V. "Movement and Stillness Have Their Constancy": Constancy Is Not Never Moving at All

Between Heaven and Earth, there is what moves and what rests. The sun and moon move; the mountains and hills rest. Wind and thunder are in motion; rivers and marshes accumulate in stillness. Grasses and trees sprout in spring, grow tall in summer, gather in in autumn, and store away in winter. Movement and stillness do not simply divide the myriad things into two classes, for one and the same thing may itself have both movement and stillness. Water flowing is movement; a deep pool gathering still is stillness. A person on campaign, laboring, is movement; a person asleep at night is stillness. Speech is movement; silent understanding is stillness. What is called "having constancy" does not decree that a given thing must forever only move or only rest, but says that movement and stillness each have their season and each have their measure -- when it is time to move, one moves; when it is time to rest, one rests.

The vigor of Qian is most easily misread as ceaseless forward advance. But true unceasingness in fact does not exclude quiet nurturing. A bow long drawn goes slack; a people long labored grows weary; land long ploughed without rest is exhausted of its strength. Stillness is not the abandoning of the springs of life, but the nurturing of the springs of life. Winter's storing appears silent, yet it is precisely what makes spring's sprouting possible; when the noble person (junzi) withdraws to cultivate his virtue, this is not an eternal severing from the world, but a way of giving what will later come forth a foundation to stand upon. Conversely, the compliance of Kun does not amount to mere quiescence either. The earth appears calm, and yet the hundred things are born from within it; a mother receives and nurtures to completion, and her achievement, though never loud, is the most substantial of all. If movement and stillness are judged only by outward appearance, one will mistake restless agitation for firm vigor, and mistake mere silence for non-action.

The Most High said, "Attain the utmost of emptiness, hold fast to stillness in earnest; the myriad things arise together, and by this I observe their return." Holding fast to stillness matters not because one despises the arising of the myriad things together, but because only by not being swept away by the tumult can one see the return of the myriad things. He also said, "Weight is the root of lightness; stillness is the sovereign of restlessness" -- valuing weight and stillness does not abolish lightness and motion, but establishes the root for them. Without a heart settled in stillness, action is easily driven by joy and anger; without deep, submerged observation, judgment is easily deceived by momentary bluster. Master Guiguzi, discussing opening and closing, response, and probing, likewise places great weight on listening and discerning from within stillness. To know another's true feeling, one cannot merely speak on and on oneself; to discern the workings of a matter, one must let the other side reveal something of itself. Stillness is a gathering-in, a leaving of blank space, a way of letting the true state of affairs enter the heart.

The stillness of the Confucian tradition, meanwhile, is linked to reverence (jing). The Master praised Yan Hui (Master Yan) for "not transferring his anger, not repeating a fault," and within this lies the power of a heart able to come to rest and settle. If anger, once aroused, cannot be checked, it will drift from this person to that, from this matter to another. To be able not to transfer it is to have stillness within movement; to be able not to repeat a fault is to give rise to clarity within stillness. Master Zeng said, "Each day I examine myself on three points" -- and this examining, too, requires returning from the headlong rush of affairs, so that word and deed may present themselves anew within the heart. Without this return, a person is simply pushed along by events, and though busy the whole day through, may not know what he is in fact becoming.

"Movement and stillness have their constancy" can also be applied to governance. Decrees should not be issued in the morning and changed by evening; punishments and rewards should not shift in weight with a ruler's passing joy or anger -- this is the side of stillness. Yet when the year brings famine, when the enemy advances or withdraws, when the people's sentiment changes, one must not cling rigidly to old statutes -- this is the side of movement. Good governance does not consist in moving a great deal across the board, nor in moving as little as possible across the board, but in making the movement and stillness of governance accord with the rhythm of the people's livelihood. The Guanzi stresses that once a command is issued it must be carried out, and also stresses acting according to custom, according to the season, according to the place; that a command, once trusted, establishes constancy, while acting according to the moment lets change flow through. Constancy gives people something to trust; change gives affairs something to be carried through by.

The great failing of human beings is often neither pure movement nor pure stillness, but movement and stillness losing their proper timing. To hesitate when a decision ought to be made is stillness exceeding its proper measure; to press rashly forward when caution is called for is movement losing its constancy. To hear the good and be unable to move toward it, to see righteousness and be unable to shift toward it, is stagnation; to change one's constancy at the sight of small profit, to change one's resolve at the sound of idle talk, is restlessness. What the Yi asks of a person is to discern the incipient moment (ji), which lies precisely at the juncture where movement and stillness are about to divide. When a thought is about to arise but has not yet arisen, when a configuration is about to form but has not yet formed, it is in that single thread of a moment that clarity is most needed. One who discerns the incipient moment can stop before calamity has become visible, and let good grow while it is still just sprouting; one who does not discern it must wait until the configuration has already taken shape, and can only be swept along by the current.