《中和集》Vol. 6

After the heart is empty, one’s aspirations become gentle; when aspirations are gentle, one no longer clings to distinctions and conceptual knowing. Because there is no clinging, one can forget the self—this is not exalting the names of the worthy. When body and mind are full, sinews and bones grow strong; when sinews and bones are strong, desires diminish. Because there is no greedy craving, one can forget external things—this is not prizing rare goods. These two aspects complement each other and are enough to bring the cultivation of nature and life (Xingming) to completion.

Verse

When the inner self is full, the constant truth of the Dao (the Way) always abides; when the breast is empty and still, the Dao naturally dwells within. There is no need to strive and contend—between words and laughter one can still settle the realm under heaven.

“Dao chong er yong zhi” (the Dao is empty, yet when put to use it functions)—like the great void (Tai Xu, the vast boundless emptiness) being one with the myriad things; “huo bu ying” (perhaps it never fills up)—it is never self-satisfied; “yuan hu, si wan wu zhi zong” (deep! it seems the ancestor of the myriad things)—profound and subtle, as if the root of all beings; “cuo qi rui” (blunt the sharpness); “jie qi fen” (untie the tangles); “he qi guang” (harmonize the light); “tong qi chen” (be one with the dust); “zhan xi, si ruo cun” (clear and still—seeming almost to endure)—silent and deep, yet constantly responding to things and constantly at rest. “Wu bu zhi shei zhi zi” (I do not know whose child it is); “xiang di zhi xian” (it seems to exist before the Lord on High)—one does not know whence the Dao comes; it appears to precede the Heavenly Thearch.

The first four chapters spoke of Wuwei (non-action); here it continues: the Dao is empty yet functions, and never becomes full. Those who are modest and not self-satisfied will surely gain. “Cuo rui jie fen” (blunting sharpness, resolving disorder) speaks of inner emptiness and stillness and forgetting the self. “Wu bu zhi shei zhi zi, xiang di zhi xian” speaks of the Dao transcending the realm of emptiness.

Verse

If you do not know whence the Dao comes, how can you understand that it precedes the Heavenly Thearch? I will make it clear for you: the Dao exists before Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) has yet divided.

Heaven and earth show no partiality: they follow the natural course and let the ten thousand things grow each in its own way, like treating all beings as straw dogs used in sacrifice. The “straw dog” is a bundle of grass shaped like a dog for ritual: before the ceremony it is treated with respect; once the rite is over it is discarded. The image shows that heaven and earth do not favor or dominate the ten thousand things out of private intent.

The sage follows heaven and earth and does not treat the people with partiality. When the people gather under the sage’s governance, the sage does not treat them as private property or as tools.

Between heaven and earth there is emptiness at the center—does it not resemble a bellows? Inside the bellows seems empty, yet it can function; empty yet never exhausted, once set in motion the flow of air keeps pouring out, able to meet change without limit. Too many words easily reach an end; better to keep to inner emptiness and stillness. “Keeping to the center” means maintaining inner emptiness and peace, not filling the mind with distracting thoughts.

The first five chapters speak of heaven and earth covering and bearing the ten thousand things, instructing the people, and nurturing life—this can be called utmost benevolence (ren). When the text says heaven and earth are “not benevolent,” it means they forget the credit for nurturing the ten thousand things and do not claim the name of benevolence. The sage who cares for the people and governs the state is the same; so too in cultivating body and life one should act likewise. This continues the idea from the previous chapter that “the Dao is empty, yet in use it is not exhausted.”

The verse says:

What has no bottom is called the “tao” (bellows); what has three holes is called the “yue” (pipe). The single opening in the middle—no one can grasp it.

If you could truly grasp it, it would play for you a tune without sound.

The “valley spirit” (gu shen) that never dies refers to clarity of empty spirit, unobscured by dimness. This is called the “mysterious female” (xuan pin)—the deep, generative root that bears the ten thousand things—and it includes the principle of yin and yang joining. When the gate of the mysterious female opens and closes, that is the root from which heaven and earth arise.

It extends without end, as if present yet hard to grasp; in use it is inexhaustible and effortless.

Chapter six speaks of the valley spirit that does not die—that is, clarity of empty spirit unobscured by dimness—continuing “keeping to the center” from the previous chapter. With clarity of empty spirit, one can transform wondrously without fixed form; yin and yang change in ways hard to measure—opening and closing, coming and going without cease, with no known end. Between stillness and movement it always accords with the constant Dao, without forced effort, yet ceaselessly giving rise to change.

Opening and closing both accord with the operation of Qian and Kun (Heaven and Earth)—this is the Mysterious Female Gate (Xuanpin Gate), the subtle portal that nurtures the ten thousand things. From here there is no notion of entering or leaving; it alone is honored throughout the three realms (the desire realm, the form realm, and the formless realm).

Heaven and earth endure forever, without cessation or interruption. They last because they practice Wuwei (non-action): they do not take themselves to be the subject that gives birth to the ten thousand things, and so they have no private ends—therefore they can endure. Heaven and earth do not shift or change; thus the sage emulates them: placing himself behind others, he yet comes to the fore; forgetting the self and not putting his own person first, he yet preserves himself. Because the sage does not act from private motives, he can in the end fulfill himself; through selflessness, he ultimately realizes the self.

The first seven chapters say that heaven does not insist on being heaven, earth does not insist on being earth, and so they can ceaselessly generate life. The sage does not insist on being sage, and therefore can align with the virtue of heaven and earth. This continues the idea from the previous chapter of “using it without strain.”

Verse:

The root of the Dao is utmost emptiness and stillness; in utmost emptiness there is no beginning. When you experience this emptiness, you merge with the Great Void (the boundless expanse).

The Taihu Lake spans thirty-six thousand qing; the moon rests in the heart of the lake—who can this scene truly be told to?

The highest good is like water: it stays low in a gentle, yielding way. Water nourishes the ten thousand things without contending; it takes square or round shape from whatever vessel holds it, and settles where people least wish to dwell. It can receive and wash away filth, and so it most nearly approaches the Dao. In dwelling, it chooses low ground; in mind, it is deep as an abyss; in dealing with others, it gives with benevolence; in speech, it is trustworthy; in governing, it is orderly; in work, it brings its strengths to bear; in movement, it follows the right moment. Because it does not contend, it is without fault. Here the text speaks of the ten thousand things and the self as one undivided whole.

The first eight chapters carry forward from the last chapter’s teaching of “putting oneself behind and letting others go first.” Here water illustrates a soft, humble character: nourishing all without striving, and thus remaining free of error.

Verse:

Without contending, the spirit is quiet; when the self is content, the breath is even. Release this one point…

The previous chapter spoke of “supreme good is like water”; this section continues by explaining that water’s value lies in being soft and humble, content to stay low. It nourishes the ten thousand things yet does not compete with them, and so incurs no fault.

The verse says: without contending, the spirit can settle; with enough, breath and qi stay even. When you release the bit of clinging in the heart, vexation is like muddy water in the Yellow River—it eventually clears.

“To hold a cup and keep filling it is not as good as stopping in time.” Here yi is read as yi (third tone), meaning to stop. The Way of Heaven reduces what is full and benefits what is humble. “To grind something sharp and keen cannot long be kept.” Here chuai is read chuai (Chu wei qie); the Way of Earth shifts what is full so that excess flows toward the humble.

“Gold and jade fill the house, yet no one can keep them long.” Ghosts and spirits harm the full and bless the humble. “Wealth and rank with pride only draw misfortune on oneself.” Here yi is read in the departing tone and jiu in the rising tone. People too dislike excess and love humility. “After merit is complete and name is established, withdraw”—that is to gather body and mind and retire. In this way one aligns with the virtue of Heaven.

The nine sections above continue the theme of “supreme good is like water,” using “to hold and fill—better to stop” to show that when achievement and fame are complete one should step back, warning people to guard against complacency and keep humility.

The verse says: run as you will, you cannot outrun your own shadow; turn and run back, and you may fall into a pit. Stop where you are now; otherwise, even on dry land you may sink into ruin.

If you can turn even slightly, whether to hide or to leap is yours to choose.

Settle body and mind properly (“ying and po” refer to one’s spirit and physical form), and do not let them wander and fall into disorder on their own; guard primordial qi (yuanqi) and spirit (shen) so they do not part. Let the two become one, as when a mother holds an infant. Concentrate essence (jing) and qi until body and mind are soft and pliant, able to stay as pure and unmixed as an infant; return to simplicity and recover an original, honest nature. Wash distracting thoughts from the heart until the inner mind is clear as a mirror, with no stain to obscure it; do not cling to what is seen or heard. In caring for the country and governing the people, follow nature and refrain from forced action (wuwei). When heart-mind is unmoved, the times are secure and bright.

As the Heavenly Gate (tianmen) opens and closes, hold to softness and stillness, staying low and yielding like the feminine; pass between form and formlessness without boasting or self-conceit. Be clear and penetrating in all matters, yet do not show craftiness or bookish knowledge; set aside cleverness and artifice, restrain intellectual display, and make yourself gentle and retiring, in harmony with the world.

Raise and nurture the myriad things—“xu” here means to rear and nourish. Turn the natural rhythms of birth, growth, gathering, and storage, and nourish all living beings. Produce and nurture without claiming ownership; when the work is done and cultivation complete, hide your tracks and leave no outward trace. Act, yet do not lean on your merit; forget what you have done and remain quiet and detached. Let the myriad things grow without lording over them; when success is achieved, step back and leave room, and let change run its course. This is called Xuan De (profound, hidden virtue): when the Dao (the Way) has flourished to its height and virtue is whole, one sheds the bondage of the body and keeps the true nature intact.

“Yingpo” (camp-soul) refers to the human body and the hun-soul and po-soul. The passage above uses a cart carrying goods as a metaphor: the po-soul loves movement and pursuit; its nature is firm and sharp, hence the name “yingpo.” The po belongs to yin; when yin qi is excessive it harms yang qi, and when desire runs wild it also constrains one’s true nature.

One who can subdue yingpo can “embrace the One without parting”—hold to singleness and not scatter; soften body and mind and give rise to no deviation. “Wuwei” here does not mean knowing nothing at all, but not acting rashly on one’s own. Then the yin po will not indulge desire; when the po is settled and yin qi fades, spirit becomes clear and bright and temperament returns to stillness.

“Give them life and nurture them” means letting the myriad things grow and raising them, yet not claiming them as one’s own; forgetting whence they came and not deliberately restraining them, so that they settle naturally. This is like returning home in peace with a cart full of treasure—hence “carrying yingpo.” From “embrace the One” onward, all of this explains “carrying yingpo,” following the previous chapter’s “when the work is done, withdraw the body” and leading into the next chapter, “Thirty spokes share one hub.”

In verse:

To act until there is no mind—no mind is truly hard! Once you awaken, understanding comes in an instant; once lost, it is as if a thousand mountains and ten thousand rivers stand between you.

“Thirty spokes share one hub”: the thirty spokes of a wheel gather at the hub, likening the myriad laws to the one mind. “Where there is nothing”: the hub is hollow in the middle—that is what makes the cart useful; if you only count the wheel’s parts, you miss how the “cart” works as a whole.

“Knead clay to make a vessel”: mix earth and shape it into a utensil. “Where there is nothing”: the vessel is hollow inside—that is what makes the utensil useful; clay and water formed into an object are used precisely through the empty space.

“Cut doors and windows to make a room”: open a door and pierce windows to build a dwelling. “Where there is nothing”: the room retains inner space—that is what makes dwelling possible; doors and windows open the space so the house is easy to use.

Therefore, “having something gives advantage”—visible form brings convenience; “having nothing gives function”—it is through emptiness that things serve.

In the previous eleven chapters, the hub of a wheel is used as a metaphor: when the spokes converge on the hub, the cart can function. Gathering the myriad methods back into the heart is likewise the subtle art of gathering the spirit. If the spokes do not converge on the hub, there can be no cart; if methods do not return to the heart, one cannot penetrate the mysterious. Emptiness at the center of the hub is what lets the cart turn; emptiness and stillness in the heart are what let the spirit reach transformation. Thus emptiness is precisely the work of what is solid, and what is solid manifests as the work of emptiness—emptiness and fullness interpenetrate, and coming and going meet no obstruction. This is the meaning of the earlier chapter’s “bearing and lodging the hun and po.” If one goes further until there is nothing to carry and neither hub nor spokes are clung to, then the cart itself cannot be spoken of; this is like heart and method both forgotten, the spirit returning to empty stillness. “Vessel” and “room” here mean the same thing: both are metaphors for holding things through emptiness.

The eulogy says: Even when ahead lie layers of iron walls and ten thousand silver mountains, one must turn the wheel of practice and pierce straight through. To know the road at the foot of the mountain, ask those who have traveled it before.

“Five colors make the eyes blind” means the eyes are bewildered by color; “five tones make the ears deaf” means the ears are dulled by sound; “five flavors make the mouth lose its taste” means the palate is confused by many flavors; “riding and hunting make the heart run wild” means the heart is driven by desire; “goods hard to obtain make conduct go wrong” means one is pulled by precious things and one’s actions are harmed.

Therefore the sage values the inner body and mind and does not chase outer sensory stimulation. “Act for the belly, not for the eyes” means to hold to the inner and not let the outer world disturb the heart, nor be led by external things; “leave that and take this” is to withdraw the gaze and listen inward, discard outer temptations, and guard the inner.

The previous twelve chapters follow the explanation of “empty yet usable”: when the heart is empty and still, one is not deluded by sound and color. Hence the discussion of how the five colors, five tones, five flavors, and the like affect people. Color, sound, and flavor all belong to what the senses contact in the outer world; ordinary people are often obscured by them, while those who cultivate the Way are not deceived. When seeing, hearing, speaking, and acting all accord with ritual propriety, sensory desires that once disturbed body and mind can be turned into a penetrating spiritual function; therefore one should abandon outer temptations and return to inner steadfastness.

When the eyes take in a scene, the spirit grows restless; when the ears catch a sound, inner peace is lost. Lift the veil of concealment, and originally there is nothing amiss; with empty hands, one can still open up the vast heaven and earth.

Favor and disgrace come together: being favored is often the prelude to being disgraced. Valuing rank and position is like treating great calamity as if it were one’s own body—it is the beginning of trouble.

What does it mean that “both receiving favor and receiving disgrace fill one with alarm”? Listen to the explanation below. Favor belongs to those above, disgrace to those below; “favor” also means “to receive,” so one stands in the upper place. When one gains favor, one should be as alert as if startled; when one loses favor, one should likewise be as alert as if startled. This is what is meant by “both receiving favor and receiving disgrace fill one with alarm.”

What does it mean that “to treat great calamity as seriously as one treats one’s own body”? The reason I have great calamity is that I have this body. Having a body, there are entanglements; when one no longer clings to physical form, there are no entanglements—what worry would I still have?

Therefore, one who truly takes the self seriously in governing the world understands placing oneself after the world; in that way one truly cherishes oneself. If one can entrust the world to the world with such an attitude, the world may be entrusted to that person. One who truly loves the self in governing the world understands putting oneself after the world; in that way one truly loves oneself. If one can entrust the world with such an attitude, the world may be entrusted to that person.

These thirteen chapters continue the meaning of the previous chapter’s “fill the belly, not the eyes,” speaking of forgetting the self. They then discuss favor, disgrace, high rank, and calamity, because these depend on one another and transform into each other. If one can think of calamity and guard against it in advance, one can have few worries throughout life. Extend this principle to governing the world, and the world can long remain at peace. If those in power worry about the world as they worry about their own safety, the people of the world will gladly support them and will not reject them.

The eulogy says:

When disgrace comes, one may not truly be disgraced; when one stands in glory, one may not truly be glorious. Even with forethought and no fault, it is still like walking a long road.

Better to let everything go: no gain or loss, and no alarm.

Look for it and you cannot see it—it is called “yi” (formless, colorless); listen for it and you cannot hear it—it is called “xi” (soundless, still); try to grasp it, and you cannot hold it.

One may release the whole of human life—and with that release, thoughts of gain and loss fall away, and fear no longer arises.

“Look at it and you cannot see it—this is called ‘yi’ (even, formless).” Thus the Dao presents itself as the greatest image, yet has no fixed shape. “Listen to it and you cannot hear it—this is called ‘xi’ (subtle, silent).” Thus the greatest sound the Dao makes is one you cannot hear. “Grasp it and you cannot touch it—this is called ‘wei’ (fine, hard to discern).” The Dao is hidden and does not display itself; it has no constant name. These three cannot be pursued to their end—how could one speak of them clearly? Therefore the Dao blends them into one unity, and the myriad divergent paths ultimately return to the same source.

The Dao is above, yet does not show its tracks; the Dao is below, yet is not dim or obscure. It extends without end and cannot be named. Though one may list many aspects, in the end no single name can fully call it. It returns to a state without form or trace, as if concealing itself and leaving no mark. This is called “the form of no form”: within what cannot be seen, one personally attunes to it. It is also called “the image of no substance”: there is an image, yet in direct experience it cannot be seen. This is “huanghu” (indistinct, neither fully there nor fully absent)—whole and undivided, hard to tell apart.

Face it, and you cannot see where it begins; follow it, and you cannot see where it ends. Hold fast to the Dao that has existed from antiquity, and use Wuwei (non-action) to embrace the myriad things of the present; thereby know the primordial root of all things—this is called “daoji” (the guiding thread, the norm of the Dao). From formlessness and non-action, the Dao manifests the existence of the ten thousand things.

The preceding fourteen sections treat xi, yi, and wei—the utmost depth and subtlety of the Dao. Blending the three into one is returning to the root; neither showing tracks nor falling into obscurity is harmonizing the light and sheathing the sharp edge; having no image or shape is concealing its workings without display. The final line summarizes the three preceding chapters and leads into the theme of the next.

In verse:

This principle is like the bull’s-eye of speech—hard to depict. Viewed from every direction it is round and seamless, without a single gap.

In the depth of huanghu, the Dao seems to take on an image; such subtle news—who can one speak of it with?

In antiquity, those who truly understood the Dao kept within themselves a Dao that is formless and without image. Subtle and profound, mysteriously penetrating and unobstructed, it made people clear and bright, yet was unfathomably deep; if you tried to look at it, you could not see it. Precisely because it cannot be directly discerned, people were forced to describe it by borrowed images—using what has form to apprehend what has no form.

They were cautious as if wading a river in the depth of winter, as though cold pierced to the bone; wary as if guarding against neighbors on every side, always careful in self-restraint; dignified as if ice were about to melt, with no doubt in the heart; sincere and thick as unworked wood, plain and seemingly foolish; broad in mind as a valley, empty and luminous within; dense and turbid as muddy water, mingling with the world.

Who can let turbid water slowly settle until it gradually clears? Clarity is the root of turbidity. Who can let a state of stillness endure, so that through gentle activity life slowly arises? Stillness is the opening for movement. Those who hold to the Dao do not seek fullness; emptiness is the root of fullness. Because they do not strive to be full, they can gather in sharp edges, hide their luster, and not hurry to display new achievements.

The fifteen chapters above continue the previous chapter’s theme of the “daoji” (outline and law of the Dao), showing how later students should keep the mind sincere and reverent, often cautiously guarding solitude, not clinging to outer appearances; daily they embrace unity and modest restraint, until climbing thoughts cease and every illusion melts away. Even when disturbed, they do not become turbid; even when clarified, they do not cling to purity. This is what is meant by subtle, mysterious penetration—deeply hidden and not exposed.

In praise it is said:

Subtle and mysteriously penetrating—it turns with a person’s steps; if you only stare at it, it is as if your eyes were closed and you see nothing.

Better to return to what is originally true and recognize the true face of Xu Huang (the august void, an honorific for the Dao).

Reaching the utmost of emptiness (xu) and steadfastly holding to purity and stillness, one can remain utterly still and unmoved. “When the ten thousand things arise together, I thereby observe their return”—from that return one discerns the pattern of change. The ten thousand things flourish and grow, yet in the end each returns to its root. When movement reaches its limit, it turns to stillness; returning to the root is called stillness; stillness at its depth is returning to one’s nature and regaining life. Returning to one’s nature is called “constancy” (chang); through long ages one still comes back to silence. To know chang is to be clear; the principles of past and present can all be seen. Not to know chang is to be muddled; to act rashly brings danger.

Knowing chang, the heart can embrace all things; being able to embrace, one can be fair and selfless; fair and selfless, one can govern and transform the ten thousand things; when governance is right, one accords with Heaven’s principle; accord with Heaven’s principle, and one penetrates the Dao (the Way). The Dao has no end—it endures without ceasing; even when the body dies, one does not meet peril. Though Heaven and Earth change, this principle does not alter.

The sixteen chapters above follow the previous chapter’s theme of “those who are good at cultivating the Dao,” and treat reaching emptiness and stillness, returning to nature, and turning back to the root—pure and subtle in content. If one grasps this thoroughly here, inquiry and practice are already complete; if not yet grasped, continue with inquiry in the final chapter.

The verse says:

Penetrate emptiness (xu), and you know the subtle root; stillness at the extreme, and you see the heart of Heaven. Grasp the meaning within, and the ten thousand things like the sands of the Ganges are all as precious as gold.

“Supreme Sovereign” (Taishang) is the most exalted presence—nothing stands above it. “Those below know that such a one exists” means that under the finest ruler, the people only know that there is such a ruler. Next, the people draw near and praise him; next, they fear him; lower still, they despise him.

“When trust is insufficient,” people find what is said hard to believe; doubt in people’s hearts comes from insufficient trust. “As if he still valued words” means the ruler treasures his speech and does not lightly promise. When affairs succeed and achievements are complete, he does not boast of merit; the people all say, “We did this naturally.” They do not know how the work was accomplished.

The Supreme (Tai Shang) says: “Nothing stands above the Dao.” Even the dullest person can grasp this and then draw near to the Dao. If one deliberately chases a fine reputation, one loses natural authenticity; being feared is already a step down, and if one is scorned and insulted, one is farther still from the Dao. Once innate simplicity is lost, there is no return to the root; instruction then does little good. The more one talks, the less people believe. It is better to stay silent, wait for things to unfold, and influence through wuwei (non-action), so that people see for themselves and naturally return to plainness. Then, without many words, people will trust.

In terms of governing, below the level of the highest ruler (tai shang), the ruler finds it hard to practice wuwei, so the people feel close to the ruler and praise him—this is teaching with speech and deliberate action. When the people fear the ruler, it is because punishments and prohibitions constrain them. When they look down on the ruler, it is because he has broken faith with them. Once the ruler is untrustworthy, the people no longer believe him. What matters, then, is to issue few commands and teach without words. With wordless teaching, affairs are completed in wuwei; without relying on punishments, the people naturally submit. When the work is done and custom has returned to plain simplicity, closeness, praise, fear, and scorn all fade away. The people live in peace and forget who brought it about—hence the saying: “We call this ziran (spontaneous naturalness).”

Hymn

The highest ruler teaches without words and completes affairs through wuwei; he need not resort to punishments, and the people naturally obey. When the work is done and custom is plain again, people no longer fuss over closeness, praise, fear, or scorn. The people dwell in peace and forget who made it so—therefore it is said: “This is ziran.”

The Dao of the highest ruler cannot be surpassed, yet it always remains in everyday life. Alas, those who cannot see the Great Dao insist that it has already left the Hangu Pass.

“When the Great Dao is abandoned, ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness) arise.” When plain native simplicity disperses, the names of ren and yi appear. “When cleverness and wisdom emerge, great falsity appears.” Here “wisdom” means crafty cleverness, including ye shi—karmic consciousness stirred by the senses and the dusty world. “When kin are not harmonious, the name of the filial son arises.” Better that kin always remain harmonious. “When the state is in turmoil, the loyal minister stands out.” Better that the state always stay clear and stable.

Chapter 18 continues the theme of closeness, praise, fear, and scorn from the previous chapter: rather than waiting until the state is chaotic before a loyal minister appears, it is better to follow wuwei and let the people be transformed of themselves.

Hymn

Cleverness and artifice make people lose the root of the Dao; discriminating, calculating wisdom injures innate simplicity. On ordinary days, with nothing to do, constantly keeping to quiet clarity—that is the person who is truly free and at ease.

“Discard sageliness and wisdom,” meaning do not interfere with crafty schemes and stratagems; “and the people will benefit a hundredfold,” meaning let the people settle in quiet clarity.

Cleverness can actually make people lose their root, and cunning can make them lose their natural simplicity. When nothing miscellaneous disturbs you and you constantly preserve clarity and stillness, you are someone who moves freely and at ease.

“Abandon sainthood and discard wisdom” means not deliberately exalting sagely wisdom so that the people’s lives become more genuinely beneficial. “Abandon benevolence and discard righteousness” means not clinging to the labels of benevolence and righteousness so that people recover natural filial piety, kindness, and harmony. “Abandon craftiness and discard profit” means not chasing clever devices and gain so that people have fewer greedy desires; thieves then have no foothold, and people can often be content. These three lines use wording only to illustrate the principle—they may not yet be enough to convince people—so the text goes further and points to simple, practicable methods. In the commentary tradition, certain characters are read with specific tones or alternate readings (for example, “ling” in the departing tone, and “shu” read as in “zhu,” candle). “The old woman’s urgent heart” (laopo xinqie) describes the sage’s earnest care: like an elder who repeats sincere admonitions—preserve the plain, uncarrupted original nature and do not be obscured by outer things; reduce selfishness and desire, forget attachment to external objects, and do not cling to a fixed sense of self either.

The passage above develops the previous chapter’s meaning: notions such as sagely wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and craft and profit should all be released and no longer pursued on purpose. When the sage carries out teaching, people accordingly return to simplicity. Yet the sage worried that later generations of those learning the Way might find such demands too heavy, and therefore reduced it to methods easy to practice: stay plain and reduce private desires.

Do not let the “three minds” disturb the spirit, and do not let a single thought run out of control. The “three minds” are scattered, unsettled thoughts; whatever notions and distinctions arise from seeing, hearing, knowing, and perceiving should no longer be turned over and over in rumination.

“Abandon learning and there is no worry” means that when you set down the heart that deliberately seeks learning and chases knowledge, the mind is free of turmoil. “Wei” and “a” are words of assent in speech—how far apart are they, really? The line warns you not to let fine distinctions tug at the mind and stir up frenzy; toward the various understandings formed through seeing, hearing, knowing, and perceiving, do not hold on with obsessive thinking.

To “cut off worldly learning” is to be free of worry. How great is the difference between answering with “yes” (wei) and with “yes, indeed” (a)? How far apart are beauty and ugliness? What ordinary people fear, one cannot entirely fail to fear. Worldly anxieties are endless: common people worry that their studies have not yet reached their goal; the sage worries that selfish desire and artificial contrivance have not yet been fully cleared away.

The crowd is exuberant, as if at a grand sacrificial feast or as if climbing a high terrace in spring to enjoy the view—yet desire is never satisfied. I alone am calm and without craving, like an infant who has not yet shown signs of joy or anger; easy and at ease, as if I had nowhere to which I must return, following what is natural. Everyone else feels they have more than enough; I alone seem to be lacking. Those who cling to outer things are often anxious; those who forget crafty scheming are often at peace.

My heart is truly like that of a simpleton in its muddled stillness. The world is bright and clear; I alone seem dim. The world is sharp and discerning; I alone am dull and undifferentiated. The world holds fast to “this and that”; the sage does not hold fast to mutual opposition. Vague and indistinct, as if in shadow; drifting and unattached, as if with no place to rest. Everyone has something to lean on; I alone am crude and plain, like a rustic. I alone differ from the multitude—I do not make myself the companion of the ten thousand things—and I cherish only “nourishment from the mother”: taking the Dao as root and drawing sustenance from the Way.

“Cutting off learning” means severing all attachment and possessiveness, which is why it comes after “abandon sageliness and discard wisdom.” Ordinary people busy themselves learning all sorts of things, constantly adding to what they hear and fearing they have not gone deep enough, so they are always anxious. The sage relinquishes clinging to all knowledge, attends only to embodying the Dao, like seeking nourishment from one’s mother; holding to softness and stillness, embracing simplicity and oneness—that is all—so there is no worry. This is called “when learning is cut off, there is no worry.”

The verse says:

The moment you say you will cut off learning, you have already misspoken;

Those who are widely learned and quick to remember turn and sink in it without knowing.

Even if you forget everything in the human world,

You still fall into someone else’s second layer of craft.

“Kong De zhi rong” (the countenance of great De) means that great virtue is vast and boundless—nothing lies outside it; “wei Dao shi cong” (only the Dao is followed) means that when one follows the Dao in everything, one is naturally at ease and fitting.

What is the Dao? It is dim and indistinct, hard to put into words, yet it is the Dao of Heaven as it is. “Hu xi huang, qi zhong you xiang”—this heavenly Dao is one undivided whole; “huang xi hu, qi zhong you wu”—it is deep and full; “yao xi ming, qi zhong you jing”—it abides without ceasing. This essence is pure and real, without falsity; within it is trustworthy vitality, lively and unblocked. From antiquity to the present, the Dao’s name has never vanished, because the ten thousand things all begin from it. How do I know that the ten thousand things are born from it? By this very principle.

Chapter twenty-one follows the previous chapter’s “I alone am different from others” and explains that the sage’s De is vast, hence “Kong De zhi rong”—great De can embrace widely. As for “Dao zhi wei wu”—what is it really? The text says it has image, has thing, has essence—are these truly existent? If you say they truly exist, you have not yet gained the eye of one who enters the study; if you say they are utterly empty, you likewise lack that eye. How then should one understand? Ho!

The verse says:

From ancient times there has been such a thing, yet no one truly knows it;

Raise the eyebrows, and empty space shows its original face.

If you still plan to guess and hesitate,

Beware thunder cracking in a clear sky.

“Qu ze quan”—how should one understand it? Ho!

Since ancient times there has been a fundamental reality, yet no one has truly known it. Lift an eyebrow, and the void seems to show its true face. If you still rely on guesswork and hesitation, beware: it is like thunder suddenly crashing overhead.

“Bending preserves; not standing out endures. Yielding extends; the low is filled. What is worn is renewed; having little, one gains; contentment brings lasting sufficiency; greed for more leads to confusion.” Thus the sage holds to the Dao as the root—the standard for the world. Holding to the One, one can govern the many. Not displaying oneself, one is clear. Not insisting one is right, one shines. Not boasting of achievement, one completes the work. Not elevating oneself, one endures. Because one does not contend and keeps to softness, nothing under heaven can prevail over one; the ten thousand things blend and return to oneness. When the ancients said “bending preserves,” was that empty talk? It is real: fully preserving one’s nature, one returns to what is originally so.

What is quoted above is the sense of Chapter 22 of the Daodejing. “Bending to preserve, yielding to extend, the low filled, the worn renewed” continues the teaching of the previous chapter on Kong De (profound virtue). Everything from “not displaying oneself” onward urges people to guard against complacency and stay humble. Humility avoids strife; without strife, one can preserve original nature. Guarding primordial Qi and the root of the Dao, one returns to Wuji (limitless—formless, undifferentiated source before the ten thousand things). Hence it is said: truly and fully preserving oneself, one returns to the natural state.

Do not always fix on others’ faults, and do not parade your own strengths. If shortcoming and strength are not split into opposing poles, nowhere between heaven and earth is this principle not manifest.

“Few words accord with nature.” That is how things originally are.

Those who cultivate the Dao speak little; what they say accords with naturalness (ziran). A violent wind does not blow all morning, nor does a downpour last all day; rash, impulsive action likewise cannot endure. Who governs these changes? The workings of heaven and earth are plain for all to see. If even the fury of heaven and earth cannot last, how much less can people? Therefore one should act in accord with the Way and not rush or force progress.

Practitioners align with the Dao and with De (Virtue/Power) and do not fixate on loss or gain. Those who align with the Dao find the Dao responding to them; those who align with De find De responding to them; those who cling to loss find loss responding to them. When one lacks sincerity and trustworthiness, others withhold trust; when one doubts the outer world, the outer world seems to stand apart.

The above is Chapter Twenty-three, where “few words, naturalness” (xiyan ziran) carries forward the previous chapter’s theme of non-contention (buzheng). “Not making oneself visible” (buzi jian) means not parading oneself; speaking little yet responding aptly. Violent wind and downpour stand for empty talk and rash action—they cannot last. Those who cultivate in harmony with the Dao and De merge with the ten thousand things and naturally resonate with them; things in turn respond naturally. When speech does not accord with the Dao and one acts recklessly, it is hard to win others’ trust and one is instead looked down upon. The Yijing, “Appended Remarks,” says that words and conduct are the hinge of the noble person and where honor and disgrace attach—hence one must be careful.

Verse

The Dao does not differ from people; it is only that people imagine they differ from the Dao. Buddha and all buddhas interpenetrate; the mind is the realm of the Tathāgata (awakened one).

Standing on tiptoes to keep upright only makes one unstable; hurrying forward with long strides does not get one far. Those who always want to show off cannot truly become clear and enlightened; those who insist they alone are right cannot truly gain recognition; those who boast have no real merit; those who are arrogant and self-important cannot last. The scripture repeats these lines to drive home one and the same point.

Measured against the Dao, such conduct is as redundant as leftover food or an ugly growth on the body—things no one welcomes. Therefore the person of the Dao does not act this way. “Having the Dao” means understanding and following the Way; “does not abide in” (bu chu) means not placing oneself in or practicing such behavior.

The material of the preceding twenty-four chapters is summed up here. Standing on tiptoes or striding hurriedly is like a violent storm—fierce and sudden, yet hard to sustain. Self-display, self-righteousness, self-praise, and arrogance all spring from selfishness; when selfishness runs deep, it harms fairness—how could anything last? That is why those who have the Dao do not do these things. Leftovers and excrescences are disliked by everyone; they likewise stand for these superfluous ways of acting.

The eulogy says: Trying to stand firm on tiptoes is delusion from the start; rushing ahead with big steps is arrogance from the start. Even if one succeeds by luck, in the end it is not as good as calmly holding to the middle path.

There is a unified whole that came into being before heaven and earth were formed—empty, silent, deep, and eternally still. It stands alone without depending on anything else, never changes, circulates everywhere without cease, and can give birth to the myriad things and nourish all under heaven.

I do not know what it was originally called, so I provisionally name it the Dao. Because the myriad things each have their names, I am forced to call it “great” as well. “Great” means without limit; when greatness has no boundary, it is called passing away; when passing reaches everywhere, it is called far; when far reaches its utmost, it returns to the origin.

Thus the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the king is great. Within heaven and earth there are four greatnesses, and the king occupies one of them. Humanity takes heaven and earth as its model, bearing the myriad things; earth takes heaven as its model, embracing the myriad things; heaven takes the Dao as its model, leaving nothing out; the Dao takes ziran (naturalness/spontaneity) as its model.

The above is Chapter 25 of the Daodejing. Continuing the idea from the previous chapter that “one who has the Dao does not dwell on merit,” this chapter clarifies the method of cultivating alignment with the Dao. From “There is a thing, confusedly formed” through the following passage is the key to grasping the chapter’s essential meaning concerning the great Dao. From “the four greatnesses” onward, the text speaks of subtle doctrine. People only know that among heaven and earth there are four greatnesses, yet they do not know that the presence they themselves embody is even vaster.

Though heaven and earth are vast, they too will eventually decay; only this presence endures through the kalpas. The sage’s unfathomable attainment lies entirely in remaining unmoved in such stillness.

Light and heavy are paired opposites; what is light and frivolous arises from what is steady and weighty. Stillness and restlessness are paired opposites; stillness can govern and hold in check action. Therefore the noble person, though walking all day, does not leave the cart that bears the heavy baggage, and in doing things does not dare to act lightly. Even when dwelling in splendid surroundings, they can dwell at ease, remain transcendent and unmoved by external things, and meet affairs as they arise while the inner heart stays constantly still.

Why would one who is lord of a great state treat himself lightly and treat the affairs of the world lightly? In that way one cannot bear the heavy charge. Conduct that is light loses the support of subjects; conduct that is hasty damages the dignity proper to a ruler.

The preceding chapter twenty-six teaches that steadiness and weight must not be treated lightly. Lightness loses the support of subjects; haste harms the ruler’s authority—like standing on tiptoe and not holding steady, or taking huge strides and not getting far. The scripture also compares this to violent wind and sudden rain, showing that action should not abandon steadiness; the noble person should be able to bear responsibility. “Not leaving the baggage cart” means acting with something to rely on and being able to carry weight; “dwelling at ease in transcendent calm” means dwelling peacefully without being pulled about by external things. Here, following the previous chapter’s teaching of modeling oneself on the Dao (the Way), it sums up the essentials of embodying the Way and leads into the next chapter on skill in action.

The eulogy says: Hasty and impulsive advance—how can it last long? Acting lightly—how can it succeed in the end? The heel is not yet planted firm, yet one hurries on the road—how can one go far?

Those who truly know how to walk leave neither wheel tracks nor footprints; what matters in taking a step is not the heel alone. Those who truly know how to speak utter no flaw or fault in their words; what matters in speaking is not the tongue alone. Those skilled in planning do not depend on counters and tally rods; because when one thing is understood, all things connect, and the mind holds a complete grasp on its own. Those skilled at shutting do not use bolts or bars, yet the door cannot be opened, because there is no gap to exploit. Those skilled at binding do not use rope, yet what is bound cannot be untied, because there is nothing to catch or constrain.

Therefore the sage always knows how to guide people and does not abandon anyone; he cultivates himself and also settles the people. The sage also always knows how to make use of things so that nothing is wasted. This is called “inheriting and carrying forward the bright clarity”—so that enlightened principle can be passed on without break. The good person can be the teacher of one who is not good, leading them toward goodness; the person who is not good can serve as a warning to the good, stirring vigilance and reform. If one does not honor the teacher, there is no model of good conduct to follow; if one does not cherish that warning, there is no fault from which to turn back. Even when one is intelligent, one should fold away clever contrivance and appear as plain and simple as an uncarved block—this is the essential, subtle truth.

The above is the twenty-seventh chapter, which develops the meaning of the previous chapter: when speech is careful and conduct fitting, one leaves no trace of error. Must planning in the heart rely on reckoning with counters? Must shutting in the heart rely on bolts? Must binding in the heart rely on rope? When the heart of the Dao is firm, one need not cling to the distinction between good and not good. Forget the split between teacher and warning, put aside cleverness and artifice, and keep to plain unknowing all day long.

The verse says:

The step is not in the foot; skillful binding does not depend on the hands. When you touch the tip of your nose, you discover the whole body is one mouth.

If you can carefully penetrate this meaning, seven times seven is forty-nine—it has always been just so.

To understand yang rigidity yet hold to soft stillness, and not deem oneself strong; to willingly be the stream of the world, so that myriad tributaries all return to the source—like a stream that receives all flows, constant De (Virtue/Power) will not slip away, body and mind can merge as one; and by returning to an infant-like state, one can fill the original Qi (the primordial vital energy inherent in life).

To understand what is bright yet hold to obscurity, and not show oneself off; to willingly be the world’s standard, so that myriad methods converge on one principle—like a standard that stays unchanged, De will not go astray and the norm will not miss its mark; by returning to Wuji (the boundless, undifferentiated origin), one can fill the primordial spirit (the spirit of one’s true nature).

To understand honor yet gladly keep lowliness and shame, and not regard oneself as noble; to willingly be the valley of the world, so that the ten thousand things return to emptiness and stillness—like a valley, empty and receptive, constant De is full and the inner mind is clear and complete; by returning to the uncarved block (Pu, the undivided natural state), one’s nature is preserved whole. When the block is split apart it becomes concrete things; the sage uses these concrete things to teach and govern the people, so the finest governance need not rely on forced splitting and trimming.

What Chapter Twenty-Eight calls holding to darkness, holding to the feminine, and holding to disgrace is not flaunting one’s cleverness—it echoes the previous chapter’s “though you have wisdom, you seem dull.” The infant, Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), and the great uncarved block are all emblems of the root of the world. Only by keeping to softness and holding to unity can one return to the root. If governing a country follows this Way, there is no need to rely on forced carving and cutting; the people stay naturally plain, and the ten thousand things naturally keep their true character.

The hymn says: In brightness, preserve obscurity; in hardness, embrace softness. Cultivate without ceasing—even a man can nourish an infant-like state within.

Those who seek to control the world through force often fail; I see that things frequently turn out this way. Striving for victory through profit and loss can resist powerful foes, yet it is not fitting for one to act as a bandit oneself. The world is a sacred vessel; it must not be handled arbitrarily. Once one acts rashly, disaster follows. Those who force their way fail; what they grasp for ends up binding them; those who insist on holding on ultimately lose what they hold.

All things have form and change: some go ahead, some follow; some breathe softly, some blow hard; some are strong, some weak; some bear up, some topple. These states depend on one another—do not simply be carried along by external things. Therefore the sage removes excess in conduct and keeps to wuwei (non-action); removes extravagance and reduces desire; removes arrogance and does not cling to possession.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Nine: wuwei brings less turmoil; reckless action invites trouble. Insisting on holding leads to loss; forcing one’s way leads to failure—this is a warning against purposeful, rash action. Strength and weakness, bearing and toppling depend on each other, like a shadow following a body; when something has just succeeded, the possibility of failure is already there. Therefore the sage removes excessive craving, luxury, and pride, thus admonishing those who come after.

Verse:

Who governs the changes among going ahead and following, soft breath and hard blowing, strength and weakness, bearing and toppling—people do not know.

Dressing and eating are ordinary daily use—why deliberately breed doubt?

To assist a ruler with the Dao, one should practice wuwei, not flaunt military might across the world, but guard the world with compassion. Affairs often turn full circle: good and evil each receive their due retribution. Where armies have camped, thorns and brambles grow; where the heart raises the sword of war, the sacred ground of spirit is laid waste.

When assisting a ruler in governing the world, one should follow the way of wuwei (non-action); do not rely on military force to dominate the world, but rather nourish and protect the people with compassion. Events tend to turn back upon themselves, and good and evil each receive their fitting retribution.

Where armies have encamped, thorns and brambles spring up. When thoughts of war and slaughter rise in a cultivator’s mind, the inner ground of clarity and stillness is also laid waste. After great armies have fought, famine and years of ill fortune often follow; when demon-armies rampage within the heart, a person’s vital essence (jing) is drained away in turn.

Therefore, one who is skilled at walking the Dao seeks only to bring matters to a fitting outcome and then stops—“stop” here means to halt. With decisive judgment one can achieve success; yet one does not seize victory through reckless boldness and force, but meets things with a soft and yielding response. When the task is done, one does not boast, show off, or grow arrogant: put aside excess, put aside extravagance, put aside pride. Even when action is unavoidable, one must not press one’s strength; it is like lowering a pole that has already been raised, ceasing to contend for victory. When things reach their peak of strength they begin to decline; relying on military might cannot secure lasting triumph. This is called being out of step with the Dao; out of step with the Dao, one soon loses the way of enduring presence.

These thirty chapters continue the previous chapter’s theme of putting aside extravagance and arrogance. To assist a ruler is to govern by the Dao and not to exalt military force; good and evil each bring their retribution. This admonishes those who govern later ages to hold to softness, maintain single-minded steadiness, and have the courage not to force matters; even when there is no choice but to act, not to win by sheer strength. Hence it is said: “One skilled at walking the Dao seeks only to bring matters to a fitting outcome and then stops.”

Verse

Do not indulge three kinds of wandering thoughts to disturb the spirit; keep the mind’s intent settled at all times. If you suddenly meet a clash of thoughts in battle, let one arrow settle it on “Heaven’s Mountain.”

Fine weapons are inauspicious things; after war on a great scale, famine must follow. Some things in the world loathe arms—“loathe” is read as wu, meaning to detest. Where armies stay, thorns grow thick; therefore the person of the Dao does not linger there.

Weapons are inauspicious things. After war, famine often follows. People loathe war; where armies camp, thorns and brambles tend to grow. Therefore, those who possess the Dao do not set their minds on contention.

In daily life the noble person favors the left, symbolizing softness; in warfare he favors the right, symbolizing hardness. Weapons are unlucky tools, fit only for suppressing rebellion—not something a noble person delights in using. When compelled to use arms, one should remain quiet and detached, and restrain action with a compassionate heart. Even in victory, one should not treat success as grounds for joy; to glory in victory is to crave martial merit—that is, to take pleasure in killing. Those who delight in killing invite misfortune and cannot prevail under heaven.

Auspicious occasions favor the left, symbolizing nurturing life; funerals and ominous affairs favor the right, symbolizing slaughter. The lieutenant general stands on the left, showing esteem for softness; the commanding general stands on the right, showing esteem for hardness. This shows that warfare is an inauspicious affair and should be approached as one would a funeral. When many are killed, it is an unavoidable outcome; one should weep in grief and keep compassion in the heart. Even after winning a battle, one should mourn the dead as at a funeral, as if one’s own parents had died.

Chapter 31 of the Dao De Jing says not to use force to dominate the world; hence it goes on to call weapons inauspicious. The sage thus solemnly admonishes those who would govern later ages: govern and teach through wuwei (non-action) and stillness, and state and household will naturally be at peace. Even if one has armor and troops, there will be no occasion to deploy them, and strife and calamity can long be stilled.

The eulogy says: silently abiding in a realm of quiet depth, clarifying spirit and mind, nurturing taihe (supreme harmony); holding the sanmei sword (the sword of samadhi, symbolizing settled wisdom) inverted, adapting to change and subduing the wuyin demons (the afflictions of the five aggregates that obstruct cultivation).

The constant Dao—the unchanging Way—has no fixed name; it is empty, still, non-active, and self-so. Though primordial simplicity is minute, nothing under heaven dares treat it as a subordinate. If rulers and kings can hold to “embracing the One”—keeping to the Dao’s undivided state—all things will naturally align with them.

Heaven and earth, yin and yang, harmonize because the power of De assists; sweet dew falls because heaven and earth share harmonious qi. The people need no one to command them, yet their lives settle into natural balance. Later, institutions were set up and names were given to things; once names were fixed, people knew what to love and what to loathe, and learned to stop in time. Knowing when to stop, one can master affairs; knowing contentment, one does not fall into danger. The Dao’s work in the world is to bring all things to their utmost good—like valleys and streams gladly staying low until they merge into rivers and seas.

Chapter thirty-two says that those who have the Dao do not dwell in high places; here it adds that the constant Dao is nameless and that simplicity, though small, is not to be slighted. This clarifies how those who possess the Dao stand in the world: outwardly humble and lowly, inwardly holding to purity and oneness. Then the ten thousand things transform naturally, heavenly principle harmonizes of itself, and wondrous change is inexhaustible.

In verse it is said:

Only when you grasp the nameless, simple Dao do you understand how to gather and release; then the vast boundless world can be held in the tip of a single hair.

Knowing others is cleverness; knowing yourself is clarity. Defeating others shows strength; mastering yourself is true power. Knowing contentment, you can be happy even in poverty. Steadfast effort is what counts as will. Guarding your root, you endure long; the firmer your resolve, the more solid your life’s foundation. When the body dies but the Dao does not perish, that is true longevity—within which the pure “One,” the undivided root that never scatters, ever remains.

Chapter 33 says: Knowing others and surpassing others is outward discernment; knowing oneself and overcoming oneself is inner cultivation. This follows the previous three chapters’ warnings about warfare. One who knows contentment finds joy even in poverty; one who earnestly practices will eventually see results; one who holds to the Way avoids danger; one who is inwardly clear can transcend birth and death. When the true nature does not perish after death, that is the constant presence of the True One.

The eulogy says:

They see only external things and not their own nature; they know others but not themselves. Such people, lacking cultivation, still imagine they have gained an advantage.

“Great Dao spreads everywhere” means the Dao is vast and embraces all things; “it may go left or right” means it has no boundary and is present everywhere. “The ten thousand things rely on it for life yet it does not refuse them”—the ten thousand things depend on the Dao for growth, yet the Dao does not decline; “where it passes, things are transformed”—wherever it passes, the ten thousand things change accordingly. “It accomplishes its work yet does not possess it”—the Dao completes the ten thousand things yet does not claim them as its own; what it sustains is the wondrous Dao. “It nourishes the ten thousand things yet does not act as their master”—the Dao nurtures the ten thousand things yet does not set itself up as ruler, nor clings to itself. “Always without desire” means still and unmoved, without selfish desire; “it may be named small” means one may say it is small to the utmost, like a mustard seed (mustard plant seed) containing xumi (vast empty space). “The ten thousand things return to it yet it does not act as master”—the ten thousand things turn toward the Dao, yet the Dao still does not rule them and lets them be natural; “it may be named great” means one may also say it is great to the utmost, like xumi containing a mustard seed. Therefore the sage never considers himself great, can hide himself within a mustard seed, and thereby achieves immeasurable vastness.

The passage “The superior person accords with natural spontaneity” explains again: the ten thousand things return to the Dao yet the Dao does not dominate them—it lets them follow their nature—so one may say the Dao is vast. The sage does not consider himself great, can hide within a mustard seed, and thus realizes a measureless state.

Chapter 34 says: What is meant by “Great Dao spreads everywhere” is that the Dao is boundlessly vast and at the same time subtle and fine, embracing everything. From “The ten thousand things rely on it for life yet it does not refuse them” onward, the text continues the previous chapter’s theme of “holding to the root in order to endure long.” Governing the state by the Dao keeps one from losing the root; cultivating oneself by the Dao enables one to transcend birth and death—hence it is said that the Dao is present everywhere.

The eulogy says:

The Dao is truly hard to fathom; empty space cannot measure it. Boundless and vast—where is there any boundary?

Those who grasp the "Great Image" (the overall principle of the Dao in its formlessness) find that people throughout the world turn toward them. When people turn toward them without being harmed, the myriad things can flourish smoothly, and the realm becomes settled and at peace. Music and fine flavors can make a passerby pause; yet when the Dao is spoken from the mouth, it seems flat and tasteless. It has no sound, scent, or shape—you cannot see it by looking or hear it by listening—but in use it is inexhaustible.

At the end of the previous chapter it says "therefore it can achieve greatness"; this chapter continues with "grasp the Great Image, and the world will turn toward you." This means that when the sage holds fast to the formless, imageless wholeness of the Great Dao, the people and the myriad things will give their hearts to him. Music and fine flavors, though pleasing to ear and palate, are only sensory pleasure and cannot long hold people's hearts. The Dao, when spoken of, is tasteless, imageless, soundless, and colorless—precisely because it has no fixed form, it can respond to the myriad things and never be used up.

The verse says:

A mud ox seems to breathe toward the moon; a wooden horse seems to neigh into the wind—what appears to exist vanishes utterly when you seek it.

Qing'an's staff—one stroke cuts through the wondrous peak.

What you would shrink, you must first allow to expand; what you would weaken, you must first allow to grow strong; what you would discard, you must first allow to rise; what you would take, you must first give. This is called "subtle illumination"—seeing from subtle changes how things will turn later. The soft and yielding often overcome the hard and strong; fish cannot leave the deep abyss—how can people leave the Dao? The state's sharp tools (weighty authority or decisive means) must not be displayed lightly to others, for what is advantageous on one side may also bring harm.

By grasping the “great Image” (the overall pattern of the Dao), one can perceive the subtlest shifts in things: as soon as one sees something firm and expanding, one knows it will soon contract; before any sign appears, one can already sense it; before anything has happened, one can foresee it. Unless one is among the most perceptive and clear-sighted people in the world, who could do this?

Those who study the Dao should keep the mind empty and formless, hold to softness, and not contend with outer things—then they can naturally discern the first stirrings of how things develop. If one relies on force, schemes, and cleverness, trying to overpower the external world, one turns away from the Dao. It is like a fish that naturally lives in water yet tries to leave the shoal and abandon the deep pool—how could that succeed? People likewise should not single-mindedly exalt stratagem and power. Exalting such means goes against the constant Dao; it is like a fish leaving the deep pool—it is bound to perish.

“The sharp instruments of the state must not be shown to others” means the same as what Confucius said: one may establish the Way together with someone, but one cannot share with them the use of expedient manipulation. When the sage employs expedients, though they may seem to overturn the ordinary yet accord with the Dao, they still must not act lightly—how much more so for ordinary people? Is this not something that calls for vigilance?

The encomium says:

The gaze swift as a shooting star, the mind keen as lightning; it seems right before the eyes, yet in an instant it is gone.

Whether the ten directions are open or blocked, its light shines everywhere without omission.

The Dao always follows what is natural and forces nothing, yet there is nothing it cannot accomplish. It rests in stillness without stirring, yet it responds to and penetrates all the changes of affairs under heaven.

If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things will transform and mature of themselves. This means that those above teach those below through their own bearing and example.

When the myriad things are changing, if someone tries to force artificial action upon them, I settle them with the “nameless uncarved simplicity”—the natural state without human carving or ornament. If I have no desires, the people will naturally be plain; the “nameless uncarved simplicity” will also keep people from reckless wanting. If I delight in stillness, the people will naturally be upright; governing through desirelessness and quiet will make even those who think themselves clever dare not act rashly, and the realm will naturally be at peace. Act through Wuwei (non-action), and there is nothing that cannot be well governed.

The teaching in Chapter 37 is that the constant Dao is originally without deliberate action; once one forces action, it is no longer the constant Dao. This continues the idea of “subtle illumination” from the previous chapter.

Heaven and earth do not act with contrivance, yet the ten thousand things grow on their own; the sage does not act rashly, and the people are secure and at peace. From the perspective of cultivation, one should likewise not deliberately do anything: in stillness, hold to a state without form or image; even when a stirring thought first arises in the notice it at once. Once noticed, use wuming pu (nameless simplicity) to settle it. Pu originally has no fixed shape, hence it is also called “nameless”; the “emptiness” spoken of here means exactly this.

The Dao is wuwei (non-action); pu is nameless; when the heart has no craving, stillness naturally returns. Stillness upon stillness, and all under heaven will of itself return to the right Way.

The verse says: Whatever is done with contrivance is ultimately illusory; if one clings to wuwei, one also falls into empty stillness. Do not enter either of these extremes; right here and now clarify the teaching of the lineage.