Tao Te Ching — Chapter 15

The masters of old who were skilled in the Tao were subtle, mysterious, penetrating, too deep to be known. Because they could not be known, I can only describe how they appeared: wary, as if crossing a winter river; cautious, as if afraid of all their neighbors; reserved, like a guest; yielding, like ice about to melt; plain, like uncarved wood; open, like a valley; murky, like muddy water. Who can let the muddy settle and slowly grow clear? Who can stay still and let the moment slowly come to life? One who keeps this Tao does not wish to be full. And because he is not full, he can wear out and be renewed.

James Legge (1891)

The skilful masters (of the Tao) in old times, with a subtle and exquisite penetration, comprehended its mysteries, and were deep (also) so as to elude men's knowledge. As they were thus beyond men's knowledge, I will make an effort to describe of what sort they appeared to be. Shrinking looked they like those who wade through a stream in winter; irresolute like those who are afraid of all around them; grave like a guest (in awe of his host); evanescent like ice that is melting away; unpretentious like wood that has not been fashioned into anything; vacant like a valley, and dull like muddy water. Who can (make) the muddy water (clear)? Let it be still, and it will gradually become clear. Who can secure the condition of rest? Let movement go on, and the condition of rest will gradually arise. They who preserve this method of the Tao do not wish to be full (of themselves). It is through their not being full of themselves that they can afford to seem worn and not appear new and complete.

Dwight Goddard (1919)

In olden times the ones who were considered worthy to be called masters were subtle, spiritual, profound, wise. Their thoughts could not be easily understood. Since they were hard to understand I will try to make them clear. They were cautious like men wading a river in winter. They were reluctant like men who feared their neighbors. They were reserved like guests in the presence of their host. They were elusive like ice at the point of melting. They were like unseasoned wood. They were like a valley between high mountains. They were obscure like troubled waters. We can clarify troubled waters by slowly quieting them. He who has the secret of the Tao does not desire for more. Being content, he is able to mature without desire to be new.

Here Laozi paints a portrait of the realized person — but characteristically, he refuses to define them directly, since one who has the Tao "cannot be known." Instead he offers a string of similes, each evoking a quality of bearing. They are wary like someone crossing a frozen river (every step tested), cautious as if surrounded by watchful neighbors, courteous as a guest, yielding like melting ice, plain as pǔ — uncarved wood, one of the book's key images for unspoiled simplicity — open like a valley, and unclear like muddy water. The accumulation paints not a bold hero but a careful, humble, unfinished-seeming person.

The two central questions are the chapter's jewel: "Who can let the muddy settle and slowly grow clear? Who can stay still and let the moment slowly come to life?" Clarity is not forced; it arises when agitation is allowed to settle. Life is not seized; it emerges when one is patient enough to let stillness do its work. The closing line ties this to the recurring theme: the keeper of the Tao does not want to be "full" — complete, finished, brimming — because it is precisely the unfilled, worn, renewable state that allows continual renewal.

The image of letting muddy water settle clear by stillness is one of the great contemplative metaphors, and it appears almost identically in later Buddhist teaching, where the agitated mind is likened to stirred water that reveals its clarity only when allowed to rest. The patience to let clarity arise rather than forcing it is the heart of meditative practice across traditions.

The portrait of the sage as cautious, plain, and unassuming — rather than commanding — inverts the heroic ideal and resonates with the Christian and Sufi valuing of humility and hiddenness, and with the figure of the holy fool who appears unremarkable while carrying real depth.

Clarity and renewal come through stillness and patience, not force. Stir muddy water and it stays cloudy; let it rest and it clears itself. The same is true of a troubled mind or a tangled situation — much of wisdom is the willingness to wait, stay open and unfinished, and let things settle into clarity on their own.

"Who can let the muddy settle and slowly grow clear?" is a profound counter to the modern reflex to fix, optimize, and resolve everything immediately. Whether facing a confused decision, a strong emotion, or a stuck problem, the chapter's counsel is to stop stirring — to let stillness do what effort cannot. The willingness to remain "worn and not new," unfinished and unfilled, is also a freedom from the pressure to appear complete and polished at all times.