《道德真经直解(邵若愚)》

Shao Ruoyu, author of A Direct Explanation of the True Scripture of the Dao and De, says:

According to the Records of the Grand Historian, Laozi once served as the official in charge of the Zhou court’s archives. When the Zhou dynasty declined, he left. Yin Xi, the Keeper of the Pass, said to him, “You are about to withdraw from the world. Please be sure to write a book for me.” Laozi then wrote two parts, upper and lower, totaling more than five thousand characters, explaining the meaning of the Dao and De. Afterward he departed, and no one ever learned what became of him. Because the Records of the Grand Historian says that this book was divided into upper and lower parts, later readers adopted that account, saying that the upper part discusses the Dao and the lower part the De. But an examination of the text’s meaning shows that its discussions of the Dao and De are interwoven, with no clear division into upper and lower parts. This account is therefore only a rumor passed down through the histories, and I have omitted it here.

Some people, without carefully examining how the passages fit together, divided the whole book into eighty-one chapters, pursuing nothing but formal elegance and deliberately matching the number to the yang number, symbolic of Yang Qi. This is merely baseless speculation, and I have omitted it as well.

Others arbitrarily created chapter titles, confining the meaning of the text to particular subjects. Since the titles do not accord with the underlying principles, I have omitted them too.

In some places the text does not flow smoothly because Yin Xi, the Keeper of the Pass, did not understand the principles at the time and did not ask further questions. Laozi therefore set out his own views and sometimes quoted the words of ancient sages, so the text can seem disjointed. Some statements are repeated, as when loving parents earnestly teach their children again and again.

Some parts of this book deal with political affairs. Laozi is lamenting the customs of his time and speaking about events in the Zhou dynasty. Some characters in the text run afoul of naming taboos. If they are altered to avoid those taboos, their original meaning may eventually be lost. Today, when quoting old passages from the classics and histories, it is generally unnecessary to avoid taboo characters. But when copying a transmitted edition of a book word for word, those characters may no longer appear in their original form.

Many people have written annotations on this book. Some commentaries offer arguments that are unsound; others make distinctions among things without any evidence. For example, explaining “Mysterious Female” (the hidden source from which the Dao brings forth and transforms the myriad things) as the mouth and nose is unsound. Explaining “the followers of death” as nirvana (a Buddhist term rendered in Qin as “non-action”) does not fit the subject of the original passage. There is no need to list every instance of this kind of subjective speculation, which strips the text of its original meaning. The reason is that the annotators have not yet attained the state of the Dao.

Confucius aspired to the Dao, but the Dao has no form or trace. He therefore first relied on De, which has visible form, and made it the foundation for how one stands in the world. Once the foundation is firmly laid, the Dao gradually becomes apparent. This is a process of gradual progress. How could one stop at De and make no further pursuit of the Dao? It is like reaching the doorway but never entering the room.

If one studies only the Six Arts (ritual, music, archery, charioteering, writing, and arithmetic), lingers at the level of De, takes techniques and calculations for the Dao, mistakes impure things for Jing and Qi, or takes dull, turbid Qi to be the source from which the Dao arises, one is still merely lingering at the first stage of gradual progress. How could one be satisfied with De and not continue seeking the Dao? It is like reaching the doorway but never entering the room.

Some people devote themselves to the six arts of ritual, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics. They wander within the bounds of De (Virtue/Power) but mistake techniques for the Great Dao (the Way). They take foul fluids for vital essence, dullness and muddiness for simplicity, and quickness or slowness for one’s nature. They regard standing motionless with hands folded as Wuwei (non-action), avoiding tastes as tranquility, coming by chance and then departing as naturalness, and divorcing one’s wife and sleeping alone as purity and stillness. People like this cannot be spoken to about the utmost Dao.

Chapter Eight of the Baopuzi says: “Although the Five Thousand Words (Daodejing) came from Laozi, most of it consists of general remarks and brief discussions. It does not explain any one matter from beginning to end. What, then, can be taken as a basis?” This is because such people speak mostly of bedroom arts—the practice of sexual union between men and women—and the arts of yellow and white, techniques for refining gold and silver. They cling to deliberate methods and use their profit-seeking, indulgent minds to speculate about the Dao of Wuwei. They therefore do not understand its beginning and end—how much less do those who fall short even of them?

Others regard those who can ascend lightly and fly as the highest adepts, placing those who cultivate De below them. In fact, concealing oneself while moving one’s body and transforming objects are classified as sorcery under the prohibitions. Confucius did not speak of the strange, the violent, the rebellious, or spirits and ghosts, because these things benefit no one. Laozi’s emphasis was on long life and enduring vision, with the aim of advancing in the study of the Great Dao, not merely on becoming an immortal.

So-called immortals dwell on the Three Mountains without leaving the earth. They ride phoenixes to pay court to the Heavenly Emperor without leaving the sky; they remain within Heaven and Earth, living peacefully for tens of millions of years. To prolong a brief lifespan for a time, until one’s karmic retribution is spent, is still to die in the end. If one does not continue advancing in the study of the Great Dao, how is this any different from the long life of the giant chun tree? The point here is not to argue over who is right or wrong, but to express concern that people may become absorbed in the arts of immortality and, as a result, fail to advance in the study of the Great Dao.

Among all living things, human beings are the most honored, but this honor does not lie in pursuing food and clothing. Only human beings can understand life and death. Do not let worldly ties entangle you and cause you to miss the chance for realization; when death suddenly draws near, it will be too late. This is not something to put off until the end of life. If you become absorbed in other paths, then even after countless eons and lifetimes, you may never encounter such an opportunity again.

I, Shao Ruoyu, did not come by this understanding easily. After more than twenty years of diligent study, I began to grasp that things are fundamentally so. The Great Dao has no words; it can only be made clear with the aid of words. Words serve to preserve the meaning, and once the meaning is understood, one need not cling to the wording. If one relies only on what one has heard, seen, and thought through, it is ultimately difficult to understand fully.

I now live in Qiantang, where I happened by chance to meet the layman Qinghe. We were of like mind, and so we discussed this Jing. Such a meeting is the highest kind of affinity within the teachings. Earlier commentators used ornate language and wrote in a dense style, often obscuring the text from ordinary readers and making its meaning difficult to grasp. The Dao of Dao and De is not complicated. If it is annotated plainly and directly, so that people can gain some understanding at a glance and grasp the principle of De when they hear it explained, then, by understanding De, they can come to understand the Great Dao and continue cultivating it. This is how one repays the ancestral masters.

I searched for the text of the Dao De Jing and found three versions. I have used the imperial edition consulted by the court of our dynasty as my basis. In my annotations, whenever De is discussed, I draw on the teachings of Confucius. When the Great Dao’s emptiness and stillness are discussed, I take the meaning of the Buddhist vehicle as a point of reference. I use the principles of both Confucianism and Buddhism to illuminate one another, bringing Dao and De together as one. My only concern is that people of dull faculties and scant blessings may not be able to take in and understand these teachings.

At the lower level, this book teaches methods for preserving the body and prolonging life. At the middle level, it teaches how to protect the state, secure the family, and maintain lasting peace. At the highest level, it teaches the profound Dao of transcending life and death and keeping nature and life everlasting. I worry that people may fail to see these principles, and I worry that even if they understand them, they may not put them into practice. Human nature is no different from that of the sages of old; one need only act in accordance with these principles.

The sagely ruler of our time esteems Dao and De, practices filial devotion and benevolence, puts compassion and frugality first, and follows the established institutions of the past, bringing peace to all under Heaven. I hope this book accords with such a way of governing, and that its auspicious, harmonious Qi may influence the people. May readers, while remaining loyal to the state and caring for their parents, keep a tranquil and desireless mind. If this continues over time, the people and all things will become simple and harmonious, helping the ruler attain a realm like that of Yao and Shun. Spreading the meaning of the Jing in this way is also a means of repaying the state’s kindness.

The Dao is made manifest through “Wuwei” (non-action: following nature and refraining from imposing one’s will), while “Youwei” (action: deliberate effort) serves as a provisional means. In other words, one comes to know “Nonbeing” through “Being”; once one has grasped Nonbeing, one no longer clings to cleverness and artifice. This belongs to the realm of principle. De takes the Dao as its fundamental standard and puts it into practice in real affairs. This belongs to the realm of practice.

The terms “Dao” and “De” encompass a vast range of meaning and leave nothing outside them. The stages of Daoist cultivation discussed here reflect the varying depth of people’s understanding of the Dao, as well as the distinction between inner and outer De. Without understanding these levels, people are liable to misunderstand and disparage one another.

The Great Dao is still and profound, utterly empty, formless, and nameless, beyond the reach of words. Even when set down in books, it cannot be recorded in its entirety. This state is called “Great Change” (Taiyi). The “yi” in Taiyi is pronounced like “yi” in “also” and means “change.” In Great Change, Qi has not yet appeared. When Great Change stirs, the first Qi begins to manifest. This is called “Great Beginning” (Taichu), also known as the “Supreme Ultimate” (Taiji) or the “Great One” (Taiyi).

Laozi gave this Qi the makeshift name “Dao.” Confucius said, “What is above form is called the Dao.” The Four Noble Truths of Buddhism—the four truths that explain human life and liberation—are also called the Dao. We can see from this that although the teachings of the three traditions differ, each conveys its teaching through “Being.” Without beginning from Being, how could one come to know Nonbeing? Because Nonbeing is made manifest through Being, understanding of the Dao has varying degrees of depth.

“Great Change” is emptiness. When emptiness undergoes change, it becomes the beginning of Being, and is therefore called “Great Beginning.” When Qi appears, it marks the beginning of the formation of physical forms, and is therefore called “Great Origin” (Taishi). When Qi and form combine, they produce distinct qualities of hardness and softness; this is called “Great Substance” (Taisu). When Qi, form, and substance are all present but have not yet separated from one another, the state is called “Primordial Chaos” (Hundun).

After Primordial Chaos divides, Yin and Yang surge against each other, with a single Qi at their center, and the myriad things come into being. Thus Laozi says: “The Dao gives birth to One; One gives birth to Two; Two gives birth to Three; Three gives birth to the myriad things.”

Therefore, the sage observes the heavenly signs and examines the geography of the earth, taking as a model the order in which Heaven is honored and Earth is lowly. Applying these principles to governance, one can serve as a leader and bring the Kingly Way to light. By establishing the Five Constant Virtues—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—and various rules of conduct, one can set right the relationships between ruler and subject, parent and child, and husband and wife, and thereby govern human affairs.

The Great Dao, the fundamental Way of the universe, has no name or form, and is beyond birth and death. It endures unchanged through countless ages. Supreme above all, it is too subtle to put into words.

The highest De (Virtue/Power) takes Wuwei (non-action) as its guiding principle and the One as its rule for governing the world. It does not turn away from the arising of the myriad things. It brings them to life and nurtures them without claiming them as its own. It acts without relying on its achievements, and once its work is done, it takes no credit. Thus, the people know that it is there, but do not see it deliberately displaying its worth; the myriad things then transform and flourish of themselves. In this way, there is no ruin or error: by following Wuwei, nothing in the world is beyond governance. If this principle is lost, one becomes attached to the One and pursues particular acts. This is inner De.

Lower De takes the One as the basis of its activity and Yin-Yang change as its rule for governance. Confucius said, “My Way is threaded through by one principle.” Those skilled at establishing enterprises, too, must take the One as their standard; then the myriad things will follow them. If the One is lost, one becomes bound by the Five Constant Virtues—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—and by particular forms of conduct, scattering one’s attention across affairs. This is outer De.

Inner De means holding fast to the One. The One is the foundation of the state and the source from which life grows. Hold fast to the One without departing from it, and the foundation will grow deep and firm. This is the way of long life and enduring vitality. Confucius called it the highest De, with the Dao as its root. It is also called the Mean: before joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure arise, the mind rests between Yin and Yang. Buddhism calls this state the Middle Way. If Daoists lose their grasp of it, they become absorbed in the hidden workings of Yin and Yang and develop them into magical arts.

Outer De means cultivating oneself through the Five Constant Virtues and particular forms of conduct. Confucius called it responsive De, rooted in putting conduct into practice. It appears as gentleness, humility, and non-contention: like water, it can overcome things hard and strong. It also includes compassion, frugality, simplicity, and modesty. If one strays from this path, one becomes absorbed in cleverness, ostentation, and shallowness, asserting one’s strength and seeking victory, indulging in hunting and coveting wealth, and becoming entangled in favor and disgrace.

The Great Dao is extremely easy to understand and extremely easy to put into practice. Yet people prefer to take shortcuts, and so they drift ever farther from the Great Dao and understand less and less. The Great Dao is simple and level. If people simply follow their nature and do not act recklessly, things can be accomplished. In sum, cultivating the Dao comes down to having no desires. When desires do not stir the mind, the heart can be still. Only by preserving stillness and purity can one become the proper way for all under Heaven. Laozi does not speak of refining elixirs, becoming an immortal, or ascending bodily into the daylight. He speaks only of the Dao and De (Virtue/Power), and does not pursue occult techniques.

There are two kinds of Dao: one is the Dao of emptiness and non-action; the other takes a single Qi (vital energy) as its basis while still involving action. They differ in depth. The Dao that takes a single Qi as its basis is also called “Utmost De.” Below Utmost De are three further kinds of De, which distinguish levels within and without. All of these are methods of cultivating the orthodox Dao. The Dao, De, Yin-Yang, and human affairs should be brought into full understanding and joined as one. If they cannot be connected with one another, learning is easily hindered wherever one turns. Those who study and cultivate should reflect on this carefully.

Written by Benlaizi on the Qingming Festival of the jimao year of the Shaoxing era, Song dynasty.

Direct Explanation of the True Scripture of the Dao and De, Volume One

Direct explanation by Benlaizi Shao Ruoyu; collated and corrected by Zhang Zhixin, Layman of Qinghe.

The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao. The name that can be fixed is not the constant name. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the root from which the myriad things arise. Always remaining without desire, one can observe the Dao’s subtlety. Always having desire, one can observe the boundaries and manifestations of things. “Without desire” and “with desire” arise from the same source, but have different names; both may be called mysterious. Mysterious upon mysterious: the gateway to all subtle principles.

The Great Dao is the most empty and tranquil reality. It has no form or name; it cannot be found by sight or hearing, inferred through thought, or fully expressed in words. It has neither beginning nor end, and exists eternally without change.

The Great Dao gives rise from nothingness to “One Qi,” the primordial vital energy generated by the Dao. Once Qi shows signs of existence, it can be described in words. But what can be described is not the eternal, unchanging, ineffable Great Dao. Once Qi has a name, that name is not eternal and unchanging either. Before One Qi appears, the formless and nameless state is the beginning of Heaven and Earth, and it is the ineffable Great Dao. One Qi is called the mother of all things because all things arise from it. This is the Dao that can be spoken of.

From this we can understand that my own body, too, comes from “One.” If people take One as their guiding principle and comprehend it, they can know the Great Dao. The Great Dao is the true mind originally within each person; One Qi is the desire that arises in the mind. The true mind is originally empty and tranquil, without arising or passing away. When it stirs, “being” appears; this is called desire, and may also be called thought, knowing, the subtle stirrings of impulse, or consciousness. When the mind arises through desire, life follows desire into being. After birth, people take in and cling to likes and dislikes, endlessly chasing external things: they become captivated by the five colors and five sounds, rely on physical force, crave honor and favor, fear disgrace, and lose themselves in a deluded mind. Clinging to this false mind obscures the original mind and keeps people from understanding the Dao of One Qi. If they can let go of the false mind and keep to the source of the desires they originally possess, they can return to the One Mind. To keep to this mind is to be aligned with what is right; to attain it is to realize its numinous subtlety. It is the mother of all things and the root of life and death. Desire obscures the true mind, and so people are born and die. If they are free of desire, the mind becomes empty and tranquil; returning to its original, nameless state, they can escape life and death.

That is why Laozi says, “Constantly free of desire, one observes the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” By remaining free from the pull of desire, one can contemplate the origin of Heaven and Earth. This is the subtle way to escape life and death. He also says, “Constantly having desire, one observes the Dao of One Qi.” Here, “boundary” means the limits of what is seen: with desire, one can see only the surface of the Dao. One must not use the mind to pursue the mind, for that is desire; nor should one use the mind to suppress the mind and falsely call that freedom from desire. Being and nonbeing can both be gathered into One. They are distinguished as being and nonbeing only to teach people; when the two merge, this is called the Mysterious. Buddhism calls it the “Dharma Gate of Nonduality,” and also the “Middle Way.”

Yet if the “Gate of the Mysterious” is taken as a fixed rule of the Middle Way and clung to, it too loses its emptiness and tranquility. The author uses a fish trap made of bamboo as a metaphor: a rule is like a tool for catching fish. If one clings to the tool, one forgets the Dao one was meant to understand. Therefore, practitioners cling neither to being and nonbeing nor to the Mysterious Middle Way. In the truth of the Dao, not even a speck of dustlike thought is admitted. Only then can the mind be empty and tranquil, resting in Wuwei (non-action), without any need to deliberately seek or contemplate. To gain nothing is true freedom from desire; to harbor not even a trace of attachment is called purity and stillness. Acting without contrivance is called non-action; practicing and attaining nothing is called naturalness; having nothing within is called emptiness and tranquility; being free and unobstructed is called untroubled ease; and being plain and ordinary is called calm simplicity.

Thus, freedom from desire allows one to leave behind all distinctions, and without distinctions there is no distress. When the mind is free of desire, one does not make oneself the center of every situation. Without attachment to the self there is no conflict, and so there are fewer faults. When the mind is free of desire, it does not cling to distinctions between good and evil or remain bound by ideas of cause and effect. Without clinging to the myriad things, nothing arises or perishes. To keep the mind free of desire at all times is to pass through the gateway to the many mysteries.

When everyone under Heaven recognizes beauty as beauty, ugliness appears alongside it. When everyone recognizes goodness as good, what is not good appears alongside it. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to one another; difficult and easy bring one another about; long and short measure one another; high and low depend on one another; sounds harmonize with one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without relying on words. The myriad things arise, and the sage does not interfere. He nurtures them but does not claim them as his own; he acts but does not rely on his own abilities; he completes his work but takes no credit. Because he takes no credit, his achievements do not disappear.

When the worthy are not praised, the people do not compete; when rare and precious goods are not prized, the people do not steal; when desirable things are not put on display, people’s hearts are not thrown into confusion. Therefore, in governing the world, the sage keeps the people’s minds simple and their lives well supplied, weakens their urge to compete and prevail, and strengthens their bodies. He constantly ensures that the people have little cunning knowledge and few desires, and that those who think themselves clever dare not act recklessly. By following the principle of Wuwei, nothing is left poorly governed.

When people throughout the world know what beauty is, they pursue it, and ugliness appears alongside it. When everyone knows what goodness is, they pursue it, and what is not good appears alongside it. Why does this happen? Because being and nonbeing give rise to one another; difficulty and ease bring one another about; long and short are measured against each other; high and low depend on each other; sounds answer one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after. When people cling to beauty and goodness, external things obscure their original nature. They react to whatever they encounter, and all kinds of troubles arise.

Therefore, the sage acts without a fixed mind—that is, without deliberately making distinctions or trying to control things—and so regards all things equally. In governing the world, the sage teaches the people without relying on verbal commands. All things arise together, yet the sage does not pass judgment on them in words, for fear that this would cause the people to develop likes and dislikes. The sage has nothing to seek for himself and nothing to take from the people. Through Wuwei (non-action), the sage brings the people to stability, allowing them to live without noticing the ruler’s influence. Though the ruler nurtures the people like a father, he does not presume to rule over them as their master. This is “making benevolence manifest”: practicing benevolence without displaying it. When the work is done, the sage does not claim it as his own. This is “keeping its function hidden”: drawing back the work’s effects. Because he does not claim credit for his achievements, his De (Virtue/Power) endures and does not fade.

The sage does not exalt the capable and worthy, for fear that people will boast of their intelligence. What the ruler favors becomes common practice; what the people are glad to follow becomes custom. If those above boast of their virtue and cleverness, those below will compete to pursue fame. So the sage does not single out the capable and worthy, in order to keep the people from competing for renown.

Food and possessions are meant to sustain life. Why place such importance on rare and hard-to-obtain things? If rare objects are prized, people will hide them away. By ordinary human nature, people may not be willing to hand over what they have been given; if they hide it, others may try to steal it. Governing the world does not mean doing away with possessions. It means not raising the value of rare and hard-to-obtain things, so that the people do not become thieves.

If the people are not shown fame and wealth as things worth coveting, their minds will not be disturbed, and they will be able to settle themselves. Thus, when the sage governs the world, he does not exalt the capable and worthy, so that the people do not flaunt their cleverness. When they do not flaunt their cleverness, the mind can become empty and still, making room for all things. This is what is meant by “filling their bellies.” The sage does not prize costly goods, so that the people’s desires diminish. As their desires lessen, their will is no longer pulled along by external things. This is what is meant by “strengthening their bones.” The text gives the example of Confucius lamenting that Shen Gen was not resolute enough.

The sage constantly keeps the people from flaunting their cleverness, allowing their minds to become empty and still; he also helps them lessen their desires, so that they forget the external world. When neither mind nor external things are clung to, there is nothing to grasp at or pursue. All affairs then settle, and even those who think themselves clever dare not act recklessly. The sage acts without a fixed mind, and so nothing in the world is left unguided.

The Great Dao, empty and formless, gives rise to the One Qi. The One Qi divides into Yin-Yang, and Yin-Yang in turn gives rise to the myriad things. Yet the One Qi remains the root of them all. It is therefore present within Yin-Yang and is called “the Qi that harmonizes.” The Great Dao works through this Qi, which fills the space between Yin and Yang. It is at work in the way Heaven covers Earth, the sun and moon shine upon all things, winter brings cold and summer brings heat, and spring brings growth while autumn brings harvest.

The harmonizing Qi has form, yet cannot be seen; it is formless, yet contains the subtle potential for life. It moves between Heaven and Earth, seeming neither to increase nor diminish, and is as deep and far-reaching as the source of the myriad things. Those who cultivate the Dao and wish to experience this Qi should draw in the sharp edges of the mind and quiet their thoughts. Only when the mind is calm can they resolve confusion and disorder. Living at ease with few desires allows them to be in harmony with the things around them; by competing with nothing, they can become part of the world. Untainted within or without, the mind becomes clear and focused. Though its traces cannot be seen, it seems nevertheless to be truly present.

Buddhists compare it to a bright lamp of wisdom and to the moon. The Yanshi tradition calls it the Great Medicine, or the Golden Elixir. Mencius calls it “flood-like Qi,” saying that when this Qi, vast and unyielding, is nurtured through the right path without harm, it can fill the space between Heaven and Earth and accord with righteousness and the Dao. When Laozi says, “So deep and still, it seems to exist,” he is referring to this Qi brought forth by the Great Dao. Laozi says he does not know where it comes from, yet it seems to be the source that governs the myriad things, existing before Yin-Yang.

Heaven and Earth show no favoritism; they treat the myriad things like straw dogs used in ritual. The sage, too, shows no favoritism, treating the people like straw dogs used in ritual.

Heaven and Earth follow the natural course of the Dao; this is the highest benevolence. If they did not follow what is natural, they would show preference for some and neglect others. Spring causes all things to grow, but this does not mean Heaven and Earth favor living beings. Autumn causes all things to wither, but this does not mean Heaven and Earth oppose the workings of creation. The myriad things grow and decline with the seasons, and Heaven and Earth let them follow their natural course. Thus, the myriad things are like straw dogs used in ritual: once the ceremony is over, they are set aside. In the same way, the sage shows the people no partial love or dislike.

The way Heaven and Earth follow nature in their course may be called “utmost benevolence.” Falling short of this state gives rise to preferences for those who are close over those who are distant. Spring brings forth the growth of all things, but this does not make it benevolent; autumn brings about their decline, but this does not mean it acts against the workings of creation. Heaven and Earth bring growth and decline according to the seasons, treating all things equally, like straw dogs used in sacrifice. Before the ritual, they are placed in a vermilion box and covered with embroidered cloth; once the ritual is over, they are discarded.

The sage takes a selfless heart as the basis of De (Virtue/Power), and so makes the wishes of the people their own. Rewarding good deeds does not mean showing favoritism, and punishing wrongdoing does not mean being harsh. The sage responds to the people and acts according to circumstances, giving rewards and punishments as the moment requires. The scripture’s image of straw dogs thus illustrates that the sage harbors no private motives and does not favor some over others because of personal ties. Zhuangzi said, “Utmost benevolence makes no distinctions between those close and those distant; great benevolence can seem to practice no benevolence at all.” It is precisely by not clinging to the name of benevolence that one may be called truly benevolent.

Isn’t the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows or a flute? It is empty within, yet does not run dry; once set in motion, breath flows out without end. Speaking too much often brings one repeatedly to exhaustion. It is better to keep the heart-mind empty and still. To “guard the center” means to let the heart-mind remain empty and still. When it is empty and still, its capacity is inexhaustible.

“The valley spirit never dies” refers to a mysterious, ceaselessly generative power, called the “Mysterious Female,” a mysterious mother-body symbolizing the source that gives birth to all things. The “gateway of the Mysterious Female” is the source from which Heaven, Earth, and all things come into being. It continues without interruption, seeming to exist yet remaining hard to grasp; in use, it is never exhausted.

The “valley” is a metaphor for emptiness. This “emptiness” is the Dao. “Spirit” (Shen) is a single current of Qi born through the Dao’s transformations: being emerging from nonbeing. Buddhism calls emptiness and spirit the “true reality,” meaning that they cannot be destroyed. Emptiness and spirit have no form; they were never born and will never die. Hence the saying, “The valley spirit never dies.”

Emptiness is the foundation from which the myriad things come into being, so it is called the “mysterious.” Spirit is the source of the myriad things’ transformations, so it is called the “female.” “Valley spirit” refers to the “mysterious female.” All things arise from the gate of the mysterious female; this “gate” is the source from which Heaven and Earth, through the transformations of Yin and Yang, bring forth the myriad things. Observe the valley spirit: it flows on without end. At times it seems absent amid being; at other times it seems present amid nonbeing. To put it to use, spirit must be brought into accord with emptiness. This cannot be achieved through strenuous effort or deliberate contrivance.

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They can do so because they do not live for themselves, and therefore they last. For this reason, the sage places himself behind others, yet comes to the fore; he holds himself apart, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish intentions? In this way, he brings himself to fulfillment.

The Liezi says: Whatever has shape, form, sound, or color is a concrete thing. People see that Heaven and Earth endure, but do not understand why. Rainbows, clouds, mist, wind, rain, and the changing seasons are celestial phenomena formed by the accumulation of Qi. Mountains, rivers, seas, metals, stones, grasses, and trees are earthly things formed by the accumulation of physical substance. How could anything with form avoid destruction?

Heaven and Earth endure because the seasons run their course and change, following the Dao in governing growth and transformation. They do not live for themselves, and therefore they last. The sage takes Heaven and Earth as his model. He is humble and lowly, and does not dare to exalt himself. He places himself behind others, yet comes to stand before them. He treats worldly gains as things outside himself and is not burdened by external things; thus he preserves himself and endures. When the sage places himself behind others and holds himself apart, is this not because he has no selfish intentions? He follows the example of Heaven and Earth: he acts without deliberate contrivance, and in this way brings himself to fulfillment.

The highest good can endure over time. Does the sage not place himself behind others and set himself aside precisely because he has no selfish desires? He models himself on Heaven and Earth, acting without forced or deliberate effort. In this way, he can accomplish good and preserve himself.

The highest good is like water. Water is skilled at nourishing all things, yet it does not compete with them. It stays in the low places that people dislike, and so comes closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle governing the workings of Heaven, Earth, and all things). In choosing where to dwell, it favors low ground; in its heart, it remains deep and still. It treats others with kindness, keeps its word, brings order to governance, makes full use of its abilities in its work, and acts at the right time. Because it does not contend, it avoids blame.

People delight in competing, but Laozi regarded non-contention as the highest good and used water as his example. Water has no desire to prevail, yet it nourishes all things and stays in the low places that others avoid. Its De (Virtue/Power) is therefore close to the Dao. The desire to prevail arises from the mind. When the mind holds no such desire, one can practice non-contention. Only by taking selflessness as one’s guiding principle can one benefit all things: with no desire to contend over where to dwell, one can settle in a fitting place; with no desire to contend in the heart, one can be as deep and still as an abyss. When kindness, speech, governance, work, and action are all free of the desire to prevail, they can accord with benevolence, trustworthiness, good governance, ability, and the right moment. Only by having no desire to contend can one avoid blame.

Holding a vessel and filling it to the brim is not as good as stopping in time. A blade sharpened too keenly cannot stay sharp for long. When a hall is filled with gold and jade, no one can keep watch over it forever. To grow arrogant and self-satisfied after becoming wealthy and honored is to leave trouble for oneself. To withdraw in time once one’s work is complete and one’s name established accords with the Way of Heaven.

High rank, great renown, and abundant gain can all invite trouble.

Holding a vessel and filling it to the brim is not as good as stopping in time. A blade sharpened too keenly cannot stay sharp for long. When a hall is filled with gold and jade, no one can keep watch over it forever. To grow arrogant and self-satisfied after becoming wealthy and honored is to leave trouble for oneself. To withdraw in time once one’s work is complete and one’s name established accords with the Way of Heaven.

When you occupy a high position and enjoy abundant benefits, it is like holding a vessel filled to the brim and constantly worrying that it will spill. It is better to stop in time. If you do so, you will avoid bringing great misfortune upon yourself. A vessel that is not filled to the top is easier to hold steady.

To keep calculating and pursuing the gains that come from prominence and power cannot last. Even if halls are piled high with gold and jade, no one can guard them forever. Wealth and status easily make people arrogant, and arrogance brings misfortune. This is not a calamity sent down by Heaven, but trouble one has brought upon oneself. How can it be avoided? The sage observes the course of the seasons: in spring, all things grow and are nurtured; in summer, once their work is done, they step back and do not claim ownership. This is the pattern of the Dao.

End of Volume One of the Direct Explanation of the True Classic of the Dao and De

Volume Two of the Direct Explanation of the True Classic of the Dao and De

Direct explanation by Benlaizi Shao Ruoyu

Revised by the Qinghe Hermit, Zhang Zhixin

Can you keep the hun and po souls settled in the body and hold them together, without letting them part? Can you focus the Qi and bring body and mind to such softness that you are like an infant? Can you cleanse the heart and clarify your deep inner contemplation, keeping it free of blemish? Can you care for the people and govern the state through Wuwei (non-action)? When the gates of Heaven—the portals through which body and mind connect with the outside world, which may also refer to the senses—open and close, can you remain yielding and humble? Can you see clearly in all directions without relying on clever schemes and knowledge?

Give life to all things and nurture them without possessing them; act without relying on your own abilities; guide all things as they grow without ruling them. This is called “Mysterious De,” a profound and natural Virtue.

The mind has no fixed name; in different circumstances, it is called different things. When the mind stirs, it becomes attached to external things; once attached, its function becomes apparent. A stirring mind belongs to Yang and is called “Shen” or “mind.” An unmoving mind belongs to Yin and is called “Jing”; when its focus on unity is emphasized, it is also called “nature.” When the mind turns outward to see and hear, it is called “Hun” or “emotions.” When it gathers inward and stills sight and hearing, it is called “Po” or “intention.” These names are given according to the mind’s functions; in the end, they all refer to the mind.

From this we can see that the mind is the governing center that sustains the activities of body and mind, operating everywhere. The “Po” spoken of here belongs to Yin, whose principle is stillness. When the mind grows quiet within, Jing and Po can settle; once Jing and Po are settled, Shen and Hun settle as well. Yang is gathered in by Yin, as a man is restrained by a woman. When Jing, Shen, Hun, and Po merge into one, this is called “holding fast to the One.”

Holding fast to the One can bring the two Qi energies of Yin and Yang together along the Yellow Path, the route taken by Qi within the body; unite the Three Treasures of Jing, Qi, and Shen in the Primordial Palace, where primordial Qi gathers; and bring the Five Phases together and harmonize the Four Images. These are all methods of cultivation for long life. Yet if one has not reached the Great Dao, the reason is that the mind remains attached to this “One.”

Laozi sighed, “Can you keep from departing?” To move beyond attachment to form and enter the formless, making the mind open, clear, and still, is called Wuwei (non-action). This is the true mind, and it is the Great Dao. Take, for example, “concentrating Qi to attain softness”: since this means focusing on Qi, the mind is still being applied; where there is intent, true softness is difficult to achieve. Can you be without a mind, like an infant?

Likewise, cleansing away every distracting thought and single-mindedly holding to the mysterious Dao is like a flaw in fine jade. If you deliberately cling to the “mysterious,” how can the mind be entirely free of flaws? As for the intention to love the people and govern the state, and the effort to manage the world, all leave traces of action. Where there are traces, there will be worry. How, then, can one put benevolence into practice and make it effective without revealing deliberate effort?

The mind is the gateway through which nature’s subtle workings emerge. As it opens and closes in response to events, can it follow the circumstances and remain yielding and modest? The mind is naturally calm, clear, pure, and open in every direction, yet knowledge, opinions, emotions, and thoughts obstruct it and prevent it from being empty and still. To become empty and still, one must not cling to what one already believes.

The so-called “One” is the basis of attachment to external things and the source of arising, passing away, and change. Once one becomes attached to anything, one is no longer following the Dao of Wuwei. Only by letting go of attachment to the cultivated state of “holding fast to the One” can one accord with the mysterious Dao.

“Mysterious De” means giving birth to and nurturing all things. The Dao lets all things grow without displaying any deliberate action of its own. De brings all things to completion without claiming credit. Once they have grown, it does not rule over them. This is called “Mysterious De.” Thus Zhuangzi said, “When you are attuned to the One, all things become interconnected.” If one attains the Dao without self-interest, even ghosts and spirits will show reverence; this is what the saying means.

Thirty spokes converge at a wheel’s hub. It is the empty space at the center of the hub that allows the wheel to turn and the cart to serve its purpose. Clay is kneaded and shaped into a vessel; the empty space inside it is what allows it to hold things. Doors and windows are cut into a house; the space within is what makes it fit for people to live in. Thus, visible “being” brings convenience, while empty “nonbeing” performs the actual function.

Laozi uses the cart, the vessel, and the house to show that tangible things bring convenience, but it is the empty space within them that makes their subtle use possible. For example, ancient wheels had thirty spokes, while modern ones have eighteen. All the spokes converge at a hub. The wheel is tangible and visible, but it can turn only because of the empty space at the hub’s center; the cart’s function therefore depends on this “nonbeing.” The word shan means to knead, and zhi means clay. Clay can be shaped into roof tiles, pottery jars, steamers, and other vessels. Their form brings convenience, while the space inside allows them to hold things. In ancient times, people dug into the earth and built dwellings, making doors for entering and leaving and windows for looking outside. In time, they developed house plans for rulers and ministers, parents and children, and for the performance of ritual. A house is tangible and visible, but what truly makes it fit for people to live in is the space inside.

Thus, visible “being” provides convenience, while empty “nonbeing” brings subtle use. The sage acts through the body but puts an unselfconscious mind—one not driven by private desires or attachments—to work. Those who study should grasp the working of the Dao through the principle of being and nonbeing.

The five colors dazzle the eyes, the five tones dull the hearing, and the five flavors distort the palate. Indulging in horseback riding and hunting throws the mind into turmoil; rare and precious goods hinder people’s conduct. Therefore, the sage values inner substance and does not pursue sensory pleasures: he gives up the former and chooses the latter.

Laozi says that the five colors dazzle the eyes, the five tones impair the hearing, and the five flavors dull the palate’s ability to distinguish. These problems arise from excessive indulgence in sights, sounds, and tastes: people lose their original nature and can no longer truly see or hear the Great Dao. Unrestrained horseback riding and hunting, and giving oneself over to pleasure, throw the mind into turmoil. Treasuring rare and precious goods stains the heart with attachment; this, too, obstructs the cultivation of the Dao, causing people to lose their original nature and making it impossible to realize the Great Dao.

Thus, the sage gives priority to nourishing what is within. This is what “filling the belly” means: the belly stands for inner needs. The sage is not led astray by the desires of the eyes and ears. Only by casting off these illusory entanglements can one gain true insight.

Both favor and disgrace bring alarm. Great calamity should be regarded as one regards one’s own body. What does it mean that favor and disgrace both bring alarm? Favor places one in a lowly position: receiving favor brings fear, and losing favor brings fear as well. This is what “favor and disgrace are both alarming” means. What does it mean to regard great calamity as one regards oneself? I suffer great calamity because I have a body. Without this body, what calamity could there be?

Therefore, only one who cherishes the world as they cherish themselves can be entrusted with the world; only one who cares for the world as they care for themselves can be given charge of it.

People who receive favor often fear losing it; those who gain an honored position may thereby invite trouble. Here, “favor” means gain, and “disgrace” means loss. After cold comes heat, and favor may turn into disfavor, so favor itself occupies a lowly position.

People in the world cling to status and cherish their own bodies. When they receive favor, they worry about losing it and feel afraid; when they lose favor, they grieve and regret it, and are just as afraid. This is what is meant by “receiving favor and suffering disgrace both feel like being startled.”

Why is it said that an honored position brings great trouble and causes worry like the body does? Laozi says: “The reason I have great trouble is that I have this body. If I had no body, what trouble would I have?” People who regard themselves as precious become anxious and fearful over gain and loss. Therefore, only someone who cherishes the world as they cherish their own body can be entrusted with the world; only someone who cares for the world as they care for themselves can have the world placed in their care.

Look at it, but it cannot be seen: this is called “Yi.” Listen for it, but it cannot be heard: this is called “Xi.” Reach out and touch it, but it cannot be grasped: this is called “Wei.” These three qualities cannot be pursued to their limits, yet they blend into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. It stretches on without end and is difficult to name, then returns at last to a state without form or substance. This is called “the form of the formless, the image of the imageless,” and is also called “elusive and indistinct.”

Approach it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Hold to the Dao of antiquity to govern the things of the present. To know the source of all things is to grasp the “guiding thread of the Dao.”

The Great Dao is empty and without substance, and has no visible color, so the eyes cannot see it. Its meaning is deep yet plain and accessible, and so it is called “Yi” (the indistinct). The Great Dao has no sound, so the ears cannot hear it. Its meaning is vast and far-reaching, and so it is called “Xi” (the rarefied). The Great Dao has no form, so even reaching out to touch it cannot make contact. Its meaning is subtle and hard to discern, and so it is called “Wei” (the minute).

Colorless, soundless, and formless: these three qualities cannot be questioned to their furthest depths or examined in full detail. Speaking of the state before Heaven and Earth were differentiated, the Great Dao is a single Qi, fused and undivided, called “blended into one.” This Qi moves the sun and moon, wind and rain in the heavens: it shines forth clearly, yet reveals no shape. Beneath the earth it supports the myriad things, deep and vast, yet never dark. “Continuous and unbroken” means that this Qi moves without pause, linking above and below and never ceasing. It can transform into Yin-Yang, round and square, blue and yellow; its workings are mysterious and beyond measure. It therefore cannot be confined by a name, and ultimately returns to a state without form or name.

The human mind itself is the primordial, undivided Qi—the original Qi from before Heaven and Earth were separated. This is what is meant by “the shape of the shapeless, the image of no thing”: where there is no shape and no concrete thing, there is still a form and sign that can be sensed. These two phrases express similar ideas, repeating the same point.

“Faint and elusive” means that within nothingness there seems to be something, while within something there seems to be nothing; existence and nonexistence are hard to distinguish. Thus, looking toward it, one sees no beginning; following it, one sees no end. By holding to and putting to use this enduring, ever-present Great Dao, one can master everything in the present.

“Hold to the One” means keeping to the root of the Great Dao. By holding to this root, one can know the beginning of the myriad things. When a person cultivates the Dao with a unified mind, they can advance toward it. The text borrows a Buddhist expression, comparing the unified mind to prajna (wisdom): by diligently cultivating with one mind, one can reach the other shore. The Great Dao is the overarching principle that governs the myriad things.

Those in ancient times who were skilled in following the Dao were subtle and mysterious, moving through all things without obstruction. The depth of their insight was difficult for others to understand. Precisely because it was so difficult to grasp, they could only be described, for want of better words, through images: cautious and hesitant, like someone crossing a river on foot in winter; alert and wary, as though fearing that someone might be watching from all sides; solemn and composed, as though carefully arranging one’s appearance; open and easy in mind, like ice about to melt; plain and uncarved, like a block of wood; vast and spacious, like a valley; deep and reserved, like muddy water.

Who can let muddy water settle and then slowly become clear? Who can bring change about through stillness, allowing life to emerge gradually? Those who hold to this kind of Dao do not seek fullness. Because they are not self-satisfied and do not seek to be filled, they can remain plain and simple, neither rushing to embrace the new nor striving deliberately to accomplish anything.

Laozi says that those in ancient times who were skilled in following the Dao were so profound and unfathomable that their manner could only be sketched out with difficulty. “Yu” describes caution and hesitation, like crossing water in winter; “you” describes wariness and alertness, like fearing that someone is nearby; “yan” means solemn and composed; “huan” means dispersing or melting away, like ice about to thaw; “dun” means plain and substantial; “kuang” means spacious, like a valley; and “hun” means deep and dense, like what people commonly call muddy.

One can become still amid muddiness and gradually grow clear; one can also respond to change from a settled state, allowing life to sprout little by little. Those who hold to the subtle and mysterious Dao do not seek to be full. Because they do not seek fullness, they can remain empty and still, show no sharpness, and avoid relying on constant novelty to bring the Great Dao to completion.

Reach the utmost emptiness and firmly maintain stillness. All things grow together; from this, I observe how they return to their source. The myriad things flourish in profusion, yet each in the end returns to its root. Returning to the root is stillness. Stillness is returning to one’s original state.

Those who cultivate the Dao must bring their hearts to the utmost clarity and emptiness, and steadfastly preserve stillness and purity. All things grow and change without cease: from emptiness they give rise to spirit, from spirit to the Qi of Yin-Yang, and from Qi to physical form; in the end, form returns to emptiness. To understand that emptiness is the root of all things is to grasp what Laozi meant by “observing how all things return.”

All things flourish in profusion, passing from youth to maturity and then decline, until each returns to its root. For those who cultivate the Dao and wish to understand this return, the key is to quiet the heart. Stillness means that disturbances within and without have subsided. The scripture also says, “Stillness is a return to life’s mandate.” This does not mean that, once still, one will see something. Rather, one must let go even of the heart intent on pursuing stillness in order to return to emptiness and quietude. The principles of this profound and steadfast state of emptiness and quietude are difficult to express in words; this is the original, unadorned nature.

The Great Dao gives me life; this is called “destiny.” This destiny transcends Yin-Yang and belongs to the Dao of emptiness. When people say that death and life are determined by destiny, they mean the allotment set by the workings of Yin-Yang. The form bestowed by the Great Dao, however, exists within Yin-Yang, and so fortune and misfortune, longevity and an early death are also affected by Yin-Yang and can be understood in this way.

The destiny bestowed by the Great Dao has neither birth nor death. It endures through all ages, and so it is called “constancy.” Only those who understand this constancy can be called “clear-sighted.” Those who do not understand it act recklessly and bring danger and calamity upon themselves. The clear-sighted keep their minds empty and still, able to accommodate all things. Empty stillness that can accommodate all things gives rise to impartiality; impartiality is the Virtue of a ruler. When a ruler governs the state through emptiness and stillness, this is called Wuwei (non-action), and it accords with Heaven. Heaven’s emptiness and stillness accord with the Dao. If people can accord with the Dao’s emptiness and stillness, they can endure for a long time and remain free of danger throughout their lives. Returning to the root and restoring one’s original destiny is the way of abiding constancy, without end.

The highest ruler is one whom the people know is there. The next is one whom the people draw near to and praise. The next is one whom the people fear. The worst is one whom the people scorn. When a ruler’s trustworthiness is insufficient, the people will not trust him. The best ruler is cautious and sparing with words. When the work is done and the achievement complete, the people all say, “We did it naturally, of our own accord.”

Only when the Great Dao is abandoned do people speak of benevolence and righteousness. Only when cleverness and cunning arise does grave falseness appear. Only when relations among kin become strained is filial devotion and parental care especially promoted. Only when the state falls into disorder do loyal ministers emerge. Set aside the supposed wisdom of the sages, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Set aside the deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will return to filial devotion and parental care. Set aside cunning and the pursuit of profit, and thieves and robbers will disappear.

Benevolence and righteousness, wisdom, and clever pursuit of profit are three things that do not make adequate principles for governing. Therefore, people must be given something to which they can return. Preserve simplicity and naturalness, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

In the most ancient age of the Supreme One, sages governed the world through the Dao of Wuwei (non-action). The people knew that a ruler’s teachings existed, but could not see any trace of governance. Later, in the time of Yao and Shun, the simple and honest ways of life gradually faded. Rulers turned to deliberate instruction, hoping to restore the Dao of Wuwei, but their actions in the name of benevolence and righteousness became visible. The people eagerly drew near to them, admired the sages’ wisdom and governance, and gladly praised them. From then on, benevolence and righteousness took the place of people’s original, natural dispositions, and they lost the Dao of Wuwei. The Zhuangzi says that from the time of Shun onward, promoting benevolence and righteousness only brought disorder to the world.

Later, in the age of the Three Kings of Xia, Shang, and Zhou—Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and the later rulers of Zhou, including King Wen and King Wu, whom later generations called sage kings—virtue declined and the Dao grew faint. Rulers used punishments to make the people afraid and compel them to follow benevolence and righteousness. The Zhuangzi says that in the age of the Three Kings, the world was greatly disturbed. Later still, in the time of the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period, rulers of the feudal states who successively held supremacy, hypocrisy became widespread. Those in power used clever schemes to control the people, while the people treated their rulers with contempt. Punishments could no longer make people afraid or lead them to repent. The Mencius says that the Five Hegemons relied on the name of benevolence and righteousness as a pretense.

Benevolence and righteousness were originally ways to save a troubled age, with sincerity as their foundation. But when sincerity is lacking, distrust arises. In the most ancient age of the Supreme One, sages acted through Wuwei and issued few commands. Once their work was done, the people would say, “We were like this all along.” This was because governance left no trace. The Great Dao fell into decline because benevolent and righteous teachings were deliberately put on display. As cleverness arose, hypocrisy grew along with it. The cleverness meant here is the mind’s delusive thoughts, distinctions, and calculations; it cannot bring the world into harmony.

In the most ancient age of the Supreme One, loyal ministers and filial children were simply part of the natural order. Families later became disharmonious because some people made a point of proclaiming filial devotion and loving care. Only when the state fell into turmoil did so-called loyal ministers become visible. All of this came from people relying on their own cleverness and thereby losing their natural dispositions.

If people cast aside contrived displays of sage-like wisdom and let go of clever distinctions, then teach the people through the Dao of Wuwei, the benefits to them will increase a hundredfold. If they stop deliberately proclaiming benevolence and righteousness, and cease reshaping people’s nature through precepts, the people can recover their filial devotion and loving care. If they put an end to deceit and the pursuit of profit, and stop displaying things that stir desire, thieves will disappear.

Sage-like wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness in the pursuit of profit are all ornaments on the surface. The age is impoverished because people chase after these outward things. Thus Laozi seeks to bring people back to the root, help them see their original, simple nature, and hold fast to it. This is called “embracing the uncarved block.” The uncarved block is the Dao’s original breath; in a person, it is one’s nature, that is, the original mind. It signifies purity and simplicity, and is the right way. People pursue desires and attach themselves to external things, gradually giving rise to selfish thoughts that taint their nature. How could they still see the uncarved block? Only by reducing selfishness and restraining desire can they return to their nature.

Why does reducing selfishness mean restraining desire? Because even a single thought that seems sincere may be mixed with self-interest. Laozi does not say to have no desires at all, but to restrain desire, because governing the world requires taking “the One” as the norm—that is, holding fast to the root. When the people keep to the way of restraining desire, this is called De (Virtue or Power). When De nurtures all things, it is benevolence. When benevolence rescues those in difficulty, it is righteousness. When righteousness concerns choices, advance, and withdrawal, it is ritual. When ritual adapts to changing circumstances, it is wisdom. When wisdom is honest and free of deceit, it is trustworthiness.

When the people hold fast to the Great Dao, the enduring ways of benevolence, righteousness, ritual, wisdom, and trustworthiness, along with the various virtues, will arise naturally from it. When people’s desires diminish, they will no longer deliberately embellish themselves or imitate others. The brilliance of Laozi’s teaching lies in leading people to begin from the root, from which virtue can naturally spread everywhere.

Set aside worldly learning and the mind that makes distinctions, and you will have fewer worries. How great is the difference between a deferential reply and a flattering one? How great, too, is the difference between what is called good and what is called evil? What everyone fears must also be regarded with respect. This turmoil is vast and boundless, as though it had no end.

Everyone is bustling about, as if attending a sumptuous sacrificial feast or climbing a high terrace on a spring day to admire the view. I alone am calm and unassuming, showing no sign of joy or anger, like an infant who has not yet learned to laugh and play. Everyone is busy, as though each had somewhere to return to; I alone am adrift, with nowhere to turn. Everyone seems to have more than enough; I alone seem to lack something.

My heart is truly that of a fool—simple and untouched by refinement. The worldly are clear-sighted and conspicuous; I alone seem dim. The worldly are clever and exacting; I alone seem dull and easygoing. I am still and deep, as vast as the sea; I am also like a wind that blows without cease, with no apparent place to stop. Everyone has talents and uses; I alone seem stubborn and plain. I differ from everyone else in cherishing only the search for nourishment from the “Mother.” Here, the “Mother” means the Dao that gives life to all things: it is to return to the source and follow the Dao.

All sorrow and suffering arise from deluded thoughts. The key to Laozi’s teaching of cultivation is to put an end to the deluded mind; then there will be no troubles. Yet abandoning delusion and returning to what is real, and turning away from what is real to chase deluded thoughts, seem as different as respectfully answering “Yes” and casually replying “Ah.” Both come from the same mind, so how great can the difference be? Good and evil both arise from the same nature, so how great can their difference be? What people fear is letting the deluded mind run unchecked, allowing it to chase whatever it will. We must remain vigilant against this.

Laozi laments that the human mind is in constant turmoil, seemingly without end. He sees everyone rejoicing, as though about to enjoy a lavish sacrificial feast or climb a high terrace for springtime pleasure. He then explains “cutting off learning”—not being led by worldly distinctions and knowledge. I alone remain cautious, quiet, and Wuwei (non-action), before thoughts have stirred, as simple and at ease as an infant who has not yet begun to smile.

“Riding along, riding along” describes following the natural course and letting things unfold without deliberate effort, as though there were no fixed destination. Other people’s thoughts follow one another without pause, and they always feel they have something to spare. Laozi, by contrast, says that his own heart seems bereft. He explains: “How truly foolish my heart seems!” It has no cleverness or learning, seeks no gain, and preserves only its natural simplicity.

The world takes itself to be perceptive, while Laozi feels dim-witted; the world takes itself to be shrewd, while Laozi rests in quiet dullness, unmoved by external things. “Vast and deep, like the sea” means that the heart is as profound as the sea and difficult to fathom. “Blowing on without end” means that the heart is like a wind in the high sky, attached to nothing and settling nowhere. Everyone feels capable and useful, but Laozi seems stubborn and inept because he does not change with external things. He differs from others because his heart accords with emptiness and stillness, and he regards “seeking nourishment from the Mother”—returning to and following the source that nurtures all things—as precious.

The appearance of profound and empty De (Virtue/Power) is wholly in accord with the Dao (the Way). The Dao is elusive and indistinct, difficult to see clearly. In its indistinctness, there seems to be an image; between seeming to exist and seeming not to exist, there seems to be a real thing. In its deep obscurity lies a subtle, genuine essence. This essence is truly real, and within it there is something that can be trusted. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never disappeared, so it can be used to examine the beginnings of all things. How do I know that the beginnings of all things are like this? By relying on this principle.

Laozi says that “empty” carries the sense of emptiness, and that the manifestation of De is the state in which a single Qi (vital energy) flows through all things. That is why it is said to follow only the Dao. When empty De manifests, it is the Dao bringing all things into being. The state in which the Dao gives rise to things is elusive and hard to make out: “indistinct” is like the appearance of light, so there seems to be form; “vague” is like something that exists but has not yet taken shape, so it seems not to exist.

More precisely, “vague and indistinct” means that between seeming to exist and seeming not to exist, there is an image; “indistinct and vague” means that between seeming to exist and seeming not to exist, there is a real thing. Here, “image” and “thing” have similar meanings. They do not refer to any particular object, but express how what is absent can be present, and what is present can be absent. “Vague and indistinct” therefore describes the state of all things at their first emergence, before they have settled into form. The “form that has no form” and “image that is no thing” mentioned earlier are just this indistinctness. It is also the primordial, unified Qi (the undivided primordial energy before Heaven and Earth separated), and a state of the human mind: when the mind clings to something, indistinctness arises; when it clings to nothing, there is deep obscurity.

Laozi first describes the condition of a mind that clings, then explains the Dao of a mind free of thought and attachment. “Deep” means profound and hidden; “obscure” means dark and unclear. “Within it there is essence” does not mean that some separate essence exists inside this obscurity. It means that obscurity itself is a subtle, genuine state. Zhang Ping-shu says, “What is deep and obscure beyond measure is true essence.” Here, “essence” refers to what is genuine and unfalse.

The essence commonly understood as a bodily fluid is the kind discussed by practitioners of cultivation techniques. According to this view, the union of Yin-Yang and the transformation of blood and Qi produce fluids such as milk. These fluids change in response to stimuli and have no fixed form: in the body, they are sweat; in the eyes, tears; in the nose, mucus; in the spleen, saliva; and in the kidneys, essence. They are all produced through the mind’s responses, and are not the “true essence” meant here.

“Within it there is something that can be trusted” means that the Dao has existed continuously from ancient times to the present and has never disappeared. It can therefore be used to examine the beginnings of all things. “Beginning” means the origin; “the beginnings of all things” means the origins of the myriad things. Laozi asks, “How do I know that the beginnings of all things are like this?” The answer is: by relying on the Dao of deep obscurity.

By yielding and bending, one can remain whole; by dwelling in a lowly place, one can become full. By reducing what one has, one can renew oneself; by taking little, one can gain, while greed for much easily leads to confusion. Therefore, the sage holds fast to “embracing the One”—keeping to the root of the Dao—as the standard for all under Heaven to follow.

The sage does not make a show of himself, and so is clear-sighted; does not insist on his own rightness, and so becomes renowned; does not boast of his accomplishments, and so accomplishes things; does not exalt himself, and so endures. Though the sage follows a path that may seem winding, he preserves himself and makes his De (Virtue/Power) shine because he does not contend with others. Precisely because he does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with him. The words of the ancients, “By yielding and bending, one can remain whole”—could these be empty words? Indeed, they are true: in preserving himself, he also gathers De to himself.

The Dao’s words are sparse and arise naturally; practices that go against nature are deliberate contrivances. A whirlwind cannot last all morning, nor can a downpour last all day. What brings these winds and rains about? Heaven and Earth. If even the violent changes brought about by Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can those brought about by human beings?

Therefore, those who devote themselves to cultivating the Dao will accord with the Dao; those who cultivate De will accord with De; and those who turn away from the Dao and De will accord with that turning away. The Dao accepts those who accord with it, and De accepts those who accord with it. Those who accord with the loss of the Dao and the violation of De will likewise face the consequences. When people lack sincerity, distrust arises.

Those who cultivate the Dao keep their minds empty and still, and so can accord with the Dao. Those who devote themselves to cultivating De concentrate their minds, and so can accord with De. But if they cling to the names of benevolence and righteousness while losing the root of the Dao and De, they fall into the same errors as the common world. When one’s actions accord with the Dao, the Dao accepts one; when they accord with De, De accepts one. Even if someone focuses on benevolence and righteousness and forgets the root of the Dao and De, as long as they still rely on the Five Constant Virtues—the Confucian virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—and various rules of conduct to cultivate their outward virtue, they have still gained something. Hence the saying, “Even the one who has lost can gain.” Losing the root of the Dao and De stems from a lack of true faith. Calling this loss of the Dao and violation of De “virtue” reflects a lack of genuine trust; benevolence and righteousness then become foolish, worldly things.

Those who rise onto their toes cannot stand firm; those who take great strides cannot walk far. Those who show off cannot see clearly; those who think themselves right cannot make themselves understood; those who boast of their achievements have no merit; and those who exalt themselves cannot endure. Applied to cultivating the Dao, these behaviors are like excess food and burdensome things that hinder one’s steps. People already dislike them, so those who have the Dao do not act this way.

To rise onto one’s toes is to stand with one’s heels off the ground; such a person cannot stand for long. To take great strides is to walk with steps that are too large; such a person cannot go far. Thus those who show off cannot see clearly, those who think themselves right cannot make themselves understood, those who boast of their achievements have no merit, and those who exalt themselves cannot endure. If one devotes one’s mind and effort to these things, they cannot last; how much less can one cultivate the Dao this way? If the mind seeks and grasps the Dao, then after truly seeing the Dao one must let go of the mind’s striving to seek it. When the mind clings to something, it creates an obstacle. This is like eating to satisfy hunger: once full, there is no need to remain attached to food. Hence the saying that excess food hinders movement. People already dislike such behavior; how much more should one avoid it in cultivating the Dao? Those who have the Dao do not remain attached to these ways.

There is something whole and undivided that existed before Heaven and Earth appeared. If, after eating your fill, you force yourself to eat more, the excess food hinders your movement. People already dislike such needless excess in everyday affairs; how much more so when it is brought into the realm of the Dao (the Way)? Thus, one who has the Dao does not act this way.

There is something formed in a state of undifferentiated wholeness, born before Heaven and Earth. It is still and empty, exists alone without changing, and moves in cycles without ceasing. It can serve as the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its original name, so I provisionally call it “Dao” and, for lack of a better name, call it “Great.” Great, it moves onward; this is called “passing away.” It moves onward without ceasing; this is called “far-reaching.” Having traveled far, it returns to its source; this is called “returning.” Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. There are four great things in the world, and the king is one of them. Humanity takes Earth as its model, Earth takes Heaven as its model, Heaven takes the Dao as its model, and the Dao follows what is natural in its original state.

The Great Dao, the fundamental Way, is empty, still, and formless. In emptiness there are originally no concrete things, yet the myriad beings arise from it naturally. What is called “One Qi” refers to the primal Qi from which things take shape. Heaven, Earth, and the myriad beings all arise in a seamless whole from One Qi, which exists before the Yin-Yang of Heaven and Earth. It is called “still” because it has no sound, and “vast” because it has no form. It stands apart from all beings and does not change; its movement reaches throughout Heaven and Earth without ceasing. Since all beings arise from it, it may be called the source of everything under Heaven. Though it is spoken of as “something,” it is silent and empty, without form; calling it “something” is only a makeshift way of speaking.

Laozi said he did not know its name, and so called it “Dao”; forced to give it a name, he called it “Great.” Considered in its greatness, it moves without cease, and so is called “passing on.” Its movement reaches in every direction, above and below, and its principle and force extend far and wide, so it is called “distant.” When it is distant beyond further inquiry, it returns to the fundamental One; hence it is called “returning.” The myriad beings are born from the One, and so the Dao is great. The myriad beings also take shape through the transformations of Yin-Yang, and so Heaven and Earth are great as well. The Jing also says, “The king is great.” This means that natural emptiness encompasses all beings, and within it are the four great things: Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the king. The king governs the world through the Dao and occupies his place within it. In cultivating body and mind, people should follow the Five Constant Virtues—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—and the various rules of conduct, taking Earth’s humility as their model. Earth follows Heaven in bringing forth and nurturing life; Heaven follows the movement and transformation of the Dao of One Qi; and the Dao of One Qi follows natural emptiness.

Weight is the root of lightness, and stillness is the master of agitation. Thus, even when the noble one travels all day, he does not leave behind his baggage cart, which carries his belongings and provisions. Even when splendid sights lie before him, he remains at ease and does not lose his composure. How can a ruler commanding ten thousand chariots treat the world lightly? Lightness causes him to lose his ministers; agitation causes him to lose his throne.

In terms of lightness and heaviness, the heavy is the root of the light. In terms of movement and stillness, stillness governs agitation. To take an everyday example, a noble person may travel all day and wish to travel light, yet cannot do without a cart carrying heavy loads. Even amid splendid scenery, one should rely on a calm and settled state of mind in order to see its meaning clearly and rise above it.

The light cannot be separated from the heavy, action cannot be separated from stillness, and a ruler cannot be separated from the people. How can the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots regard his own person as more precious than all under Heaven and treat the realm lightly? If he treats the realm lightly, he will lose his ministers and people. When the people are restless and unsettled, the ruler too will lose his support.

Those skilled in walking the Dao (the Way) leave no trace like wheel ruts. Those skilled in speaking leave no grounds for blame or reproach. Those skilled in planning need no counting tokens. Those skilled in closing shut things without bolts, so that no one can open them. Those skilled in binding need no ropes, yet nothing can be undone. Thus the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so abandons no one; always skilled at helping things, and so abandons nothing. This is called carrying on the illumination of the Dao.

A good person is the teacher of one who is not good; one who is not good is also a lesson for the good. If one does not honor the teacher or value the lesson, then, though one may think oneself wise, one is in fact deeply confused. This is the subtle essence of the matter.

Those skilled at following the Dao leave no trace like wheel ruts. This means they walk the Dao without clinging to their actions, and so leave no trace once the action is done. Those skilled at speaking in accord with the Dao leave no grounds for blame or reproach. This means they speak without clinging to their words, and so their speech gives rise to no blame or reproach. Those skilled at planning in accord with the Dao are not led by clever schemes and calculations in their hearts. This principle is profound and subtle.

One who is skilled at following the Dao acts without leaving visible traces. A wheel leaves ruts as it passes; “acting without acting” here means acting without leaving a trace. One who is skilled at speaking in accordance with the Dao speaks without error or blame. This is “speaking without speaking”: the words are so well chosen that no one can fault them. One who is skilled at calculating in accordance with the Dao has no thoughts or contrivances in the heart, and so has no need to count with tally sticks. One who is skilled at closing a gate in accordance with the Dao has no desires in the heart, so external things cannot intrude. Even without a bolt or lock, the gate cannot be opened. One who is skilled at sustaining bonds in accordance with the Dao knows that their own original nature is the Dao; even without ropes to bind them, those bonds will not break.

Therefore, the sage uses this goodness of the Dao to help people, abandoning no one; and uses it to help all things, abandoning nothing. In this way, one benefits oneself and others. This is called carrying on the luminous Dao. One who is good at following the Dao is a teacher to one who is not; and one who is not good at following the Dao can serve as a resource for one who is. Yet one should not therefore revere the teacher or cherish the resource. If one clings to revering the teacher and cherishing the resource, then even if one believes oneself to be exercising expedient wisdom, such attachment is no different from great delusion. To have no wisdom to boast of and nothing to grasp is the essential mystery.

Know the strong, yet hold to the weak, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, your constant De will never depart, and you will return at last to the purity of an infant. Know the bright, yet hold to the dark, and you can become the model for the world. As the model for the world, your constant De will never stray, and you will return at last to the limitless, undifferentiated state. Know honor, yet hold to disgrace, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, your constant De will be complete, and you will return at last to the uncarved simplicity of the unworked original nature.

Before they have fully attained the Way of no-mind, practitioners of the Way often know only how strength can overcome external things, yet they must still hold fast to the Way of softness and quiet receptivity. Laozi compares this state to “the stream of the world”: like flowing water, it stays low and does not contend with others. If one can be like the stream of the world—humble and free of contention—De will not be lost. In time, one can return to the “infant.” Here, “infant” means meeting the world without being stirred by it, observing things with no-mind, and understanding their natural unfolding.

Those who hold fast to the Way of obscurity and quietude can become a “model” for the world—that is, they restrain their radiance and conceal their De. If one can become a model for the world, De will not go astray; with time, one returns to the “limitless,” the boundless, undifferentiated source.

Knowing what it is to be honored without taking joy in it, and resting content in disgrace without feeling sorrow, is like being the empty valley of the world: still and open, yet able to contain all things. One who can be like the empty valley can preserve De over time, ultimately attaining fullness and completeness and returning to the “uncarved block,” the natural state before it has been shaped.

Once the uncarved block differentiates, it becomes the many particular things. When a sage puts it to use, it can become the leader of the people. Thus, truly great governance does not divide things apart.

The uncarved block is the unified Qi generated by the Great Dao; through differentiation, it becomes Yin-Yang. When things take on distinct forms, each acquires its own function. The seasons change in sequence, from spring to autumn. The sage observes this ordered process of generation and transformation and takes it as a principle for governance: ancestral temples arrange the generations by rank and order; the court distinguishes status and precedence; and in the villages, people are ranked by age. Those of generous and steady virtue are chosen as leaders. Thus the ruler comes before the ministers, and the husband before the wife. The sage follows the Great Dao in establishing order, allowing human relationships to find their proper place without being disrupted.

Those who wish to possess the world and govern it by force, I believe, will find it hard to succeed. The world is a sacred vessel; it cannot be forced into action. To govern it by force is to ruin it; to hold on to it stubbornly is to lose it.

Anyone who tries to govern the world through force, I believe, will never achieve their aim. The world is a wondrous vessel and cannot be handled by force. Forceful action leads to failure; clinging to control leads to loss. Among the things of the world, some advance while others follow; some move slowly while others hurry; some grow strong while others weaken; some flourish while others are ruined. These changes often stem from insistence on forceful action. Therefore, when governing the world, the sage casts aside extremes, extravagance, and excess.

In ancient times, people governed the world through Wuwei (non-action), and the world naturally settled into order. By the time of Yao and Shun, moral conduct had gradually declined, and people had lost the right way. So various doctrines were used to guide the people into obedience, in an effort to rescue a declining age. This was an attempt to govern the world through deliberate human action. Laozi said, “I see this as something done out of necessity.” The world is a wondrous vessel, subject to marvelous transformations; it cannot be forcibly manipulated. Forceful action leads to failure; clinging to control leads to loss. Things come before or after one another, are Yin or Yang, wax or wane, succeed or fail—all as a result of clinging to deliberate rule. Thus, when governing the world, the sage keeps clear of extremes, extravagance, and excess because he does not cling to forceful action.

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not use military might to dominate the world. The use of arms brings depletion, and wherever armies are stationed, thorns and brambles grow. After a great war, there is always a year of famine. Therefore, those skilled in warfare seek only to achieve their purpose and dare not use it to dominate. Once they have achieved their aim, they do not boast, flaunt their merit, or grow arrogant. They use arms only out of necessity and do not continue to rely on force. When things reach the height of their strength, they grow old; this is called being out of accord with the Dao. What is out of accord with the Dao soon perishes.

Those who use arms to assist their ruler do not rely on military force to impose their will or seek to conquer the world. When they take the initiative in attacking others, the opposing side is certain to strike back. Once war has begun, the two sides retaliate against each other, and victory and defeat shift back and forth.

Weapons are inauspicious things, and so are armies. The Rites of Zhou stipulates that five men make a squad and 2,500 men make a division. Wherever an army is stationed, the people’s livelihoods are disrupted and their fields left uncultivated, until thorns and brambles grow in profusion. After a great war, farming and governance are both impaired, and crop failure and famine are bound to follow.

Therefore, those skilled in the use of arms seek only to accomplish what necessity demands; they do not dare to use force to impose their will. Even when they achieve their aim, they do not boast or take pride in their merit, nor grow arrogant on that account. They use arms only when they have no choice, and do not rely on their strength. When things reach their peak, they decline: this is an inevitable principle. When things force their strength, it is like an army relying on its weapons; when anything becomes strong to the utmost, it grows old, and an army that exalts its force invites defeat. This is a way of acting contrary to the Dao (the Way), and what goes against the Dao should be stopped as soon as possible.

Fine weapons are inauspicious objects, and people often despise them, so a person who follows the Dao does not use them in daily life. In ordinary times, the gentleman honors the left; when marching and fighting, he honors the right. Weapons are inauspicious objects, not implements a gentleman favors. They are used only when there is no alternative, and calm restraint is best. Thus, one should not regard warfare as a good thing. If one does, one will delight in killing; those who delight in killing cannot prevail under Heaven.

For joyful occasions, the left is honored; for funerals, the right. Accordingly, the deputy general stands on the left and the commander-in-chief on the right. This means that the commander in the higher position should treat war as one would a funeral. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and mourn them; even after victory, one should respond with the solemnity of a funeral.

Warfare is meant to rescue those in peril. Like poison, it should be used only when there is no other choice, never as a matter of course. Weapons are ill-omened instruments; a desire to prevail obstructs the Dao and De. All things abhor them, so those who have the Dao do not delight in weapons.

In ordinary life, the gentleman honors the left, for the left belongs to Yang and symbolizes life. In warfare, he honors the right, for the right belongs to Yin and symbolizes death and destruction. Weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments the gentleman uses in daily life. They are employed only as a last resort, to stop violence and quell disorder. The way of governing a state prizes calm and stillness, so war should not be treated as something admirable. To regard war as admirable is to delight in using it; to delight in using weapons is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing will not win the people’s affection, and so cannot fulfill their aims under Heaven.

Ceremonies of celebration honor the left, while funerary rites honor the right. Accordingly, the assistant generals stand on the left, and the supreme general stands on the right. In ancient times, the right was honored and the left considered lesser. The left symbolizes life, while the supreme general’s position on the right symbolizes killing and warfare. One who holds the rank of supreme general should treat war as one would a funeral rite: when many have been killed, one should respond with grief and lamentation; even after defeating a powerful enemy, one should observe the rites of mourning.

End of Volume Two of Direct Explanation of the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue.

Volume Three of Direct Explanation of the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue

Originally explained directly by Shao Ruoyu of Benlai; collated and corrected by Zhang Zhixin, the Hermit of Qinghe.

The Dao is constant and nameless. It is like an uncarved block of wood: though small, nothing under Heaven can control it. If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will naturally submit to them. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth harmonizes, sweet dew descends. No one commands it; it falls naturally and evenly.

When things are first made and divided, names arise. Once names have appeared, one should know where to stop. Knowing where to stop makes it possible to avoid danger.

The Great Dao, the fundamental Way, is empty, still, and formless, and has never had a fixed name. At the beginning of Heaven and Earth, it brought forth the One Qi. The One Qi is a state that already exists but has not yet taken visible form. This full yet unformed state is called “the Uncarved Block,” its natural condition before it has been shaped. Though the Uncarved Block may seem small beside the Great Dao, it is the source of all things, so nothing under Heaven can force it into a subordinate position. If rulers know when to stop, they can avoid danger.

If rulers can hold fast to the Uncarved Block, all things will naturally submit. Governing the world through the One, the principle of the Dao’s unity, is like the Qi of Heaven and Earth joining and sending down sweet rain: dew and rain nourish all things everywhere. No one commands them to do so; their nourishment spreads evenly of its own accord. The Dao begins to establish order through the Uncarved Block, and so names arise. Once names have appeared, one should know when to stop. If one does not know when to stop, the natural state of the Uncarved Block will be lost. Knowing when to stop makes it possible to avoid danger and endure.

The Dao is present throughout the world like streams and valleys flowing into rivers and seas. Understanding others is cleverness; understanding oneself is wisdom. Overcoming others shows strength; mastering oneself shows true power. Knowing contentment is wealth. Striving to put the Dao into practice shows resolve. To lose one’s place of refuge yet continue to endure, and for one’s spirit and influence to remain undiminished after death—this is called longevity.

The Dao moves throughout the world as streams and ravines everywhere flow into rivers and seas. In the end, all things under Heaven return to the Dao.

By observing a person’s motives, the path they follow, and where they make their home, you can understand them. Understanding others is only a matter of using one’s intelligence. Everyone thinks that being intelligent means being clear-sighted; better to turn back the knowledge sought outward and come to know yourself. Knowing and governing yourself is what is called clarity.

To surpass others, people rely on strength, strategy, wealth, and power. Better to draw in your outward force and cultivate your inner nature, so that no circumstances can disturb you. Being able to overcome yourself is what is called strength. People in the world consider an abundance of money and possessions to be wealth, but wealth is eventually exhausted. Knowing that your own mind is inherently complete, and being able to draw on an inexhaustible inner power, is what is called true wealth. The learning and pursuits of the world are only modest aims; only striving to put the Dao into practice can be called having purpose. Confucius once took the Dao as his purpose. When all one does accords with the Dao, one does not lose one’s true home. Only by holding fast to that home can one endure.

Though the body may die, losing one’s original nature is the true loss. To dwell in a state beyond birth and death, remaining constant through countless eons, is what is called longevity.

The Great Dao flows everywhere and can be felt in every place. All things depend on it to grow, yet it never refuses them; when things are accomplished, it takes no credit. It nurtures all things without ruling over them. Because the Great Dao is often free of desire, it may be called small; all things return to it without knowing it is their ruler, and so it may also be called vast. The sage can accomplish greatness precisely because they do not regard themselves as great; that is why they can accomplish greatness.

Grasp the Great Dao’s guiding principle as a whole, and all things under Heaven will return to it. When they return and do one another no harm, peace and harmony can prevail.

The great Dao is vast and everywhere present, with no fixed form or location. Thus it can be said to be both great and small, and to exist everywhere.

In what sense is the Dao small? All things depend on the Dao to come into being, yet the Dao does not refuse them or claim credit. It is like spring, whose work of growth is complete; by summer, spring’s role is no longer visible. In spring, all things are nourished, but the Dao neither rules over them nor possesses them. The Dao therefore seeks nothing from the myriad things and may be called subtle and inactive.

In what sense is the Dao great? All things ultimately return to the Dao, yet they do not know that the Dao governs them. In this way, it may be called vast. The sage can accomplish great things precisely by following the Dao: acting without relying on their own ability, and taking no credit once the work is done. Because they do not make a show of their greatness, they are able to achieve greatness. If one can grasp this “Great Image”—the Dao’s overall form and pattern—to govern, all under Heaven will turn to them. People are willing to follow because the sage does them no harm; thus all under Heaven is peaceful and secure.

Ordinary people are captivated by the five tones—musical notes such as gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—and by delicious food. Yet a human life of a hundred years is like a traveler’s brief stay. The Dao, when spoken of, seems plain and tasteless; look for it and it cannot be seen, listen for it and it cannot be heard. Whether used to govern a state, manage a household, cultivate oneself, or even to comprehend life and death, it is inexhaustible.

To draw something in, one must first let it expand; to weaken something, one must first let it grow strong; to cast something down, one must first let it rise; to take something, one must first give to it. This is called “subtle insight”: discernment that emerges from the smallest signs. The soft can overcome the hard, and the weak can overcome the strong. Fish cannot leave the depths, for out of water they lose their support. The vital instruments and authority of a state must not be casually displayed to others.

If you want to draw something in, you must first let it spread fully. If you want to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong. If you want to discard it, you must first let it rise. If you want to take something, you must first give it. This is because within Yin lies the root of Yang: it is an inevitable principle. Those who understand the patterns by which things unfold may be called perceptive of subtlety and clear in their understanding. Thus the soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong, and the small and weak can overcome the great and powerful.

Fish cannot leave deep waters. Likewise, the important instruments and institutions used to govern a state should not be displayed lightly. To expose them all is like taking fish out of water. Setting up tallies and seals as tokens of trust, and making measures and scales to ensure fair weights and measures, are useful institutions of the state. Yet if one keeps adding institutions in an effort to remedy abuses, society may instead become less simple and sincere. This is because one has failed to grasp the principle revealed by “subtle illumination.”

The Dao always follows its own nature. It appears to do nothing, yet nothing is left undone. If rulers can hold fast to this principle, all things will transform of themselves. If desire and reckless striving arise amid this transformation, I will settle them with “the uncarved simplicity without a name”—a plain state untouched by human labels or ornament. When this simplicity is maintained, desire will gradually fade. Without desire, the mind can become calm, and the world will naturally return to the right course.

In governing the world, one should always act with Wuwei (non-action), and governance will then be accomplished of itself. If rulers can hold fast to Wuwei, all things will transform of themselves. If desire and the urge to act arise amid this transformation, use the uncarved simplicity without a name to settle them. As people return to simplicity and lessen their desires, their minds can become calm, and the people of the world will naturally return to the right course.

A person of highest De (Virtue/Power) does not deliberately display De, and so truly possesses it. A person of lower De never forgets the need to uphold De, and so lacks true De. A person of highest De follows things as they are, without deliberate action. A person of lower De acts with a clear purpose in mind. A person of highest benevolence does good without seeking anything in return. A person of highest righteousness practices what is right with deliberate intent. At the level of highest ritual propriety, people act according to ritual; if no one responds, they roll up their sleeves and compel others to comply.

Thus, only after the Dao (the Way) is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual. Ritual is what remains when loyalty and trust have grown thin, and it is the beginning of disorder. So-called “foreknowledge”—using cleverness in advance to predict and judge—is the superficial display of the Dao and the beginning of folly.

Therefore, the great person rests in what is substantial and does not linger in what is superficial. They value inner truth and do not chase outward display. So they let go of the latter and choose the former.

In ancient times, people of De did not display their virtue, and so they truly possessed it. By the time of Fuxi, people had created written contracts and established institutions such as marriage. De began to show itself, and thus became a lower form of De. Though virtue had not been lost, the deliberate trace of displaying it meant it was no longer the natural De of Wuwei.

The highest De governs through Wuwei and does not treat things as deliberate achievements. Lower De governs through active instruction, making things objects of intentional pursuit. In the time of Yao and Shun, rulers cared for people through benevolence and benefited all things. This De was called “benevolence” and used to govern the realm. Instruction was carried out, yet was not deliberately treated as an achievement. Later, the Three Kings established ideas of right and wrong, making distinctions and putting them into practice; this was intentional action. The Five Hegemons, in turn, managed affairs and governed according to ritual. But when ritual arose, deceit grew alongside it, and the people no longer responded. Laws and rites were then devised in the hope that fear of punishment would make people follow benevolence and righteousness. This is like pressing down on someone’s arm with one’s hand, trying to force it into obedience.

Thus, only after the Dao was lost did people speak of De; only after De was lost did they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence was lost did they speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness was lost did they speak of ritual. Ritual is a means of rescuing a declining age, rooted in sincerity and trust. Yet it arose because loyalty and trust were growing ever thinner, and in the end became the beginning of disorder. Those in earlier times who relied on displaying their cleverness and devising schemes to govern the realm grasped only the Dao’s outward brilliance, not its true substance. As people pursued these superficial accomplishments, they began to make the people ignorant.

Therefore, the great person holds fast to deep and abiding loyalty and trust, rather than settling for their shallow form. They rest in the Dao’s true substance and do not pursue its outward brilliance. They leave behind empty show and superficiality, and choose what is real and substantial.

In ancient times, those who obtained the Dao (the Way), both people and things, each fulfilled their own function. Heaven obtained the Dao and became clear and bright; Earth obtained it and became stable and peaceful; spirits obtained it and manifested their powers; valleys obtained it and became full; all things obtained it and grew; and rulers who obtained it could become the rightful standard for all under Heaven. They all take their origin from the Dao. If Heaven could not remain clear and bright, it might collapse; if Earth could not remain stable, it might shake; if spirits could not manifest their powers, they might lose their efficacy; if valleys could not remain full, they might dry up; if all things could not grow, they might perish; and if rulers could not uphold the right way yet still placed themselves in exalted positions, they might fall.

Thus, the noble take the lowly as their root, and the high take the low as their foundation. When rulers call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy”—all humble forms of address—are they not taking the lowly as their root? Is this not so? Therefore, pursuing many honors may instead leave one without a good reputation. Do not seek only to shine like fine jade; be simple and solid like a stone as well.

“One” is the root of all things; all things arise from it. Therefore, those who attain “One” flourish, while those who lose it decline. Laozi said that in ancient times, those who attained “One” were as follows: Heaven attained “One” and became clear and bright, covering all things; Earth attained “One” and became stable, bearing all things; the human spirit attained “One” and became numinous; valleys attained “One” and became full; all things attained “One” and grew. When rulers attained “One” and took it as their standard for governing the world, they could set the world in order.

If Heaven lost “One,” its clarity would collapse; if Earth lost “One,” its stability would falter; if the human spirit lost “One,” its numinous quality would dissipate; if valleys lost “One,” they would dry up; if all things lost “One,” their vitality would be cut off. If rulers lost “One” as their standard for governing, and acted only on the strength of their rank and high position, abandoning humility, they might lose their thrones.

Thus, those in honored positions should take lowliness as their root, and those in high positions should make humility their foundation. Rulers call themselves “orphaned,” “solitary,” or “unworthy” precisely because they place themselves in a low position. Is this not a way of taking lowliness as one’s root? If they regard themselves as simply noble and exalted, they will lose that root. Fame and praise may also bring harm: those who receive praise often become targets of criticism. So it is better not to seek praise that shines like fine jade, nor to fear being looked down upon like a stone.

“Reversal” is how the Dao moves; “weakness” is how the Dao works. All things under Heaven arise from “being,” and “being” arises from “nonbeing.”

Rather than letting the mind and spirit race outward, one should turn back and keep them within. This is why “reversal” is the movement of the Dao. When movement returns to a state free of thought and desire, this is “weakness”; “weakness” is precisely how the Dao works. People know only that all things under Heaven arise from “being,” but do not know that “being” itself arises from “nonbeing.” To understand “nonbeing,” then, is to understand the workings of the Dao.

People of the highest capacity hear of the Dao and diligently put it into practice. People know that the myriad things under Heaven arise from “being,” but do not know that “being” itself comes from “nonbeing.” Only by understanding “nonbeing” can one understand how the Dao works.

The highest people hear of the Dao and practice it diligently; those of middling capacity hear of it and waver between belief and doubt; those of the lowest capacity hear of it and often laugh. If they did not laugh, it would hardly be worthy of being called the Dao.

After hearing of the Dao, the highest people give rise to genuine faith and put it into practice at once; that is why they are called people of the highest capacity. Those of middling capacity have no settled view: they remember the Dao at times and forget it at others; that is why they are called people of middling capacity. Those of the lowest capacity are deeply steeped in worldly habits and burdened by karmic obstacles. When they hear the Dao’s teaching on the mind—how one need rely on no fixed method, but can abide peacefully in Wuwei (non-action) and thereby embody De (Virtue/Power)—they are bound to laugh. Those of the lowest capacity who hear of the Dao but do not laugh are usually pursuing strange and illusory arts, deliberately contrived methods that are not worthy of being called the Dao.

Thus, the ancients said: The bright Dao seems dim; the level Dao seems rough; the forward-moving Dao seems to retreat; the highest De seems like a low valley; the purest white seems stained; abundant De seems deficient; establishing De seems like idleness; what is plain and true seems to change. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed last; the loudest sound is rarely heard; the greatest image has no form. The Dao lies hidden and has no fixed name.

“Ancient sayings” refers to words handed down by the ancients. Those who understand the great Dao do not presume to have gained anything, so they seem muddled and obscure. The great Dao is level and broad, without deliberate embellishment and without attachment to attaining any particular state, so it seems ordinary. The practice of the Dao does not rely on the mind’s deliberate contrivance, and so seems to retreat. The heart of a person of highest De is like an empty valley, able to contain all things. Those of great De act through Wuwei, and so seem to have suffered a wrong. People of expansive De continually cultivate all kinds of good deeds but do not consider themselves complete, and so seem still to be lacking.

One’s original nature is pure and true, yet seems to have changed. Here, “changed” means altered. The heart is still and clear, resting peacefully in response to external things; this is why it appears to change.

The greatest square has no corners. Even bustling mansions and places of drinking and revelry can become places for cultivating the Dao, so it is said to have no corners. The greatest vessel is often completed last. Only through diligence and sincerity, sustained over a long period of practice, can one attain fulfillment. The grandest sound seems faint; the highest joy can be experienced for oneself.

These eleven statements describe how the Dao is vast and boundless in form, beyond any concrete description. The Dao is hidden and unseen, and has no fixed name.

Only the Dao excels at giving to and bringing all things to completion. The Dao gives rise to “the One Qi.” The One Qi divides into the two Qi of Yin and Yang; when Yin and Yang join, a third state takes shape, which then transforms and gives birth to the myriad things. The myriad things bear Yin on their backs and embrace Yang, attaining harmony through the balancing Qi that moves between them. “Balancing Qi” is the harmonizing, flowing Qi between Yin and Yang; all things depend on this harmony to grow.

People often dislike the titles “orphan,” “solitary,” and “unworthy,” yet dukes and kings use them to refer to themselves. Thus, things may sometimes gain by being diminished, and sometimes lose by being increased. I also teach others the principle that people teach: those who rely on force and arrogance often meet a bad end. I take this as the foundation of my teaching.

People all dislike being called “orphan,” “widow,” or “one who lacks grain,” yet rulers and princes use these terms for themselves. Why? In governing the world, one should take humility as the guiding principle. At times, things benefit from being diminished and are harmed by being increased. Those who understand humility can therefore gain benefit. This is a teaching handed down from the ancients. Laozi said, “I too teach people humility as a principle. Why? Because I have seen that those who rely on force and arrogance often cannot preserve themselves, and in the end they die.” Laozi said, “I will make the way of humility my teaching.”

The softest thing in the world can pass through the hardest thing in the world. What has no form can enter where there is no gap. From this we can know that Wuwei (non-action)—following nature without imposing one’s will—is beneficial. The teaching that needs no words, and the benefits brought by Wuwei, are things few in the world can achieve.

The softest thing in the world is the mind without a mind: a mysterious, formless state. If people can practice utmost softness, they can reach a state that is firm and indestructible. An ancient hymn says, “It has no head to be seen and no hands; when the world is destroyed, it remains imperishable.” Taking Wuwei as its foundation, it is said that Wuwei can enter the state beyond birth and death, enduring through countless kalpas without interruption. Thus we can know that Wuwei is beneficial. This teaching is difficult to express in words, and Laozi lamented, “The benefits of Wuwei are attained by few in the world.”

Which deserves greater closeness: reputation or life? Which matters more: life or possessions? Which brings greater distress, gaining fame and profit or losing them? Those who are excessively attached to reputation will inevitably pay a heavy price; those who hoard too much wealth will inevitably suffer great loss. Those who know contentment will not be humiliated; those who know when to stop will not fall into danger. In this way, they can endure.

Those who greedily amass wealth often bring about their own ruin because of their great stores. Those who hold rank and know when they have enough will avoid disgrace; those who possess wealth and know when to stop will avoid danger and endure for a long time.

What is perfectly complete may seem to have a flaw, yet its usefulness never runs dry. What is perfectly full may seem empty, yet its usefulness is inexhaustible. The truly upright may appear bent; the truly skillful may appear clumsy; the truly eloquent may appear inarticulate. Movement can overcome cold, while stillness can dispel heat. Stillness and Wuwei (non-action) are the right way for all under Heaven.

What is called “great completion” may seem to have a flaw, yet its usefulness does not decline. What is called “great fullness” may seem empty, yet its usefulness is inexhaustible. The truly upright do not deliberately stretch themselves out or draw attention to themselves; they appear instead to bend. The truly skillful conceal their cleverness and appear clumsy. The truly eloquent are not eager to speak and appear inarticulate. A flaw can prevail over a deliberate pursuit of perfection; emptiness can prevail over an unrelenting pursuit of fullness; bending can prevail over an unrelenting pursuit of straightness; clumsiness can prevail over showing off one’s skill; silence can prevail over clever eloquence. Movement overcomes cold because active Yang energy makes one restless; stillness overcomes heat because Yin energy lies quiet and brings coolness. These are like medicines prescribed for different ailments. Only stillness and Wuwei can bring the realms of all things to a state of emptiness and serenity, so that there is no longer any need to treat each one with an opposing remedy. This is the right way for all under Heaven.

When the Dao prevails in the world, warhorses are retired to plow fields and carry manure. When the Dao does not prevail, warhorses breed in the suburbs. The greatest fault is to give free rein to desire; the greatest calamity is to never have enough; the greatest failing is to devote oneself to possessing more. Those who know contentment and take contentment itself as enough can always feel satisfied.

In ancient times, the army and the people who farmed were one and the same: when war broke out, men were called up for military service; when there was no war, they returned to the fields. When the realm was well governed and at peace, people lived and worked in their own places. Warhorses were put out to pasture and used for plowing, while soldiers were also set to cultivate the land and manage farm work. When there was no warfare in the realm, warhorses bred in the countryside.

The cause of unrest in the realm is that people let their desires run unchecked. Nothing is a greater offense than indulging desire; nothing brings greater calamity than coveting without knowing when to stop; and nothing is a greater failing than always wanting more. Offenses, calamities, and failings all arise from desire. When the heart has few desires, one can know contentment. With contentment in one’s heart, whatever one encounters feels sufficient. Then calamities and failings naturally disappear, and where could there be any offense?

Without leaving home, one can understand the world; without looking out the window, one can apprehend the Dao (the Way). The farther one travels in pursuit of knowledge, the less one comes to know. Thus the sage knows the nature of things without traveling, speaks of the Dao without seeing it with their own eyes, and brings things to completion without deliberate action.

The Dao nurtures all things equally, and those who understand it can experience it within their own hearts. To see the Dao, one need not leave home: simply turn one’s gaze inward, and one will understand that oneself and all things are interconnected, and so come to know all things in the world. If one goes further and lets go of even the trace of this inward gaze, freeing the heart from all attachments, there is no need to look out the window to apprehend the Dao. If one seeks help only from divination techniques, Yin-Yang changes, or human experience, the farther one goes, the less one comes to know. Thus the sage knows the nature of all things without traveling, speaks of what the Dao brings into being without seeing it with their own eyes, and accomplishes things without deliberate action.

In the pursuit of learning, knowledge increases day by day; in cultivating the Dao (the Way), distracting thoughts in the heart diminish day by day. Keep letting them go until you reach the state of Wuwei (non-action). Acting through Wuwei, nothing remains unaccomplished. Thus, those who govern the world do not constantly interfere with burdensome decrees and actions. Once government becomes tangled in too many affairs and excessive intervention, it is no longer possible to govern the world well.

The pursuit of learning means continually adding to one’s knowledge. Cultivating the Dao means gradually letting go of all kinds of concerns. Learners can fall into two kinds of attachment. One is to focus only on reciting, copying, and memorizing many things; this is called attachment to particulars. The other is to probe the words and principles in books again and again; this is called attachment to theory. Both arise when the heart clings to something, and so they should be let go.

Those who cultivate the Dao can also fall into two kinds of attachment. One is to deliberately suppress deluded thoughts and seek stillness outside the heart; this is called attachment to “nothing.” The other is to cast off worldly concerns and devote oneself to holding fast to a single-minded state; this is called attachment to “something.” Both involve clinging in the heart, and so they, too, should be let go. Only by letting go even of the thoughts of learning and cultivating the Dao, and leaving attachment behind, can one draw near to the Dao of Wuwei.

Wuwei means acting naturally, without deliberate arrangements. A mind free of intention does not mean destroying the mind; it means not being controlled by any thought. Then the inner heart naturally becomes open and clear, while the ears and eyes continue to hear and see as usual. Distinctions such as rich and poor, beautiful and ugly, gradually fade away. Even while carrying water, chopping wood, and attending to everyday tasks in the world, one is not bound by them. Thus, without deliberate action, one can respond to all things.

Therefore, to govern the world by following the Dao, one should act without interference and avoid meddling. If decrees are troublesome and everything is forced, it is no longer possible to govern the world.

The sage has no fixed mind, but takes the people’s minds as their own. I treat the good with kindness, and I treat the not good with kindness as well; in this way, virtue can become good. I trust those who are trustworthy, and I trust those who are not trustworthy as well; in this way, the prevailing way of life can become trustworthy. The sage lives among the people of the world with a heart that is always uneasy. Here, according to the commentary, “uneasy” means that the world is turbid and chaotic.

The sage has no fixed opinions and takes the people’s hearts as his own. He treats those who are kind with kindness, and those who are unkind with kindness as well. In this way, the transforming power of De (Virtue) can lead people toward goodness. He treats those who are trustworthy with trust, and those who are not trustworthy with trust as well. In this way, the transforming power of De can lead people to become trustworthy. Living among all under Heaven, the sage keeps a quiet, gentle mind and brings the people back to a simple, undifferentiated state. The people attend to the sage’s words and actions, while he treats them as he would infants.

The sage has no private desires and does not act recklessly. He has no fixed opinions about how to handle things, but responds in keeping with the people’s hearts. The “Appended Statements,” a section of the Book of Changes, says: “Silent and still, unmoving; when stirred, it reaches through to the causes of all things under Heaven.” This means that when the mind is quiet, it does not act rashly; when something arises, it responds and understands what is happening. The sage responds to each situation and manifests his De. He treats kind people with kindness, and meets those who are unkind without making a distinction, treating them with kindness too. In this way, he uses De to guide the people toward goodness. He treats trustworthy people with trust, and meets those who are not trustworthy without making a distinction, treating them with trust as well. In this way, he uses De to guide the people toward trustworthiness.

Thus, when the sage governs all under Heaven, he does not breed suspicion toward the myriad things, and the people naturally trust one another. He does not show favoritism, and the people naturally act justly. He does not prize rare objects, and the people stop coveting them. He does not live extravagantly, and the people naturally value frugality. The sage values what is genuine, and the people do not resort to deceit. He esteems humility, and the people do not struggle for gain. With a quiet, gentle mind, the sage brings all under Heaven back to simplicity. The people all come to understand his De through his words and actions; he himself does not impose fixed opinions on affairs, but treats the people as he would infants.

People pass from birth toward death. Roughly three in ten belong to the long-lived; roughly three in ten meet death early; and roughly three in ten are people who are alive but, through misguided actions, move toward death. Why is this so? Because they pursue the pleasures of preserving life too intensely and, in doing so, harm their lives.

It is said that those skilled at nourishing life walk on land without encountering rhinoceroses or tigers, and enter battle without being harmed by weapons. The rhinoceros finds no place to use its horn, the tiger no place to sink its claws, and weapons no place to pierce. Why is this so? Because such people have not entered a place of certain death. “Nourishing life” means caring for and sustaining life. Here, “not entering a place of death” means not putting oneself in circumstances that lead to death.

Some people let their minds and spirits race outward in search of things, imitating the changes of Yin-Yang (yin and yang) in Heaven and Earth. They use methods such as visualization, rinsing and swallowing, breathing exercises, and daoyin (guiding and stretching practices), hoping to attain long life. Others gather their minds and spirits inward, becoming absorbed in emptiness, stillness, and cold calm. They grow dull and confused, as though they had lost awareness.

Laozi divides people into ten parts to make his point: three parts belong to those who seek life, three to those who move toward death, and another three to those who, by pursuing life-preserving practices too intensely, take a dangerous path. Laozi then asks: People sustain life with food and clothing, so why do they still move toward death? Because they cling to life and pursue its preservation to excess.

Together, these three groups make up nine parts, and none has achieved true nonattachment. Those who seek life cling to “being”; those who move toward death cling to “nonbeing”; and those who endanger themselves through life-preserving practices cling to external things. When the mind clings to something, it remains caught in life and death.

It is said that those skilled in upholding the Dao of nonbeing can stay clear of external things and avoid attachment to either “being” or “nonbeing.” They hold no fixed thought in their minds. They see things without grasping at them, and meet events without being drawn along by them; body and mind become one. Thus, walking on land, they suffer no harm from rhinoceros or tiger; entering a battlefield, they are not wounded by weapons. The rhinoceros is a fierce, ox-like beast, the tiger attacks with its claws, and blades can injure or kill the human body. These examples show that neither wild beasts nor weapons can harm such practitioners. How is this possible? Their minds cling to nothing, and whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, they remain in a state of emptiness and stillness. “Emptiness” means having no fixed form; “stillness” means not being stirred by arising and passing away. Since they do not cling to life, they do not fall into the realm of death.

The Dao gives birth to all things, and De nurtures them. Each thing takes its own form, then grows and comes to completion through the conditions and powers suited to it. Thus nothing fails to honor the Dao and cherish De. The Dao is revered and De esteemed not because anyone bestowed titles upon them, but because they have always been so naturally.

Thus the Dao gives birth to all things and nurtures them, helping them grow, develop, take shape, and mature, while also nourishing and sheltering them. It brings forth and sustains all things, yet does not claim them as its own. It acts, yet does not take pride in its achievements. It helps all things grow, yet does not control or rule them. This is called “mysterious De,” a profound and natural virtue.

All things under Heaven have a beginning, which may be regarded as the mother of the world. If you know the mother, you can understand the things that come from it. Once you understand those things, return to and abide by the mother, and you will remain free from danger throughout your life.

Liezi said: Everything that has form arises from what is formless. Thus the beginning of all things under Heaven is “nonbeing”; formless, inactive emptiness is the mother of the world. If you know emptiness as the mother, you can understand that all things are its offspring. Having understood these things, you should return to and abide by the mother. If people can bring their minds into accord with emptiness, it is like a child returning to its mother, and they will remain free from danger throughout their lives.

Block the openings of the senses and close the gates of desire, and you will not need to toil and bustle about throughout your life. Open the senses and indulge desire, busily handling every affair, and your life will be beyond saving. To perceive what is subtle is called clarity; to hold fast to softness is called strength. Abide by emptiness as a child returns to its mother, and you will remain free from danger throughout your life.

Stop up the openings of the senses and close the gates through which the six senses meet the outside world, and you can remain free throughout your life from the weariness brought on by delusive thoughts. Let the senses run loose, and allow desires and scattered thoughts to draw you into dealing with all manner of affairs, and you will fall into a predicament from which it is hard to recover.

The eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind are called the “six entrances”: the six channels through which information from the outside world is received. They give rise to all kinds of attachments and delusive thoughts, from which troubles often arise. When Laozi says, “Stop up the openings and close the gates,” he means to gather in the six senses so that desire and delusion do not grow. The six entrances have the mind as their root. If you can remove the source of deluded thinking, the disturbances brought on by the external world will also subside.

“Seeing the small is clarity” means that only those who perceive what is subtle can be called clear-sighted. “Holding to softness is strength” means that preserving gentleness is true strength. When the mind is free of desire, it can turn inward and perceive what is subtle. Here, “clarity” is likened to a lamp’s wick, and “light” to the radiance shining outward. Adapting to external things and following worldly ways is the use of light; keeping the mind empty and still is a return to inner clarity. To avoid bringing calamity upon oneself in this way is called “following the constant”—that is, aligning oneself with the constant Dao.

Even if I knew a little about practicing the Great Dao, I would still worry about going astray. The Great Dao is level and easy to follow, yet the people prefer crooked byways. The court is lavishly furnished, while the fields lie waste and the granaries stand empty. People wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, eat and drink to excess, and amass wealth beyond their needs. This is called ostentatious excess, a departure from the Dao.

Zhuangzi says, “The Dao does not accept questioning, and questioning receives no answer.” Thus, the Great Dao transcends words. It cannot be sought through seeing or hearing, understood through reflection or discussion, or expressed in language. Anyone who imagines they can impose their cleverness, actions, or words upon the Dao should be wary. Laozi therefore says, “If I make even a little distinction, thinking that I have cleverness and methods I can apply to the Great Dao, then what I put into practice is precisely what the Dao warns against.”

Laozi speaks frankly: “The Great Dao is naturally very level and even. What is meant by level and even is Wuwei (non-action), without deliberate activity. Yet people prefer shortcuts, busy themselves with clever insights for the moment, and turn toward deliberate action.” What is more, the court of that time flaunted cleverness and exalted political scheming, straying from the Great Dao. Fields lay uncultivated and granaries stood empty. People competed to pursue outward finery, wearing clothes patterned in blue and white; they displayed their power as though wielding sharp swords. They rejected plain, simple food and craved rich flavors; they hoarded wealth in hopes of possessing ever more. These people spoke of the Great Dao and boasted of their De (Virtue/Power), yet their actions did not accord with the Dao. To observe the customs of the time and speak these words was precisely what called for caution.

What is well established cannot be uprooted; what is well held cannot slip away. Then descendants can make offerings for generations without interruption. Cultivate the Dao in yourself, and De becomes genuine; cultivate it in the family, and De overflows; cultivate it in the community, and De endures; cultivate it in the state, and De grows abundant; cultivate it throughout the world, and De is put into practice everywhere.

Thus, one can observe oneself through oneself, one family through one family, one community through one community, one state through one state, and the world through the world. How do I know that the world is as it is? By means of this principle.

“To establish well” means to be skilled in using the Dao: what such people establish cannot be uprooted. “To hold well” means to be skilled in keeping to the Dao.

Deep and abundant De is like that of a newborn. Venomous creatures do not sting it, fierce beasts do not harm it, and birds of prey do not strike it. Its bones are weak and its sinews soft, yet its fists are tightly clenched. It knows nothing of sexual union, yet already has the power to reproduce: this shows Jing and Qi at their utmost fullness. It cries all day without making its voice hoarse: this shows harmonious Qi at its utmost abundance.

To understand how to bring things into harmony is called “constancy.” To understand constancy is called “illumination.” To pursue the prolonging of life relentlessly and force longevity is to invite calamity. To let the mind drive the vital energy is to overstrain one’s strength. When things reach their full strength and size, they move toward decline; this is called departing from the Dao. What departs from the Dao soon perishes.

“Embracing and holding” means holding fast to one’s original nature. Those whose De is deep and abundant can be compared in their conduct to infants. Infants feel no distinction between self and other, and their minds are free of cunning thoughts and schemes. With nothing in their hearts to cling to, they do not set themselves against external things. So poisonous insects do not sting them, fierce beasts do not harm them, and birds of prey do not swoop upon them.

An infant’s bones are weak and sinews soft, yet the infant can grip things firmly. The infant does not yet understand the union of male and female Yin and Yang, but the genitals become erect naturally; this is a sign that Jing and Qi are abundant. An infant may cry all day without becoming hoarse.