Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie

A fly can’t bird, but a bird can fly.

Ask me a riddle and I reply,

“Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.”

In the second and third verses, Pooh recites that “A fish can’t whistle and neither can I” and “Why does a chicken, I don’t know why.” Now, before dismissing this as childish nonsense, let’s look at each of these lines. We will see how they exquisitely point to aspects of reality that most people forget but Taoism encourages us to remember. Taken together, these lines form what we will call The Cottleston Pie Principle.

Let’s take each line in turn:

A fly can’t bird, but a bird can fly. How often do we insist on fitting square pegs in round holes? We must seek to see things as they are. Everything and everyone has a particular role and place. Ideally, you come to know and accept your own inner nature, that special “Something” that extends far beyond the scholar’s grasp. You know where you belong and what you are to do.

A fish can’t whistle and neither can I. Part of knowing who you are is knowing who you are not, and accepting your limitations. Striving to do things that you aren’t designed for is futile, and can bring harm and disharmony to yourself and others.

Remember when Tigger was stomping through the woods with little Roo? As they walked they talked, and Roo began exploring the limitations of Tigger’s abilities, which, according to Tigger, were virtually nonexistent.

Can they [Tiggers] fly?

Yes, they’re very good flyers.

Can they fly as well as Owl?

Yes. Only they don’t want to.

Can Tiggers swim?

Of course they can. Tiggers can do everything.

Can they climb trees better than Pooh?

Climbing trees is what they do best—much better than Poohs.

The plot thickens when Tigger bounces into the biggest pine in the wood and is unable to get down. Tigger certainly excels at some things, but not at everything.  Like Tigger, we must learn and accept our limitations.

Now, for the third line: Why does a chicken, I don’t know why. Do you know why a chicken behaves in its uniquely chicken way? You don’t know. I don’t know. They don’t know. Scientists don’t really know either. You can slap a label on any phenomenon, but that hardly means you understand it. Explanations like “instinct” and “DNA” are pat and superficial answers. They’re basically indirect admissions of ignorance. But here’s the great thing: we don’t have to know. It is perfectly okay not to know. The scientists and philosophers often ask questions they don’t need to ask and, thus, come up with answers that don’t matter. They don’t bring us closer to the way things are or the true inner nature.