Tao Upanishad #1

Those who have known—not through words, not through scriptures, but through life itself, by living—Lao Tzu is one among those few. And those who have not only known, but have made tireless efforts to help others come to knowing—Lao Tzu is among those even fewer.
Yet whoever has known, and whoever has tried to make others know, their primary experience is this: whatever can be said is not Truth; that which can take the shape of speech, by taking shape inevitably loses its formless essence. If someone were to paint the sky, the sky would never be painted; whatever appears in the painting is certainly not the sky. The sky is that which girdles all; a painting will not be able to encompass anything. The painting itself stands encompassed by the sky.
So, the sky fashioned in a picture will be to the true sky what truth fashioned in words will be to Truth. In the painted sky no bird can fly, in the painted sky no sun will rise, no stars will appear at night. The sky of a painting is dead; it is “sky” only in name. There is no possibility for the real sky to be in a picture.
Whoever moves to say the Truth finds the greatest difficulty right at the first step: the moment Truth is put into words, it turns false. It becomes something other than what it is. What was intended remains unsaid; what was not intended becomes vocal.
Lao Tzu begins his very first line with precisely this.
Tao is a very unique word. If we take a little care with its meaning, it will be easier to proceed. Tao has many meanings. The deeper a thing is, the more meanings it holds. And when something is multi-dimensional, complexity naturally increases.
One meaning of Tao is: path, the Way. But all paths are bound. Tao is a path like a bird flying in the sky; while it flies a path is formed, yet it is not a bounded path. On all paths footprints get imprinted, and for those who come afterward there is convenience. Tao is a path like birds in the sky: their feet leave no marks, and the one who comes later receives no convenience.
If we keep in mind: such a path as is unbound, such a path upon which no footprints are made, such a path which no one else can construct for you—you walk, and as you walk the path is born—then we can call Tao a path, the Way. But such a path is nowhere visible. So is it appropriate to call Tao a path?
But that is one dimension of Tao. Then let us take another meaning of path: a path is that by which one can arrive; a path is that which connects to the destination. But Tao is not even such a path. When we walk a road and arrive at the goal, the road and the goal are joined. In truth, the goal is the last edge of the road, and the road is the beginning of the goal. Road and goal are not two; they are conjoined. Without the road the goal cannot be; without the goal the road cannot be. But Tao is a path that is not joined to a destination. When a road is joined to a goal, then everyone must walk that much road, only then does the goal come.
Tao is such a path that the one standing wherever he stands—right there, at that very place—can be available to the goal. Therefore Tao cannot even be called such a path. If, from exactly where we stand, from this place, this spot, the goal can be found—and it is also possible that we may walk for births upon births and the goal may still not be found—then Tao must surely be some other kind of path. So, the meaning of path is there somewhere deep, but with many qualifications.
Another meaning of Tao is: Dharma. But Dharma does not mean a creed, not “religion” in that sense. Dharma is as the most ancient Rishis used the word. Dharma means: that law which holds all; wherever life is, that ultimate rule which sustains it—the ultimate law. Tao is Dharma—not in the sense of Islam or Hindu or Jain or Buddhist or Sikh—but the supreme law of life; Dharma, in the sense of the eternal law of life.
But all laws are limited. Tao is a law whose expanse has no boundary.
In truth, limit belongs to death; life has no limit. Only dead things are limited; the living is not limited—it is boundless. Life means: the capacity to expand. A seed is alive if it can become a sprout. A sprout is alive if it can become a tree. A tree is alive if more sprouts and more seeds can arise within it. Wherever the capacity to expand stops, there life stops. A child is therefore more alive than the old; the capacity to expand is still abundant.
Tao is not a law in any limited sense—not a human-made statute that can be defined, its definition fixed, its perimeter drawn. Tao is a law that is infinite in reach, capable of touching the boundless.
Therefore, to merely call it Dharma will not do.
The Rishis used yet another word—perhaps even closer to Tao. That word is Rit (Rta)—from which ritu, season, has come. The Vedas speak of Rit; they are speaking of Tao. What does Rit mean? It becomes easy if we understand through the seasons.
Heat comes, then the rains arrive, then the cold comes, then heat returns. There is a circle. The circle goes on turning. There is childhood, youth arrives, old age comes, death comes. A circle—turning on. Morning comes, evening comes, night comes, and again morning. The sun rises, sets, and rises again. A circle. The movement of life is circular. The regulating element by which this movement goes on—that is called Rit.
Remember, in Rit there is no notion of a God. Rit means a regulating principle; not a regulating person. Not person, but principle. No person who regulates—rather, a principle by which regulation happens. It is not even right to say “it regulates,” because that gives rise to the sense of a person. No: that through which regulation happens, from which laws arise. Not that it gives laws and arranges order; no—out of it, laws keep arising. As sprouts keep sprouting from a seed, so do seasons keep arising from Rit. That too is Tao in its deepest sense.