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Cook Ding was cutting up an ox for Lord Wen-hui.

At every movement of his hands, every shift of his shoulders and feet, every bend of his knees, there was perfect rhythm—as if he were performing a dance, as if his knife were following music.

Lord Wen-hui exclaimed, “Amazing! How can skill reach such heights?”

Cook Ding replied,

“What I care about is the Dao, not skill.

When I first began cutting oxen, all I could see was the whole ox.

After three years, I no longer saw the ox as a whole.

Now, I meet it with my spirit rather than my eyes.

My senses rest, and my spirit moves where it must.

I follow the natural structure—

I go along the spaces between the joints,

slip the blade into the openings,

and move where there is room.

That’s why my knife has lasted nineteen years,

cutting through thousands of oxen,

yet its edge is as sharp as if newly honed.

An ordinary cook changes his knife every year.

A good cook changes his every month.

I’ve used this same knife for nineteen years.”

Whenever he comes to a difficult place,

Cook Ding slows down.

He focuses.

He moves with care.

Then—whoosh—

with the lightest movement, the ox falls apart,

like earth crumbling to the ground.

Lord Wen-hui said,

“Wonderful! From hearing Cook Ding,

I have learned how to care for life.”