Chapter 5 The Confucian Perspective: Rain Water, the Grace of Virtue, and Repaying the Root

1. Grace and Virtue Like Rain: The Highest Metaphor for the Sovereign's Benevolence

In the Confucian world of thought, water—especially rain, which descends from Heaven and nourishes all things—is repeatedly used as a metaphor for "virtue" (de) and "benevolence" (ren). The Yushui solar term, as the season in which spring rain nourishes all things, is precisely the best point of entry for apprehending this thread of Confucian thought.

Why does Confucianism so favor using rain as a metaphor for virtue$44 Because rain possesses several qualities that align remarkably well with the Confucian ideal of "virtuous governance." First, rain descends from above—it falls from Heaven, just as grace and virtue are bestowed by the sovereign upon the people. Second, rain is universal and impartial—it falls fairly upon every inch of earth, just as ideal virtuous governance ought to reach every last subject under Heaven. Third, rain nourishes rather than extracts—it only gives, never takes, just as true benevolent governance ought to benefit the people rather than compete with them for gain. Fourth, rain is timely and responsive to need—good rain arrives precisely when all things need it most, just as a sage-king's benevolent governance ought to reach the people at the moment of their greatest hardship.

For precisely this reason, expressions such as "sweet rain" (ganlin), "timely rain" (jishiyu), and "spring breeze transforming into rain" (chunfeng huayu) all became classic images describing virtuous governance and moral instruction. The "King Hui of Liang, Part 1" chapter of the Mencius records an especially brilliant dialogue. Master Meng describes the ideal ruler to King Xiang of Liang: when the whole realm suffers a great drought and the seedlings wither, if suddenly "the sky billows with clouds and pours down abundant rain, then the seedlings will spring vigorously back to life"—dark clouds suddenly billow up in the sky, rain pours down in torrents, and those withered seedlings burst vigorously back into growth. Master Meng uses this timely rain as a metaphor: if a benevolent ruler were to appear who did not delight in killing, the people of the realm would flock to him just as withered seedlings meet with sweet rain—"the people would flock to him as water flows downward, in a torrent that none could withstand." The people flocking to him is like water flowing downward: who could stand against so vast and unstoppable a force$45

Note that Master Meng here draws upon two water images in succession: the timely rain (sweet rain) and water's flowing downward. The former is a metaphor for the nourishing power of benevolent governance; the latter, for the inevitable trend of the people's hearts turning toward it. In Master Meng's view, benevolent governance is to the people exactly what spring rain is to withered seedlings—a rescue offered like fuel delivered in the depths of snow, a sweet rain arriving at the very brink of desperation. The "spring rain nourishing all things" symbolized by the Yushui solar term is here, in the Confucian tradition, elevated into the political ideal of "benevolent governance nourishing the people."

2. Repaying the Root and Returning to the Origin: The Germination of Ritual Propriety Revealed in "The Otter Lays Out Fish"

The first of the three phenological signs of the Yushui solar term is "the otter lays out fish"—after catching fish, the otter arranges them neatly along the bank, as if performing some kind of sacrificial rite. In the Confucian reading, this phenological sign carries an exceedingly profound significance, touching on the most fundamental spirit of ritual propriety (li)—repaying the root and returning to the origin (baoben fanshi).

Why did the ancients read the otter's laying out of fish as a form of "sacrifice"$1 This is a question both fascinating and profound. From a purely ethological standpoint, the otter's arranging of caught fish along the bank may simply be an instinctive act of storing food. So why did the ancients choose not to read it as "food storage," but instead as "sacrificing fish"$2

Behind this lies a distinctive way the ancients had of observing things: they tended to read the germination of "ritual propriety" and "virtue" within natural phenomena. In their eyes, the solemn, orderly manner in which the otter laid out its fish so closely resembled the way a person arranges offerings during a sacrificial rite! And so they read within it a spirit of "repaying the root"—the otter, offering fish as sacrifice, was expressing gratitude for the bestowal of water (the very source of its food and clothing), was repaying the nurturing grace of Heaven and Earth.

Such a reading may seem, at first glance, a fanciful projection by the ancients, yet it in fact embodies the most central idea in Confucian ritual learning—repaying the root and returning to the origin. The "Single Victim at the Border Sacrifices" chapter of the Book of Rites says: "All things are rooted in Heaven; humans are rooted in their ancestors—this is why they are paired with the Sovereign on High in sacrifice." And: "Only through the joint offering of grain by the altars of soil and grain to the village community is the root repaid and the origin returned to." The fundamental spirit of ritual propriety is precisely "repaying the root and returning to the origin"—expressing gratitude for the source of life, repaying the fundamental root of nurture. When people sacrifice to Heaven and Earth, to their ancestors, they are, in essence, repaying that "root" which bestowed life upon them.

And what makes the otter's laying out of fish so moving is precisely this: even a creature like the otter seems to understand "repaying the root"—seems to understand how to express some solemn "gratitude" toward Heaven and Earth (water) for bestowing its food. What the ancients read in the otter's laying out of fish was the universality of the heart of "repaying the root"—it exists not only in humans, but germinates even in birds and beasts. This furnished Confucian ritual learning with a foundation in nature: ritual propriety (especially the rite of repaying the root) is not an artificial adornment imposed by human beings, but an instinct rooted in the very depths of life, one that even birds and beasts can be seen to feel. Master Xun says in his "Discourse on Ritual Propriety": "Ritual propriety has three roots: Heaven and Earth are the root of life; ancestors are the root of one's kind; rulers and teachers are the root of order." Heaven and Earth, ancestors, and rulers and teachers are the three roots of ritual propriety. And the otter's laying out of fish symbolizes precisely a repayment toward "the root of life"—Heaven, Earth, and water.

At a still deeper level, that the otter's laying out of fish occurs during the Yushui season is by no means coincidental. Yushui is precisely the moment at which water—the origin of life—becomes active once more, beginning to nourish all things. In this season when "the origin" itself revives, the otter offers fish in sacrifice, symbolizing all creatures' gratitude toward the source of life—this is an annual "rite of repaying the root" occurring between Heaven and Earth. That the ancients listed this phenological sign as the first of Yushui's three signs is precisely meant to remind people: in receiving the grace of Heaven and Earth's spring rain, one must not forget to "repay the root and return to the origin," must not forget to be grateful to that fundamental root which nourishes all things.

3. The Master's "What Passes Away Is Like This": A Philosophy of Time Within Water

Confucian apprehension of water includes one further, exceedingly famous moment. The "Zihan" chapter of the Analects records: "The Master stood by a river and said: 'What passes away is like this, is it not—never ceasing day or night!'"

The Master stood by the riverbank, gazing at the surging current, and sighed: "The time that passes away is just like this flowing water—flowing on without cease, day and night!"

This brief line is one of the most profound meditations on time in the history of Chinese thought. What did the Master see in the flowing water$3 He saw the very nature of time—time, like flowing water, passes and never returns, never resting day or night. This is a profound consciousness of life: human existence is brief, time waits for no one, just as this water never pauses, never turns back.

Yet the Master's sigh was by no means merely a lament for the passing of time. At a deeper level, in the water's "never ceasing day or night," he saw the "vigor" (jian) and "sincerity" (cheng) of the Way of Heaven in motion. The "Image" commentary to the Qian hexagram in the Book of Changes says: "Heaven's motion is full of vigor; the noble person, in the same way, ceaselessly strengthens himself." The motion of the Way of Heaven is vigorous and unceasing; the noble person should model himself upon it and ceaselessly strengthen himself. The flowing water's "never ceasing day or night" is precisely the most vivid depiction of Heaven's "ceaseless self-strengthening." Water never rests, never grows lazy, never pauses—this unbroken, honest, untiring motion is precisely the character the noble person ought to emulate.

To apprehend this insight through the lens of the Yushui solar term carries a particular significance. Yushui is the season in which water begins "flowing" once more. In winter, water freezes and lies still, as if time itself had congealed. The moment Yushui arrives, ice and snow melt, streams surge once more, and water resumes its "never ceasing day or night" flow—time, too, seems to start up again along with the revival of the flowing water. Thus the Yushui solar term is not only the resurrection of water, but the resurrection of "time" itself, the renewed visibility of the Way of Heaven's "ceaseless self-strengthening" motion. When we hear, during the Yushui season, the sound of streams thawing and surging anew, what we hear is precisely that voice of the Way of Heaven the Master heard by the riverbank: "What passes away is like this, never ceasing day or night."

4. The Wise Delight in Water: Moral Cultivation Within Water

The "Yongye" chapter of the Analects records the Master's words: "The wise delight in water; the benevolent delight in mountains. The wise are active; the benevolent are still. The wise find joy; the benevolent find long life."

The wise delight in water, the benevolent delight in mountains. Why do the wise delight in water$4 Because water is flowing, supple, and endlessly changing, just like the mind of the wise—penetrating, sharp, and quick to adapt. Water takes the shape of a square vessel when square, of a round vessel when round; it can bend and it can extend, can gather and can disperse. This flexible, penetrating character is precisely the symbol of "wisdom."

And the revival of water marked by the Yushui solar term is precisely the manifestation, within the seasonal sequence, of this quality of "the wise delighting in water." Winter's water is congealed and rigid, having lost its flow and flexibility—much like a state in which wisdom is frozen and the mind is imprisoned. During the Yushui season, water flows once more, recovering its flexibility and penetration—much like the revival of wisdom, the thawing of the mind. Thus, for the Confucian practitioner of self-cultivation, the Yushui solar term serves as a reminder: as spring rain nourishes the earth and streams surge anew, we too ought to let our minds awaken from winter's rigidity, becoming once more as flexible, penetrating, and full of vitality as water.

Why does the Master pair "delighting in water" with "delighting in mountains"$5 Because the ideal character ought to combine both the "wisdom" of water and the "benevolence" of mountains—possessing both water's flexibility and penetration, and the mountain's steadiness and solidity. Though the Yushui solar term leans toward the aspect of "water," Confucianism reminds us: even as we admire the liveliness of water, we must not forget the solidity of mountains. Motion and stillness complementing one another, wisdom and benevolence cultivated together—this is precisely the complete character that Confucianism pursues.