Cook Ding was carving an ox for Lord Wenhui. His hand touched the ox, his shoulder leaned against it, his foot stepped on it, his knee pressed against it — with a swish, a slash, the knife moved in perfect rhythm, like the dance of Sanglin, like the music of Jingshou.
Lord Wenhui exclaimed: "Wonderful! How can your skill reach such perfection?"
Cook Ding put down his knife and replied: "What I care about is the Way — which goes beyond mere skill."
When he first started carving oxen, all he could see was the whole ox. After three years, he no longer saw the whole ox. Now, he works with his spirit, not with his eyes.
"Following the natural structure, I guide the blade through the great hollows, and take advantage of what is already there."
A good cook changes his knife once a year — because he cuts. An ordinary cook changes his knife once a month — because he hacks. But Cook Ding's knife has been in use for nineteen years. It has carved thousands of oxen, yet its edge is as sharp as if it had just come from the whetstone.
Why? "The joints have gaps, and the blade has almost no thickness. To insert what has almost no thickness into what has gaps — there is more than enough room for the blade to play about in."
Lord Wenhui said: "Excellent! From Cook Ding's words, I have learned how to nurture life."