《道德会元(李道纯)》

I believe that Fuxi drew the trigrams and composed the Yi, revealing the principles of the former Heaven; Laozi wrote his book and fully expounded the Dao and De. These two classics are probably the foundation of the scriptures. It is a pity that some scholars today still have not grasped their principles. Perhaps they have not received the correct transmission.

I have never been learned in letters. Later, I traveled widely to seek instruction and met a person of great understanding. With his guidance, my mind suddenly opened, and I grasped the subtle meaning of the classics. I therefore wrote down everything I had learned, compiled it as the Essence of the Three Heavens and the Yi, and passed it on to my disciples. But I had not yet fully understood Laozi’s Dao De Jing.

One day, Chuan Jian’an brought me the Precious Chapters on the Dao and De, written by the Perfected Purple Clarity—a Daoist honorific—and showed it to me. I read its commentaries and felt that they generally accorded with the meaning of the classic, though some points had not been fully explained. I wanted to offer my own views, but after thinking it over repeatedly, I did not dare to speak hastily. Later, several scholars brought me various editions of the commentary and asked for my advice. I compared each edition with the original text of the Dao De Jing and found many differences: one version had an extra character, another lacked one; some had entire sentences that differed, while others contained textual errors. Each edition had its strengths and weaknesses, and they did not agree with one another.

I sighed, “If even the original text of the classic is like this, what of the commentaries?” Someone asked why. I replied, “At first, errors probably crept in during copying. Some printed editions divided the text and punctuated it incorrectly. When earlier scholars encountered passages they could not explain, some altered or added words as they pleased. These mistakes were then passed down from generation to generation, leaving the text fragmented and confused.” Someone asked which interpretation could be trusted. I answered that the Heshang Gong Commentary and the Perfected Purple Clarity’s Precious Chapters on the Dao and De were comparatively clear and coherent. The test is whether an interpretation connects smoothly with the meaning of the surrounding passages.

As for the explanations offered by different schools, they reflect differing views, each holding fast to one aspect. Some interpret the text from the perspective of governing the state and so emphasize only the way of governance. Some approach it through Neidan (internal alchemy) practice and speak only of the alchemical way. Others explain it solely through military strategy or Chan principles. Some discuss principles without practical affairs; others discuss affairs without principles. In this way, it is easy to fall into one-sidedness and stray from the sages’ original intent.

In truth, the principles the sages set forth in their classics are founded before Heaven and Earth took shape, and their transformations extend beyond the bounds of Yin-Yang. All things and principles between Heaven and Earth are contained within them. How, then, could they be explained by grasping at only one aspect?

So I pointed out one by one the passages that could not be explained or that ran counter to the meaning of the classic, and discussed them with everyone. They all agreed. As more people came to seek my advice, I no longer held back. I annotated the Dao De Jing sentence by sentence, following its original text and explaining its meaning, in order to clarify the essentials of nurturing Shen (spirit) and storing Qi (vital energy). At the end of each chapter, I also summarized its principles and explained the sequence for tracing them back to their source. I composed a verse for each chapter as well, to show the way to clarifying the mind and realizing one’s original nature.

I have tried to include everything from cultivating oneself, ordering the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the world, to laws and institutions, the everyday lives of the people, and the principles one should practice in ordinary life—whether great or small, broad or narrow, subtle or profound. I also wrote two essays, “Setting Words Straight” and “Investigating Principles,” and placed them before the classic. Their purpose is to clarify the wording and examine the principles, dispelling people’s doubts about variant readings and differing interpretations. I have titled this work Bringing the Dao and De Back to Their Origin. I hope that later students will study it attentively and reflect on it repeatedly, beginning wherever they can find a point of understanding, avoiding attachment to one side, and ultimately bringing the teachings together, reaching the Dao, and returning to the root.

My language is plain and unadorned; I have merely explained the meaning of the classic directly and do not dare to claim that my understanding is certainly correct. Yet compared with other editions, it may perhaps be closer to the classic’s intent. I hope those who share my aspirations will examine it carefully.

In the first month of summer, on the first day of the gengyin year of the Zhiyuan era under Yuan Shizu (1290 CE), Li Daochun, styled Yuan Su, a student of the Way from Duoliang (in the area of present-day Wugang, Hunan), known as Qing’an Yingchanzi, wrote this preface.

Preface and Notes on the Collected Meaning of the Dao De Jing

Textual Corrections

I compared editions of the Dao De Jing from various lineages and concluded that the version attributed to the Old Man by the River is the most accurate. This version itself exists in three forms: the Old Man by the River’s annotated edition; an edition combining the explanations of two commentators; and a plain edition containing only the chapter texts, without annotations. Of these three, I consider the plain edition’s exposition of the principles to be the most comprehensive, so I have adopted it.

I have therefore listed differences among the various editions to correct the wording and clarify the principles. Beyond these differences in wording and meaning, there are more than two hundred places where the versions are broadly alike but differ in minor ways; I will not list them all here. What follows is only an outline of the main points, to help students understand the plain edition and resolve their doubts.

In Chapter Two, the six lines beginning “Being and nonbeing give rise to each other” each have an added “zhi” character. This is incorrect.

In Chapter Three, for the line “Therefore, the sage empties the mind,” some editions read “the sage governs,” “zhi governs,” or “zhi governs indeed.” All of these are incorrect.

In Chapter Eleven, a “hu” character has been added to the six lines beginning “Embracing the One, can one avoid separation?” This is incorrect.

In Chapter Thirteen, for the line “Favor is regarded as high, disgrace as low,” some editions read “favor is regarded as low,” which does not accord with the original meaning of the classic.

In Chapter Sixteen, for the line “Cautious, like crossing a river in winter,” some editions write “yu” as “yu” in the sense of “with.” In addition, some editions omit the “xi” character from three of the following six lines. These readings are incorrect.

In Chapter Seventeen, for the line “Those below fear them; those below that scorn them,” some editions omit the “zhi” character after “fear” and “scorn.” This is incorrect.

In Chapter Twenty, some editions read “pale, as if dim” as “serene, as if the sea.” This is incorrect. For the line “and cherish the Mother who nourishes them,” some editions read “children cherish seeking food from their mother.” This, too, is incorrect.

In Chapter Thirty, some editions contain three extra characters, while others omit one or two.

In Chapter 31, some interpret the phrase “victory is not beautiful” to mean “therefore it is not beautiful.” This is incorrect.

In Chapter 34, some interpret “cherish and nourish” as “clothe and shelter.” This is incorrect.

In Chapter 36, some divide “the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong” into two sentences. This is incorrect.

In Chapter 39, some interpret the phrase “counting the carts, there are no carts” to mean “repeatedly offering praise.” This is incorrect.

In Chapter 49, some add the character yi after “good in De” and “trustworthy in De.” This is incorrect.

In Chapter 52, some change “once you have served the mother, you know the child” to “once you know the mother, you also know the child.” Neither way of punctuating the passage is correct.

In Chapter 55, some change “increasing life brings misfortune” to “daily life” or “life is said to…”. Both are incorrect.

In Chapter 66, one sentence differs in the number of characters.

In Chapter 71, some interpret “knowing that one does not know is best” to mean “knowing that one does not know is supreme.” This is incorrect.

In Chapter 77, some add the two words “what is lacking” to the phrase “Who can use what is in excess to serve the world?” This is incorrect.

In Chapter 78, some change “Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water” to “Nothing is softer and weaker than water.” This is incorrect.

In Chapter 80, some change “even if there are tools for ten or a hundred people, they are not used” by replacing “if” with “let,” or by adding “also” at the end of the sentence. Both are incorrect.

Examining the Principles

The author compares different versions and considers their interpretations, listing those that do not accord with the sage’s principles. Since there are many textual variants and errors, not all are included here; readers are encouraged to consider them carefully.

The lines “Therefore, always without desire, to observe its workings, are not used; all are wrong” repeat the preceding text, and their wording seems to be confused. The phrase “Therefore, always without desire, to observe its subtle mystery” means: therefore, one should often maintain a state of mind free from desire in order to observe the subtle, mysterious principles.

Some divide “the constant absence” as a sentence of its own. Others explain it to mean, “Those without desires can preserve themselves for a long time, while those with desires will lose their lives.” If people with desires truly lose their lives, why does the scripture also say, “Being and nonbeing emerge together but have different names; both are called the Mysterious”? Does it make sense to call losing one’s life “mysterious”?

I believe that “absence of desire” means acting without selfish contrivance and following nature, while “having desire” means consciously applying the methods of cultivation. Through Wuwei (non-action), one can perceive the wonder of the nameless and thereby preserve one’s nature. Through deliberate action, one can perceive the principles of the named and thereby preserve one’s life. Nonbeing and being, nature and life, arise from a single source; they have different names, but are all called “the Mysterious.” To enter ever more deeply into the wondrous realm beyond the Mysterious is for nonbeing and being to interpenetrate, with both nature and life preserved.

The Book of Rites says, “When joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure have not yet appeared, this is called the Mean.” The “Mean” is the root of all things under Heaven: it means perceiving the wondrous principles with a mind free of desire. “When emotions appear and each is expressed in due measure, this is called Harmony.” “Harmony” is the universal way through which all things proceed: it means observing how things manifest with a mind that has desire. When the Mean and Harmony are attained, Heaven and Earth each find their proper place, and the myriad things grow and flourish. This is what “the Mysterious and yet more Mysterious” means. Here, “desire” refers to seeking what ordinary people do not seek.

Do Not Elevate the Worthy

Some explain this as refusing to seek out worthy people or declining to appoint them. Both interpretations are wrong. If the worthy were truly not appointed, the principles of this classic could not be put to the test; plainly, that interpretation makes no sense.

The Gate of the Mysterious Female

Some say that “the Gate of the Mysterious Female” refers to the mouth and nose. This is wrong. Others say it is the place where thoughts arise. That interpretation has some merit, but still does not accord with the scripture’s original meaning.

Carrying the Po

Some explain this as referring to the soul and bodily soul, or to Yin-Yang, along with several other interpretations. None makes sense. In fact, the Po tends toward activity; “carrying” means to harness and govern it.

Thirty Spokes

Some explain “thirty spokes” as the number of days in a month, or as the timing and measure of effort in cultivation. Both interpretations are wrong. The sage did not originally intend to emphasize the number “thirty.”

Cut Off Sagehood and Abandon Wisdom

Some believe that sagehood and wisdom are undesirable and should therefore be cast aside. This is wrong. I believe the sage does not govern the people by displaying sagehood and wisdom.

Cut Off Learning and Have No Worries

Some people say that “abandoning learning” means not studying. That interpretation is wrong. Here it means cutting off the learning of ordinary worldly people and learning “what people do not learn”—that is, truths unbound by worldly preconceptions. “Abandoning learning” refers to learning that goes beyond the secular world.

“Wanting to draw something in, one must first stretch it out”: the explanations given by the various schools all fail to make sense. Some say this praises the use of political schemes, but that is wrong. Laozi even says, “Do not exalt the worthy”; how could he praise political scheming?

Some therefore conclude that ritual is not worth taking seriously. I do not see it that way. If one starts with ritual and advances from there to benevolence and righteousness, one is already approaching the Dao.

“Count the parts of a cart, and there is no cart”: the explanations given by the various schools all fail to make sense. I take this saying to use the cart as a metaphor for the human body: among the body’s parts, none on its own is called “I.”

“Of those who belong to life, one in ten”: some say that, out of ten parts, three belong to life and three to death; others say it refers to the seven emotions and six desires. These explanations may seem plausible, but they are wrong. One explanation identifies the phrase with the four gates and nine apertures; that is even further off. Others use the waxing and waning of the moon as a metaphor for the timing of cultivation, but that too is wrong. For a specific explanation, see the notes accompanying the text of the Dao De Jing.

“Do not make your dwelling narrow”: the explanations offered by earlier commentators do not hold together. Some reverse the meaning, saying this refers either to spirit having no fixed location or to boundless vastness. Both interpretations are wrong. Others say that “do not grow weary of what gives you life” means not to reject life or the Dao. That is pure conjecture. The ending says, “Let go of that and choose this.” I take “do not make your dwelling narrow” to mean not to crave vastness or indulge boundless desires; “do not grow weary of what gives you life” means not to disregard great dangers or cling to life insatiably. The sage knows himself without displaying himself, cherishes himself without elevating himself, and does not pamper his life. Hence the teaching to let go of the former and choose the latter.

“Those with De manage the tally; those without De manage the levies.”

Some say that “thorough” means to understand completely: once the sages of antiquity awakened fully, they could integrate all things and know everything, so the people did not even know what virtue to praise them for. This can only be dismissed as hearsay, wholly unrelated to the scripture’s original meaning.

I believe that “qi” means a pledge of trust, and that “xu” should, to fit the rhyme, be read as “xie.” “Che” means to see clearly and understand fully. The virtuous keep their pledges of trust; the unvirtuous take charge of discerning matters. A detailed explanation can be found in the corresponding passage of the original Dao De Jing. Those who seek full understanding should consider it carefully.

The wording of this scripture often alters pronunciation to fit the rhyme: “pu” rhymes with “pu”; “que” is read as “ya,” rhyming with “chacha”; “ba” is read as “ba,” rhyming with “tuo”; and “zuo” is read as “zuo” in the entering tone, rhyming with “fu.” There are many similar cases, and the pronunciation of each character is explained in the relevant passage of the scripture. When reading this scripture, one must not cling rigidly to the literal meaning of the characters.

Prefatory Notes to Dao De Huiyuan

Dao De Huiyuan, Volume One

Written by Li Daochun, the Master of Original Essence, known as Yingchanzi of the Clear Hermitage in Duliang.

Dao

The “Dao” that can be spoken of and explained is not the truly constant and unchanging Dao. The truly constant Dao begins where there is no beginning; its name is…

The “Dao” that can be expressed in words is not the truly constant and unchanging Dao. The true Dao begins where there was no beginning and receives its name where there were no names. The moment one tries to ponder or discuss it, one strays from it; the moment one opens one’s mouth, one speaks amiss. If it could truly be put into words, what, then, would this Dao be?

Since the Dao cannot be expressed in words, how can one experience it? What can be said is wrong, and what cannot be said is wrong too. What, then, counts as right? If one can utter a fitting sentence here, one’s study and practice are complete. If one cannot yet do so, one must continue to observe it in daily life: in the routines of the day and in eating and drinking, as well as whenever one turns back to reconsider a thought, one must repeatedly examine what it is that stands lofty and alive, yet does not oppose the various conditions encountered in the world.

Continue this inquiry until there is no way to examine it further. Then, suddenly, it will be as though you have touched your own nose. Your whole body will break into a sweat, and you will understand that it has always been within you, unchanged since before the beginning. The so-called Dao cannot be left for even an instant. Walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, one is never apart from it. Everything between Heaven and Earth embodies it. From antiquity to the present, there has been only this: the unfolding of Heaven and Earth comes from it, and in daily life, whether moving or still, working or resting, one never departs from it.

All things with form will eventually decay. Only this ever-present, indestructible nature endures. Heaven, Earth, and even empty space will decay; only this one will not. Yet even eyes as sharp as iron and bronze cannot see through it. Why can it not be seen? Because one has not truly met it face to face. And even when one does meet it face to face, one may still miss it. Where, exactly, has it been missed? Do not search about aimlessly. Qing’an says: the principle is plainly right here; it seems only that someone must truly understand and take responsibility for it. Even upon meeting a kindred spirit, one may still miss it by raising one’s eyebrows in a gesture of recognition. Where, exactly, has it been missed? Do not search about aimlessly. If you meet a kindred spirit, raise your eyebrows and understand it.

Ah! Last night, a fresh rain fell by the river; this morning, the distant mountains are still green.

Ode: The highest Dao returns to emptiness and stillness. It has no image or form, no name or substance. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; grasp for it, and it cannot be caught; listen for it, and it cannot be heard; seek it, and no trace can be found. It is so vast that nothing lies beyond its embrace, and so subtle that there is nowhere it does not enter. Heaven and Earth unfold from it, and all things are nourished by it. Its transformations are without end, and its appearing and disappearing are beyond measure. It cannot be grasped through knowledge or distinguished through understanding. The tongue of the Most High Laozi, soft and boneless, shows just how difficult it is to pin down the Dao in words. The Dao has already been clearly revealed in this scripture. Too many words can exhaust the matter; better to be silent. This is why there is no need for further doubt.

The word “De” (Virtue/Power) is itself a name established only as a makeshift way of expressing something. It cannot be explained through images or grasped through attachment. Deliberately arranging things, accumulating merit, and amassing good deeds are, paradoxically, not true De. Yet if one does no cultivation or effort at all, becoming like dead ash and withered wood while waiting for De to arrive of its own accord, one will never attain De in a lifetime.

The more one pursues De, the farther away it seems; the more tightly one clings to it, the more surely it slips away. The scripture says, “The highest De does not regard itself as De, and so it truly has De.” It also says, “The highest De acts through Wuwei (non-action), without acting with any particular aim.” These words make the matter clear, yet few truly understand or put them into practice.

If you can truly accept this, you should let go of your former attachment to understanding through knowledge and making distinctions through what you have heard and seen. Let go, too, of striving for stages of cultivation such as those of the Hearers and the Solitary Realizers. In your daily conduct, practice “reduction”: shed unnecessary desires and attachments, then shed subtler attachments, until there is nothing left to reduce. At this point, profound and wondrous De appears of its own accord, and you can experience the benefits of Wuwei. The scripture says, “The teaching without words and the benefits of Wuwei—few under Heaven can equal them.” That is, the benefits that arise from teaching without words and following things as they are are rarely matched anywhere in the world. It also says, “Mystic De is deep and far-reaching”: its mystery is profound and difficult to fathom.

Do you understand? It is right before you, clear and tranquil in each present moment. But if you deliberately seek it, you will find that it cannot be seen.

The verse says: The many wondrous forms of De, as countless as the sands of the Ganges, all take root in the mind. They cannot be gained through deliberate effort, so why labor to accumulate them? The more you search, the more hidden they become; the more you cling, the more easily they are lost. Let go of every attachment before you and break through fixed views of all things. In your dealings with others, put yourself last and others first; hold to gentleness and return to oneness. Only when the mind is pure and focused, free of deluded thoughts, can De become real and firmly grounded. Cultivating oneself, ordering the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to all under Heaven all begin here. Its wondrous workings cannot be measured. This is called “Mystic De,” the profound and far-reaching De.

The word “scripture” is itself only a name established as a makeshift. The sages of antiquity saw people follow their desires and passions in pursuit of illusions, their true nature obscured by greed, their minds disturbed by the turmoil of karmic consciousness, and their spirits fiercely veiled by ignorance. They had lost the true nature endowed by Heaven and suffered sudden calamities, premature deaths, and injuries, unable to recover their original root. So the sages employed skillful means, opening paths that encouraged goodness and offered guidance, leading the lost back to the right way. They wrote books and established teachings, which they provisionally called “scriptures.”

“Scripture” also means a road: a great way that everyone can follow together. When reading a scripture, do not cling to its written words, but neither should you leave the classic and search elsewhere for the great Way. Turn back to yourself and carefully contemplate these more than five thousand characters, not casually overlooking a single word or phrase. If you suddenly see through even half a sentence, the entire scripture will already be within you. Only then will you believe that once the Dao is spoken and made clear, its revelation does not depend on the tongue and words alone.

At that point, you can open your own treasure house, reveal the “scripture” that belongs to you, and put it to use freely. Even the thirty-six revered scriptures and the entire Daoist Canon, understood thoroughly from beginning to end, can all be grasped with a single shout. Do you understand? It is like a storm suddenly rising on level ground, or thunder cracking in a clear sky. Listen carefully, listen carefully.

The verse says: The wondrous power of this single scroll is beyond description. Everyone possesses it from the beginning; every thing is complete in itself. It is straight and true, broad and level. It remains unchanged through countless kalpas, never altered from ancient times to the present. It can answer every matter and thing; everywhere, a path opens through. Before it is even brought forth, it is already perfectly clear. If one has not truly grasped the fundamental Way of my tradition, who would dare enter here?

The “Dao” that can be expressed in words is not the constant, unchanging true Dao. The moment one begins to explain it, one has already strayed from it. What name should be given to the Dao? Anything that can be named is not the constant, unchanging true name. It is not appropriate to call it any particular thing. That which has no name or form is the Dao, the fundamental source that existed before Heaven and Earth began. What has a name can only be called “Dao” as a makeshift: it is the source from which the myriad things come into being and through which they continue to flourish.

Therefore, when one observes without attachment, one can apprehend the Dao’s subtlety; when the heart holds no intention to act, the myriad things move along naturally. When one observes with intention, one can see the boundaries and traces that things reveal. “Jiao” is pronounced “jiao” and here refers to the outward limits and signs of things. These two can be personally experienced in what cannot be seen, yet even in experiencing them one must not cling to what is perceived. They come from the same source but have different names; they belong to one whole, yet differ as essence and function. Both may be called “xuan,” profound and mysterious. The source of essence and function is the same. Mysterious upon mysterious: through this, both form and spirit reach a subtle state. This is the gateway to the many wondrous teachings.

The chapter above speaks of emptiness, naturalness, and the constant, real Dao. It cannot, in its nature, be fully expressed in words. The Dao that can be spoken of is not the true, constant Dao. The Primordial Ancestral Qi—the original vital energy in Daoist teaching—gives rise to the heavens and responds to change at every moment; this is the Dao’s function. The Dao originally has no name. Names that can be assigned are not constant, unchanging true names. The names that appear in the forms and traces of Heaven and Earth as they transform and nurture the myriad things belong to the Dao that has a name. Only with an empty heart and Wuwei (non-action) can one apprehend the subtlety of the nameless Dao. When one deliberately exercises the mind, one can see the boundaries revealed by the named Dao. Subtlety corresponds to spirit; revealed boundaries correspond to form. Knowing only the traces of form without knowing subtlety means one’s understanding is not deep. Knowing subtlety without penetrating it completely means one’s understanding is incomplete. To penetrate both form and spirit fully is for form and spirit to be wondrous together; this is what is meant by “mysterious upon mysterious.” The thirty-six revered scriptures all arise from here, which is why this is called the gateway to all wonders.

Where, then, did this scripture come from? (Duo is a term in Daoist recorded sayings used to halt someone and prompt insight.) The verse says: “On the summit of Mount Kunlun, within the Millet Pearl of the Primordial Beginning.” The mouth you received from your parents can never, in the end, explain it fully for you.

Everyone knows what is beautiful. Once the idea of beauty is established, ugliness appears alongside it. Everyone knows what is good. Once the standard of goodness is established, what is not good appears alongside it. Beauty and ugliness, good and not good, become visible in contrast with one another.

Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other: being emerges from nonbeing, and nonbeing becomes visible through being. Difficulty and ease bring each other about: what seems difficult can often be made easy, while what seems easy may also become difficult. Long and short show their difference only in comparison; high and low are distinguished only by contrast. Sounds answer one another, and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

Therefore, the sage does not cling to distinctions between beauty and ugliness, but acts through Wuwei (non-action). The sage does not cling to being or nonbeing, and teaches without words. The myriad things grow, and the sage does not interfere with them or claim them as his own. He acts, but does not rely on his own actions; he accomplishes his work, but does not claim the credit. Because he does not claim the credit, his work does not disappear. When all attachments are set aside, the true and enduring “One” becomes manifest.

The second chapter above says that beauty and ugliness, like shadows, accompany and oppose one another, and that being and nonbeing, difficulty and ease, also depend on and transform into each other. Thus the sage possesses nothing, relies on nothing, and claims no credit. He lets go of the distinctions between things and does not fixate on being or nonbeing, allowing the Dao to endure. This chapter clarifies the first chapter’s insight into the Great Dao, helping those who cultivate the Dao understand that although the myriad things have different names, they all come from the Dao. Use the myriad things without being confined by them, and you will not fall into partiality.

The verse says: The world distinguishes beauty from ugliness; I cling to neither side. Break through all distinctions, and countless bubbles return to water. Though myriad things appear before my eyes, in the Dao I speak of there is not even a fixed “being.”

“Do not exalt the worthy; put an end to the esteem accorded to cleverness and talent.” The verse says: The world distinguishes beauty from ugliness; I cling to neither side. Break through all distinctions, and countless bubbles return to water. Though myriad things appear before my eyes, in the Dao I speak of there is not even a fixed “being.”

When the worthy are not exalted, and wisdom and brilliance are not deliberately displayed or cleverness flaunted, the people will not struggle. This is called forgetting the self. When rare and precious goods are not prized, and cunning schemes and private gain are not pursued, the people will not steal. This is called forgetting things. When objects that stir up greed are not brought into view, and one responds in accord with the changes and timing of things, the heart will not be disturbed. This is called forgetting emotions.

Therefore, the sage empties and quiets the heart to preserve one’s nature; fills the belly to preserve life; softens the will to preserve the spirit; and strengthens sinews and bones to preserve the body. The sage constantly keeps the people from accumulating clever knowledge and desires, and releases them from the fixations they already hold, so that those who believe themselves shrewd dare not act recklessly. “Fu” is read as “fu,” as below; “zhi” means “wisdom.” Those who know techniques and harbor cunning will also feel awe. Act in accord with the Dao of Wuwei (non-action), remaining still and unmoving, and there will be nothing that cannot be governed. “Govern” is read as “hold.” When things evoke a response, one can then connect with them by following their momentum.

Of the three chapters above, the chapter “Do Not Exalt the Worthy” continues the previous chapter’s discussion of “the affair of Wuwei.” When people do not boast of their worthiness, the people remain simple; when rare and unusual goods are not prized, the people are content; when objects that stir up greed are not displayed, the heart is at peace. In governing the realm, the sage must make self-cultivation the foundation. The passage “Empty the Heart, Fill the Belly” is entirely about the essentials of cultivating oneself: when the heart is empty and quiet, the will becomes gentle; when the will is gentle, clever knowledge diminishes; when clever knowledge diminishes, one can forget the self. This is the meaning of “Do Not Exalt the Worthy.” When the belly is full, the sinews and bones grow strong; when the sinews and bones are strong, desires can be reduced; when there is no desire, one can forget things. This is the meaning of “Do Not Prize Rare and Precious Goods.” These two aspects support each other and suffice to preserve nature and life.

The verse says: When the belly is full, what is true and constant is within; when the heart is empty and quiet, the Dao naturally abides. Without resorting to the slightest force, one can bring peace to the realm with a smile and a word.

The substance of the Dao is empty, yet its workings are inexhaustible, wholly at one with the Great Void, the vast and silent emptiness. It seems never to be full, and is never self-satisfied; it is deep and distant, like the source of all things. It does not show itself, but draws in its sharpness and conceals its edge; it dissolves turmoil without being swayed by worldly changes; it harmonizes its radiance without deliberately displaying itself; it mingles with the dust of the world without presuming to be right. It is deep and mysterious, seeming to exist yet difficult to grasp; it responds constantly to things and acts, yet remains ever still. I do not know whose descendant it is, for above it there is no ancestor. Its form preceded the Celestial Emperor; only the Dao itself is its true substance.

The first four chapters say that we should act in accordance with the Dao (the Way) of Wuwei (non-action). The next passage says, “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted”: although the Dao is empty, it can function, and seems never to overflow. This is because the Dao is never complacent; by not being complacent, it can continue to gain. “Dull the sharpness and untangle the knots” means to restrain one’s edge and resolve confusion. “Remain empty within and forget the self” means to keep the heart-mind clear and open, without clinging to the self.

“I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.” This means that the Dao transcends even emptiness. A verse says: “If we do not know where the Dao came from, how can we know that it existed before the Lord of Heaven? Let me make this clear: the Dao was there before the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) had yet differentiated.”

Heaven and Earth do not favor any of the ten thousand things out of benevolence. They let them grow naturally, as one treats the straw dogs used in ritual offerings. The sage follows Heaven and Earth: without private affection for the people, the sage lets each find its proper place and does not claim them as possessions. Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows—empty in the middle, yet still able to work? The more it is worked, the more wind keeps pouring out. Too many words can bring one to the end more quickly; better to hold to emptiness and stillness within. Here, “holding to the center” means maintaining inner emptiness and stillness, free of intention.

The first five chapters say that Heaven and Earth shelter and support the ten thousand things and nurture the people; this may already be called utmost benevolence. “Not benevolent” means forgetting that one is bestowing kindness and not taking oneself to be the giver. The sage cares for the people and governs the state in the same way; the same should hold for cultivating the self and nourishing life. This follows from the previous chapter’s meaning of “the Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted.” A verse says: “What has no bottom is called the tuo, a bellows; what has three openings is called the yue, an ancient bellows-like device. There is an opening in the middle that no one can reach. If one could truly reach it, one could play a silent melody.”

“The valley spirit never dies” means that spirit, empty like a valley, never perishes. “Dark and subtle, empty spirit” refers to a spirit that is profound and clear. This is called the “mysterious female,” the deep maternal source, which contains the principle of Yin-Yang arising from one another. The opening and closing of the “gate of the mysterious female” is the root from which Heaven and Earth come into being. From it, the ten thousand things bring forth Heaven and Earth, continuing without end, as though they had always existed. Its function is inexhaustible, yet it seems to require no effort.

“The valley spirit never dies” means that the numinous, wondrous nature of emptiness does not perish. This continues the previous chapter’s teaching on “keeping to the center.” Clear and radiant in its openness, it undergoes marvelous transformations without fixed form. The changes of Yin-Yang are beyond measure; opening and closing, ebbing and flowing, it moves without cease, its ultimate end unknown. Its movement and stillness both accord with nature. It requires no effortful action, yet continually gives rise to life and transformation, extending without limit. The verse says: “Opening and closing accord with the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth”—this is the mysterious “Gate of the Female,” the portal through which the myriad things are brought forth. It comes and goes from nothingness, and so alone is honored among the Three Realms.

Heaven and Earth continue their course for a long time without pause. They endure because they follow their nature, do not act recklessly, and do not cling to themselves. Thus they last without shifting or changing. The sage takes Heaven and Earth as his model: by placing himself behind others, he comes to stand before them; by forgetting himself, he preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfishness? Precisely because he does not cling to private gain, he fulfills himself; by forgetting himself, he realizes his true self.

Heaven does not presume to be Heaven, and Earth does not presume to be Earth, so the myriad things flourish without end. The sage does not presume to be a sage, and thus can accord with the De of Heaven and Earth and preserve himself—that is, let go of attachment to his bodily form. Is this not because he has no selfishness? For this very reason, he fulfills himself; through being without self, he realizes his true self.

This chapter continues the previous one’s teaching that “its use is never strained.” The verse says: the root of the Dao is utmost emptiness, and utmost emptiness has no beginning. Realize this empty state, and you become one with the Great Void. The vast Taihu Lake stretches beyond measure, with the moon reflected at its heart. To whom could one tell of such a scene?

The highest goodness is like water: gentle, it settles in low places. Water nourishes the myriad things without contention and adapts to circumstances, taking either a round or square shape. It rests in places people dislike and can contain what is impure; for this reason, it is closest to the Dao.

In choosing where to dwell, be like water and favor low ground; let the heart be deep and vast as an abyss; treat others with generous kindness; speak with honesty and trustworthiness; govern affairs in an orderly way; carry out tasks by making good use of your strengths; and act in accord with the moment. These qualities of water reflect, respectively, settling, holding, nourishing, responding, governing, accomplishing, and moving with the circumstances. Precisely because it does not contend, it has no faults. To be able to live this way is to regard oneself and the myriad things as one.

The first eight chapters develop the meaning of the previous chapter’s phrase “putting oneself last and others first.” Water symbolizes gentleness, humility, and dwelling in low places. It nourishes all things without competing with them, and so incurs no fault. The verse says: When you do not contend, the spirit becomes settled; when you know contentment, the breath becomes calm. Let go of this single clinging thought, and a troubled state of mind will gradually grow clear.

Holding on to things until they are full is not as good as stopping at the right point. The character yi is read as yi and means “to stop.” The Dao of Heaven diminishes what is full and adds to what is humble. Sharpen a vessel too much, and it will be hard to keep its edge for long. The Dao of Earth changes what is full, directing what is in excess toward what is low. Even when a hall is filled with gold and jade, they may not be kept safe. Spirits and gods bring loss to the self-satisfied and blessings to the humble. Once people become wealthy and honored, arrogance can bring calamity upon them.

After your work is accomplished and your name has become well known, you should withdraw and gather what you have gained away into safekeeping. This is the Dao of Heaven, and the Virtue through which Heaven and Earth come together.

Chapter Nine, “Holding things until they are full is not as good as stopping,” carries forward the meaning of the previous chapter, “The highest goodness is like water.” The phrase “when the work is done and the name established, withdraw” warns people against self-satisfaction and encourages humility. The verse says: If you hurry about, you can never escape your own shadow; turn carelessly, and you may fall into a pit. At this moment, simply stop where you stand, and the ground before you will become level. With a little effort, you can turn around; whether you lie hidden or soar aloft, both are then yours to command.

Settle body and mind, and do not let Jing, Qi, and Shen become disordered or dissipate. Hold fast to a state of undivided unity so that it does not fall apart. The word “depart” is read with a level tone. Jing and Shen blend together, like a mother holding her infant. By tending the breath with undivided attention and making body and mind supple, one can return to the infant’s simplicity. Preserve what is pure and undivided, and return to plainness and sincerity.

Clear away distracting thoughts from the heart-mind, so that inner awareness is bright and flawless. Do not cling to seeing or hearing, and you will be clear as a mirror cleansed of dust. In governing the people and the state, follow what is natural and rule through Wuwei (non-action). The word “govern” is read as “hold.” Do not act rashly or waver: then the Dao will be at peace, and the world will be calm.

As the Heavenly Gate opens and closes—that is, as the Qi dynamics of body and mind open and close—maintain deep stillness in awareness, free of flaw. Do not cling to seeing or hearing, and the heart-mind will be clear as a mirror cleansed of dust. In governing the people and the state, rule through Wuwei. The word “govern” is read as “hold.” Do not act rashly or waver: then the Dao will be at peace, and the world will be calm.

As the Heavenly Gate opens and closes, remain supple and still, keeping to the receptive. Move between the formed and the formless without boasting or pride. Understand the affairs and principles of all directions, yet do not presume to be clever. Restrain ingenuity and put cleverness aside; keep your own light understated and blend with the common world.

Let the myriad things grow and be nourished. The word “nourish” is read with an entering tone, with a sound close to “xiong.” Set in motion the virtues of the four seasons—birth, growth, gathering, and storage—and care for all living beings. Give life to and nourish the myriad things without claiming them as your own. When the work is done, withdraw and leave no trace. Accomplish things without relying on your achievements; forget where you came from, and remain silent, free of desire, simple, and natural. Let the myriad things grow without ruling over them. The word “grow” is read with a falling-rising tone. Yield and leave room to spare, letting everything follow the transformations of Heaven’s Dao. This is called “Mysterious De,” the profound and natural power. When the Dao flourishes and De is complete, one can cast off external constraints and return whole to one’s true nature.

This passage explains the cultivation of body and mind through “nourishing the Po” (the physical form and the Yin aspect of the hun and po souls). The Po tends toward activity, restless pursuit, and forceful sharpness, which is why it is called “nourishing the Po.” The Po belongs to Yin; when Yin energy is excessive, it harms Yang energy. Strong desires can also constrain one’s original nature. To master these tendencies, one must “embrace the One without departing from it” (hold fast to the fundamental unity and keep the mind and spirit from scattering). This means becoming gentle and pure, practicing Wuwei (non-action), remaining still like the female, and not being driven by delusive thoughts. In this way, the Yin Po cannot indulge its desires. When the Po settles and Yin energy recedes, the spirit becomes clear and the temperament returns to stillness.

“Giving life and nurturing it” means allowing life to grow and flourish naturally. “Giving life without possessing” means allowing the myriad things to grow without claiming them as one’s own: forgetting where they came from and not deliberately restraining them, but letting them settle naturally. This is like returning with a load of treasures without becoming attached to what one carries. Hence the phrase “carrying and nourishing the Po,” meaning to settle and cultivate the body and the hun and po souls. The author holds that everything from “embrace the One” onward conveys this idea. It follows the previous chapter’s “when the work is done, withdraw” and leads into the next chapter’s vehicle metaphor. The verse says: To understand how to act, one must grasp it from a place of no-mind, yet no-mind is difficult to attain. Once understood, it comes in the blink of an eye; when lost, it is as if separated by a thousand mountains and ten thousand rivers.

“Thirty spokes converge at one hub”—the thirty spokes of a wheel meeting at its central hub—serves as a metaphor for the myriad principles returning to a single mind. The wheel’s center is empty; only when the spokes converge does the wheel become useful. If one counts only the parts of the wheel, without the empty space between them and their coordination, it cannot function as a wheel. Clay is shaped into a vessel, but only the hollow inside makes it useful for holding things. A house is made by cutting doors and windows into its walls; only with interior space and openings that allow passage can it be lived in. Thus, solid things provide convenience, while empty spaces make them useful.

Chapter Eleven above uses a cart to explain the function of “emptiness”: the spokes gather at the hub, allowing the cart to serve its purpose; in the same way, when all things return to the mind, the spirit can move freely. The hub is hollow, so the wheel can turn; the mind is empty and still, so the spirit can respond to change. Thus, what is empty is precisely where practical use lies, and solid objects can function because of their emptiness. Emptiness and substance flow into one another without obstruction. This is the meaning of “carrying the corporeal soul” in the previous chapter.

Further, if there is nothing in the mind to cling to or bear, then even the hub and spokes are forgotten, and the image of the cart disappears. This is like no longer clinging to either mind or the teachings, as the spirit returns to emptiness and stillness. Vessels and houses follow the same principle: their empty interiors are what make them useful.

The verse says: Iron walls rise layer upon layer; silver mountains tower tier upon tier. Turn the pivotal mechanism at the crucial point, and you pass straight through every barrier. If you wish to know the road beneath the mountain, ask those who come and go.

The five colors dazzle the eyes, beguiling them with color; the five tones deafen the ears, unsettling them with sound; the five flavors spoil the palate, clouding the mouth with taste. Reckless riding and hunting throw the mind and spirit into confusion, as desire takes control of the heart. Rare and precious goods hinder a person’s conduct, binding them to material cravings.

The sage, therefore, gives priority to tending the inner life and does not pursue pleasures of the outer senses. The inner self does not reach outward in search, so outer disturbances cannot enter. One should set aside external temptations and hold fast to one’s inner nature: draw back the gaze and listen with full attention.

Chapter Twelve above follows on from the previous chapter and explains the function of emptiness and stillness: when the mind is empty and still, it is not beguiled by sights and sounds. Colors, sounds, flavors, and all external things are objects encountered by the senses. Ordinary people are often led astray by them, while those who cultivate the Dao are not deceived. When seeing, hearing, speaking, and acting accord with proper conduct, the temptations of the senses can be transformed into inner wisdom and capacity. One should therefore set aside external temptations and preserve one’s inner nature.

The verse says: Seeing beauty unsettles the spirit; hearing a sound robs the heart of its calm. If you can sweep away these disturbances completely, they will no longer hold you back, and even with bare hands you can reach the highest realm directly.

Both favor and disgrace can cause alarm, because favor is often a prelude to disgrace. One should regard great troubles as one regards oneself, for honor, too, can become the beginning of calamity.

What does “favor and disgrace both bring alarm” mean? Listen closely to what follows: favor places one above, disgrace places one below. Receiving favor is like gaining an advantage. So when in a high position, one must be alert both when favor is bestowed and when it is withdrawn. In this way, whether favored or unfavored, one is not thrown into turmoil by gain or loss. This is what “favor and disgrace both bring alarm” means.

What does “regard great troubles as one regards oneself” mean? Where do my great troubles come from? They come because I have a body; having a body brings worries and troubles. Once I no longer cling to the body or feel burdened by physical form, what troubles could remain? Forgetting honor can free one from calamity. Therefore, only those who value themselves as much as they value all under Heaven, yet can set themselves aside, are fit to be entrusted with all under Heaven. Only those who apply their care for themselves to governing all under Heaven, yet can put themselves last, are fit to be entrusted with it.

This is Chapter Thirteen of the Dao De Jing. Continuing the previous chapter’s teaching, “nourish the belly, not the eye,” it speaks of self-forgetfulness. Favor and disgrace, honor and trouble, depend on one another and transform into one another. If one keeps trouble in mind and takes precautions in advance, one can remain free of calamity throughout life. Applied to governing all under Heaven, this principle can bring lasting stability. When those who rule a state worry about all under Heaven as they worry about themselves, its people will gladly support them and will not grow weary of them.

The verse says: being disgraced does not necessarily mean one has truly suffered disgrace, and holding an honored position does not necessarily mean one possesses true honor. Taking precautions in advance can prevent mistakes, yet still feels like walking a long road. Better to let go completely of personal gain and loss: then there will be no thought of gain or loss, and no cause for alarm.

To look at it and not see it is called “Yi”; the greatest image of the Dao has no fixed form. To listen to it and not hear it is called “Xi”; the greatest sound is, paradoxically, inaudible. To touch it and not feel it is called “Wei.” The Dao is hidden and obscure, and cannot be identified by name. These three states cannot be traced to their ultimate source or clearly explained in words. Taken together, they are one, though they appear in different ways, and ultimately return to the same place.

At the heights, the Dao does not appear bright; in concealment, nothing is more evident than it. In the depths, it does not appear dim; in subtlety, nothing is more manifest than it. It extends without end and cannot be named. Even if one tries to set out its various aspects, no name can truly be given to it. In the end, it returns to the formless and immaterial, as if concealing its shape and leaving no trace. This is “the shape of the shapeless”: one experiences it directly amid what cannot be seen, yet within that direct experience it remains unseen. This is called “the indistinct and elusive”—a state of undivided unity, profound and unfathomable.

Face it, and its beginning cannot be seen; thus it has no beginning. Follow it, and its end cannot be seen; thus it has no end. Grasp the Dao that has existed from ancient times, and use Wuwei (non-action) to guide all that exists in the present and bring the myriad things under its sway. In this way, one comes to know the origin of all things. The Dao is formless and inactive, yet present everywhere; this is the guiding principle of the Dao. From the formless Dao, the myriad things with form come forth.

In Chapter Fourteen above, “Xi, Yi, and Wei” describe the Dao’s most profound realm. “Blended into one” refers to returning to the root; “neither bright nor dim” refers to harmonizing its radiance without displaying it; and “without image or shape” refers to the Dao concealing its workings. The final sentence sums up the preceding three chapters and introduces the mystery to be expounded in what follows.

The eulogy says: The essential point of these words is truly difficult to depict or draw. It is perfectly whole and unobstructed in every direction, with no gaps or boundaries to be found. Amid the indistinct and profound, forms seem to appear—yet to whom can these signs be spoken?

In ancient times, those skilled in cultivating the Dao (the Way) held fast in their hearts to the Dao, which has no form or appearance. They were subtle and profound, versed in the mystery of things, and inwardly clear and bright, so deep that others could hardly fathom them. Look for them, and no trace of their form can be seen. Since they are so hard to know, one can only try to describe them with a few words: through what has form, we may come to understand the formless Dao.

They acted with care, like someone crossing a river in winter, cautious as if the cold might reach to the marrow. They were also wary, as though attending to every sound and movement around them; this means keeping constant watch over one’s own heart. They were solemn and composed, like ice about to melt, with no lingering doubts. They were genuine and unadorned, like uncarved wood, seeming even a little dull. Their hearts were open and spacious, like an empty valley. They were deep and reserved, like muddy water, blending into the world.

Who can set muddy water in motion and let it settle, little by little, until it becomes clear? Clarity has its source in muddiness. Who can set a state of stillness in motion for a long time, until life gradually appears? Stillness is the root of movement. One who holds to the Dao does not seek fullness and abundance; emptiness is the root of fulfillment. Precisely because they do not seek fullness, they can remain empty and still. Thus, even when worn and shabby, they do not rush to renew or adorn themselves. They draw in their radiance and let outward brilliance fade.

This is Chapter Fifteen. Taking up the previous chapter’s discussion of the “order of the Dao,” it explains how later students should cultivate the Dao: remain sincere and reverent, regularly examine one’s heart with care, avoid attachment to outward forms and devote oneself to the Dao, and bring emptiness and stillness into daily life. More deeply, one should let all concerns subside and dissolve the shifting illusions. Though stirred by disturbance, one does not become muddied; when brought to clarity, one does not cling to being clear. This is what it means to be subtle and profound, versed in the mystery of things, and deeply hidden from view.

The verse says: “Subtle, mysterious, and penetrating, it changes with the steps of the one who walks. Close your eyes, and nothing can be seen. Better to return to the authentic and recognize the true face of the ‘Void Sovereign’”—a name for the empty, still, formless Dao.

Attain emptiness to the utmost and hold fast to profound stillness. When the heart is quiet and unmoving, all things are growing and changing. From this, I observe how they return to their source. By observing their return, one can understand the transformations of all things.

Empty your mind of distracting thoughts and bring it to the utmost stillness; hold firmly to quietude. When body and mind are utterly still, all things continue to grow and change. From this, I observe how they return to their source. By observing their return, we can understand the pattern of change. All things flourish and grow, yet in the end each returns to its root. When movement reaches its utmost, it turns into stillness. Returning to the root is called stillness; it is a return to the source. This is called returning to one’s original life. The vitality of life remains hidden within it. Returning to one’s original life is called constancy. Through ages beyond counting, it remains still and unchanged. Understanding this constancy is clarity. From it, one can see through past and present. Failing to understand constancy is delusion. Acting recklessly brings misfortune: it is taking the wrong path.

Understanding constancy makes the mind broad enough to embrace everything. With such breadth, one can act justly and discern even the smallest details. Acting justly, one can become a king and bring all things to flourishing transformation. As a king, one accords with the principles of Heaven, and all matters become clear. In accord with Heaven, one is in harmony with the Dao (the Way). What limit could there be then? Harmonizing with the Dao, one can endure without end and remain free from danger throughout life. Though Heaven and Earth change, this principle does not.

The above is Chapter Sixteen, following the previous chapter on “those skilled in practicing the Dao.” Those who cultivate the Dao bring the mind to emptiness and stillness, return to their original life, and come back to the root. This is all wondrous and subtle, and everyone should devote careful study to it. If you have understood it through your study, your practice may come to a close here. If you have not yet understood, continue investigating the final key. A verse says: “Attain emptiness and stillness, and you will know the subtle source. Reach the utmost stillness, and you will behold the heart of Heaven.” Grasp the meaning, and things as countless as the sands of the Ganges will all be precious as gold.

The highest ruler is one whose very existence the people scarcely know; they only know that there is such a ruler. The next ruler is one whom the people draw near to and praise. Since he must be drawn near to and praised, he is not fully natural. The next is one whom the people fear. The next is one whom they scorn, without restraint.

If trust is insufficient, the Dao is difficult for people to believe in. When doubt takes hold in their hearts, they will not trust. For this reason, the sage values his words and makes no promises lightly, lest he break faith. Once matters are settled and achievements completed, he silently brings everything to fruition. The people all think things have happened of themselves, without knowing who brought them about.

The seventeenth chapter above says that the Way of the Highest One—the supreme way of governing the world—has no principle above it. Even the dullest person knows that such a principle exists, but will truly understand it only when able to draw near to the Great Dao. Those who pursue a fine reputation find it hard to preserve their natural authenticity. Revering the Dao is a lesser state; those who slight it are even farther from the Dao. Once one’s innate nature is lost, there is no returning to the root. What use is further instruction then?

The more people are taught through words, the less they believe. It is better to remain silent and wait for things to change: influence people through Wuwei (non-action), so they awaken for themselves and naturally return to simplicity. In this way, people will be convinced without a word being spoken. In terms of governing a state, rulers below the highest level find it difficult to practice Wuwei. When the people feel close to and praise their ruler, it shows that the ruler has used words to instruct them. When the people fear their ruler, it is because there are punishments and prohibitions. When they scorn their ruler, it is because the ruler has lost their trust. When those above break faith with the people, the people no longer believe them. Good governance depends on speaking little: this is teaching without words. Govern through Wuwei, and things will be accomplished without resorting to punishment; the people will naturally comply. When achievements are complete and customs have become simple and sincere, people will no longer concern themselves with displays of closeness, praise, fear, or scorn. The people live and work in peace, even forgetting who made things this way. That is why they say, “We have always been like this.”

The verse says: The Way of the Highest One has nothing above it; it is always present in everyday life. Sadly, those who cannot see the Great Dao claim that it has already passed beyond Hangu Pass.

Only after the Great Dao declined did talk of benevolence and righteousness arise; only after natural simplicity faded did benevolence and righteousness flourish. When cleverness becomes conspicuous, deceit increases alongside it. The character “chu” is read with the departing tone. The cleverness meant here is calculating intelligence, as well as mental activity shaped by sensory circumstances and karmic consciousness—the distinctions and habits formed under the influence of sensory impressions. Only when the six relationships among family members are in discord do filial children stand out; it is better for kin to remain harmonious at all times. Only when a state is in turmoil do loyal ministers stand out; it is better for the state to remain stable.

The eighteenth chapter above follows from the previous chapter’s discussion of closeness, praise, fear, and scorn. Rather than wait for loyal ministers to emerge after the state falls into disorder, practice Wuwei and allow the people to be transformed naturally.

The verse says: Cleverness and cunning can make people lose the root of the Great Dao; excessive use of intelligence harms innate nature. To remain quiet and still in ordinary times is to be a person at ease and free.

Abandon self-important wisdom and cleverness, and let people follow their nature and refrain from contrived action; the people will benefit a hundredfold. Bring stability and quiet to society, and people’s hearts will become peaceful. Abandon the deliberate display of benevolence and righteousness, and return to a state free of selfish motives, following things as they naturally unfold; the people will recover their natural affection for their parents and compassion for their children, and live in harmony with one another. Abandon crafty schemes and the greed for profit, and people’s desires will diminish; thieves will disappear, and everyone will feel content.

If these three principles were only written down, people might not be persuaded to believe them, so they must be given something to follow. “Ling” is read with the falling tone, and “shu” is pronounced “zhu.” Here, “a grandmother’s anxious care” means that Laozi teaches later generations with the earnest, patient concern of a compassionate elder.

Remain simple, free from the sway of cleverness and desire; reduce selfishness and greed, and cling neither to external things nor to the self.

This is Chapter Nineteen, which expounds the deeper meaning of the previous chapter. Self-important wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, clever schemes, and the pursuit of profit should all be abandoned and no longer deliberately put into practice. The people will then be moved to return to simplicity. The sage worries that later generations who study the Dao may find these demands difficult to bear, so he distills the teaching into practices that are easy to follow: remain simple, and reduce selfishness and desire. These principles are easy for everyone to accept.

The verse says: Do not let thoughts run wild; do not let a single thought escape control. As for the many phenomena of seeing, hearing, and perception, cease clinging to them in thought.

“Abandon learning and you will be free of worry” means that by not clinging to the distinctions of worldly knowledge, one can lessen one’s troubles. Remaining simple and reducing selfishness and desire are principles easy for everyone to accept. The verse also says: Do not let thoughts run wild; do not let a single thought escape control. As for the many phenomena of seeing, hearing, and perception, cease clinging to them in thought.

When we stop deliberately pursuing learning, we have no worries. When nothing weighs on our hearts, there is nothing to fret about. “Wei” and “a” are both words of response—how far apart are they? In truth, there is little difference. But how far apart are good and evil? Their difference is great. What people fear must be taken seriously, and good and evil deserve vigilance. The turmoil of the worldly realm is boundless, seemingly without end.

Ordinary people worry that they have not learned enough or that their cultivation has not yet come to fruition. The sage worries that they have not yet let go completely. The crowd is lively and joyful, as if attending a grand feast or going out to enjoy the sights from a terrace in spring. Their desires are never satisfied. I alone am quiet and detached, with desires not yet arisen, like an infant not yet grown. My heart is tranquil and free of craving. I follow what is natural, as if I had nowhere to rely on.

Everyone seems to have plenty; I alone seem to lack something. Those who are consumed by affairs are often anxious, while those who have forgotten clever schemes are often content. My heart is truly like that of a fool, muddled and still, dim and quiet. Ordinary people seem perceptive and sharp; I alone seem dull. They display their intelligence and ability, while the sage keeps clear understanding within. They distinguish and calculate at every turn; I alone remain quiet and unhurried. Ordinary people cling to distinctions, while the sage makes no division between self and other. I seem dim and indistinct, making no deliberate effort to know. I am like one adrift, with nowhere to settle and no attachment to anything.

Everyone has something to rely on; I alone seem slow and inept. Everyone has a skill; the sage seems to do nothing. I alone differ from the crowd: I do not take the myriad things as my companions, but cherish the “mother of nourishment”—the Dao received at its root, likened to a child nourished by its mother. Its preciousness lies in experiencing the Great Dao.

The passage above is Chapter 20 of the Dao De Jing. “Ending learning” means ending the pursuit of external knowledge and affairs, which is why this chapter follows “ending sagehood and abandoning wisdom.” Ordinary people busy themselves learning practical matters and continually accumulate knowledge and experience, fearing that their learning is not deep enough; as a result, they are often anxious. The sage lets go of attachment to external things and devotes attention to experiencing the Great Dao. Like a child nourished by its mother, the sage simply maintains softness and stillness and holds fast to unity. Thus there is no worry. This is what “ending learning, there is no worry” means.

The verse says: The moment you say you must end learning, you have already gone wrong. The wider your experience and the more knowledge you accumulate, the less aware you become. Even if you forget everything in the world, you may still fall into the second layer of cleverness that others describe.

The realm of great De (Virtue/Power) is broad and all-embracing, like the source of all things. It is enough to hold fast to softness and embrace unity; thus there is no worry. This is called “ending learning and having no worries.” A verse of praise says: The moment you say you will cast learning aside, you have already gone wrong by speaking. The more widely you seek knowledge and accumulate what you have heard, the deeper you become entangled without realizing it. Even if you forget all the myriad affairs of the human world, you still remain at the second level of meaning spoken of by others.

Great De embraces everything and follows only the Dao (the Way), moving freely and unhindered among all principles. The Dao is elusive and hard to grasp, yet it is naturally present from the beginning. In its elusiveness, there seems to be an image: this is the undivided state of the Way of Heaven. In its elusiveness, there also seems to be a thing: this is the profound and unfathomable state of the Way of Heaven. Within its darkness and depth lies a subtle essence. This essence is constant, real and pure, without falsehood; within it there is something trustworthy, alive and active. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never vanished, and the Dao has endured through countless ages, serving to observe the root of all things. All things receive their beginning from it. How do I know what the beginnings of all things are like? Through this Dao.

The above is Chapter Twenty-One. The previous chapter says, “I alone am different from others,” referring to how great De stands apart. This chapter goes on to describe “the realm of great De,” showing how vast and all-embracing it is. What, exactly, is this thing called the Dao? When we say it has an image, a substance, and a subtle essence, are these ultimately “something”? If we say they are something, then we have not truly investigated the matter; if we say they are nothing, we have likewise not truly investigated it. How, then, should we understand it? A verse of praise says: Since time immemorial there has been one thing, yet no one has recognized it. When the eyebrows rise, the empty sky seems to reveal its bones. Try to guess at it through thought, or gaze at it hesitantly, and a thunderous shout will meet you head-on.

Yielding can preserve you, just as a tree considered useless often lives longer. Those who are oppressed may find room to grow; those who lower themselves may gain room to expand. Low places easily fill with water, and humble people readily receive benefit. What is old and worn can be renewed; what is hidden in darkness can be brought to light. By taking little, one may gain; by knowing when enough is enough, one can often feel content. Seeking too much can lead to confusion, and when things become complicated, disorder easily follows.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the One—the root of the Dao—and makes it a model for all under Heaven. This One can bring the many things into harmony. Because the sage does not deliberately display himself, he is clear; because he does not insist on his own rightness, he is recognized; because he does not boast of his achievements, he accomplishes great things; because he does not rely on arrogance, he endures. Yielding can preserve. Precisely because he does not contend and keeps to softness, no one under Heaven can contend with him. His body and mind merge with the Dao as one. Could the ancients’ saying, “Yielding can preserve,” really be empty words? It is true. By truly preserving one’s original nature, one can return to one’s innate state.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Two. The chapter’s teachings—that yielding preserves, being oppressed allows one to grow, low places can be filled, and what is worn can be renewed—continue the meaning of “great De” in the previous chapter. From “Because the sage does not deliberately display himself” onward, the text warns against self-satisfaction and urges humility. Being humble means not contending; by not contending, one can preserve one’s original state, hold fast to the primordial Dao without distraction, and return to the Ultimate Void—the formless, imageless fundamental body of the Dao. Thus it says: by truly preserving one’s original nature, one can return to one’s innate state.

The verse says: Do not keep your eyes fixed on other people’s faults, and do not boast of your own strengths. If you do not cling to distinctions between strengths and weaknesses, you will be everywhere and have nowhere to hide.

Words that accord with the natural Dao (the Way) are not contrived. True expression does not depend on the mouth alone; by avoiding self-display, one can respond to things appropriately. A gale cannot blow all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. A state of restless, reckless action cannot endure either. What governs these phenomena? Heaven and Earth. Everyone can see the changes of Heaven and Earth; if even their winds and rains cannot last, how much less can human activity endure? So do not be impatient or violent.

Thus, those who act in accordance with the Dao follow the nature of things and accord with what is right. Those who accord with the Dao are in harmony with the Dao; those who accord with De (Virtue/Power) are in harmony with De. Those who have lost the Dao likewise accord with what has lost the Dao; there is no distinction between them. When someone accords with the Dao, the Dao gladly accepts them; when I accord with the Dao, the Dao accords with me. When someone accords with De, De gladly accepts them; when I accord with De, De accords with me. When someone accords with what has lost the Dao, it too accepts them; when I accord with what has lost the Dao, it accords with me. If one lacks sincerity, others will not trust one; if I doubt things, they too will make me feel doubt.

The passage above is Chapter Twenty-Three. “Few words accord with nature” carries forward the previous chapter’s idea of non-contention: when one does not exalt oneself, one can respond appropriately without relying on words. Gales and downpours are metaphors for reckless, impatient action that cannot last. Those who act in accordance with the Dao can harmonize and blend with the Dao, with De, and with things. They naturally connect with all things, and all things naturally respond to them. If one’s words and actions do not accord with the Dao, and one acts presumptuously, it is difficult to earn others’ trust; instead, one will be held in contempt. The Book of Changes, in its “Commentary on the Appended Statements,” says: “Words and actions are the hinge of the gentleman; they are the source of honor and disgrace. How could one fail to be cautious?”

A verse says: The Dao and people are no different; people themselves believe they are separate. If one person becomes a Buddha, all can become Buddhas; the mind itself is the realm of the Tathagata.

Stand on tiptoe, and you will lose your balance. Push ahead in haste, and you will achieve nothing. Take strides that are too wide, and you will not get far. Seek speed at all costs, and you will often fail to reach your goal. Those who care only to display themselves cannot see things clearly or rein in their De (Virtue/Power). Those who think themselves always right cannot make their strengths known or yield with humility. Those who boast cannot accomplish things, because they cannot restrain themselves. Those who are arrogant cannot last, because they cannot make room for others.

In relation to the Dao (the Way), these behaviors are like leftover food and extra growths on the body. Everyone dislikes such things and considers them ugly. So those who have the Dao do not act this way. Those who understand the Dao act in the opposite manner.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Four, which sums up the meaning of the three preceding chapters. Standing on tiptoe and taking strides too wide mean acting with the force of a violent storm, which cannot last. Displaying oneself, thinking oneself right, boasting, and acting arrogantly all arise from selfishness. When selfishness is too strong, it harms what is fair and just. How could it last? That is why those who have the Dao avoid these ways. Leftover food and bodily growths are things people dislike.

The verse says: Standing on tiptoe is itself a delusion; striding ahead in haste is itself frenzy. Even if you happen to get something done, in the end it is better to keep to the ordinary way.

There is something formed in a state of undivided wholeness: this is the primordial, undifferentiated Heaven. It existed before Heaven, deep and obscure, still and vast, clear and forever serene. It stands alone and never changes, enduring beyond all things. It moves and circulates without ceasing, changing without limit. It can serve as the root of all things beneath Heaven, giving birth to and nourishing them.

I do not know its name. It had no name to begin with, so I provisionally call it the Dao, naming it on the basis of the existence of all things. If I must give it another name, I call it “Great,” meaning without limit. “Great” is also called “Passing,” meaning without bounds; “Passing” is also called “Far,” meaning without end; “Far” returns to “Reversal,” meaning that in the end it comes back to its source.

Thus the Dao is great; Heaven is also great, because Heaven follows the Dao; Earth is also great, because Earth follows Heaven; and the king is also great, because the king follows Earth. Between Heaven and Earth there are four things that are great, and the king is one of them. The king stands among the three realms and alone receives honor.

Humanity follows Earth, bearing all things as Earth does. Earth follows Heaven, encompassing all things as Heaven does. Heaven follows the Dao, reaching everywhere without omission. The Dao follows what is natural, proceeding according to its own nature.

Chapter 25 continues the previous chapter’s idea that “one who has the Dao does not remain confined to one place.” Here it explains the practice of embodying the Dao: Earth takes Heaven as its model and so contains all things; Heaven takes the Dao as its model and so extends everywhere; the Dao takes what is natural as its model, acting spontaneously, without human contrivance.

The passage beginning “There is a thing, formed in confusion” sets out the key to embodying the Dao throughout the chapter. The section beginning “Of the four great things” then focuses on its wondrous nature. People know only that there are four great things between Heaven and Earth—the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and humanity—but they do not know that the presence within themselves is more fundamental still. A hymn says: Though Heaven and Earth are vast, they too may be destroyed; only this original reality endures through the ages. The Sage’s unfathomable state lies entirely in being thus, unmoving.

Heaviness is the foundation of lightness; lightness arises from heaviness. Stillness governs agitation and encompasses movement. Thus, a gentleman may travel all day without leaving his baggage cart—the cart carrying the essential loads of a journey—and does not dare act recklessly. Even amid splendid and prestigious surroundings, he remains composed and detached from worldly concerns, responding to each situation while keeping his heart at rest. Why should a ruler of ten thousand chariots—the emperor—treat the realm lightly? If he does, he will be unable to bear the great responsibility of governing it.

Acting lightly causes one to lose one’s ministers; pressing forward recklessly endangers one’s own person; agitated, rash action means losing one’s mastery. Craving glory instead brings disgrace.

Chapter 26 teaches that what is fundamental must not be treated lightly. Acting lightly means losing one’s ministers, and agitation means losing one’s mastery. This is like standing on tiptoe and failing to stay upright, or taking long strides and failing to travel far. It is also like a gale or a downpour, neither of which can last. By never leaving one’s baggage cart while traveling, one has something to rely on and can bear great responsibility. By remaining composed and detached in the world, one can transform external things without being controlled by them. This chapter explains what it means to “take the Dao as one’s model” in the previous chapter, sums up the teaching on embodying the Dao, and leads into the next chapter’s central teaching on good conduct.

A hymn says: How could rushing forward in agitation ever last? Acting lightly is ultimately unlikely to succeed. Before your heels have found firm footing, you have already set out on a long journey.

Those who excel at action leave no trace. When they step forward, they do not fixate on their heels. Those who excel at speech make no mistakes. When they speak, they are not constrained by their tongues. Those who excel at planning need no counting rods or other tools to understand everything. Those who excel at closing doors need no bolts or locks to keep them shut, yet no one can open them; they fit so tightly that not even a sliver of space remains. Those who excel at tying knots need no rope, yet their knots are secure and impossible to undo.

Therefore, the sage excels at guiding people and never abandons anyone. By cultivating himself, he also brings peace to the people. He excels at dealing with all things and never discards anything. Instead, he follows the right moment and enables each thing to fulfill its proper role. This is called carrying forward the bright Dao, allowing clear understanding to be passed on without end.

A good person is a teacher to one who is not good; one who is not good is a lesson for the good person. If you do not honor your teacher, you cannot learn goodness; if you do not value what serves as a lesson, you cannot correct your faults. Even the highly intelligent should be like great wisdom that seems foolish: they do not display cleverness, but rein in their brilliance. This is the subtle principle at work: allowing things to follow their natural course.

Chapter Twenty-Seven above explains the deeper meaning of the previous chapter. If you are careful in word and deed, you leave no trace or mistake. The plans in your heart need no calculation; what your heart closes cannot be opened; the knots in your heart cannot be undone. When the Dao-heart is this firm, you no longer cling to the distinction between good and not good. You need not cling to either the teacher or the one who serves as a lesson. Put away your cleverness and talents, and appear throughout the day like someone simple and unassuming.

The verse says: “In stepping forward, rely not on the feet; in tying knots well, no thousand hands are needed. Touch the tip of your own nose, and it seems your whole body is a mouth. If you ponder this principle closely, seven times seven makes—sure enough—forty-nine.”

Understand what is strong, yet hold to what is soft. Do not consider yourself superior, and you can be like the streams of the world, to which the countless rivers and tributaries eventually flow back. By receiving all things as a stream does, constant De (Virtue/Power) will not be lost. You will become one with all things and, in the end, return to the state of an infant. “Infant” here means a return to the original, wholly undispersed state: Qi (vital energy), the primordial energy that forms the human body and all things, is abundant.

Understand what is bright, yet hold to what is dim. Do not show yourself off, and you can become a pattern for the world, bringing the myriad ways into unity. Constant De will not stray; it will be as precise as a measuring line. In the end, you will return to the Wuji (the formless, boundless source) and bring Shen (spirit) to completeness.

Understand what is honorable, yet hold to what is humiliating. Do not regard yourself as noble, and you can be like the valleys of the world, receiving all things and allowing all existence to return to emptiness. Constant De will thereby become abundant. Clear, still, and complete, it will finally return to the uncarved simplicity of Pu (the natural state before carving), bringing one’s nature to completeness. Pu is pronounced “pu.” When Pu is dispersed, it becomes the many kinds of implements and particular things. The sage applies this principle by establishing offices and carrying out instruction to govern the people. Thus the highest form of governance does not deliberately divide things or impose control, but teaches without words.

This is Chapter 28. Holding to softness and darkness, and being at ease with humiliation without displaying one’s cleverness, continues the previous chapter’s idea that even wisdom should be kept hidden. The infant, Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), and great Pu are all fundamental roots of the myriad things in the world. Only by holding to softness and keeping to unity can one return to the root. When this principle is used to govern a state, there is no need for deliberate control: the people naturally become simple, and all things naturally preserve their original nature. The verse says: Within brightness, keep to darkness; within strength, hold to softness. Through steady, unceasing effort, even a man can nurture the infant’s original state.

To forcefully seize the world and govern through one’s own contrivance will not work. I see that the myriad things in the world each have their own necessary course. The character “yi” in “bu de yi” is read as “yi.” Following the circumstances can help repel outside threats; going against them makes it unwise to attack others. The world is a sacred vessel and must not be handled at will. The slightest reckless interference brings trouble. Deliberate action often leads to failure; whatever one covets can easily become a constraint. Insisting on holding something can make one lose it; seeking advantage at every turn often ends in loss.

All things have form and each has its counterpart: some go ahead, others follow; some are warm, others blow cold; some are strong, others weak; some bear up, others destroy. Thus, wherever there is one, there is its counterpart. Do not become attached as these opposites shift and change. Therefore the sage removes excess and practices Wuwei (non-action); removes extravagance and reduces desire; removes extremes and does not cling.

With Wuwei (non-action), no trouble arises from reckless interference. Deliberate action and contrived effort bring all kinds of complications. Those who cling to things easily lose them; what is strong will eventually weaken, and what is filled to the utmost will overturn. Things depend on one another and stand in opposition: to gain one side is also to encounter the other. So one must not let change lead one along. For this reason, the sage casts off excessive desires, luxury, and arrogant self-satisfaction, and does not cling to things.

Strength and weakness, success and failure, gain and loss depend on one another, like a shadow following its form. As soon as success appears, failure may follow. The sage therefore warns against excessive greed, luxury, and arrogance, as a reminder to later generations.

The verse says: All things move with the breath of harmony; strength and weakness, success and failure, depend on one another. Yet who, in the end, governs them? People do not know. Dressing and eating are ordinary matters—why deliberately give rise to doubt?

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao should practice Wuwei. They should not use force to assert dominance over the world, but should protect the people with compassion. The forced use of arms often brings a corresponding retribution. Where armies have been stationed, brambles grow; when weapons fill the heart, the field of the spirit lies barren. After a great war, years of famine often follow. If one wages war recklessly, like a demonic army, one’s vital essence is also depleted.

Thus, those skilled in the use of arms seek only to achieve what is necessary, then stop. Here, “achieve” means to bring a matter to completion, and “stop” means to cease. Even when action is unavoidable, they do not use it to assert dominance, but respond with gentleness. They do not boast when a task is completed, claim credit for their accomplishments, or grow arrogant and complacent. They act only when they have no choice, and even in hardship they hold to this principle. To act without asserting dominance is like lowering the ceremonial flagpole in a monastery, no longer striving to rise above others.

When things become too vigorous, they move toward decline and age; an army that asserts its strength will ultimately fail to prevail. Such conduct goes against the Dao. To depart from the Dao is to fall swiftly into ruin and lose the true Dao forever.

This chapter follows the previous one in warning against luxury and force. Those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not champion military power. Good and evil deeds each bring their due consequences. For this reason, the text admonishes later generations of those who govern states and families to remain yielding, hold fast to the One (steadfastly keeping to the Dao), and have the courage to restrain themselves rather than act rashly. Even when they have no choice but to use force, they do not dare to flaunt their strength. Thus it says that those skilled in warfare seek only to accomplish what is necessary and do not press their advantage further.

The verse says: Do not let thoughts run wild; let the commander of the mind remain at peace. If you suddenly forsake the constant Way and rush onto the battlefield, you may win a decisive victory in a single battle, like an arrow shot to fix the heavens above Mount Tianshan.

Fine weapons are ill-omened things, and years of famine follow a great war. All things in the world abhor warfare; where armies have been stationed, thorns and brambles grow thick. Therefore, a person who has the Dao does not station troops there. The phrase “the army of the mind does not arise” means that thoughts of conflict and killing are not allowed to stir within the heart.

In ordinary life, the gentleman gives precedence to the left, symbolizing gentleness; in warfare, he gives precedence to the right, symbolizing strength. Weapons are ill-omened things, used to suppress rebellion, and are not what a gentleman esteems in daily life. A gentleman makes good governance his first concern and uses force only when there is no alternative. In warfare, he should remain calm and detached, and protect the people with a compassionate heart.

Even after winning a battle, one should not treat victory as something to boast about. To take pride in victory is to crave military achievements, which is to take pleasure in killing. Those who take pleasure in killing sow calamity. They cannot truly prevail in the world, nor can they be accepted by the workings of creation.

For joyful occasions, the left is given precedence, symbolizing life; for funerals and mourning, the right is given precedence, symbolizing death. The lieutenant general stands on the left, embodying the yielding aspect; the supreme commander stands on the right, embodying the forceful aspect. In warfare, victory is treated according to the rites of mourning because so many people have been killed. Even when force was unavoidable, one should weep with sorrow. Another interpretation holds that this grief arises from compassion. After victory, one should regard it as one would a funeral and mourn as deeply as if one had lost one’s parents.

Chapter 31 said that a person who follows the Dao does not use force to dominate the world. The discussion therefore turns to “weapons as inauspicious instruments.” The Sage gives a solemn warning about this. Centuries later, if rulers govern by Wuwei (non-action) and stillness—refraining from arbitrary interference and letting things follow their natural course—their states will settle naturally. Even if they have armies, there will be no need to send them into battle, and they will be free from the calamities of conflict for a long time.

The verse says: Quietly abide in a realm of clarity and mystery, cultivating the Qi of Great Harmony—the primordial energy in which Yin and Yang are balanced—with calm and lucidity. Hold the Three Flavors Sword upside down, a sword symbolizing the subduing of inner demons in spiritual practice; adapt to change and overcome the demons of the Five Skandhas, the many obstacles that disturb the purity of the mind and nature.

The Dao is constant and nameless, empty and still, acting through Wuwei and following nature.

The “uncarved block,” the unshaped, genuine nature of things, may be small, yet the world would not dare treat it as a subject. It stands above all else. If rulers can keep to the uncarved block and hold fast to the One—the fundamental unity spoken of in Daoism—all things will naturally come to them. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth unite, only De (Virtue/Power) can assist them, and sweet dew descends. This is the result of harmonious Qi. The people need not be commanded by anyone; they will naturally become balanced and settled. Here, the character for “command” is read with a falling tone and means an order. The people are naturally at peace, each in their proper place.

Once distinctions begin to be made and laws and institutions established, people must be shown what is valued and what is disliked. They must learn to exercise restraint and understand the prohibitions. Knowing when to stop keeps one from danger; knowing contentment brings lasting joy. When the Dao is carried out throughout the world, it is like all things settling in their most fitting places. It is also like streams and valleys flowing toward the rivers and seas, for the rivers and seas lie below them.

This concludes Chapter 32. The previous chapter said, “Those who follow the Dao do not take up a position”; this one speaks of “the Dao, constant and nameless” and of how “the uncarved block, though small, would not be treated as a subject by the world.” Together, these passages explain how a person who follows the Dao should conduct themselves. Such a person is humble and lowly outwardly, while inwardly keeping to the One and to what is true. All things then respond to the natural order and transform of themselves, and the Dao’s wondrous transformations become inexhaustible.

The verse says: Only by grasping the nameless uncarved block can one release it and gather it in at will. Then one can draw the vast cosmos together and place it on the tip of a hair.

To understand others is merely cleverness, because it comes from observing outward behavior. To understand yourself is true insight, because it comes from knowing yourself within. To defeat others shows strength and the courage to act; to defeat yourself is true power, because it requires self-restraint and refusing to act rashly. Those who know contentment can be happy even in poverty. Those who persevere have resolve; as long as they never give up, they will not fall into danger. Only by holding fast to your roots can life endure. The firmer your resolve and strength, the more secure the foundation of your life. Though the body dies, true nature does not perish; this is what may be called longevity. The character “longevity” is read with the third tone. The True One—one’s original, unified nature—endures.

The above is Chapter Thirty-Three. Understanding and surpassing others are forms of outward discernment; understanding and overcoming oneself are forms of inner cultivation. This chapter confirms the warnings about the use of force in the preceding three chapters. Those who know contentment are happy even in poverty; those who strive to put their way into practice will eventually achieve something; those who firmly guard their roots will not fall into danger; and those whose minds are clear can transcend life and death. “Dying yet not perishing” means that one’s True One endures. The verse says: You see all things, yet fail to see your own nature; you understand others, yet fail to understand yourself. Though you have never truly learned, you still think you have gained an advantage.

The Great Dao—the fundamental Way followed by all things in the universe—flows everywhere, vast and boundless, embracing all and working in every place. All things depend on the Dao to grow, yet the Dao never refuses them. All things pass through it and change, yet it claims no credit. It nourishes all things without ruling them, and does not cling to its own origins. The Dao is always free of desire and still, so it may be called small: so small that even a mustard seed can contain Mount Sumeru, the immense mountain of Buddhist tradition. All things return to the Dao, yet it does not rule them, allowing each to follow its own course. Thus it may also be called boundless: so vast that even Mount Sumeru can contain a mustard seed. Sages never regard themselves as great. They dwell in a place as small as a mustard seed, and so they are able to attain true vastness and reach a realm beyond measure.

The preceding chapter, Chapter Thirty-Four, says that “the Great Dao is vast and boundless, yet subtle and exact, encompassing everything.” All things depend on the Dao for their growth, yet the Dao does not claim credit for what it accomplishes. This carries forward the previous chapter’s meaning: “Only by holding fast to the root can one endure.” Governing a state through the Dao allows one to hold fast to the root; cultivating oneself through the Dao means that even when the body dies, the spirit is not extinguished. Thus the Dao is everywhere and suits every circumstance. The verse says: The Dao is indeed beyond measure; even empty space cannot be gauged. It is silent and boundless, merging into one whole—where could any boundary be drawn?

It then says: “Hold fast to the Great Image, and all under Heaven will come to you.” The “Great Image” refers to the complete realm revealed by the Dao. It has no visible, concrete form, yet it can draw all things under Heaven toward the Dao, and the people thereby submit. When all things return to the Dao without hindrance, each can grow in its own way. All under Heaven becomes peaceful and stable, and all things find rest.

Pleasant music and delicious food can make passersby stop, but once they have moved on, their stay is over. The Dao, when spoken of, seems plain and tasteless; it has no sound, smell, or shape. The eyes cannot see it, because “the Great Image has no form”; the ears cannot hear it, because “the greatest sound is scarcely heard”—meaning that the deepest and most expansive sound is, paradoxically, inaudible. The Dao is hidden and nameless, yet its workings are inexhaustible.

Chapter Thirty-Five follows from the previous passage: “Thus it can accomplish its greatness.” Grasp the Dao, and all things under Heaven will return to it. “Hold fast to the Great Image” means preserving the formless Dao, so that people and all things may change their hearts and return to the Dao. Music and fine food can attract people, but they can also make them forget the formless Dao; for that reason, they cannot last. The Dao has no body, taste, sound, or color. Precisely because of this, its workings can be infinite.

The closing verse uses “a clay ox panting at the moon” and “a wooden horse neighing in the wind” to evoke a realm that seems to exist yet is hard to find: it appears visible, but when pursued, leaves no trace. “The staff of the Clear Hermitage draws a line across Mount Miaogao” uses imagery in the style of Chan Buddhism to suggest transcending ordinary distinctions and deliberation.

When things are about to contract, they often expand first. Once expansion reaches a certain point, it turns into contraction. When things are about to weaken, they often grow strong first. Once their strength reaches a certain point, it turns into weakness. When something is about to be discarded, it is often first brought to prominence; once it flourishes to a certain point, it moves toward decline. When something is about to be taken, something is often first given; once enough has been given, this turns into taking. The ability to discern the first signs of change in what is barely perceptible is called “subtle insight”: seeing the faint omens within things. The soft and yielding can overcome the hard and strong. Only by remaining gentle and humble can one live in lasting harmony; those who insist on using force will ultimately fail. Fish cannot leave deep waters. How, then, can people leave the Dao? The state’s vital instruments must not be casually revealed to others. What brings benefit may also bring harm.

The passage above comes from chapter 36 of the Dao De Jing. Those who grasp the Great Dao can see the subtle signs of change in events. As soon as they see something expanding, they know it is about to contract. Before an event becomes apparent, they see its first signs; before an action takes place, they already foresee its result. Without the wisdom to discern what is subtle, who could do this? Those who study the Dao should hold fast to the formless and imageless Dao, abide in utmost softness, and refrain from competing with the myriad things. Then they can naturally sense the beginnings of change. To be relentlessly forceful and violent, to prize schemes and clever techniques, and to seek victory over all things is contrary to the Dao.

Fish belong in water. If they tried to leave the deep and distinguish themselves from other fish, could they succeed? Since they could not, people too should not prize power and cunning. To prize these is to go against the constant Dao, just as a fish must die if it leaves the deep. The saying “the state’s vital instruments must not be revealed to others” is close in meaning to Confucius’s words: “One may establish principles together with others, but one cannot casually pass on the arts of adapting to changing circumstances.” Even a sage, when adapting to circumstances, can remain in accord with the Dao while acting against ordinary expectations; yet even a sage must not do so lightly. How much more cautious, then, should ordinary people be?

The hymn says: The gaze darts like a shooting star, the mind moves swiftly as lightning. One moment it seems right before you; the next, it has suddenly vanished. Whether the ten directions are open or blocked, its radiance shines everywhere.

The Dao is always in a state of Wuwei (non-action: following nature without deliberate intervention), yet there is nothing it cannot accomplish. It is still and unmoving, yet it responds to and penetrates the changes of all things under Heaven. If lords and kings can hold fast to this Dao, all things will transform of themselves. Those in higher positions teach and guide the people below through their own example.

If, after being taught, people give rise again to desires and reckless activity, I use “the uncarved simplicity without a name” (the original state, without form or name and untouched by ornament) to settle them. “Acting” here means “doing”; the word is pronounced with a checked tone. When I have no desires, the people naturally become simple and sincere. The uncarved simplicity without a name also keeps people from giving rise to desires. When I delight in stillness, the people naturally become upright. If desires are not allowed to disturb people’s hearts, even those clever in their schemes will not dare to act recklessly, and all under Heaven will naturally return to what is upright. By acting through Wuwei, there is nothing that cannot be well governed.

The passage above is Chapter 37 of the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Dao and De). The constant and true Dao is originally Wuwei; deliberate action takes one away from the constant Dao. This continues the meaning of “subtle illumination” in the previous chapter. Heaven and Earth act without deliberate effort, yet all things arise naturally; the sage acts without deliberate effort, and the people are settled and at peace.

From the perspective of cultivation, one should avoid deliberate action and, in stillness, maintain a state without form or appearance. As soon as even the slightest movement arises in the mind, notice it first. Once noticed, settle it with “the uncarved simplicity without a name.” Simplicity is originally without form, so it is also called nameless—that is, empty. The Dao is Wuwei, simplicity is nameless, and the mind is free of desire; the mind then naturally returns to stillness. With stillness upon stillness, all under Heaven will naturally return to what is right.

The verse says: All deliberate activity is illusion; clinging to Wuwei also falls into emptiness and stillness. Only by clinging to neither path can the meaning of the lineage be made clear in the present moment.

The first volume of A Comprehensive Understanding of the Dao and De ends here.

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A Comprehensive Understanding of the Dao and De, Volume Two

Written and expounded by Li Daochun, styled Yuansu, the “Jade Toad,” of Qing’an Monastery in Duliang

One of superior De does not regard himself as possessing De, nor does he exalt his own virtue; for this reason, his De is truly profound. One of inferior De refuses to let go of his attachment to virtue and always considers himself to possess De; for this reason, he in fact loses De, and his virtue grows ever more shallow. Superior De is Wuwei.

A person of superior De does not regard themselves as possessing De or boast of their virtue; for this reason, their De grows all the deeper. A person of inferior De refuses to let go of their attachment to virtue, always thinking of themselves as virtuous; for this reason, their De gradually diminishes.

A person of superior De follows things as they are, without deliberate action. Their mind is still and unmoving, yet they can respond to things and understand change. A person of inferior De acts with a definite purpose, hoping to obtain a response through their virtue. A person of superior benevolence practices benevolence without deliberate intent, extending kindness to all things without even feeling that they are doing anything. A person of superior righteousness, by contrast, acts with the intention of being righteous and treats others according to principles of righteousness. A person of superior ritual propriety uses ritual to bring order to all things; but if others do not respond, they raise their arms and forcibly pull them into line. The more they force it, the harder it becomes to bring things into order.

Thus, only after losing the Dao do people turn to De; only after losing De do they turn to benevolence; only after losing benevolence do they turn to righteousness; and only after losing righteousness do they turn to ritual propriety. When ritual propriety is no longer sincere and substantial, it shows that loyalty and trust have grown weak; this is the beginning of disorder. “Foreknowledge” means the pursuit of clever, superficially impressive knowledge. It is merely the outward adornment of the Dao, lacking substance, and is the beginning of folly.

Therefore, the great person grounds themselves in what is substantial and does not linger in what is shallow. They value simplicity and truth, and do not pursue clever knowledge. They hold fast to what is real and do not covet outward display. They esteem honesty and do not esteem ritual ornament. Thus they set aside what is showy and false, and choose what is genuine and plain.

The previous chapter says that “the Dao is always Wuwei (non-action),” and so this chapter goes on to discuss “the highest De (Virtue/Power) does not cling to De.” People of the highest De follow the Great Dao without deliberate action, and so they are in harmony with the Dao. Those of lower De act deliberately, and so are not in harmony with the Dao. Benevolence and righteousness remain close to De and can serve as steps on the path of cultivation. Ritual, however, is often an artificial practice and lacks sincerity; when ritual is used to make all things orderly, they become even less orderly. This is because deliberate action inevitably leads to loss.

If one can uphold ritual without losing one’s original nature, one may gradually enter a higher state: returning from benevolence and righteousness to De, then from De to the Dao, and ultimately arriving directly at Wuwei. The repeated passage beginning “As for ritual” conveys the same meaning.

“Foreknowledge” refers to clever, calculating insight. The growth of such insight marks the beginning of losing the Dao. Hence it is said: “The Dao’s superficial display is not where a person of the Dao abides.”

The verse says: If you have not yet transcended the Three Realms—the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm—how can you go beyond the Five Constant Virtues of Confucianism: benevolence, righteousness, ritual, wisdom, and trustworthiness? When the Five Constant Virtues return to a state beyond speech and grasping, one can go alone to pay a visit to the Void Emperor, a revered deity in Daoism.

In ancient times, all who attained the fundamental principle called the Dao (the Way), the underlying pattern of all things, were able to bring everything to completion. Heaven attained the Dao, and so remained clear and luminous, forever still. Earth attained the Dao, and so was calm and steady, motionless in silence. Spirit attained the Dao, and so became numinously clear, returning wholly to its original nature. Valleys attained the Dao, and so were full and spacious, with abundance to spare. All things are born through the Dao and grow and develop naturally. When lords and kings attain the Dao, they can become the stabilizing standard for all under Heaven, and their states become peaceful and secure. Each reaches its state through the same fundamental principle.

If Heaven could not remain clear, it would perhaps collapse, and the stars would lose their regular courses. If Earth could not remain calm, it would perhaps quake, and mountains would crumble. If spirit could not remain numinously clear, it would perhaps wane, and the movements of Yin-Yang would lose their proper measure. If valleys could not remain full, they would perhaps dry up, and the flow of Qi (vital energy) would be blocked. If all things could not be born through the Dao, they would perhaps perish, and their harmonious energy would dissipate. If lords and kings could not hold to what is right and ceased to regard themselves as exalted, they would perhaps fall into hardship, and their states would be thrown into danger.

Thus, nobility must take lowliness as its root, and height must rest on a low foundation. This, too, follows the same principle. Lords and kings often call themselves “orphaned,” “bereft,” or “unworthy”—humble forms of self-address meaning “not good”—precisely to place themselves low and thereby hold fast to their root. Is not the One the master of the myriad things and forms?

Counting the parts of many carts one by one does not give you a complete cart. Gathering all kinds of conditions under the name “I” does not necessarily reveal a fixed, unchanging self. One should neither seek to shine like fine jade nor stand apart in isolation like a stone, but let go of attachment to both honor and disgrace, and forget their distinction.

The passage above is Chapter 39. The previous chapter says, “Set aside that and take up this,” meaning to discard the branch and return to the root. What is the root? It is the One. The One is the beginning of Heaven and Earth, the source of the myriad things, and the expression of the Great Dao’s activity.

Chapter Thirty-Nine says, “Let go of that and take up this,” meaning to set aside secondary details and return to the root. What is the root? It is “the One.” The One is the beginning of Heaven and Earth, the source of the myriad things, and the way the Great Dao works. If rulers can hold fast to this root, the myriad things will naturally turn toward them. When rulers call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy” (humble titles used by rulers in ancient times), they humble themselves to remind themselves not to forget the root. People should neither pursue the high rank of a precious jade nor willingly accept the low status of a stone. They should forget distinctions between high and low and devote themselves to holding fast to the One.

Count the parts of a cart, and no single part is called “a cart.” Count the parts of the human body, and no single part is called “me.” Only when the wheels and other parts are assembled do we call it a cart; only when the “four great elements” of the human body—earth, water, fire, and wind—come together do we call it “me.”

The verse says: Obtaining the One is not yet truly mysterious; returning to emptiness and stillness is not yet reaching the mystery either. If you can recognize that you are dreaming while in a dream, you need not search for Heaven beyond the sky.

Chapter Forty says, “Returning is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the use of the Dao.” The Dao moves by cycling back; once Shen and Qi stir into action, they must be gathered back in. “Weakness” is the way the Dao works. By focusing and harmonizing the breath, one can attain gentleness. The myriad things under Heaven are born from “being.” “Being” has name and form and is the mother of the myriad things; yet “being” is born from “nonbeing,” which has neither name nor form and is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.

Chapter Forty continues the previous chapter’s idea that “the noble takes the lowly as its root.” The myriad things are born from “being,” and “being” is born from “nonbeing,” just as a cart is made by assembling its parts, though no single part is itself a cart. Many who study the Dao do not understand the true meaning of “being and nonbeing give rise to each other.”

The verse says: What has form may not be true “being,” and what has no form may not be true “nonbeing.” If you treat being and nonbeing as fixed things, you still fall into one-sided attachment. Only by grasping their meaning within both being and nonbeing can you understand the image of “a bearded man without a moustache”: at first glance he seems to have a beard, but on closer inspection he has no moustache.

Those with the highest capacities hear of the Dao (the Way) and strive to put it into practice. Once they grasp it, they cultivate it steadfastly and bring its principles together as a whole. Those of middling capacity sometimes remember what they hear and sometimes forget it. Those of lower capacity hear much, yet often do not believe. Those of the lowest capacity hear of the Dao and even laugh. Why is it so hard to believe? Because its principles are so plain and clear. If people did not mock it, it would not deserve to be called the Dao. After becoming deeply confused, people often arrive at profound understanding.

An old saying goes: “Hear a little of the Dao and rush to proclaim it all, laying bare your own thoughts.” One who truly understands the Dao may seem not to understand. He keeps his radiance within and does not show his sharpness. Cultivating the Dao may look like falling behind, yet in action one is careful and thorough. The broad, level road looks ordinary, as though it blends with the world of dust. A person of deep De (Virtue/Power) is like an empty valley, humble and able to welcome others. A person of pure character may seem dishonored, willingly remaining humble and self-contained. One of expansive De seems always to feel that he has not done enough; even when full, he does not overflow. One who establishes De may seem idle and inactive, yet is in truth keeping it deeply within and not displaying it outwardly. One who is simple and genuine may seem to change, adapting to circumstances without becoming rigid. The greatest squareness has no corners and shows no sharpness. Great vessels are often completed late and claim no credit. The greatest sound seems barely audible, yet answers when struck; the greatest image has no fixed form.

The more hidden something is, the more clearly its truth can be seen. The Dao is concealed and nameless, yet it appears in the smallest things. Only the Dao can extend its care to all things and help them fulfill their potential. Its essential meaning is simply to treat others faithfully and to extend to them the consideration one would wish for oneself.

The previous chapter said that “being” and “nonbeing” give rise to one another. Ordinary people are bound to find this puzzling, so the text goes on to explain that “when the highest kind of person hears the Dao.” The Great Dao seems dim and withdrawn, ordinary and sluggish, and also changeable and uncertain, so it is hard to perceive. Hearing this, people find it laughable. Only those of exceptional character, whose minds are still and open, can grasp the Great Dao from beyond the ordinary, believe in it without needing an explanation, and accomplish things through Wuwei (non-action).

People of middling ability are often half-convinced and half-doubtful. Those with shallow understanding not only disbelieve, but also mock and scorn the Dao. “The Dao is generous in lending and also brings things to completion” means that the Dao is tolerant of those who mock and scorn it, and also brings to completion the practice of the highest kind of person, who diligently cultivates yet still has doubts. Even someone with shallow understanding can turn from error and do good, provided they awaken to their original nature. If a person is unkind for a time, what reason is there to cast them aside?

The verse says: The Great Dao is not difficult to understand; it is the human mind that makes it seem difficult. People of middling ability are still wavering and deliberating, while those of the lowest kind are muddled and unclear. Do not be confused and benighted: the stars remain in the sky, and the balance and the things it weighs each remain in their proper place.

The Dao gives rise to “One,” the fundamental unity of Qi (vital energy). Emptiness gives rise to a single Qi. This Qi divides into Yin-Yang, which is “Two.” Yin and Yang combine to form the Three Powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—which is “Three.” The Three Powers then give rise to the myriad things. The myriad things carry Yin and embrace Yang; they appear as celestial phenomena in the sky and coalesce into physical forms on Earth. The two Qi blend and harmonize, bringing the myriad things into balance. We should observe and attend to this Qi of harmony.

What people dislike are “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy”—humble titles by which a ruler refers to himself—because they suggest being alone and lacking. Yet dukes and kings use these titles for themselves. This shows how circumstances can change: what is diminished may bring gain, while what is increased may bring loss. The teaching people pass on is simply to encourage others to do good, and I teach in the same way. Those who strive to be strong and victorious often meet an untimely end; what is powerful may also move toward decline. Therefore, I will take this teaching as the foundation of instruction. A person who is unkind can serve as a warning and a help to one who is kind.

This is the forty-second chapter. “One” is the root of the myriad things. People dislike “One” because it seems to have no companion, like “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy.” Yet dukes, kings, and great people do not forget the root, and still use these titles to humble themselves. Therefore, I take “the unkind person is a lesson to the kind” as the foundation of instruction.

Chapter 42 said earlier that “the One” is the root of all things. People usually dislike “the One” because it has no companion and seems lonely. Yet the lords and nobles do not forget the root; instead, they call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” and “unworthy”—humble titles used by rulers in ancient times—to show their modesty. The humble gain benefits, while the domineering and self-important invite trouble. The sages set out these principles to urge people to restrain themselves and remain humble, and to reflect on their own conduct first when they see something wrong.

The verse says: Those who strive to prevail often meet rivals; only the gentle and humble can remain secure over time. Gentleness should be our everyday way of dealing with the world, so that wherever we are, we can dwell there in peace.

The softest thing in the world can master the hardest. Softness can gradually wear down what is hard; what seems formless can enter places without gaps, even penetrating metal and stone. From this I understand the benefit of Wuwei (non-action, not acting recklessly and following nature). Humility and yielding bring benefit; teachings carried out without words can also quietly win people’s trust. The benefit of Wuwei lies in letting things come to completion without forcing them. Few people in the world can do this, and few truly understand its principle.

Chapter 43 builds on the preceding discussion of humility and explains further how the weak and yielding overcome the strong. By understanding when to yield, one can still make gains; by continually letting go of attachment and reckless action, one ultimately reaches Wuwei. Persuading others without saying much and accomplishing things through Wuwei are benefits that few people in the world can attain.

The verse says: When something comes, there is no need to contend for strength. When it has passed, the heart becomes clear and cool. Keep this clarity, and nothing between Heaven and Earth can obscure it.

Which is dearer, reputation or life? An excessively high reputation may harm you instead. Which matters more, life or possessions? Too many possessions may damage you. Which brings greater anxiety, gain or loss? Even when you receive favor, remember that you may lose it.

So excessive attachment to anything must come at a great cost: whatever you crave can easily become a chain that binds you. The more you hoard, the greater the loss is likely to be when it is gone. Always trying to get the better of others can leave you worse off. Those who know contentment will not be disgraced; those who know when to stop will not be harmed by greed for wealth. Knowing when to stop helps you avoid danger and remain secure over time. Those who are content are the ones who can always feel satisfied.

The previous chapter discussed the benefits of Wuwei (non-action), explaining that deliberate striving can bring loss. It then asks which is more worthy of cherishing: reputation or the body. Gaining or losing reputation and possessions belongs to deliberate action and cannot last. Only by knowing when one has enough and stopping at the right moment can one endure.

The eulogy says: Everything in the world that has form will eventually pass away. Gather in and subdue the restless mind that leaps about like a monkey, and listen quietly to the majestic roar of a lion. If you can make use of the treasures within yourself, you will find the same springtime everywhere—in birdsong and mountain flowers.

What is truly perfect may look as though it is incomplete, yet its use never runs dry; it does not flaunt itself, and so it is not spoiled. What is truly full may look empty, yet its use is never exhausted; it is not complacent, and so it can continue without end. What is most upright may seem bent, yet it does not force its way. What is most skillful may seem clumsy, yet it does not rely on its own abilities. What is most eloquent may seem inarticulate. Its brightness does not dazzle.

Restlessness can overcome cold, but impatience and violence can also scorch a person. Stillness can overcome heat, bringing calm and coolness. Stillness and purity are the right way under Heaven. When people can preserve stillness and purity, all things under Heaven and Earth return to their proper place.

The previous chapter said that knowing when one has enough prevents disgrace. This leads to “great completion seems incomplete.” Those who have more than enough De (Virtue/Power) yet consider themselves lacking can live long; those who have more than enough possessions yet consider themselves lacking do not appear base. “Great completion seems incomplete,” “great fullness seems empty,” and the various appearances of seeming bent, clumsy, or slow all describe inner De that is abundant but neither complacent nor displayed. Its effects are therefore inexhaustible, and it can become the right way for all under Heaven.

The eulogy says: Human affairs are marked by meeting and parting; the world is marked by rise and decline. Only the constant, unchanging Dao (the Way) has remained unchanged from ancient times to the present.

When the Dao (the Way) prevails in the world, people’s desires follow their nature. Warhorses are retired to plow and fertilize the fields, while the “mind-horse”—a metaphor for thoughts that run wild and wander without direction—settles down. Then good shoots of spiritual insight can grow in the field of the heart. When the world is without the Dao, desire pulls nature along in its wake. Warhorses race across the countryside, the mind-horse runs amok, and the ground of the heart lies barren.

No fault is greater than craving and desire; they invite humiliation. No trouble is greater than not knowing when enough is enough; it leads people into hardship. No error is greater than relentless greed; it is the root of a death sentence. Therefore, one who knows contentment can remain content and happy even while living in poverty.

This is the forty-sixth chapter. The previous chapter said, “Stillness and quietude can serve as the world’s standard,” so this chapter goes on to discuss a world in which the Dao prevails. When the Dao prevails, the world can be still. When the world is still, order is stable, and people stop fighting and turn to farming. Hence the image of warhorses retired to plow and fertilize the fields. When the world is without the Dao, it is not still, order falls into disorder, and people take up arms to wage war. Hence the image of warhorses racing across the countryside.

Faults, troubles, and errors all arise from craving and desire. The final line therefore concludes with “knowing contentment, one is always content,” to explain the principles of self-cultivation. When the heart is still, desires cease; when desires cease, thoughts settle. Hence the image of warhorses retired to the fields. When the heart is not still, desires do not cease and thoughts run wild. Hence the image of warhorses racing across the countryside.

A verse says: “Do not look upon things that stir up craving, and the heart will not be disturbed. Quickly gather the heart back in, and half the problem is already resolved. The world has never had so many things to attend to; it is only the human heart that loves to busy itself.”

Without leaving the house, one can understand all under Heaven; instead, one turns inward and examines oneself deeply. Without looking out through the window, one can understand the Dao of Heaven—the patterns of nature’s unfolding. This means drawing the light of the mind back and reflecting on oneself. The farther one travels outward, the less one knows. External things have their limits. Thus, the sage can reach a destination without setting out; without moving a single step, can arrive in Chang’an. Without seeing something with one’s own eyes, one can name it; without seeing any external thing, one can experience the Tathāgata, a Buddhist title for one who is awakened. Without deliberate action, one can accomplish things; without moving at all, one can attain perfect awakening.

The passage above is Chapter Forty-Seven. “Without leaving the house, one can understand all under Heaven” describes how a person of the Dao understands through inward awareness rather than clinging to what is seen and heard outside. This continues the meaning of the previous chapter. If one knows the inner and does not cling to the outer, there is nothing one cannot understand; if one observes inwardly and is not obscured by outward appearances, there is nothing one cannot see. But if one knows and sees only what is outside, forgetting oneself, one’s understanding and vision become shallow and narrow. A verse says: “In the morning I roamed Mount Heng; by evening I lodged in Cangwu. In the blink of an eye I had traveled a thousand miles, yet had never left myself. What could not be found after wearing out iron shoes was finally gained without the least effort.”

In learning, one adds something each day and continually advances. In cultivating the Dao, one subtracts something each day. Subtracting and subtracting until every attachment has been eliminated, one reaches Wuwei (non-action), the state of not forcing things through deliberate effort. Then there is nothing left to subtract. Through Wuwei, nothing remains unaccomplished and nothing cannot be overcome. In governing all under Heaven, one often relies on the principle of Wuwei, acting without contrivance.

In learning, one continually adds and advances; in cultivating the Dao, one gradually subtracts. Subtracting and subtracting until everything has been removed, one reaches Wuwei, with nothing left to subtract. Through Wuwei, nothing remains unaccomplished and nothing cannot be overcome. In governing all under Heaven, one often acts without contrivance. When one has no self-serving intention toward a matter, it can be accomplished; once one tries to force it through deliberate effort, success becomes difficult. If one cannot do this, one is unfit to govern all under Heaven. Deliberate action will ultimately reach its limits.

Chapter 48 says that one can understand the world without leaving home: this is knowledge gained by examining the mind within. The farther one travels, the more external affairs one encounters. It then says, “In the pursuit of learning, one increases day by day.” Those who study seek continually to add to their knowledge; those who cultivate the Dao gradually let go of attachments and contrived actions. The Book of Changes says, “There is a lake below the mountain: Decrease.” A noble person takes this as a lesson to restrain anger and curb desire. This is precisely the point.

If one cultivates until there is no anger left to restrain and no desire left to diminish, and then reaches Wuwei (non-action), the people will naturally be transformed, and the world will turn toward them. If one acts recklessly, one will instead throw the people into confusion and make them difficult to govern. Such a person, therefore, is unfit to govern the world.

The verse says: Whatever one studies can become a source of blindness at every turn; whatever one undertakes can go wrong in every matter. Let learning and action both be completely set aside, and let increase or decrease unfold naturally. Do not laugh at how poor I appear: since ancient times, even bandits have left poor households alone.

Chapter 49 says that the sage has no fixed opinions and no fixed way of dealing with things. The sage takes the people’s hearts as their own and responds in accordance with the circumstances. When the people are good, the sage treats them with kindness and guides them to remain good. When the people are not good, the sage still treats them with kindness, helping them turn toward goodness. This is how De (Virtue/Power) brings goodness to fulfillment. When the people are trustworthy, the sage treats them with trust and guides them to remain trustworthy. When they are not trustworthy, the sage still treats them with trust, helping them turn toward trustworthiness. This is how De brings trustworthiness to fulfillment.

The sage is vigilant and cautious in the world, meeting it with a calm and generous heart, until people of different kinds are brought together as one. The people all watch the sage’s words and conduct: the sage’s bearing is worth observing, and the sage’s deeds can be followed. The sage, in turn, treats all the people like children. The world thus becomes like one family.

Chapter 48 says that Wuwei is what makes it possible to govern the world. That is why it next says that the sage has no fixed opinions. “Having no constant heart” means responding appropriately to circumstances and not going against the nature of the people or of the myriad things. The people then follow the sage’s teaching, imitate the sage’s conduct, and receive the sage’s influence, so that the whole world can be of one mind.

The verse says: Let the trustworthy act according to their trustworthiness; let the good act according to their goodness. Understand this, and you will no longer cling to distinctions. Instead, you will see that although the myriad things of the world differ, they can be brought together as one.

From birth to death, anger and desire are the gates of life and death. Of those who follow the Way of life, three in ten can put an end to anger and desire and bring Water and Fire into harmony. Those who travel the road toward death give free rein to anger and desire. Those skilled in self-cultivation can act in accord with the natural course of things; but if this principle is misunderstood, it gives rise to inverted views. Once such views obscure the Three Realms—the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm—the worlds in all ten directions seem to merge into one.

From birth to death, anger and desire are the gates of life and death. Of those who follow the Way of life, three in ten can put an end to anger and desire and bring Water and Fire into harmony. Of those who travel the road toward death, three in ten give free rein to anger and desire, preventing Water and Fire from harmonizing. Human life depends on Water and Fire: when one’s actions tend toward death, Water and Fire work against each other. Such people, too, make up three in ten.

The number that completes Water is six; the number that completes Fire is seven. Why is this? It is caused by anger and desire. People cling too fiercely to life, constantly striving to survive, and their desires are never satisfied. It is said that those skilled in nurturing life have neither anger nor desire. They can walk on land without encountering tigers or xi (rhinoceroses). Through inward self-examination, they have no cause for shame, and so know neither worry nor fear. Even when they enter the ranks of an army, weapons cannot wound them. Their minds have nothing to obstruct them, and so they have no fear. The rhinoceros has no place to use its horn against them, the tiger no place to use its claws, and weapons no place to strike with their blades. If a person does not cling to preserving the self, how could they fall into death? Why? Because the body does not truly belong to “me”—so what can death do to me? The rhinoceros has no place to thrust its horn, the tiger no place to strike with its claws, and weapons no place to cut with their blades. If a person does not cling to the self, how could they fall into death? Why? Because the body does not truly belong to “me”—so what can death do to me? Such a person does not enter the realm of death, and so forgets the distinction between life and death.

The above is an interpretation of Chapter Fifty of the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Dao and De). The soft and yielding belong to the way of life; the strong and forceful belong to the way of death. The soft and yielding can restrain anger and desire; the strong and forceful are driven by them. When anger is restrained, the fire in the heart descends; when desire is curbed, the Water within the body rises. When Water and Fire are in harmony, life can be preserved, and this is why they are called “followers of life.” When anger flares, the heart’s fire blazes; when desire is indulged, it surges like waves at sea. When Water and Fire clash, one moves toward death, and this is why they are called “followers of death.” The strong and forceful crave life without knowing contentment; the soft and yielding can face death as if returning home. If death is not regarded as absolute death, what can tigers, rhinoceroses, or weapons do to harm you? In the practice of the Way of the Elixir, when Water and Fire are harmonized, the sacred embryo—the inner breath or Elixir-body described in Neidan practice—can take shape.

Verse: The mind of Nirvana is easy to experience, but discerning wisdom is hard to understand. If there is no discerning wisdom, where can life and death remain?

“Dao gives birth to them” means that the Great Dao brings forth and nurtures all things. In the language of Neidan (internal alchemy), it means that after Water and Fire merge and Yin-Yang harmonize, the sacred embryo—a term for the Elixir formed through internal alchemical practice—coalesces. A verse says: “The mind of Nirvana is easy to grasp, but the wisdom that distinguishes the myriad things is hard to understand. Without such distinguishing wisdom, how could there be a difference between life and death?”

“Dao gives birth to them”: Dao is the primordial ancestral Qi, the source Qi from which all things began. “De nurtures them”: De nourishes all things. The character for “nurture” is read with a entering tone. Through Dao and De, the heavens are formed and all things receive their shapes: diverse phenomena take form above, and physical bodies take shape below. Thus all things with form and appearance honor Dao and prize De. They all come forth from Dao, whose exalted status and whose De’s preciousness transcend past and present. They are not made eminent by titles or fame; this is simply how things are by nature.

Dao does not speak, yet naturally responds to things. It gives birth to and nurtures all things, bringing their spirit and Qi to completeness; it helps them grow and develop, filling them with vitality; it brings them to maturity and fulfillment, making their essence and Qi complete; then it nourishes and protects them, keeping their forms whole. Dao gives birth to and nurtures all things without claiming them as its own: this is forgetting calculation and self-interest. It acts without taking pride in its achievements: this is forgetting attachment to feelings. It enables all things to grow without ruling over them: this is forgetting attachment to external things. This is called “Mysterious De”—a profound virtue in accord with Dao—and it is also called being in harmony with Dao.

The preceding passage discussed those who are skilled at preserving life, because they do not take the road toward death. The text therefore goes on to say, “Dao gives birth to them.” Dao has no calculation or self-interest, does not claim credit, does not cling, and does not rule over all things. This is Mysterious De, and it is being in accord with Dao.

Dao originally has no form; it took on appearance only when it gave birth to Heaven and Earth. Dao originally has no name; it acquired one only when it nurtured all things. Each thing has its own form and appearance, receives its allotment from Heaven, takes shape on Earth, and comes into being by receiving the Qi of harmony. All of these are manifestations of Dao, so all things honor Dao and prize De. A verse says: “The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao. Dao acts through Wuwei (non-action), yet accomplishes what must be done. To explain Dao clearly is like saying that all waters flow westward: in the night, as primordial chaos first opens and countless forms emerge, no one knows where any of it comes from.”

All things under Heaven have a beginning. When nameless, Dao is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; when named, it is the source of all things. To know the source of all things is to understand their origin.

All things beneath Heaven share a common source. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things. Know the mother of the myriad things, and you can understand their root. From the things born of the mother, you can also discern their details. Once you understand the details, return to the mother, return to the root. Then you will meet no danger throughout your life and remain secure for a long time.

Close the openings of the senses, so that what is within does not flow outward; shut the gates of the mind, so that what is outside does not intrude. Then you need not trouble yourself or exert yourself throughout your life, and you can live in peace. If you open the sensory apertures, thoughts within the mind will race outward. If you busy yourself with external affairs, things from outside will continually enter the mind. Then it will be difficult to save yourself throughout your life, and in the end you will lose the true Dao (the Way). To perceive signs in what is subtle is called clarity; to know the omens present when things first arise is to understand the hidden. To remain soft and yielding is true strength: what is soft can wear down what is hard. Use your own light to see what comes before you; then return to clarity, letting things come and go freely, without deliberately grasping or rejecting them. In this way, you will leave no cause of harm within yourself. Above all, do not follow external circumstances. This is called inheriting the constant Dao. Realize this principle here and now, and take responsibility for it.

The passage above is Chapter 52 of the Dao De Jing. It speaks of the source of the Dao, and so follows “The world has a beginning.” The final sentence is especially essential. Those who cultivate the true should contemplate it with clear vision and not let it pass them by. The verse says: neither take in nor drive away; there is no higher place left to climb. Pure and natural, this is how things are from the beginning. Asked again what the highest truth is, the answer is: whatever you put into words may already have departed from it.

If I gain even a little understanding, I should become aware of it before a thought has arisen. To follow the Great Dao, take Wuwei (non-action) as your principle, and beware of acting recklessly. Those who understand the principle will be alert to this. The Great Dao is level and direct, yet people prefer shortcuts and take risks in hopes of good fortune.

When government is excessively harsh, affairs fall into disorder. When fields lie fallow, this symbolizes the abandonment of the spiritual ground on which cultivation depends. When granaries are empty, this symbolizes the exhaustion of Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) within. Wearing fine clothes reveals greed; carrying a sharp sword reveals anger; rejecting plain food reveals delusion. Even when one has wealth in abundance, desire remains unchecked. This is called “boastful robbery”: a display of the turmoil of the three poisons—greed, anger, and delusion—and is entirely contrary to the Great Dao.

Chapter 53 above speaks of “keeping to the constant,” meaning that one applies the constant Dao in secret. It therefore goes on to say, “If I had even the slightest understanding.” Only with some insight can one receive the Great Dao in the present moment and apply it in secret. Without such insight, one cannot do so and instead acts recklessly. When the mind is obscured by the “roots and dust” (the senses and the things of the external world), when one is deluded by “karmic consciousness” (discriminating awareness driven by karma), and when ignorance and the “three poisons” (greed, anger, and delusion) add to the turmoil, one is no longer acting in accord with the Dao.

The verse says: Playing clever only backfires; too many worries can make a person age before their time. How could a house filled with gold and jade be kept safe forever? If, in daily life, one can set disordered and mistaken conduct right, then even the tiniest things on earth can become treasures.

Those skilled at laying foundations leave them impossible to uproot; those skilled at holding fast keep them from slipping away. When roots run deep and bonds hold firm, the offerings of descendants can continue without interruption, lasting from generation to generation.

Cultivate the Dao within yourself, and your own character becomes genuine. Cultivate it in the home, and the family lives in harmony, with De abundant. Cultivate it in the village, and the village is well governed, with De enduring. Cultivate it in the state, and the state is well governed, with De deep and abundant. Cultivate it throughout the world, and the world is at peace; De is practiced everywhere, and the Dao flows freely.

Therefore, observe yourself through yourself: if even a trace of dust remains in the heart, De is not genuine. Observe the family through the family: if there is discord anywhere, De cannot be called abundant. Observe the village through the village: if even one person remains uncultivated, De cannot endure. Observe the state through the state: if anything is still wrong, De is not sufficiently abundant. Observe the world through the world: if even one petty person remains, De cannot be practiced everywhere.

How do I know that the world is as it is? By following this principle. Turn back and seek the source within yourself.

In the previous chapter, it says, “Let me gain a little understanding.” With this understanding, the Dao-centered heart can become firm and remain steadfast. Thus it goes on to say, “What is skillfully established cannot be uprooted.”

Applying this principle to self-cultivation means observing the heart and discerning one’s nature: when the heart is settled, cultivation of body and mind has a foundation. Applying it to governing a state means observing the people and reflecting on oneself: when the people are properly instructed, the state can be governed well. If even one instance of wrongdoing arises among the people, it shows that something is amiss in one’s own policies and instruction. The Book of Documents says, “When the people commit faults, the blame rests with the ruler alone.” This is the very principle at work. Turning inward to examine oneself, if even a trace of dust still taints the heart, then one’s nature has not yet become clear. A verse of praise says, “It is not easy to observe a state; observing the intentions of one’s own heart is more profound. When the sea dries up, its depths can still be seen; after a person dies, their heart remains unknown.”

Those of deep De (Virtue/Power) draw themselves inward and conceal themselves in what is subtle, like a newborn infant: simple and single-minded, free of distracting thoughts. Thus poisonous insects do not sting it, fierce beasts do not seize it, and birds of prey do not strike it. The infant here is a metaphor for preserving one’s original, natural state. A practitioner forgets external things, and they seem to have nothing to do with him. Though its bones are weak and its sinews supple, the infant can still clench its hand tightly; this shows that its spirit is whole. Though it knows nothing of sexual union, it naturally has reproductive potency; this shows that its essence and Qi (vital energy) are abundant. Though it cries all day, its voice does not grow hoarse; this shows that its breath is abundant and perfectly harmonized. To understand harmony is to understand constancy: this is the state in which one’s nature is wholly unified. To understand constancy is to be clear-sighted: this is the state in which one’s nature is transparent.

Greedily seeking to increase life instead brings misfortune, because excessive increase inevitably entails loss. Forcing the breath with the mind is an act of striving; when the breath becomes agitated, the body is prone to grow rigid. When things reach the height of their strength and growth, they move toward old age; what is rigid is also easily broken. This is called being out of accord with the Dao. To depart from the Great Dao is to decline early.

“One who is skilled at establishing things cannot be shaken by others.” This is because his De is deep and substantial. So the text next says, “One whose De is deep and substantial is like an infant”: he has not lost the infant’s pure and original mind.

An infant’s heart is pure and undivided, free of distracting thoughts. It does no harm to anything, and nothing can harm it. The infant does not know the distinction between male and female. An erection is simply the natural movement of Jing and Qi; though this physical response occurs, there is no desire, and so the purest Jing is preserved. An infant may cry all day without its voice becoming hoarse because its breath is in harmony. If you cultivate yourself in this way, you can preserve the innate truth of your nature. This is what is meant by “De that is deep and substantial.”

If you lose the infant’s original mind, then when a physical response arises, desire follows and innocence is lost. Once desire begins to stir, a person is no longer natural. If it is not restrained in time, the mind and its faculties will also stray from their proper course; that is why one must be clear-sighted. If you fail to notice that a thought has stirred and allow desire to run unchecked, it will grow stronger day by day, while Jing and Qi are depleted. This is inauspicious. When Qi and blood are already vigorous, indulging the mind only feeds desire and makes it stronger still. When Qi and blood grow excessive, the body begins to decline. This is called going against the Great Dao; to go against the Great Dao is to exhaust one’s life early.

The verse says: To know the realm of Hundun—the undivided source in which all things are still one—first hold fast to the infant’s original mind. When this mind remains clear and undimmed, you can follow the Dao’s underlying form and attain a state as firm as gold.

Truly wise people are few in words. They silently contemplate the Great Dao and cultivate themselves; those who speak at length may not truly understand, but merely talk about cultivation. Stop up the openings of the senses and speak and listen less. Close the gates of the mind so that external things do not pull you along. Sheathe your sharpness and do not contend with others. Untangle confusion and create no trouble. Temper your radiance and do not put yourself on display. Blend with the common world and do not set yourself apart. This is called Xuantong, “mysterious union”—blending completely with the Great Dao—and it allows the Dao to run through all things.

One who has attained Xuantong does not cling to closeness or distance: he forgets emotional distinctions and does not cling to distinctions of form. He does not cling to gain, nor is he constrained by external things. He does not cling to injury or harm, and harbors no schemes or calculations. He does not cling to honor, nor to low status. For this reason, he becomes one whom all under Heaven honor. When all distinctions and attachments are let go, the true, enduring nature appears on its own.

A person of deep De does not speak much and remains silent. This is why the text goes on to say, “Those who know do not speak much.” It does not mean that such a person refuses to speak; rather, some truths cannot be expressed in words. Master Yin said, “The Dao is not something that cannot be spoken of; what cannot be spoken of is called the Dao.” This is precisely the point. I believe it is better to remain silent and avoid harm than to say too much and invite trouble. Alas. The verse says: Cut off the pursuit of profit, and in the end there will be no harm. Do not deliberately draw close to anyone, and you will not become estranged from anyone. The more you speak, the more likely you are to make mistakes; better to keep your mouth closed.

To govern a state by the orthodox Dao is to be impartial and evenhanded. To wage war through stratagems and cunning is to make no plans and use no schemes. To govern the world through Wuwei and doing nothing is to refrain from reckless action and attachment. How do I know these principles are truly so? I know by relying on this very principle: awaken fully to one’s nature and understand how things work together. The more prohibitions there are throughout the world, the poorer the people become, because they are misled by profit and desire. The more sharp weapons the people possess, the more confused the state becomes, because ingenious devices lead them astray. The more skill people acquire, the more rare and unusual objects flourish, because lesser arts divert the mind. The more intricate the laws and decrees, the more thieves and bandits multiply, because once laws are issued, wrongdoing finds an opening to arise.

Therefore, the sage says: “When I practice Wuwei, the people are naturally transformed. When I cherish stillness, the people naturally become upright. When I do not burden the people, they naturally grow prosperous. When I have no greed, the people naturally become simple.” Here, “simple” means a state that is uncarved, sincere, and natural. Govern the state by the orthodox Dao.

The previous chapter spoke of “those who know do not speak much,” referring to keeping to the orthodox Dao. The text now goes on to explain how to govern a state by that Dao.