Drumming on a Tub and Singing: A Taoist Reflection on Grief

As an end-of-life worker, I accept and serve people of all religions, meeting them where they are in their beliefs and traditions. But if I had to choose one path that resonates most deeply, I find myself drawn to the Tao. Some would argue it isn’t a religion at all—more a way of being, a philosophy that embraces the ebb and flow of life with acceptance rather than resistance.

Recently, after a thought-provoking conversation about reality, technology, and the future of humanity, I revisited Zhuangzi’s famous Butterfly Dream. That led me to another of his stories, one that speaks powerfully to those who are grieving: Drumming on a Tub and Singing.

In this tale, Zhuangzi’s wife has died, and rather than weeping in despair, he sits on the ground, drumming on a tub and singing. When asked how he can do such a thing, he explains that life and death are part of the same unfolding mystery, that grief is not about clinging to what was, but about moving with the rhythms of existence itself.

For those mourning a loved one, this story offers something profound—not a call to suppress grief, but an invitation to see it through a different lens. What if, instead of resisting change, we honored the full cycle of life? What if we trusted in the vast, unknowable unfolding, where birth and death are not endpoints, but movements in a greater flow?

This is not to say that loss doesn’t ache. It does. But perhaps, like Zhuangzi, we can find a way to meet it with something other than sorrow alone. Perhaps, in time, we too might drum and sing.

"Drumming On a Tub and Singing"

莊子妻死，惠子弔之，莊子則方箕踞鼓盆而歌。惠子曰：與人居長子，老身死，不哭亦足矣，又鼓盆而歌，不亦甚乎。
Zhuangzi's wife died. When Huizi went to convey his condolences, he found Zhuangzi sitting with his legs sprawled out, pounding on a tub and singing. "You lived with her, she brought up your children and grew old," said Huizi. "It should be enough simply not to weep at her death. But pounding on a tub and singing—this is going too far, isn't it?"

莊子曰：不然。是其始死也，我獨何能無概然。察其始而本無生，非徒無生也，而本無形，非徒無形也，而本無氣。雜乎芒芴之間，變而有氣，氣變而有形，形變而有生，今又變而之死，是相與為春秋冬夏四時行也。
Zhuangzi said, "You're wrong. When she first died, do you think I didn't grieve like anyone else? But I looked back to her beginning and the time before she was born. Not only the time before she was born, but the time before she had a body. Not only the time before she had a body, but the time before she had a spirit. In the midst of the jumble of wonder and mystery a change took place and she had a spirit. Another change and she had a body. Another change and she was born. Now there's been another change and she's dead. It's just like the progression of the four seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter."

人且偃然寢於巨室，而我噭噭然隨而哭之，自以為不通乎命，故止也。
"Now she's going to lie down peacefully in a vast room. If I were to follow after her bawling and sobbing, it would show that I don't understand anything about fate. So I stopped."

— Zhuangzi, chapter 18

If you find yourself needing support through a time of grief, don’t hesitate to reach out. I offer compassionate guidance for those navigating loss, and you can find additional resources on my website to help you through this journey. You don’t have to walk it alone.