent harmony will guide their actions toward the right outcomes. As we will see in several weeks, this idea was incredibly influential on the late 17th century French economists the ‘physiocrats,’ who in turn influenced the concept of an ‘invisible hand’ in the economic work of Adam Smith.

The other major school that emerged in the early classical period was derived from the work of the sage Confucius. More than the Taoists, Confucianism is concerned with the proper order of society, and rarely reflects directly on nature. For Confucius, nature was not the mystical or divine force seen in Daoism but rather a reflection of the orderly principles that should guide human life. He emphasized the importance of living in harmony with the natural cycles, but in a way that focused on humanity's responsibility to maintain moral integrity and societal stability, rather than any concern about the nature of nature itself. Nature, in Confucian thought, provides a backdrop for understanding virtues like li (ritual propriety) and ren (benevolence), as it exemplifies order and regularity—qualities Confucius believed should be mirrored in human conduct and governance. Unlike Daoist teachings that encourage a passive alignment with nature, Confucius saw nature as a realm that demonstrates the importance of hierarchy and proper roles within society, suggesting that just as the seasons follow an unchanging rhythm, so too should human beings adhere to moral and ethical codes to sustain harmony in the world.

Over the centuries, Buddhist philosophy mixed with those endemic to China, and produced a syncretic vision of the world that is characteristic of our current conception of Chinese Buddhism. Nowhere can this version of Buddhist thought be seen better than in the poets of later Chinese dynasties like Li Po and Han Shan. Like the nature painters of classical Chinese civilizations, Li Po and Han Shan’s poetry emphasize the grandeur of nature and the solitude of human beings. Han Shan’s poems, and the poet himself, are named after the place where they written, a place in the Tientai mountain range just south of Shanghai. In them, the poet emphasizes his solitude, the beauty of natural things, the loneliness of human existence, and the mournful peace that comes from being in communion with the vast, indifferent world of nature. Compared to the time of humanity, for Han Shan, “days and months slip by like water.” “Time is like sparks knocked off by flint,” he writes, “go ahead and let the world change–I’m happy to sit among these cliffs.” There is a sense in his poetry that nature, although constantly changing, remains always the same. It is as if it were outside of time, although it is time itself. On the mountain where he lives, there are no clear paths, the way is not clearly marked. And yet, the places that he goes within the vast expanse of nature are the way if one lets them be. The poetry, the mountain paths, like life itself, is a practice in uncertainty that is the most certain knowledge a human can achieve. Trying to find a way through the thick mountain growth is a constant negotiation and questioning of whether even he himself knows the way. His poetry brings together the ideal of an ongoing questioning that stretches back to the first Vedic sources, the seemingly contradictory identity of everything and nothing of the Dao, and the idea that living on the way is the only kind of wisdom that can free us from the suffering of the world of the Buddhists. 

Around the same time that Han Shan and Li Po were writing in China, Buddhism made its way to Japan by way of Korea. The philosophy met with the traditional Japanese belief system of Shinto, a polytheistic nature religion centered around the reverence of kami, spirits, which was in some ways like many that we have encountered in other classical societies. Unlike Taoism or Confucianism in China, which view nature more philosophically — emphasizing harmony with the Dao or the ethical structure of society—Shinto is more animistic, celebrating a direct, personal relationship with natural entities like mountains, rivers, trees, and animals, all of which are seen as embodiments of the kami. Ritual purity, offerings, and festivals (matsuri) are central to Shinto practice, as they maintain a harmonious relationship between humans and the kami to ensure balance in the natural and human realms.

In contrast to Indian religions like Hinduism or Buddhism, which often emphasize metaphysical ideas about reincarnation, karma, and liberation from the cycle of life and death, Shinto does not focus on ultimate salvation or philosophical inquiry. Instead, it centers on the immediate presence of the sacred in the natural world and everyday life. Shinto’s practices are highly localized and tied to specific natural features and community shrines, making it a more place-based and communal tradition than the broader, more doctrinally driven nature religions of China and India.

As such, the Buddhism that emerged in Japan, while certainly interested in enlightenment, did not see the process as one that necessarily occurred over many lifetimes. Instead, the quintessential Japanese Buddhism, Chan or Zen, focused on the practice of meditation and contemplation of simple, everyday objects. Through this practice, enlightenment can come in a single moment, in which one enters into a harmonious relationship with nature itself. The poetic form of haikai, short observations of everyday things, particularly natural things, replace the thousands of lines of reflection that we find in the Vedas, the Upanishads, and even the Tao Te Ching. Matsuo Basho, a late poet in this tradition, stresses simplicity as the key to enlightenment. He asks, “is there any good in saying everything?” About our communion with nature he tells us to “Learn about pines from the pine, and about bamboo from the bamboo.” Like the Vedic authors and those of the Tao, he writes that “the basis of art is change in the universe,” and that “were we to gain mastery over the things of nature, we would find that the life of each thing had vanished without a trace.” Like Han Shan, the heart of a haiku poem is loneliness, sabi, the essential unimportance of everything that we typically hold up as important. “Poetry is like a fire in summer, or a fan in winter.” For the Zen buddhists, like the taoists, the point is not to achieve a state of enlightenment by ascending to a higher plane, but rather to “observe calmly” so as to “discover that all things have their fulfillment” already.

Central to the Zen tradition is the koan, which is like a riddle with no answer. The role of the koan, in some interpretations, is to shake the practitioner out of conventional ways of thinking and seeing the world. In them, a question is posed that the logical mind cannot answer. It places uncertainty at the heart of our relationship to the universe. “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” is one of the most famous. In these riddles, we can see perhaps the most fundamental difference between mediterranean and east asian conceptions of nature. In countries from Sumeria to Rome, the point of studying nature is to understand how it works. In understanding, we gain power over the natural world because we can alter its causes to achieve our own ends. In the many traditions that lead to the Zen koan, a state of unknowing is fundamental to our experience of nature. What is nature in these many traditions? Nothing, really. But it is everything. The point is not to say everything that we can about it, but rather to live through it. Not to capture it the way a child pins a butterfly on the wall, but instead to remain in a state of uncertainty as to whether we are humans thinking about being a butterfly, or being nature itself, or whether instead, we are nature wondering about what it means to be a human.