Jesse's Interview with Professor Trevor Carolan

JB: You've remarked on consciousness, and the use of the I Ching, The Book of Changes. Its focus on synchronicity resembles Carl Jung's idea of the acausal connecting principle between energies, personalities, events, and probabilities. Jung used the term "coincidence of opposites." Does this relate to Daoism? How about your creative process as a writer?

TC: The German colonial trading concession in China was at Shantung, where Confucius originally hailed from, and German-speaking scholars were among the first Europeans to settle deeply into what they were learning of Chinese culture and ideas. Similarly in India, adventurous British scholars also began discovering that, beyond mere mercantile interests, a vast trove of knowledge was also available including very profound ideas about the human condition. Some early English scholars began reading the wisdom of India's holy books, and worked to translate them into English — the Vedas, the Bhagavad Gita, the Upanishads. German scholars studied Daoist ideas from China, and in 1924 Richard Wilhelm translated the I Ching into German. Our best English version comes from an excellent rendering of this into English by Carey Baynes. The I Ching is one of the world's oldest, most significant books, and in Asia is used to this day in helping shape matters of public policy, as well as personal lives.

Jung grew interested in the ideas of probability and possibility. I think what he understood is that the way that you consult the I Ching, for example, is in itself a deeply, psychologically concentrated exercise in self-scrutiny. We're asking our self a specific question. We're looking for an answer, but the answer to a lot of these things is often inherently there in the question. So he understood that there is a symbiosis between what the seeker brings to this occasion in looking for guidance, and in the answer that is going to be intuited from consulting this ancient text. I believe that's what Jung saw in the possibilities of that type of probe. Regarding "opposites," this suggests duality. Instead, Daoism looks at nature and the human drama in terms of polarities, with these simply being part of a larger, unified whole. From wu chi, the great primal spaciousness or "emptiness" comes the tai chi, the Great Energy of recombinant patterns, or what some call "the ten thousand things" of the world. You see this in the practice of Tai Chi Chuan. Morning-times, we work through this meditative series of movements to return to the chi wu lun, the fundamental unity and equality of all things. My engagement as a writer comes from this same inspirational flux — basic creativity, the Muse, the Dao: all together.

JB: I've been reading about classical Chinese paintings, especially from the Tang and Sung dynasties. About how instead of reproducing the world in their art, painters and poets like Wang Wei try to reproduce the sense of being in the world...

TC: The intriguing aspect about Chinese art is how much of the canvas they leave blank! They don't try to fill it all in. They concentrate on this one particular, rare moment, here, this one image here, within a considerably larger space. They may only use 40 per cent of the space and leave the other 60 per cent blank. What an intriguing approach — to work with the emptiness versus that other idea where you have to fill in every detail, like your elementary school teacher saying you've gotta paint the colours right off the edge of the paper. It's all in Lao-tzu's little masterwork, the Dao de Ching. There's value in both approaches, but from a philosophical or aesthetic perspective, there's great beauty in leaving some things unresolved. It concentrates focus much more attentively on the central information that the painter is dealing with.

JB: Was Japan influenced by some of those same ideas later on?

TC: Assuredly it was. Emperors in Japan would hear reports of what was going on in China from merchant traders and so on, different possibilities. Periodically they'd send a wise monk or delegation over to China with gifts so that they could bring back news of what was happening. One of the things they wanted to learn about was the new idea of Buddhism, which had come from the Himalayas. Sometimes, such ideas would take root and find favour. Then, after another shift, Confucianism or Shinto, the way of the spirits, would surge again. Within this evolutionary dynamic, a necessary co-existence of ideas would unfold to one degree or another.

JB: So Confucianism came before Buddhism?

TC: During the Axial Period in human history, at around 450 to 400 B.C., a tremendous intellectual efflorescence took place in China, India, Greece. Think of the Golden Age of Athens where you’ve simultaneously got great thinkers, leaders, philosophers, tragedians, writers — Socrates, Plato, the lot. At roughly that same moment in China, they’ve got Confucius, there’s Lao Tzu, the venerable Daoist master; there’s Sun Tzu, the military tactician, then Mencius. Meanwhile, in the Himalayan foothills area, there’s Gautama Siddhartha, a prince of the Shakya people, who becomes known as the Buddha, working out his path of self-realization. All these great individual traditions are unfolding more or less simultaneously. As Buddhism begins to flourish, it travels north to the Chinese world, and slowly begins a long interweave with Daoism and Confucianism. So in China, when you talk about Chinese religion, they typically say san jiao gui yi, or “three-in-one” tradition. You visit temples or shrines to any or all of them as appropriate.

JB: How does the classical Daoist vision of the body inform this Chinese awareness of history, literature, and medicine?

TC: Well, remember that the Daoists like to use metaphors of water and wind. There’s always a larger unity in nature than what we can perceive. So, their poets describe the physical body like a river: its currents, its flow. If you cut off the flow at any point along that river — think of it like a dam or a stoppage — you end up with water not getting to where it needs to be. The same is true with our inner chi, our internal energy. Daoists consider the body as a series of pathways, connected by energy flows called meridians. These flows are meant to run smoothly for the entire system to function properly.

Now, if you think of human society the same way, when a blockage or disruption occurs, it creates turbulence. What do we have in times of war, great famines, or political upheavals? We experience disturbances in the natural energy flows of human life. That’s why Daoism speaks so deeply to how we need to avoid extremes and seek a harmonious middle ground, that balance or Wu Wei — the action of non-action, where we’re not disrupting the flow of life unnecessarily.

JB: You’ve travelled so much and seen the state of the world first-hand. How do you interpret the contemporary environmental crisis? Do we still have a chance to balance the energies, so to speak?

TC: Yes, I think there’s a possibility. But it’s going to take a huge shift in consciousness. Historically, it has always been those transformative moments where civilizations either evolve into something better or they collapse. The way the climate crisis is affecting us right now is a disruption in the balance of nature. It’s as though we’ve forgotten how to live in harmony with our surroundings.

What we need now is a deeper understanding, and return to some of these ancient ways of thinking. Take bioregionalism, for instance. I’ve been working with the Cascadia bioregional movement, which attempts to localize our impact on the environment by focusing on ecological boundaries — rivers, watersheds, mountain ranges — rather than arbitrary political borders. That kind of thinking is what’s needed if we want to bring back some balance to our world. It’s not going to be easy, but there’s hope in action.

JB: On that note, what inspired your involvement in the bioregionalist movement?

TC: I’ve always been drawn to the West Coast, its wilderness, and the people who’ve worked to protect it. Living in B.C., I was inspired by activists like Dr. Paul George and others who were on the frontlines of the environmental movement. I got involved in the bioregionalism movement in the '80s because it aligned with what I’d learned about Eastern thought and indigenous perspectives on living in harmony with the land. I was inspired by Gary Snyder and his vision of Earth-centered community — that we are not separate from the land but an integral part of it.

Cascadia, as a bioregion, stretches from northern California through British Columbia, up to the Alaskan panhandle, unified by watersheds and a shared ecological zone. It’s about finding ways to live sustainably within that region’s natural limits. It’s been inspiring to see how this has developed into an ethos for people concerned with their environmental footprint, their communities, and their future. We’re seeing a resurgence of interest in this way of thinking.

JB: Do you see the arts playing a role in the environmental movement, or are they more reflective of culture than shapers of it?

TC: Absolutely, the arts have a role to play. One of the unique things about art is that it allows us to envision new possibilities. Through art, we can challenge established norms and express the emotional and spiritual realities of what’s happening in the world. Writers, musicians, and visual artists can help communicate the urgency of the climate crisis in ways that statistics and reports simply cannot.

Take writers like Barry Lopez, or filmmakers like Terrence Malick — they use storytelling to explore humanity’s relationship with nature. You also see it in indigenous art, which often reflects a deep connection to the land and the natural world. This art speaks to the heart, and we need that emotional connection if we’re going to inspire meaningful change. Artists can serve as guides to reimagine our place within the greater ecological system.

JB: A lot of your work also delves into social justice and activism. How do you see those intersecting with environmental concerns?

TC: They’re interconnected. You can’t separate social justice from environmental justice. The communities most affected by environmental degradation — whether it’s polluted water, deforestation, or climate change — are often those with the least power to fight back. Marginalized communities, indigenous peoples, and poorer nations bear the brunt of these issues.

I see activism as a form of service, whether it’s on behalf of the environment or human rights. My travels in Asia, and my involvement in social justice movements here, have shown me that these struggles are all tied together. To truly address the environmental crisis, we need a holistic approach that includes fighting for equity and justice for all people.

JB: As a writer, you’ve covered so many different genres — from poetry to journalism to travel writing. How does your personal philosophy shape the way you write?

TC: For me, writing is a way of understanding the world and my place in it. It’s also a way to serve others, by sharing stories and perspectives that might resonate with them. I think the idea of service is a through-line in a lot of my work. Whether I’m writing a poem or a piece of non-fiction, I try to approach it with the mindset of offering something useful to the reader.

My philosophy, informed by Daoism, bioregionalism, and social justice, is that we are all connected. When I write, I try to tap into that connection, to explore both the individual and the collective experience. It’s about asking big questions: How do we live well? How do we take care of each other and the planet? Writing helps me explore these questions.

JB: Lastly, what advice would you give to young writers and activists trying to make sense of the world today?

TC: Stay curious. Keep learning and be open to new ideas. Read widely — not just in your field, but across disciplines. Writing and activism require both passion and discipline. Find what you care deeply about, but also take time to develop the skills you need to communicate effectively. The world can be overwhelming, but small actions add up. Don’t underestimate the power of words and ideas to inspire change. Be patient with yourself, and keep going — even when it feels like you’re not making a difference, you are.