《云山集》Vol. 3

A listless mind lets the years slip away in vain. There is no need to struggle against or cling to the countless entanglements and disturbances of worldly life. The mountain mists and open-country vistas, the bright moon by the stream and the clear breeze among the pines—all offer inexhaustible beauty. Let body and mind rest at ease, and become a person bound by nothing.

Part Twelve

Once you step into the turmoil of the mortal world, your heart fills with unease. How much time could possibly be left? Thoughts of poverty and success, gain and loss, life and death, tangle without end. How long can scheming and clever contrivances keep this going? Better to come and go among the mountain crags, enjoying quiet and leisure. How many can reach Yingzhou, the legendary immortal isle in the sea, with a simple walk? The breeze in the woods, the moonlit view, and the hazy clouds beyond the window—everywhere is a realm of freedom. Wherever you may be, the road you travel leads to Chang’an, here a symbol of the ideal realm.

“Praising Chrysanthemums” from Qingyao’er

In spring and summer, flowers vie with one another to bloom. Heaven takes pity on the chrysanthemum and lets it keep its brilliance hidden. Only after the profusion of blossoms has withered does it bloom. Its flowers are sparse and its colors subdued; it stands alone and proud, facing the autumn frost. Growing among mountains, waters, and clouds, it is perfectly at ease. What does it matter if no one admires it? It only hopes to meet someone who appreciates it, like Tao Yuanliang (Tao Yuanming, famed for his love of chrysanthemums). Alongside the young pines, the golden chrysanthemums remain as they always were, while the clear breeze carries their heavenly fragrance.

Part Two

Autumn colors turn the whole forest red. The frost wind passes, and all things seem to fall into stillness. Prosperity and decline change in the blink of an eye, as easily as turning over a hand. See through the splendor of the world, and the roots of doubt will naturally be severed; then you can leap free of the world’s prison.

Part Two

Autumn colors turn the whole forest red. The frost wind passes, and all things seem to fall into stillness. Prosperity and decline change in the blink of an eye, as easily as turning over a hand. See through the splendor of the world, and the roots of doubt will naturally be severed; then you can leap free of the world’s prison. Wherever you may be, you can remain composed and at ease, your body light as though endowed with every kind of supernatural power. If people ask, tell them that even Heaven holds no burdens. Ride the wind and mount the Qi, soaring freely wherever you please, north or south, east or west.

Part Three

People in the world are truly foolish, imprisoning themselves in illusion. When will their attachment to wives and children ever end? They are like birds roosting on the same branch: at dawn they scatter, flying away in different directions, east and west. A person is no more than a walking corpse, unable to see the mechanism by which this world, like a puppet, is made to dance. Only when you suddenly awaken do your eyes truly open. Cut through the ropes of delusion, leap free of the prison that binds you, and you will be liberated.

Part Four

The beach is warm, and I draw close to the light-footed gulls. Whatever others choose to call me, I simply ride a horse, call an ox, and go along with the ways of the world. Those timbers are huge and clumsy, seemingly useless. At night I cradle a parrot and ride in a carriage still as a corpse, like an empty boat drifting over rivers and seas. My heart is moved by nothing and seeks nothing. Seeing where things come from, I am like plants and trees bowing in the wind and flowing with the current. Everything in the world comes within reach of my eyes and ears: the clear breeze and bright moon, the sparse plum blossoms and slender bamboo—all are scenes of free wandering.

Fifth

A shadowy presence runs through the emptiness. All things merge as one, so how can we say the great Peng bird ranks above a tiny insect? Every form changes along with the void. Beneath the clear moon between Heaven and Earth, the sparse plum blossoms and slender bamboo, too, are at ease in free wandering.

Fifth

A shadowy presence runs through the emptiness. All things merge as one, so how can we say the great Peng bird ranks above a tiny insect? Forms in all their variety change along with the void. Heaven and Earth turn, dust motes drift, all within the whirlwind. Straw sandals on your feet, a basket and gourd in your hands are far better than feasting on delicacies, riding a sleek horse, and wearing gold-fitted bridles. Though fragrant herbs, alfalfa, and phoenixes differ in form and use, they all spring from one point within the balance of Nature’s making. Their numinous nature remains clear, and each can wander freely.

Wuling Spring

The realm shaped by Nature seems like an illusion, filled with disputes over self and other, right and wrong. The snails’ horns clash, each side straining with all its might, yet both are as if in a dream. I urge you to drink a cup of wine from beyond the world, so your cheeks may always glow. Gaze toward the blue sky through drunken, misty eyes, and there will be no need to distinguish east from west.

Second

The mountain birds call earnestly, urging people to return. There are woods and spring water there—a fine place indeed. Build two or three thatched cottages, live content with your lot, and do not run about in pursuit of money. Wind echoes through ten thousand valleys; moonlight shines clear over a thousand mountains. This little grotto-heaven holds a world of its own. Sitting or reclining on stone and beneath pines, why seek immortals elsewhere?

Third

Sandals with broken heels and fans meant for use after autumn are both out of season. The path is remote, the incense burner a bottomless pot—what lofty distinction is there still to pursue? These things belong only in a quiet place, left undisturbed; when they meet, neither need feign affection. Do not blame them for being cold as ice. It is enough to live out a quiet, settled life.

Fourth

Fortunately, I met a true immortal who came from the sea, and he was willing to leave behind elixirs for a long time. A potent alchemical recipe, kept secret since antiquity, was passed on to fellow immortals. Try storing it in a golden flask and brewing it into…

Fortunately, a true immortal came across the sea, willing to leave the elixir of long life in the human world for ages to come. This wondrous formula, hidden since antiquity, was passed on to his fellow immortals. Try storing the elixir in a golden vessel to ferment; drink a cup, and it feels as though you have been drunk for a thousand years. Even if the sea turns into mulberry fields, there is no need to look up in alarm. With clear, discerning eyes, quietly observe the transformations of the world, from clams to serpents.

Willow Tips Green

Deep in the night, when all is still and the moon shines bright, tea is brewed slowly as the fire in the stove gradually dies. The mind is quiet and cool; the strings of the ancient zither have snapped, and the embers in the ashes have grown still. The spirit is clear, and in a dream one reaches the realm of Huaxu, the legendary ideal land. Far removed from worldly dust, it is clear as ice and pure as jade. Auspicious Qi blends and spreads; clouds like crimson sunset glow drift faintly into view, revealing the palaces of the Five Luminaries, the Daoist realm of immortals.

Second

Grasp fully the Samadhi spoken of in words—the focused, settled state of mind—and you can set words aside at any moment, letting go of speech and keeping to simplicity. The principles of the ancients are secretly connected, and the intentions of the sages resonate in quiet accord: this is the realm of peace and order. Even amid the bustling streets of Chang’an, with crowds streaming in every direction, there is no need to pluck flowers or gather leaves in pursuit of outward signs. Everywhere, all things can be understood in their wholeness; in every matter, the Great Dao can be experienced. Open the mind, and let it shine through like the bright moon.

Third

The numinous nature is originally neither whole nor deficient. It existed before Heaven and Earth began, and remains unchanged through countless kalpas, vast stretches of time. Once confined by a body, it follows the turns of the world and forgets to return, worn down by the passage through birth and death. Greed for every kind of desire brings misfortune; the pursuit of wealth and the squandering of one’s strength go on without end. When right understanding dawns, one sees that there was nothing to cling to in the first place. In an instant, one is free.

Roaming at Ease

Chasing fame and profit, people compete and keep score, dividing themselves into “you” and “me.” Once you see through it, you know it is all no more than a dream. Who is high or low, strong or weak? Before King Yama, all are equally bound by his power. All things can be set down, every attachment broken. Unhindered, one is free and at ease whether standing, walking, sitting, or lying down. In the wind and moonlight, beside the water or among the mountain rocks, live as you please.

Second

Dressed in plain clothes for the open country, wearing a yellow Daoist cap and straw sandals, and carrying a flowered staff, one roams freely with the clouds and flowing waters. Singing and dancing along the way, speaking of wondrous principles and chanting in a clear voice, one gives no thought to whether the listener is a prince or a commoner. The nature of the mind is as full and clear as the bright moon; the spirit shines like a precious pearl, its light reaching throughout the world without obstruction. Free and at ease, relaxed and unburdened, one lets others busy themselves with their affairs and turmoil.

Third

Yesterday still an infant, today already grown. A hundred years of life are as brief as a flash of lightning or a spark. With sinews and bones joined together and flesh covering them, people become enamored of this body and mistake it for their true self. In striving to prevail and venting their anger, they forget their nature; in craving wealth, they bring calamity upon themselves. In the end, what can one gain from this life? Turn back and recognize the self that is true from the beginning, and the doubts in the heart can be shattered in an instant.

“Phoenix Perches in the Parasol Tree”

The force that creates and transforms all things brings people into being, yet does not reveal their original nature. In craving wealth, people bring calamity upon themselves. In the end, what can one gain from this life? Turn back and recognize the self that is true from the beginning, and the doubts in the heart can be shattered in an instant.

“Phoenix Perches in the Parasol Tree”

People do not understand the deeper purpose of creation and transformation. In a world of sensual desires, they are manipulated like puppets. The rise and fall of eras, past and present, are no more than a clamor; in a blink, the performance ends and everything loses its meaning. The eyes cannot see the truth, and understanding grows muddled and confused. People are like walking corpses, coming and going with the tides of the times. Arguments over strength and weakness, right and wrong, are ultimately empty and futile. To squander a life and die in vain is to be left with nothing.

Part Two

Time is like a white colt darting past a crack in the door, playing tricks on us. It conjures up a fleeting mortal life, and in an instant everything changes. People live in a drunken daze, unaware that all they use each day will ultimately come to nothing; yet affection and desire bind them tightly like heavy shackles. A pointed awl can pierce without being felt, while a pinprick brings pain: people are numb to matters of life and destiny, yet anxious and unsettled over trivial things outside themselves. When will they suddenly awaken, like a turning wheel, and see clearly, no longer sleeping within the dream beneath the locust tree? “The dream beneath the locust tree” alludes to the story that life is like a dream and worldly splendor is fleeting.

“A Prunus Blossom Cut”

The clouds and waters are my home. By nature, I love mountains, forests, and valleys; my aspirations rise beyond the worldly haze. A life of stillness and emptiness already surpasses the tangled splendor of the secular world. Let worldly affairs become as tangled as hemp, if they will. When a guest arrives, there is no need to insist on boiling tea for them. In our dealings with others, we can remain detached and forget one another, living simply and at ease. There is nothing at the table worth boasting about—only the practice of prolonging life and a single grain of cinnabar, a term in Daoist cultivation that symbolizes an elixir.

Part Two

The scene is lovely and auspicious, like pearl trees and jade groves. The jade dragon grows still, asleep amid silver clouds. A young immortal attendant turns the apparatus and takes out the stored jade flowers. They gleam clear and bright, pure and flawless as an ice vessel. The precious cauldron has just begun its refining, and the heat gradually grows stronger; Phoenix Tribute tea and fine Yellow Sprout tea are brewed with care. The world boasts of lamb wine served in gold-adorned cups, but who knows that such a realm belongs to immortals beyond the dust of the world?

As dusk deepens, the evening glow reddens the sky. Shut the gate against the world’s dust and bustle, and direct the mountain boy in his tasks. Brew tea with freshly drawn spring water and a blazing charcoal fire; its fragrance rises like a cloud dragon. Savoring the carefree bliss of the immortals, I feel a breeze beneath my arms and a lightness at ease. The dust and gloom accumulated over ages now melt away like snow on the mountain. The Yin demons are swept away and dare not show themselves again. Shut the gate against the world’s dust and bustle, and direct the mountain boy; brew tea with fresh spring water and a blazing fire, savor the immortals’ carefree bliss, and feel a clear breeze beneath the arms. Dust and haze melt away like snow; the Yin demons are swept away and dare not appear. Hand in hand with Yuchuanzi—the Tang poet Lu Tong, famed for his love of tea—we arrive at the Crystal Palace. Treading and singing beneath the moon, our figures grow hazy as we drift toward a solitary peak.

Fourth

The sun blazes, and heat shimmers in the air. As I sit in meditation, restless thoughts rise again and again; quiet sitting alone cannot suppress them. So I summon Xuanming, the spirit who governs winter and water, to send waves of snow from before spring and scatter winter’s bitter cold. At once, everyone in the hall feels the chill. The Northern Emperor, who rules the north and water, issues a solemn command. Zhurong, the god of fire, withdraws, and the scorching heat hides away. Divine power moves through all things, reaching into the heart. Riding this cool breeze, I return to Penglai and Yingzhou, the fabled islands of the immortals.

Fifth

Arguments over right and wrong spring readily from the tongue, turning everything upside down in a hundred absurd ways. Where do immortals and ordinary people truly belong? Nothing has a foundation; all things come and go into emptiness. That spark of clear awareness, the nature that remains lucid and undimmed, is boundless: it connects past and present and embraces all things. There is no need for Wuxian, the legendary spirit medium, to make fruitless guesses. Demons and spirits cannot peer inside, for the precious mirror—the mind, clear as a polished surface—hangs plainly before us.

Moon over the West River

Once the sheep are lost, there is no need to search again for the policy book; once the deer has vanished beneath the banana tree, there is no need to pursue the matter. Such things are all like dreams. People dwell within dreams, and dreams contain layer upon layer of dreams. Yuan, Heng, Zhen, and Li—the four virtues described in the Book of Changes—are all complete: perfect and clear, subtle and mysteriously penetrating. A single blink is enough to understand them in the heart, though words cannot express them. Once understood, their many wondrous workings appear of themselves.

Second

The boundless void is filled to its farthest reaches, containing heaven, earth, and all things; its vastness can never be exhausted. It holds the countless worlds of the great chiliocosm, not merely in the vague sense of something “above our heads.” Kuangqu, famed for his eloquence, tries to speak, then forgets what he meant to say. Jixian, the legendary master of physiognomy, too, is ashamed that his skill is of no use. Try to point out the truth that has never departed from its source, and you can startle awake the dream of the southern bird sleeping on a branch.

The innate nature—the original, pure nature of the mind—is like the sun and moon in the sky. In the sea of Original Truth, it is as though boats are sailing. The teachings should be spread far and wide so that those who have lost their way can find the path home. The lineage should continue like a flame passed on and kindling handed down. One might first taste the fine wine in the golden flask. Incense burns in the Boshan censer, its fragrance carried over from before the great cycles of time began. This wondrous realm cannot be grasped by smell alone.

Part Four

Transcend all forms, and wondrous workings can appear freely. Without a fixed body, everywhere can be “I.” True Suchness—the original reality of all things—appears throughout Heaven and Earth; even scenes from the past, dimmed like twilight, can emerge from a state of indistinctness. When the mind is at peace, the light of Heaven shines from within. When the chamber of the mind is empty and still, the True Ruler—the true nature that governs body and mind—remains there. Practitioners should work at this in their everyday dealings, steering the spirit boat steadily back to their original reality.

Part Five

The wondrous Dao is not found in outward forms such as fists and fingers, nor need one search for it at the corners of the eyes or the tips of the brows. That original point of true mind should be settled and still; even a little contrived embellishment can damage it. Do not cling only to meditation cushions and bamboo chairs, or become absorbed in scroll mounts and ivory sutra tags, the implements of worship and reading. When the mind and spirit are quiet, they can encompass everything from the vast to the minute. Wondrous workings appear everywhere and can be verified in all things.

Part Six

Whether vast or minute, flying or swimming, moving or growing, all things in the world flourish without end. Heaven and Earth rise, descend, and turn like a wheel that never stops. Tell me: what sets it in motion? The mysterious principle circulates without ceasing, yet stands apart from all things. The True Sovereign—the ruler of the Dao, or the true nature—lies hidden in subtle depths, beyond measure. A needle and a blade of grass are each wholly joined to the whole. Pluck out any one thing, and even the void seems to shine with light.

Part Seven (the preceding passage is repeated)

Vast beyond limits, it fills Heaven and Earth; deep and hidden, it seems to pass through stone and pierce metal. All forms and shapes rise and sink within it; it runs through past and present without changing. Even if you reach into the air and grasp a clod of earth, you cannot see it. Yet the lost pearl can be found by the Formless—an indistinct, invisible presence. Few understand the melody of Non-Birth, the state beyond arising and passing away. Once it is sung, people in every direction fall silent.

Part Eight

Awakened nature is complete from the beginning; the inborn true nature has always been whole. People in this fleeting life are often misled by what they see before them, mistaking the moon for a flower’s reflection in water and adding to their confusion. Where, in truth, do the Eight Consciousnesses—the eight kinds of awareness described in Buddhism—arise? And who, from the beginning, possesses the Six Sense Faculties: eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind? Only when these questions are broken through can the principle appear clearly, and the myriad things return to a single thread.

Part Nine

Do not ask about cinnabar for alchemical refining or the lead cauldron, nor dwell on outward symbols of cultivation such as intertwined dragons and tigers. The wondrous principle lies in the natural accord of body and mind, yet it is often disturbed by karmic consciousness—the awareness pulled along by habitual tendencies and karma—and left in constant turmoil. When the Six Desires and Seven Emotions, the many kinds of desire and feeling, subside, one can break through doubt and understand that the Great Dao runs through all things as one.

Nine

There is no need to inquire about cinnabar and lead cauldrons, or to picture dragons and tigers coiling around each other. The subtle workings of cultivation will naturally come together and reveal themselves in body and mind, while the discriminating awareness of ordinary people remains restless and confused, unable to fathom them. The six desires and seven emotions—all manner of wants and feelings—fade away like ashes; the Five Phases and Four Images, the basic categories that make up the cosmos and the human body and mind, melt away like clouds. Expand when it is time to expand, draw inward when it is time to draw inward, and joy arises naturally in the heart. The divine pearl of the Red River, a symbol of the inner Elixir or the numinous clarity gained through cultivation, shines brilliantly.

Ten

All things have their appointed limits of existence and decline, and a human life is brief. The sun and moon move without pause, and our years swiftly wear away with them. To exhaust oneself in striving to prevail and compete with others is truly futile. Once you see the Way clearly and thoroughly, there is no need to join others in argument. Even if someone speaks with a torrent of eloquence, let them say what they will. In the end, no one can escape Yama, the god who judges the dead. What could anyone say to evade him?

Wushan—Clouds in the Sky

The mountain is still and clear, the moon reflected on its crest. The mind is empty and quiet, like clouds drifting out from between the peaks. When nothing lingers in the heart and nothing obstructs it, one can move in accord with the workings of Heaven, coming and going freely, with unfathomable ease. Who can take command in the void? Simply sit at ease and let things expand and draw inward as they will. Whether form is present or absent, light shines throughout Heaven and Earth; the true sovereign, the Way’s fundamental power that governs all things, remains silently enduring.

Two

The rain of the Way brings nourishment, and the sacred mountain is lovely; numinous breezes stir the air, and auspicious grasses give off their fragrance. The Daoist grotto-heavens, realms of immortal beings, are tranquil and pure everywhere, while the scenes of sun and moon stretch on without end. Jade pendants and golden bells chime softly, as if roaming freely through the Great Void. Deep within five-colored auspicious clouds, one drinks the nectar of immortality and delights in a realm of peace and bliss.

Three

As the season turns warm, ash in the pitch pipes reveals the coming birth of Yang energy. Its gentle warmth enters the signs of life budding in all things. Spring quietly spreads across Heaven and Earth, rousing even what has withered and decayed to renew its life. The wondrous workings of the Dao have no private purpose and no fixed form, yet they bring forth the myriad shapes of all things. It gives no commands, yet all things grow and flourish of themselves. Why ask what rules over them?

Four

Every branch of every tree is lush, and the stems of the round lotus leaves are fragrant. The creative power that transforms Heaven and Earth conceals exquisite sights deep within the garden, where the pond brims with numinous vitality. Beneath the blazing sun, even stones seem ready to melt; a fan in hand and iced water to drink still cannot dispel the heat. But those who can forget themselves and the affairs of the world will feel cool and at peace wherever they may be.

Five

The clouds and mist disperse, and the autumn wind grows strong. The sky opens wide, fresh and clear as jade. The solitary moon hangs high, turning slowly like a wheel of ice, its radiance brightening the dusk. Sitting quietly in meditation, one carries an elegant air, dwelling in the ethereal true realm of the Great Void, the Daoist realm of emptiness. There is no need to ride the wind or take a celestial chariot, nor to rely on supernatural powers: one can cross Kunlun with an easy stride.

Six

Nongyu, the legendary immortal maiden, sings an elegant, refined melody, while Feiqiong, another legendary immortal maiden, dances as though scattering a rain of flowers. Heaven and earth are bathed in silvery light. Where, then, is the realm of the immortals? Inside and out, all is pure and free of dust, revealing the mystery of the Great Void—the vast, empty realm that embraces all things. Its light is clear and bright, its heights and depths transparent and radiant; neither gods nor ghosts can be found there.

Seek fewer friendships and attend fewer gatherings. Keep to your proper place and follow the course of your circumstances, whether others approve or disapprove. See through the great matters of one’s future and death; investigate for yourself the source of the beginning, and remain clear-minded day and night. Do not make a show of abstaining from grains, nor deliberately affect the uncanny. Let body and mind stand firm and independent, with no hindrance in your movements or your repose. Thus you attain freedom and ease. When cultivation is complete and your work fulfilled, you will surely transcend the Three Realms—the Desire Realm, the Form Realm, and the Formless Realm.

End of Volume Six of the Collected Works of Cloud Mountain

Volume Seven of the Collected Works of Cloud Mountain: Stele Inscriptions

Written by Perfected Ji Zhizhen, “Who Knows the Constant”

Stele Inscriptions

“Stele Inscription on Patriarch Chongyang’s Opening of the Way”

The Supreme Dao arises from the Primordial Before-Heaven. The Most High, a Daoist honorific for the highest divine beings, established the Daoist lineage in majesty. Sages of successive generations inherited and transmitted it, allowing it to spread and flourish without interruption. Once the numinous, wondrous source of the Great Dao had manifested, it was no longer obscured; the deep and mysterious gateway—the crucial portal spoken of in Daoist cultivation—stood wide open and did not close. From then on, teachings were established, and every generation had those who carried them forward.

Yet the world passes through periods of flourishing and decline, and teachings change with the times. The further the age recedes from the sages, the harder it becomes to transmit the Dao’s illuminating radiance. Diverse doctrines arise and their branches contend; religious lineages multiply, while a taste for outward display also takes hold. People lose the simple, unadorned Great Dao and forget the mysterious truth without form or image. They abandon the root and lose sight of the source, chasing sights and sounds instead. The true path is obstructed, and Daoist institutions grow increasingly desolate.

Then sages appear once more. They investigate the original Qi of Heaven, the source-energy present at the birth of Heaven and Earth, and revive the Great Dao in keeping with the times, bringing the myriad spirits together and renewing its teachings. Bearing the mandate of Heaven and receiving divine transmission, they strive to rescue the failing order. They found a lineage and carry on its ancestral succession, rebuilding the religious tradition. Patriarch Chongyang was such a person. He cast aside outward display and sought what was true; he rescued the sunken and guided the lost, swept away accumulated abuses, and opened a new path, restoring access to the mysterious gateway.

Patriarch Chongyang’s surname was Wang and his given name Jia. His courtesy name was Zhiming, and his Daoist name was Chongyangzi. His family came from Xianyang in Jingzhao Prefecture, in the area of present-day Xianyang, Shaanxi. He was tall and imposing, with an extraordinary bearing. He understood the profound and expansive principles of the Dao and silently accorded with the lofty, formless realm. His wisdom reached straight to the source of truth, and his cultivation surpassed ordinary methods. Broad in spirit, he took emptiness as his foundation and was not constrained by the body. His wondrous practice resonated with the transformations of Heaven and Earth, while desires and worldly thoughts fell silent at once. He shattered illusion as one snaps a withered tree and uprooted doubt as one pulls weeds out by the roots. His teaching was steady and powerful, like a great bell suspended aloft; his insight was clear and penetrating, like a precious mirror held high.

At Gan River, Patriarch Chongyang encountered his destined opportunity and secretly received the method of the divine elixir. By tasting water, he also attained numinous insight and opened the treasury of wisdom. His nature was therefore clear, still, and settled, and the sea of his awakening was boundless. Once, as he sat in stillness in the south, a sound like thunder suddenly rang out from the depths of his silence. When a crow flew over the Liu and Jiang area, the full, luminous moon shone without limit. Through various manifestations, he revealed profound principles, and he understood the secrets of Heaven’s treasury—the workings of the Dao and the mandate of Heaven.

He once presented a living person as though dead and buried him in a grave, revealing a return to life from death. He also used a spirit tablet to show the nature that has remained free and unchanged since ancient times. Talented people as rare as fine jade are hard to find, and few can recognize them; the stone marrow, a legendary Daoist elixir or immortal medicine, had appeared again, but those who could encounter it were rarer still. He therefore began seeking disciples who could inherit the Daoist lineage and pass on its teachings, knowing in advance that they would be found by the eastern sea.

He burned down his hut, erased his tracks, and set off on a journey with his staff. He told people, “I will find my successors among Qiu, Liu, Tan, and Ma.” People of the world did not understand what he meant. They called him “Mad Wind,” the name then given to people whose conduct seemed strange, and did not believe him.

In the summer of the seventh year of the Dading era, in the fourth month of 1167, he set out eastward and reached the regions of Ninghai, Dengzhou, and Laizhou. He taught through various skillful means, and over several years guided seven people suited to receive the Dao. Among them were indeed Qiu, Liu, Tan, and Ma, all outstanding figures in the Daoist tradition. He gave each a title: Master Ma became Danyangzi, Master Tan Changzhenzi, Master Liu Changshengzi, and Master Qiu Changchunzi. Beyond these four, Master Wang, known as Yuyangzi; Master Hao, known as Guangningzi; and the Pure and Still Hermit, among others, witnessed his teaching and awakened at once. The Patriarch urged each of them to set their resolve on refining the heart and cultivating the truth.

Later, Patriarch Chongyang took only four disciples with him and went straight to Daliang, present-day Kaifeng in Henan. They stayed at the inn of the Ciqi Wang family in Yuetai Ward. Teacher and disciples spent their days and nights together, discussing and refining their understanding, and the teachings were explained with great clarity. One day he said to the four disciples, “Each of you must safeguard your life and your nature. If you have questions, ask Danyang. I am going to fulfill an appointment with the perfected master.” The next day, he indeed “rose into the clouds”—the Daoist expression for passing away. It was the fourth day of the first month in the tenth year of Dading, 1170. He was fifty-eight years old. His many wondrous transformations are recorded elsewhere and need not be recounted here. Later, his remains were reinterred at Zhongnan Mountain.

At that time, the Great Dynasty was flourishing and the court held Daoism in high esteem. After Perfected Man Changchun answered the imperial summons, Daoism gained great influence and its institutions continued to prosper. When Perfected Man Qinghe, who inherited the teaching, came to lead the tradition, he ordered his disciples to build a tomb for Patriarch Chongyang. The completed site became Chongyang Palace, while the place where the Patriarch had risen into the clouds was expanded into Chaoyuan Palace.

Consider this: people of the world often think that attaining the Dao requires a detailed examination of a person’s deeds. They think that becoming an immortal means dwelling on strange and extraordinary events. And when they speak of longevity, they often think only of preserving the body and living in the world for a long time. They fail to understand that numinous transformations, illusions, and miraculous responses have no fixed pattern. They are merely things that curiosity-seekers pursue; from the Daoist perspective, they are only lesser arts on a side path. As for the Dao, which has its own root, has existed since time immemorial, and will never perish—how could people of the world easily see or understand it?

This is precisely the Dao that Patriarch Chongyang transmitted. The changes of fate cannot subject it to their control, and the workings of creation have never been separate from it. He roamed freely in realms vast beyond measure and wandered at ease through expanses without limit. His hidden and revealed presence could not be fathomed, and his responses to change followed no fixed pattern. In its subtlety, the Dao can enter the tiniest particle; in its vastness, it can contain the universe. It exists amid forms without being bound by them, and dwells in emptiness without being nothingness. Its nature is clear, still, and spontaneous, unchanged from antiquity to the present. The Patriarch grounded his life in this Dao and responded to the world through it. As for casting off the body, proclaiming the Dao, entering directly into the realm beyond birth and death, and becoming one with the undifferentiated Dao—such accounts are only tentative attempts to infer the course of his life. They do not disclose his true foundation. Even those skilled in argument cannot fully explain that foundation. My own abilities are limited; I can only respectfully compose this inscription for him.

Primordial Zhen—the original truth of the beginning, the true state of the first age—is like an ocean of endless longevity, deep, vast, and without bounds. To speak of its limits is mere conjecture; the place where it truly draws near cannot be described in words. Even those skilled in debate find it difficult to explain through the classical commentaries of the ancients. So I have done my best to compose this inscription:

Primordial Zhen is like an unbounded sea of endless longevity, deep and vast. It preserves its radiance in the Celestial Treasury, a hidden storehouse in heaven or within the body, pure and constant. The Patriarch came from the west and transmitted this subtle teaching. In the numinous, wondrous void, he wielded transformations, brought the ravages of the great whale to an end, and repaired what was broken. Four disciples followed the Patriarch and together returned to the Dao of Wuwei (non-action). United in heart, they devoted themselves to reverent practice, and at last together understood the appearance of the ancient perfected ones. When their cultivation of the Elixir Dao was complete, they turned away from the mundane world and transcended it like cicadas shedding their shells. Casting off form and ritual appearance, they returned to the boundless realm. Time could not confine them, nor could distance impede them; they moved freely between being and nonbeing, at ease in their spiritual powers. In the image of this numinous legacy, a monastery was built, so that the lineage might be passed on like a flame from one piece of kindling to the next, and the mysterious Daoist tradition spread far and wide.

—Inscription at Qiyun Monastery on Zhongnan Mountain

The purpose of the Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) tradition had been shaped over many years and passed from one generation to the next, without interruption from ancient times to the present. Yet it remained hidden and subtle, difficult to make visible and widely known. This was because it advocated restraining one’s brilliance, eliminating attachment to fixed views, relinquishing external things, distancing oneself from worldly relationships, and finding contentment in solitude. Quanzhen took “layer upon layer of transcendence” and deep inquiry into the mysteries as its foundation; it made purity, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action) its daily practice; and it regarded following the principles of the Dao and resonating with all things as its final expression. It cast off ornament and returned to simplicity, preserving the essence of Laozi’s teaching of the mind.

In the early years of the Huangtong era of the Jin dynasty, the Patriarch Chongyang (Wang Chongyang) emerged as an extraordinary figure. He cultivated his mind and spirit and accorded with change, and only then began to reveal his radiance. He passed this Dao to several disciples on the coast—Ma, Tan, Liu, and Qiu among them. Though they worked hard to strengthen its foundations, Quanzhen had not yet spread widely. During the flourishing years of our dynasty, after the Perfected Changchun (Qiu Chuji) answered the imperial summons, the current of the mysterious tradition rose greatly, and its teachings spread everywhere. Students across the land began building palaces and temples; never, from ancient times to the present, had it prospered so greatly.

Among its followers was Master Ren, whose family came from Xiangtai. He left worldly life, became a Daoist, and traveled north through the regions of Yan and Ji. There he took the Perfected Qiyun as his master, practiced the Dao for many years, and secretly received the subtle teachings of the lineage. In the spring of the Yiyou year, he descended the mountain to travel and spread the Dao between Qin and Jin. He then came to Chongyang Wanshou Palace on Zhongnan Mountain. About five li east of the palace stood a retreat called Liangjiazhu. According to tradition, a Dongqing Hermitage had once stood there in ancient times, and the Patriarch Chongyang had manifested there, though no reliable record confirms this. After generations of change, the area around Zhongnan Mountain had fallen into disrepair, and only a narrow path leading there remained.

Master Ren therefore went to the site. He also obtained a permit from the governor of Jingzhao Prefecture, authorizing him to survey the boundaries and begin construction. He and dozens of disciples, including Li Zhicong and Wen Zhiqing, worked together to restore and rebuild the temple. The grounds extended for more than seventy mu from front to back. A path wound through bamboo groves, and clear streams flowed around the site. The main halls were largely complete, with covered walkways arranged in sequence; behind them stood a Fanghu pavilion, and a quiet meditation room had been set apart in a secluded spot.

Later, the commissioner and acting provincial administrator Yili Gong took the lead and brought the project to completion. The Perfected Qinghe inscribed a plaque for the temple, naming it “Qiyun.” It would serve as a place to pray for the sovereign’s long life, and as a site for sacrifice, blessings, and the dispelling of calamities. The Daoist community would offer incense with reverent hearts and spread the teachings of the Daoist patriarchs. The light within their hearts would endure without fading, illuminating the Quanzhen Dao. When the temple was completed, its abbot ordered an inscription carved in stone and set up, so that it might be passed down to later generations and serve as an encouragement to the community of Qiyun Temple. The inscription reads:

Only when the principles of cultivating the Dao are harmonious and continually renewed can one preserve wholeness and return to what is real. Guard them with composure and stillness; nurture them with sincerity and simplicity. The arrival of the Patriarch was like the renewed revelation of this teaching. On the shores of the Shu Sea, he transmitted the Daoist teachings to several disciples, greatly revitalizing and widely spreading the Daoist tradition of mystery and subtlety. An opportunity such as this is rare even across many kalpas, so one should be especially resolute in one’s aspirations. How could those who enter the Patriarch’s school fail to reflect deeply on its principles? They should rise early, retire late, practice diligently, and strive to follow his example.

Stele of Qiyun Abbey in Luoyang

When the sage Ancestor of our dynasty (the emperor’s honorific title) had just ascended the throne, he wished to summon men who had attained the Dao. After Perfected Changchun (a highly accomplished Daoist) answered the summons, his teachings spread widely. Daoism flourished ever more, and its subtle tradition was greatly revived. Daoists came in great numbers, and abbeys sprang up everywhere like stars. If this was so even in remote regions, how much more so in the Central Plain?

About ten li south of Luoyang, there was an old village called Zhuge. Mount Song and Mount Shaoshi lay to its left, while Longmen could be seen to its right. Mount Wan’an rose before it, and the Yi and Luo Rivers flowed past to the north. There stood a Daoist abbey called Qiyun. Its origins can be traced to four disciples of Perfected Qiyun, who took charge of its founding.

In the autumn of the xinsi year, the Perfected One established a teaching altar at Mount Pan and lectured on the Dao. Many came to cultivate and seek answers to their questions. His reputation spread far and wide, and countless Daoists came to visit him. He was also an outstanding figure of his time in helping to promote Daoism. The four disciples were Cui Zhiyin, Guan Zhidao, Dong Daoheng, and Li Zhixi. All had studied under the Perfected One for many years and earned his recognition. They shared a deep affinity and became close friends.

In the ninth month of the autumn of the jiawu year, the four decided together to travel in search of the Dao. They went from north to south, journeying throughout the regions of Yan, Zhao, Qi, and Lu, and settling wherever their travels took them. They had not yet reached Qinhuai. At that time, the warfare of the renchen year had only just ended. The cities and towns of Henan lay in ruins, and few people remained. For more than a thousand li east of Hangu Pass, much of the land had become a military garrison. Weeds choked the roads, all signs of human habitation had vanished, and only armed soldiers passed to and fro.

In the fourth month of the summer of the bingshen year, the disciples crossed Mengjin and traveled to Luoyang. At dusk they arrived at Chenchang, where they met an old friend, Master Shi. Overjoyed to see them, Master Shi welcomed them warmly and urged them to stay, reluctant to part with them. They remained for several months. They toured the mountains and rivers, and whenever they came upon a place of clear beauty that accorded with their hearts, they settled there. Eventually they reached Zhuge. Looking around, they found it like a deep mountain wilderness, far from human habitation—a place well suited to dwelling, cultivating the Dao, and nurturing the mind.

They asked their neighbors about the area and learned that Zhuge was Dong Daoheng’s native village. They discovered that the local land was fertile, though the fields lay scattered among one another and the surrounding area was desolate. The trees were tall, but had no owners; all that remained were ruined house foundations and broken tiles. They therefore agreed to build a Daoist abbey there and set the work in motion. Before long, people named Wang, Yang, Jiang, Li, and others arrived in turn. Everyone worked together, each eager to contribute. They chose a site and put up huts, cleared away vines and weeds, reclaimed wasteland, cut down dead trees and thornbushes, tidied the overgrown ground, and planted fruit trees such as fire jujubes and crossing pears.

They worked tirelessly from morning until night. As the years passed, the abbey gradually prospered; after nearly twenty years, it had grown into a thriving establishment. They built a main hall to enshrine the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing), and honored the assembled sages and perfected ones in a rear hall. Within the abbey were places called the Cloud Gathering Hall and the Fragrant Storehouse, among others. Near the abbey lay six hundred mu of fertile farmland, and they had planted and tended more than a thousand fruit trees. Dense pines and cypresses grew in deep green, and the courtyards were clean and solemn. The necessities of daily cultivation and life could be supplied on site, and the abbey was also able to welcome and care for those who came to study.

They honored their teachers and repaid their origins, cultivated the Dao in service to the state, prayed for the country’s peace, and asked blessings and relief from calamity for the people. Visitors from all directions gathered with masters and perfected ones, and the abbey became an important center of Daoism in the east. Once the abbey was complete, they named it “Qiyun,” after their master’s Daoist name, in the hope that they would never forget his kindness.

After completing the work of building the abbey, the other three disciples followed their master back to Bianjing. Only Li Zhixi continued to oversee the abbey for many years, bringing the undertaking to completion and proving himself adept at preserving what had been established. Cui Zhiyin later also helped create a statue of their master. In the first month of the spring of the zhaoyang dayu xian year (a cyclical year designation), the abbey’s stewards traveled a great distance to visit me and asked me to compose words of praise and record these deeds. I thought I should not refuse, so I reluctantly agreed, setting them down truthfully and composing the following inscription:

The Great Dao is vast and boundless, with no fixed path or particular bias. It cannot be said to reside in any one place, nor can it be separated from the myriad things. It reaches in all directions, radiant and magnificent. Once sages understood the Dao, they kept it in their hearts throughout their lives. Laozi began this line of transmission, and later generations produced many writings. The inscription praises it:

The Great Dao is vast and boundless, with no fixed path or particular bias. It is confined to no single place, yet never departs from the myriad things; it reaches in all directions, radiant and magnificent. Sages understood the Dao and kept it in their hearts throughout their lives. Laozi began its transmission, which has continued for ten thousand generations. In more recent times came Wang Chongyang, founder of the Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) tradition, whose Dao rose like a soaring dragon, blazing with light. Qiu Changchun—Qiu Chuji, an important patriarch of Quanzhen—inherited his Dao and further spread its pure and upright spirit. The virtuous adepts of Qiyun Monastery understand “knowing the white and keeping to the black”: they discern what is bright and clear, yet hold fast to what is dark and unadorned. Compassionate and generous, they benefit all things and serve as a model for the world. Four worthy disciples shared their aspirations and were able to carry on their teacher’s work. They sought the true Dao around Guishan and the Luo River, while Zhu and Ge also established a place for cultivation. They built a magnificent monastery, with six qing of numinous mushroom fields and a thousand “fire dates,” the immortal fruit of Daoist legend. All this may be admired from near and far. Morning and evening, incense is burned and lamps are lit, as all join in practicing good deeds. Heaven bestows its protection—what blessing could fail to arrive?

Stele Inscription at Qiyun Monastery on Mount Pan

The Dao has neither form nor trace. Only when people transmit and practice it can it spread. A mountain has no rank of its own, but when an immortal dwells there, it becomes renowned. This is how natural principle and human action come together. The mountain northwest of Yuyang was originally named “Fourfold Upright Practice.” Heaven bestows its protection—what blessing could fail to arrive?

Stele Inscription at Qiyun Monastery on Mount Pan

The Dao has no fixed form; when it meets the right person, it can be passed on. A mountain need not be high or low: if an immortal dwells there, it gains its name. This is the hidden accord among the principles of all things, and the mutual alignment of human circumstances.

Northwest of Yuyang stands a mountain once called Four Directions. In ancient times, a man known as Master Tian Pan—his surname was Tian—came here from the state of Qi at an unknown date. He lived in seclusion on the mountain for many years, attained the Dao, and became a perfected being. Even rough hunters and ordinary woodcutters admired him. His influence spread far and wide, and people came to call the mountain Mount Pan.

On Mount Pan, beneath Purple Peak, lies a place with open, bright surroundings, serene and graceful in aspect. It is called Middle Pan, a fairyland wreathed in clouds and rosy mists. Over the centuries, Buddhist monks once lived there. Later, as the Jin dynasty declined and fell into disorder, warfare broke out everywhere. The landscape changed, and people came and went; the place became a wilderness overgrown with plants, where jackals, wolves, tigers, and leopards roamed.

At that time, the court was flourishing and esteemed the Dao. The Perfected Changchun of Qixia answered a summons and emerged from seclusion. In the first month of the jia-shen year, he returned to the Yan region and founded Changchun Palace. From then on, Daoism flourished, with people responding from all quarters. Daoists and laypeople alike came to pay their respects, and students gathered in great numbers.

Among the disciples of the Perfected Changchun was Ziyun Zi, who had deep insight into the mysterious Dao and loved mountains, forests, springs, and rocks. Like a bird choosing its nesting place, he sought a suitable place for cultivation. In the geng-chen year, his disciples Zhang Zhige and others arrived at Mount Pan. They cleared away weeds and vines, surveyed the old site, and found that it perfectly suited their wishes, so they began planning its construction. In the spring of the xin-si year, at the invitation of Xu, the assistant prefect of the region, Perfected Ziyun came to take charge of the mountain. Before long, people came one after another to study with him. Many arrived full of expectation and returned having gained from their studies; their numbers were beyond counting.

Most of Perfected Ziyun’s disciples were elders of deep De, all able in their cultivation to preserve simplicity and return to the true. As their numbers grew, they built a Daoist temple. In the spring of the bing-xu year, they submitted a petition inviting the Perfected Changchun to preside over a Yellow Register Jiao, a Daoist purification ritual for blessings and the averting of calamities. The Perfected One named the temple Qiyun Abbey. Later, Qiyun Abbey became widely renowned, and people from many places invited Perfected Ziyun to come out from seclusion. Officials and residents of the capital also invited him to Yanjing’s Tiancang Abbey to preside there.

In the autumn of the ding-hai year, after the Perfected One passed away, Master Qiyun led the community south. Wherever they went, their teaching flourished. Officials from the commanderies and counties came out to the suburbs to welcome them, and Daoist temples were established soon afterward. The number of temples they built or restored was beyond counting, with most presided over by his disciples. At the place in Nanjing where Patriarch Chongyang had attained immortality, in particular, they undertook the construction of Chaoyuan Palace with great care and dedication. It was the most magnificent of all.

Master Qiyun established De and accomplished great works. His endeavors began at Middle Pan and reached their height at Liangyuan. He supported the Daoist way and helped Daoism flourish, while also benefiting from the peace and prosperity of his times. This account records only what he did in practice; the principles he expounded, perhaps, cannot be fully expressed in words. Those who study the Dao in later generations should also strive to advance.

I respectfully compose this inscription as follows:

Mr. Tian is an outstanding figure, his character shining like fine jade and his nature as clear as a spring. His wondrous transformations are beyond measure, and he leaves no trace. Though the mountain has its own name, Mr. Tian truly embodies its spirit.

Buddhism held this mountain for a long time; only now has it been returned to Daoism. Monkeys and immortal cranes gather here, and the clouds and rosy mists seem to offer them shelter. Master Qiyun has taken charge once more, spreading the mysterious Daoist way far and wide.

The Wang and Tian families have set aside their differences and reunited after a thousand years, carrying their tradition forward from generation to generation. The wind among the pines, moonlight in the bamboo grove, flowing waters and mountain hues all reveal the purpose of this lineage; only those who dwell here can understand it. The mountain boat has quietly shifted its course, and action must not be delayed. In the face of the profound mystery of the Dao, one must continue striving in one’s practice.

In a vast place far removed from the world, there lived two men who had renounced the world to cultivate the Dao: one was called Yanzhen, the other Yongzhen. Yanzhen’s surname was Jia and his personal name was Zhixi; his family came from Junzhou. Yongzhen’s surname was Li and his personal name was Zhidu; his family came from Lanzhou. Junzhou lay to the south and Lanzhou to the north, thousands of miles apart. Though they came from distant places, their aspirations were alike, and they cultivated together. They devoted themselves to practicing the arts of the Dao, carrying on the ways of Perfected Master Changchun and Perfected Master Qinghe. Even after many years, they did not change.

Their faith in the Dao was steadfast. They laid bare their hearts and honed their resolve, swept away deluded thoughts, and endured such hardship that they grew gaunt, yet stood apart from the world and its conventions. They could see the heart of a matter, like Cook Ding carving an ox, his blade moving freely and finding space at every turn. The affairs of the world never stand still, and people’s circumstances are always changing. As Water, Metal, and Chan successively came to the fore, disorder swept through the world. Mountains and rivers changed hands, China fell into turmoil, and neither north nor south knew peace. The people were plunged into suffering, and some lost heart. Yet the two men held fast to the Great Dao, keeping virtue within while outwardly living among ordinary people. They did not flaunt their distinction, and few understood them.

In the renchen year, Yanzhen and Yongzhen met in the city of Luoshui. At first sight, they understood one another. They exchanged smiles and became close friends without needing many words. From then on they lived together, sometimes bringing food to share, sometimes finding contentment in their work. For more than twenty years, their bond remained firm and intimate; they were never apart.

Beside the Yan family residence in Chongtang stood the remains of an old hermitage. There the two men gathered bricks and tiles, leveled the uneven ground, and collected materials to build a hall. They also laid out vegetable beds and a garden. The hermitage stood against a hill and near a stream. They planted pines and interspersed them with other trees. The garden was secluded and elegant, like an immortal’s grotto. The Daoist temple was called Huichong Abbey.

The two cultivated the Dao in peace within the temple. Even when the streets were noisy, they heard no sound; even amid splendid sights, their eyes remained unmoved. Their hearts held no schemes, and their minds were clear and pure. In their daily routines they were like other people, yet their inner cultivation was different. They were true cultivators of the Dao of Chaos. Compared with those who compete for advantage, pursue profit, and never know contentment, they were worlds apart and could not be compared; neither their inner cultivation nor their outward bearing had any equal.

On the first day of the fifth month in the bingchen year, Shu’er composed this inscription for them:

They cultivated the profound teaching and engraved it upon their hearts. Their deep cultivation nourished them, and their nature came to fulfillment of itself. They saw through the real, cast off the false, and remained single-minded and sincere. By holding fast to the whole Great Dao, they brought their minds to quiet and clarity. Their hearts dwelt centered and upright, and brightness arose of its own accord. The lineage of the Dao was passed on to Yanzhen and Yongzhen, and through it their names endure. They were friends whose bond was firm as metal and stone, whose conduct was fragrant as orchids.

They bent low to dwell upon the earth and lifted their faces in reverence to the spirits of Heaven. They seemed simple and foolish, yet wise; as if intoxicated, yet clear-headed. They lived in halls and pavilions with peaceful minds, growing alongside the myriad things. They never lost their way on mountain paths, and their cave doors needed no locks. Fine trees flourished, while wondrous plants grew in tangled profusion. They forgot the clamor of the marketplace, and their dwelling was no different from hills and valleys in the wilderness. They let their chickens and dogs roam and return as they pleased; their thatched hut was only a temporary lodging. The flavors of worldly life seemed as bland as chewing wax, yet they delighted in sharing Heaven’s blessings. They did not covet lavish meals, but ate whatever their circumstances provided. At all times they looked up to contemplate the vast and far-reaching expanse of Heaven and Earth.

The Perfected One’s surname was Qiu, his given name Chuji, his courtesy name Tongmi, and his Daoist name Master Changchun. His ancestral home was Qixia in Dengzhou. From birth, he had the aptitude for the immortal Dao. He was intelligent and widely learned, with an extraordinary breadth of mind and uncommon insight. Before he had reached the age of twenty, he had grasped the meaning of leaving the world behind to cultivate the Dao. He cast off worldly entanglements, entered the Daoist tradition, and traveled widely in search of renowned masters.

In the first month of the Dinghai year of the Dading era (1167), Wang Chongyang came from Shaanxi to the region in search of like-minded companions. When the Perfected One heard of his arrival, he went to pay him a visit. The two understood one another at once, and Qiu Chuji became Wang Chongyang’s disciple. He remained by his master’s side, receiving instruction and studying the subtle principles of the Dao in depth, gradually gaining insight. Before long, other like-minded seekers arrived in succession: Ma Danyang, Tan Changzhen, Liu Changsheng, Wang Yuyang, and Hao Guangning. They all became disciples, formed bonds that transcended worldly ties, and learned from one another in their cultivation of the Quanzhen tradition. Each earnestly received the teachings of the school and gained something in his own way.

Later, Wang Chongyang traveled with only four companions: Ma, Tan, Liu, and Qiu. The fame of master and disciples spread far and wide. When they reached Bianjing, they stayed at an inn in Yuetai Ward. Some time later, Wang Chongyang entrusted his affairs after death to Ma Danyang and passed away without illness. The four disciples escorted his coffin back to Zhongnan Mountain for burial. After the funeral, they discussed where each would go and separately resolved to pursue cultivation.

The Perfected One then traveled through the Qin and Long regions before withdrawing to live in seclusion at Panxi. He lived simply, with only a bamboo food basket and a gourd for company. Wearing a straw rain cape and bamboo hat, he forgot both external things and himself, his mind calm and settled. After six years of cultivation, he reached a subtle and wondrous state. In all that he did—coming and going, advancing and retreating, speaking or keeping silent, moving or acting—the Dao was evident. He understood the Mysterious Pass, his wisdom was abundant, and his words flowed like a spring. Whenever he spoke, people hastened to repeat his words. Those who heard of his reputation crossed mountains and rivers to visit him, while students came in crowds to seek his guidance. His standing was exceptional, and people held him in great reverence.

In the second month of the Wushen year of the Dading era (1188), Emperor Shizong of Jin sent an envoy to summon him to court and ask him to preside over the Wanchun jiao, a Daoist purification ritual for blessing and averting misfortune. By special decree, he was ordered to stay at the Quanzhen Hall. Shizong summoned him repeatedly and asked how to secure one’s life and preserve one’s health. The Perfected One advised him to restrain his desires, reduce his wants, and nurture his original Qi and spirit. He explained the foundations of Dao and De and discussed the principles of the Way of Heaven and human affairs. Shizong was delighted by his words and showed him even greater respect.

In the Xinhai year of the Mingchang era (1191), the Perfected One returned to the coast and stayed at the Taixu Abbey in Bindu. Fellow cultivators honored him as their master. When people sought his instruction, he urged them to cultivate merit and accumulate De, explaining that actions bring their own rewards. He answered every question as water takes the shape of the vessel into which it is poured, fitting each circumstance precisely. Many of his disciples lived in seclusion among ordinary people, wearing coarse clothes and eating plain food. They encouraged one another to uphold their principles, while the world knew little of them. As a result, the Quanzhen tradition had not yet spread widely throughout the realm.

Later, the Mongol regime rose to power and unified the north, gradually restoring travel between north and south. The Perfected One’s virtue and reputation reached the court. In the winter of the Jimao year, in the tenth month, the emperor sent Liu Zhonglu with several dozen light cavalrymen to summon him from the coast. Liu Zhonglu came bearing the imperial decree, cleared the way as he traveled, and went straight to the Perfected One’s residence to deliver the command. The Perfected One regarded it as Heaven’s arrangement and did not refuse; he set out at once. The eighteen people who accompanied him were all outstanding figures in the Daoist community. They traveled northwest through dangers and hardships, crossing thousands of miles of desert before finally reaching the emperor’s location. The emperor praised the Perfected One’s sincerity in answering the summons from so far away and received him with courtesies and expressions of concern.

One day, the emperor asked about the medicine of immortality. The Perfected One replied, “There are principles for nourishing life and preserving health, but no medicine that makes one live forever.” The emperor admired his candor. Whenever the Perfected One was invited to sit with him, he urged the emperor to kill less and restrain his desires, and spoke to him about compassion and filial piety. The emperor ordered his court historians to record his words.

In the spring of the Guiwei year, the emperor issued a special decree allowing the Perfected One to return to Yanjing. He ordered the construction of Changchun Palace and appointed him to lead the affairs of the Quanzhen tradition, placing Daoist clergy throughout the realm under his authority. The emperor also bestowed on him a Golden Talisman, authorized his disciples to travel by relay post and present memorials at court, and ordered that the Daoists under his leadership be exempt from taxes and labor service. From then on, the Quanzhen tradition grew greatly in influence, and Daoism flourished. Abbeys sprang up across the country like pieces on a board or stars in the sky, and visitors came in an unbroken stream to pay their respects. The tradition had never before spread so widely.

In his old age, the Perfected One often stayed in the Yan Mountains, yet continued to respond to the requests of Daoist communities throughout the land. People near and far were transformed by his influence. When people asked him to pray for clear skies or rain, their requests were often answered at the appointed time. The stele inscription says this came about through the mutual resonance of Heaven and humanity, with not the slightest discrepancy.

In the sixth month of the Dinghai year, a great thunderstorm broke over the region. The banks of Taiye Lake collapsed and the lake dried up; the cliffs at the northern pass also gave way, with the sound shaking the surrounding lands. When the Perfected One heard of this, he said, “With the mountain collapsed and the lake dried up, I will probably depart from this world along with them.” In the seventh month, on the ninth day of autumn, he indeed passed away, at the age of eighty-one. His remains were buried at Shun Hall in Baiyun Abbey.

In the Wuzi year, the Qinghe Perfected One, who had succeeded him in leading the tradition, received an imperial decree conferring on him the honorific title “Perfected One of Changchun, Who Broadly Propagated the Dao and Reached the Subtle.”

Let us put it this way: The Perfected One, a realized sage who has attained the Dao, is born into the world with virtue that never wavers. In his hand he holds the Mysterious Pearl of the Most High, a jewel that symbolizes the ineffable Great Dao, and he wears the ritual seal of Double Yang, a Daoist seal. His resolve is firm as metal and stone, his nature clear as ice and frost. He cleanses worldly desires accumulated through kalpas and breaks through the habits and obstacles formed over many lifetimes. A numinous wind stirs his sleeves; his mind and nature shine like the moon suspended in the sky. He sees deeply into the roots and origins of things and understands how they change and multiply. Knowing the constant Dao, he quietly holds to it; returning to his heavenly mandate, he attains emptiness and stillness. Thus the Golden Elixir and its great medicine are refined, and the fiery dates and pear-like fruits come to ripen. His spiritual powers are free and unbounded, and he meets change without a fixed method. He understands the Great Dao that encompasses Heaven and Earth and returns to the fundamental principle that unites past and present. He moves everywhere without weariness, transforms things on his own, and stands apart from the crowd. This is why the Perfected One fulfills himself and becomes a master for all under Heaven.

Where the Great Dao is present, all things naturally gather. Auspicious and harmonious Qi spreads far and wide, reaching both near and distant places. Thus palaces and temples are built, and the Daoist tradition established; transcendent, sacred beings are reverently worshiped, and profound teachings are proclaimed and spread. The Perfected One points out the path to heavenly authenticity and opens the way of cultivation. He also rescues living beings from the sea of suffering, becoming a boat to ferry them across. Those who embark on this path will reach understanding; those who follow it will arrive at their destination. All who have feet to walk wish to advance along the Dao. This is why the Perfected One widely teaches those lost in confusion and safeguards the orthodox tradition.

In the early days of the dynasty, the court sent its armies on campaign. During the fighting, blood filled the rivers, mountains, and ravines, and corpses covered the fields. Huang Tie led his troops forward, leaving bodies for ten thousand miles. Wherever the horses’ hooves reached, scarcely any land remained intact; wherever the weapons struck, few people survived. Jade and stone alike were burned, and even fortified cities were destroyed. Fortunately, the Perfected One was summoned to the emperor’s encampment. He repeatedly offered advice and remonstrated with him, and only then did Heaven’s will change: those who submitted and pledged allegiance were spared from slaughter, and surrendered cities were allowed to remain intact. He urged the commanders to show compassion for the people and encouraged the heroes to save them. He found many ways to rescue those in danger and paid to ransom captives. Servants who had fled were pardoned if they turned to the Daoist path; low-ranking laborers were released if they repented and turned toward goodness. He truly saved people from hardship and spared them the calamities of war, guiding the violent away from evil and toward good. These are the fruits of Daoist teaching, widely put into practice.

Many people under Heaven received his protection, yet some did not know why they had been saved. Though the Perfected One benefited the world, he did not proclaim the benefits he had brought. His virtue was as vast as Heaven and Earth, and his spiritual state surpassed what emperors could attain. Those who relied on what they had heard and seen to make rash judgments could understand only the surface of his deeds; those deeds were not the true reason he acted as he did. The state of realization that gave rise to them cannot be fully known even by the wisest, or fully expressed even by the most eloquent. It is like standing beneath the sky without knowing how high it is, or walking on the earth without knowing how vast it is. Those who make rash judgments gain only a vague and partial understanding.

Master Li Gong came from afar and asked me to record an outline of the Perfected One’s deeds, so that it might be carved in stone and passed down for a long time. This, too, is a matter of repaying one’s origins and honoring one’s teacher. I dared not refuse, and therefore composed this account. With reverence, after observing the rites of purification and bathing, I set it down in writing. The inscription reads:

The Immortal Lord Changchun (an honorific title for the Perfected Changchun in Daoism) possessed a heart as clear and unsullied as ice and snow. He gathered within himself the finest spirit of mountains and rivers and stood out among humankind. Even the faintest thought that arose in his heart, he could master and bring to fruition; his character was pure and refined. He transcended the illusory world of dust and ascended straight to the Nine Heavens of Purity (the highest celestial realms in Daoist belief), then descended among mortals to become the emperor’s teacher, bringing glory to the capital.

He came and went alone, free and unimpeded; he was both the fundamental Dao and close at hand. Heaven and earth nurture and move all things, transforming them in countless ways, yet the foundation revered by our Daoist tradition is one alone. Long life and clear vision of the world come from accumulated virtue. After a thousand years, we were fortunate to meet him, and our descent into suffering came to an end at once.

Without knowledge or desire, he was profound and subtle. He transcended the illusory world of dust and ascended straight to the Nine Heavens of Purity, then descended among mortals to become the emperor’s teacher, bringing glory to the capital. He came and went alone, free and unimpeded; he was both the fundamental Dao and close at hand. Heaven and earth nurture and transform all things in countless ways, yet the foundation revered by our Daoist tradition is one alone. Long life and clear vision of the world come from accumulated virtue. After a thousand years, we were fortunate to meet him, and our descent into suffering came to an end at once.

Though people could not fully understand, his mysterious grace had already spread far and wide, greatly sheltering our Daoist tradition. His virtue was like the vast heavens: boundless and inexhaustible.

Inscription on the Stele of Qinghua Temple in Xianning.

Forty li west of Jingzhao, in the area of present-day Xi’an in Shaanxi, there is a river called Huayan Stream. The mountains are bright and the waters clear, with bamboo and trees growing in abundance. To the left it stretches toward Duqu; to the right it nears Baiyun. The land opens into broad, level ground to the south, while Fengqi Plateau rises behind it. At its center stands a country villa called Xiahou. Among the dense woods is a Daoist monastery called Qinghua Abbey.

The building of Qinghua Abbey began under the regional commander, Lord Tian, and was later laid on firm foundations by Master Ru. In the final years of the Zhenyou reign of the Jin dynasty, warfare left cities in ruins and the people in distress. After enduring calamity, the people north of the Yellow River and across Shaanxi gradually began to rebuild their lives, but peace had not yet returned. The fighting continued, the fields lay waste, and nine tenths of the landscape of earlier times had disappeared. People longed to rebuild their homes and heal the wounds of the population, but did not know who could take charge.

Just then, Commander Tian arrived under orders, and the region gradually came back to life. His name was Xiongzu, and he was from Quanzhou. He first became known for his bravery. In the Renwu year, he was appointed marshal and military governor of Yangzhou. People from all quarters admired his reputation and virtue, and many came to join him without being summoned. In the autumn of the Guisi year, in the ninth month, he was promoted for his military achievements to commander of the five circuits of Shaanxi. He cared for soldiers and civilians alike and brought comfort to people throughout the region. In addition to attending to government affairs, he honored the Dao and virtue. Whenever Daoist monasteries needed to be built or repaired, he gave them every support. He shared a brotherly bond with Master Ru. Hearing of the master’s reputation, he grew all the more respectful and trusting, put his teachings into practice, distinguished good from evil, and chose to follow the good. He also released more than a thousand members of captive families—a deed that may show how readily he understood the Way of benevolence.

Master Ru’s given name was Zhijiu, and Ru was his surname. He, too, was from Quanzhou. He began cultivating the Dao in childhood and took Master Louyun as his teacher. For many years he received personal instruction, deeply mastering its hidden meaning. Later he traveled far and wide, going west as far as Jiyang. In the Bingxu year, local elders invited him to lead Qizhen Abbey; in the Guisi year, Lord Tian invited him to lead Jingzhao’s Yingxiang Abbey.

Later, Master Ru came to the area around Xiahou Villa. Looking around, he found the place secluded and beautiful, with exceptional scenery. In former times, eminent scholars and worthy people had come here to rest and cultivate the Dao. He could not bear to see it left in ruins, with foxes, rabbits, and wolves prowling and howling among them. So he chose a quiet, secluded spot, gathered tiles and building materials, repaired the ruined walls, and marked out the grounds. The fields inside and outside the abbey together covered more than 280 mu, and documents were drawn up to establish their boundaries.

There Master Ru built a residence and Daoist sanctuary, gradually adding sacred halls, shrines to the perfected ones, meditation rooms, and other buildings. The layout suited the terrain and was ample for conducting refined Daoist practices. He cultivated with solemn care, honored the perfected ones, and prayed for blessings upon the dynasty, repaying its profound and boundless kindness. When the abbey buildings were first completed, those in charge asked the Patriarch to grant it a name. He inscribed the name “Qinghua.”

In the summer of the Renzi year, in the fourth month, Perfected Zhenchang came by imperial order to offer sacrifices on behalf of the court to the famous mountains and great rivers. Passing through this place, he stopped in along the way. Delighted by its beautiful setting and its outstanding people, he stayed one night and then departed.

Consider this place, where Heaven and Earth first opened and the mountains and rivers gathered their spiritual beauty: the hills are tranquil, and the flowing waters emerald green. All around are things of refined beauty, with none of the turmoil of the mundane world. The clear Qi enters the body and mind, opening the spirit. This is truly a fitting home for those who cultivate the mind and refine their nature. They can practice here morning and evening, and even in haste or hardship, they do not leave. Perhaps the spirits, too, will lend their aid. And as for the freedom and subtle beauty people attain here, how could it ever be fully described?

One day, an officer of the abbey came from afar expressly to visit me and asked me to record these events. Knowing that my writing is inadequate, I nevertheless agreed and set down this account truthfully. The inscription reads:

The mountains and forests are lush green, the scenery bright and beautiful, like a high place where phoenixes dwell. One looks upon the clear radiance reflected in the sunlight and listens as people describe its subtle mysteries. This wondrous realm reaches deep into body and mind—how could it ever be fully portrayed?

One day, the person in charge came especially to ask me to record what had happened. I dared not fob him off with shallow words, so I accepted his request and wrote it down truthfully. The inscription says:

The mountains and forests are lush green, the scenery bright and beautiful, like a high place where phoenixes dwell. The sunlight is clear, and the subtle realm invites exploration. Its wonders reach deep into body and mind, quieting people and sweeping away wrongful thoughts. Clouds and rosy mists seem to come as companions, while jade-like smiles take their place among them. People come and go here, resting and wandering, settling down and seeking the Way. The dwelling has a special quiet chamber; in daily dealings, all is as carefully arranged and responsive as a pivot. The numinous gates need no key, and the deep cavern entrance has no bolt. Thus this is a lotus dwelling for those who have attained understanding, where perfected beings and immortals are invited to come and stay.

“Stele Inscription for the Great Zhaijiao Site of Huang Ju at Biling” (an inscription describing the site where Huang Ju held a large-scale Zhaijiao purification ritual).

The movement of the Dao gives rise to Qi, and the transformations of Qi form the myriad things. Forms vary in size and in coarseness or fineness, appearing in different ways—as flying, swimming beneath the water, moving about, or growing. The movement of Qi, meanwhile, rises and descends, waxes and wanes, bringing birth and death, flourishing and decline. The myriad things endlessly cycle and transform, with neither beginning nor end; the seasons alternate and succeed one another, without distinction between past and present. This is the enduring pattern of Heaven and the natural order, and the inexhaustible storehouse of creation.

When old and new Qi replace one another and circumstances shift, people are often unable to wait calmly and adapt to change. When the moment seems favorable, they hurry to seize it; when it has passed, they insist on fighting for what they want. Thus corpses lie for thousands of miles, and the dead fill the cities: some die by blades and arrows, others by wood and stone, still others by water and fire. Warfare has continued through the dynasties, year after year without cease. The plains are piled with corpses, and blood flows through the valleys. All this results from defying Heaven’s order and turning against the course of the times. Since Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou, such has been the fate of most dynastic transitions.

Since the Longxing era of the Great Dynasty, the Jinyuan regime has lost its rule, and warfare has continued without end until this day—nearly forty years. Wherever the warhorses have gone, even strong city walls have been destroyed; wherever weapons have struck, people have been reduced to ashes as if consumed by a world-ending conflagration. Fields have become hills, the south has become the north, and every household has suffered calamity. Nine out of ten families have been extinguished, and few individuals have escaped; almost no one has survived. Those who were lucky enough to escape slaughter and cling to life are left destitute and alone. Those whose clans have perished and whose lines of descent have ended pass the year in desolation and solitude. Who can call on their behalf to recommend and deliver them? They can only bear their grief in vain.

The lands beyond the Yellow River, especially those near the border battlefields, are in even greater peril than elsewhere. The startled souls and lingering spirits of the dead remain submerged for a long time, unable to find release. They must rely on the Daoist tradition’s wondrous merit to be delivered. Now, with the support of the sponsor of the ritual, a certain official, and others, who have made a compassionate vow and embraced the highest goodness, a Great Yellow Register Retreat of Primordial Origin has been established at a certain temple. In this Daoist ritual for delivering the souls of the dead, offerings are made to the sacred seats of the Three Pure Ones and the sages of Jade Void.

Ascension to immortality and deliverance of souls stand in contrast, showing that good and evil lead to different destinations. Nanchang and the Northern Capital lie close to one another, revealing the distinction in rank between the realm of immortals and the human world. The ritual altar is purified, and the four quarters are solemnly ordered. The High Perfected are respectfully invited to descend, and blessings are sought from the spirits. The Perfected One Qiyun of the Chaoyuan Palace in the Southern Capital is also respectfully invited to preside over the rite and deliver the unattached, solitary souls of a certain circuit, as well as the departed of each family who have not yet been delivered. Those who have relatives but lack the means to arrange offerings and memorial rites are also included in the memorial petition, and their names entered into the register of the dead, with the plea that they too be delivered.

May dutiful sons and obedient grandsons remember their ancestors and forebears, each offering sincere devotion, and together pay homage to the True Sages. Incense, flowers, lamps, and candles serve as lights of wisdom; the altar of stars and constellations temporarily becomes the celestial realm of Miro. May those for whom the prayers are missing from the scriptures still receive grace; may spirits sunk in darkness, withered and beset by hardship, once again receive aid. May all spirits board the vessel of compassion, and may the knots of suffering accumulated in the netherworld and among the living be undone. May the dead receive the grace of deliverance, and may the ancestors ascend beyond.

May the state enjoy lasting peace and stability, may the sovereign’s sacred virtue grow ever brighter, may warfare cease at the borders, and may the people live and work in peace. May the ten directions and three realms, the six paths and four forms of birth, all sentient beings, and all things without life receive the grace of the Dao. Now that the ritual altar has been set in perfect order and the rites conducted with solemn dignity, this account is briefly recorded and engraved in stone for posterity.

In the winter of the tenth month of the Jiwei year, the Prince’s Official Ba Yin of Xidong Prefecture fulfilled a long-held wish by holding a Supreme Yellow Register Jiao rite, a Daoist purification ritual for praying for blessings and delivering the souls of the dead. The rite took place at Yingxiang Temple in the prefecture. From spring through autumn, the halls were repaired and built, and the ritual grounds prepared. The Perfected One Qiyun was also respectfully invited to serve as the Great Deliverance Master and preside over the ceremony.

On the appointed day, Daoist priests were assembled, ceremonial insignia and ritual implements were laid out, and documents were issued in advance to inform the enlightened beings of the Three Realms and the gods above and below. Participants fasted and quieted their minds, acting with compassion. Three days before the full moon, the ceremony formally began with reverent offerings to the three hundred and sixty divisions of the holy beings. The purpose of the Jiao rite was to commend the deceased relatives of the family, near and distant, for deliverance. It also included the unattended dead throughout the realm and the deceased of households without adequate offerings; their souls were invited to the ritual grounds to receive offerings and prayers for deliverance. Whether close or distant in kinship, all were to benefit from the rite and find deliverance.

The ceremony continued for three days and two nights. Only at dawn on the second day after the full moon was the altar dismantled and the rite concluded. The sponsor devoted himself fully to this undertaking, expressing its purpose of compassion and filial devotion.

Let me try to explain the following. Between Heaven and Earth there is originally a single current of Qi, and all things share one source with me. As things change, this Qi expands and contracts, bringing forth different forms and making them distinct from one another. It also changes continually through the mutual generation and overcoming of the Five Phases—Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth—and the turning of the seasons. It renews itself day after day without end. This is the ordinary course of Qi as it moves and transforms.

Yet once people acquire physical form, they become attached to the belief that it belongs to “me.” They then fight and harm one another, giving rise to strength and weakness, rise and decline, until death brings it all to a halt. People do not understand that all things are governed by Qi and move in step with the times, each with its own allotted destiny and proper place. Once the movement of Qi begins, it has a beginning and an end. Gain and loss, survival and extinction, all arise from the workings of Heaven. Who can resist them? Those who act recklessly will fail; those who cling will lose; those who oppose the Dao of Heaven will perish, while those who follow it will flourish. Those who contend through clever schemes will end in hardship; those who contend through force will end in defeat. People cannot overcome the mandate of Heaven. It has always been so.

Today, the dynasty follows the course of Heaven and rules all the lands of Xia—that is, the Central Plains and the surrounding regions. From north to south, from Han Chinese lands to the northern territories, and from the Eastern Sea to the western frontier, places that once had different systems and followed different paths have all been brought under one rule. There are no longer two ways of governing the realm, and its people have all turned toward a single purpose. The calamities of past wars, slaughter, and forced dispersal have already been endured; we have also seen with our own eyes our rivals’ ancestral temples abandoned and their states destroyed. Compared with the present, scarcely one part in ten thousand of the past has survived. Set our circumstances beside those of others: we have gained peace and good fortune, our descendants have flourished, and we have received the honors and favor of noble rank. These are blessings bestowed by Heaven. When we think of our own good fortune, we also think of the misfortunes of people throughout the realm; when we think of our own families, we also think of the many who have lost theirs. Since all things share the same Qi and the same root, how could we not be moved?

Therefore, holding fast to a long-standing wish, I lay bare my sincere heart. Relying on the compassion of Xuanyuan—the Daoist honorific for Laozi—to succor all things, I have initiated the Great Yellow Register Retreat, a major Daoist purification ritual for praying for blessings and delivering the dead. With the aid of the vast power of the assembled perfected spirits, I pray that the Three Realms of celestial abodes will send down their light, illuminate dark places, and open a passage to the underworld. May all Qi be gathered in, so that souls long sunk away may return to their source; may the hundred spirits be brought together, so that the dead who have lost their support may be lifted up and delivered. May all beings together ride the harmonious Qi, and in the netherworld protect the dynasty’s foundations, so that chariot tracks and written characters may be unified, the calamities of war may cease, every region may follow the civilizing teaching, and the Four Seas may be brought under benevolence. This, too, is the greatest wish of a minister.

The ritual altar has been purified and fully prepared, and the rites have been conducted with solemnity. I have had these achievements carved in stone, hoping they may endure for a long time. I now set down the facts as they are. The inscription reads as follows:

All things flourish and grow, yet in the end they must return to their root. If the soul has nowhere to find refuge after death, it will wander without return; if the po, the vital energy attached to the body, has nothing to hold it in place, it too will find no resting place. Recording meritorious deeds in accordance with the established rites may allow good works to endure through the ages, so I set them down truthfully. The inscription reads:

All things flourish and grow, yet in the end they return to their root. If the soul has nowhere to find refuge after death, it will wander without return; if the po has nothing to hold it in place, it too will find no resting place. They cling to plants and trees, unaware of where they themselves will remain. How much worse when wars rage year after year, and precious people and things are slaughtered and destroyed, with scarcely one in ten thousand surviving. Terrified and disoriented, souls are driven from place to place, sinking into loss and exile. They move back and forth through the changes of life and death, often enduring long tribulations.

Now, through the merit of the ritual patron, who has taken the initiative with the highest benevolent intent, a Yellow Register Great Retreat (Huanglu dazhai), a Daoist purification ritual for praying for blessings and delivering the departed, is reverently established. Its ritual power and virtue are relied upon everywhere under Heaven, across all ages, among those near and far, close and distant. The scattered po return, and the wandering souls come back to their source. The cunning and concealed, the fierce and incorrigible spirits of the dead, all disperse and subside. All alike are embraced by the protection of this rite. The harmonizing Qi of Yin and Yang meets in the netherworld, and perhaps through this the world may draw closer to peace and order.

People live between Heaven and Earth as though taking temporary lodging in a lotus hut. Even if a lifetime reaches a hundred years, it passes as swiftly as a white horse darting past a gap in the door—gone in an instant. Nothing in the world remains unchanged forever. Some live for decades, some to a ripe old age, and some die young. Each person’s lifespan and bodily form have their appointed limits, though no one can know what they are; so it is every day. How many can escape the sway of birth, death, and transformation and enter the Great Stillness, that silent and boundless realm? Apart from this, who can strive to attain it?

Children are the descendants brought forth from their parents’ lives. How should they repay their parents in the face of life and death? While their parents are alive, they should honor and love them; after their parents die, they should mourn them. Offering sacrifices at the proper times and remembering them without forgetting are enduring rites.

Looking back on their parents’ lives, we see that for their own sake and for their children’s, they too were drawn by the world’s countless enticements and obscured by the seven emotions and six desires. Deluded thoughts troubled them continually, and they never ceased to act and strive. Their faults piled up like mountains, while their good deeds were few. Now their remains have returned to dust, and their souls have dispersed and vanished. If death brings utter extinction, with nothing continuing afterward, then if they still exist and have not perished, where are they? Are they here or elsewhere? Are they in the underworld, undergoing examination and judgment, or roaming the palaces of Heaven? Are they passing through the Six Paths—the various destinations of beings in the cycle of rebirth—and the Four Births (womb-born, egg-born, moisture-born, and transformation-born), or have they been reborn as human beings? Alas, none of this can be known.

Some people, with nothing to occupy them, ponder these questions. If a true sovereign, a divine ruler of the underworld and the human world, presides over all things, then the dead and the living dwell in different worlds, shrouded from one another and cut off; only the deep darkness lies between them and the human world. Alas, is this not heartbreaking?

Therefore, filial devotion must not be forgotten. We must remember our parents and repay the source of our lives, for their kindness is without end. When children are overcome with grief, they weep blood and are brokenhearted. Without the merit of the Mysterious Gate, what means could there be to deliver their departed parents? They should therefore offer their most sincere devotion, respectfully state their wishes, and pray that the High Perfected (exalted Daoist deities) show compassion and open the way to deliverance, so that the souls of the departed may ascend and suffer no more. This is also how sincere devotion can move the spirits.

Today, a certain person dedicates offerings to their deceased parents. On this fitting day for presenting offerings, they respectfully follow the liturgy and conduct a Yellow Register Great Retreat, a major Daoist purification ritual for delivering the spirits of the dead. They make offerings to a number of holy perfected beings, respectfully invite a certain ritual master to preside over the offering ceremony, and direct the Daoist assembly of the Mysterious Altar to present memorials and petitions and perform the rites in accordance with the liturgy. The ceremony begins on a certain day, when the official documents are issued, and concludes on another day, when the petitions and prayers are burned.

Having come to this assembly, one should purify oneself and enter the sacred altar. May each person give their wholehearted sincerity, and together deliver their departed parents. This is how filial children and humane people fulfill their duties and devote their hearts. The rites and ceremonial forms are now complete, and the ritual has been solemnly performed. The sincere intention to repay one’s parents’ kindness should be inscribed and passed down for later generations to read, and should also serve to encourage people to do good.

The inscription says:

Children serve their parents; even after their parents have died, they should honor them as they did in life. Through offerings and rites of deliverance, they present their parents with tearful, wholehearted devotion. Though their parents’ souls have gone to the underworld, they still remember to repay the source of their lives. This is the enduring way of human relations.

Come to this palace of immortals, enter the Jade Clarity, the pure realm where the exalted Daoist deities dwell. May pure abstinence dispel the turbid influences; may the perfected ones gather and the sages join in covenant. Clouds and rosy mists assemble, and the ritual master is complete in virtue. Compassion spreads like clouds, and the rain of the teaching falls like thunder. Through refinement in the Court of Fire, the departed cast off worldly burdens and ascend.

The Dao embraces everything, and there is nothing among the myriad things that does not embody it. All that lies within and beyond Heaven and Earth, great or small, is contained in the Dao. Thus Heaven, having attained the Dao, is clear and bright; Earth, having attained it, is at peace; the sun, moon, and stars, having attained it, shine; and the four seasons, having attained it, follow their course. When sages attain the Dao, they use it to transform the people and establish the guiding principles of society.

The Dao has no name or form, yet it gave rise to teachers who brought peace and instruction. Its subtle workings gradually became manifest, and its wondrous effects could be clearly seen. Once the numinous source of the Dao was set in motion, it could restore order to a disordered world. Though sages and masters of different ages appeared in different ways, each taught in accordance with the rise and decline of the times. The Dao itself neither increases nor diminishes; what changes is how it manifests or withdraws from the world. Since the creation of Heaven and Earth, events of remote antiquity have been difficult to record. From the middle antiquity onward, the scriptures have preserved the names of some who transmitted the Dao: in the age of Fuxi, Yuhuazi; in the age of Shennong, Dachengzi; in the age of the Yellow Emperor, Guangchengzi; in the age of Zhuanxu, Chijingzi; and in the age of Gaoxin, Lutuzi. In the time of Yao there was Wuchengzi, in the time of Shun Yinshouzi, in the time of Yu Zhenxingzi, and in the time of King Tang of Shang Xizezi. Their virtue is attested in the scriptures and commentaries. For generations they served as teachers to rulers, using the mysterious Dao to calm turmoil in the world and extending their instruction to all things. Their deeds are recorded in Daoist texts. Many others withdrew from worldly life and concealed their names; their number cannot be known.

At the transition between the Yin and Zhou dynasties, Laozi appeared in the world. He dissolved sharpness and contention, adapted to the times, and responded to change. With teachings grounded in emptiness, stillness, and depth, he guided people back to their source and explained how to govern the people in accord with the Way of Heaven. His two works and the commentaries associated with them have been handed down. The various schools of thought also developed in their own ways, their teachings flourishing like fine jade and noble trees. Those with pure aspirations might wear coarse cloth while cherishing precious virtue; those who admired Daoism might wear starry caps and carry books on their backs as they pursued learning. Scriptures and registers continued to branch into new categories, while precepts and institutions multiplied. Some studied the brewing of jade liquid and nectar, or ingested elixirs made from minerals; some refined the body, circulated Qi, and expelled the stale to draw in the fresh; others drove away evil, prayed for protection, drew talismans, and exorcised ghosts. These were urgent ways to meet the demands of worldly life and preserve body and mind. They could serve only as aids to cultivating the Dao, not as its root. Yet people came to neglect the teachings on returning to the root and source and restoring their original nature.

In recent times, the Perfected Chongyang was endowed with extraordinary gifts and received revelations from the spirits. He cut off entanglements and cast aside worldly concerns. He established the foundations of cultivation, swept away distracting branches and offshoots, and took purity and truth as his supports and gentleness and humility as his principles. He embodied the complete spirit of the Great Dao of Heaven and Earth and carried forward the essential teachings of the Daoist lineage through the ages. The Dao was transmitted to several disciples in the east, all of whom followed and practiced it. When they heard the teachings, they responded to one another, and the world was influenced in turn.

When the Sagely Ancestor of our dynasty first ascended the throne, he gave equal weight to Daoist and moral instruction. After the Perfected Changchun answered the summons and entered the court, Daoist institutions flourished even more. Disciples were often found within the monasteries, and visitors came in an unbroken stream to their gates. Later, the Perfected Qinghe inherited the teaching lineage and became a patriarch of Daoism. He received imperial favor and was regularly visited by officials; palaces and monasteries were built one after another throughout the regions. Even in remote districts, deep mountains, and great marshes, there were people of the Daoist tradition.

Not far north of Liting lies a village called Tunzhu. In nearby Fuli Township stands Nanchang Abbey, founded by the Great Master Baoguang. The master’s surname was Zhu, his given name Zhiming, and he was a local man; “Baoguang” was his Daoist name. Gifted and perceptive from a young age, he left worldly life to enter the Dao and became a disciple of Liu Zhifu, known as Baoyangzi. Liu Zhifu was an outstanding disciple of the Perfected Taigu. Master Zhu received instruction directly at his teacher’s side, advanced day by day, and eventually won his teacher’s approval.

In middle age, he returned to the homeland of his parents and inspected the old residence. He found the area deserted, with nothing left but the former foundations. The master then led his disciples to the waste ground, opened paths, and cleared the land, reclaiming about half a qing. Later, he received a document from Marquis Zhang, the official governing Mengzhou, granting him permission to undertake the work. The land was leveled, buildings erected, and craftsmen and materials gathered; within a few days, the abbey was complete. It included a Hall of the Most High and a hall for ritual assemblies, with solemn and pure images of the deities enshrined there, fulfilling the wishes of the local people. They chose an auspicious day to pay their respects, and incense was offered without fail morning and evening. An abbey helps the state prosper and its fortunes endure, while bringing the benefits of good works to people and living beings near and far. In this lies its purpose: to repay one’s origins, honor one’s teachers, return the kindness one has received, and cultivate virtue.

When the abbey had just been completed, the master asked the patriarch to give it a name. The patriarch inscribed “Nanchang” on its plaque. Once the work was done, the master withdrew from public notice and departed with those truths of the Dao that cannot be spoken. What has been handed down through the ages consists mostly of visible deeds, but deeds are not the root. The root of the Dao lies in calmness and stillness, emptiness and Wuwei (non-action). It is the even balance of Heaven and Earth and the standard of the Dao and De (Virtue/Power). It exists only in the understanding of those of our Daoist tradition and cannot be directly reached by the ears and eyes.

Thus, splendor and turmoil can be dispelled, and even withered things can be brought back to life. Human beings are not illusory transformations, nor are the myriad things illusory scenes. This is the teaching by which sages instruct the world and teachers pass the Dao to their disciples. To build a palace or monastery is to use visible forms to express reverence, and to pray and cultivate blessings for the state. Such work has profound meaning.

The monastery’s director, Liu, traveled a long way to ask me to record what had happened. He hoped that I would recount the achievements of those who came before and encourage those who would follow. I could not rightly refuse with words so shallow, and so I have recorded the facts as he requested. I therefore compose this inscription:

The immortals of past ages who cultivated the Dao and attained the Real followed the patterns of Heaven and Earth and lived in harmony with nature. They acted in step with the rise and decline of the times, choosing when to withdraw into seclusion and when to appear, while also submitting to Heaven’s will. Patriarch Chongyang (Wang Chongyang) founded this lineage, and Perfected Changchun (Qiu Chuji) brought it to greater prominence. They vigorously promoted the true spirit of Daoism and fully upheld the ordinances of the Orthodox Way.

Among their followers was a Daoist priest named Baoyang. His disciple, Baoguang, was a descendant of the Perfected of High Antiquity and was renowned as a Daoist throughout the land. He returned to his hometown to manage a Daoist temple and ultimately brought its construction to completion, surpassing its former scale. He sustained his Daoist work through blessings and virtue, and shouldered its responsibilities through his conduct. Whether traveling, residing, or resting, he never forgot to burn incense and cultivate the Dao. He prayed for the ruler’s longevity and the enduring fortune of the state, and for the people’s well-being and the dispelling of calamities. Morning and night, he was sincere and unwavering; the incense never ceased, and his heart was wholly devoted to the Dao.

Record of Caochui’s Encounter with the Perfected Ones

During the Qin dynasty, there was a man named Chaoyun. No one knew his family name or where he came from. To escape the labor service imposed by the First Emperor of Qin, who forced the people to build walls, he fled to the foot of the Taihang Mountains. Pushing aside thorny vines, he climbed steep peaks and pressed on until he reached a remote, lofty place so deep in the mountains that few people could get there. He ate wild fruit and drank from mountain streams. He built a nest among dense trees and shrubs, so people called him “Chaoyun,” or “Nest in the Clouds.”

He had escaped the crowded, troubled world and freed himself from worldly burdens, like a rabbit slipping from a snare. He made trees and stones his neighbors and deer and wild boar his companions. Grateful to have escaped the misery of being ordered about and oppressed by other people, he resolved to live freely and without restraint for the rest of his life. In time, he grew accustomed to a life of emptiness and stillness, and only then realized how slowly the days passed in the mountains. Wandering among clouds and rosy mists beyond the world of dust, he felt full of joy.

Looking back, he remembered how he had once been among the crowds, rushing about in the murky world of dust, as if he had been thrown into a boiling cauldron to be scorched and tormented. It had been unbearable. Now he chose to be cut off from the world, even if it meant walking mountain paths frequented by jackals, wolves, tigers, and leopards, or climbing into caves where monkeys made their homes. He wanted to find ease and peace, and to stop disturbing life in its natural state.

Sometimes he walked, sometimes stood, sometimes sat or lay down, and slowly looked around. The mountain forest was quiet, the water cool, the birds sang together, and the wild animals drew near. Plants and trees flourished, and every peak displayed its own rugged beauty. He felt that all the immortal realms and abodes of spirits in the world fell short of the scene before him. Often, with his hair loose, he sang among the pine shadows and grassy paths, or danced alone by the forest edge and stream, content and at ease.

After many years in seclusion, worldly thoughts gradually faded from his mind. He no longer knew how many dynasties had passed in the human world, or what separated him from the things around him. He ate huangjing root, admired the green forest, drank from clear springs, and sat on white stones. His mind and body drifted in a hazy state, as if half asleep and half awake.

At that time, an old immortal came to his side. The old man had green hair at his temples, square pupils, a fine beard, and his hair was tied into twin buns. He held a lingzhi mushroom in his hand and stood on auspicious clouds. Pointing at Chaoyun, he said, “You place too much importance on the forests, springs, and stones of the mountains, and are lost in them. You are no different from those who sink blindly into the world of dust. If you remain at peace in stillness for too long, eventually stillness will give rise to sorrow and turmoil. I will now give you the ‘uncarved, nameless simplicity’—the Dao in its natural state, without distinctions or shaping. Use it to free yourself from being bound by stillness, and to rise beyond Kunlun. Are you willing?”

Chaoyun immediately stood, bowed deeply, and knelt forward. “Please tell me what I should do.”

The old immortal ordered him to sit silently, close his eyes, and block his ears. Then he opened Chaoyun’s chest with a sharp blade, took out his heart, and put it back, applying a divine medicine to the wound. When he had finished, he said, “The uncarved, nameless simplicity is the foundation of the immortals and sages. I have placed it in your chest. Guard it well.”

Chaoyun then entered a profound state beyond words, without knowing why. After a long time, he seemed to wake from sleep, or to come out of a drunken haze. He looked around, but the old immortal had vanished. He felt his chest and found everything as it had been. Yet his heart suddenly seemed empty, clear, and alert; his spirit was refreshed, and a peaceful energy filled his whole body. His body and mind were at ease, the light of Heaven within him appeared naturally, and his pure, still nature came into view.

From then on, he was open and clear, relaxed and content. The vastness of the sea could not match the breadth of his mind, and the freedom of clouds and water could not match his ease. He understood the hidden gateways of the mysterious and opened the way to lucid wisdom. He gained an understanding that did not cling to outward forms, and grasped a wisdom that could not be expressed in words. He became one with Heaven and Earth and in harmony with the myriad things, without distinction between self and other. High and low, inner and outer, large and small, coarse and fine—all belonged to the same underlying nature.

Thus, he could dance in step with nature’s workings, chant poems without sound, play a flute without holes, and pluck a zither without strings. He sang melodies that transcended life and death. The sounds seemed to shake Heaven and Earth, though people in the world could not hear them. He could also utter the cries of dragons and phoenixes, making cranes dance and luan birds soar. He traveled by means of light and shadow, emptiness, wind, and Qi. He could do all these things, yet never pursued them deliberately.

After he had lived in the mountains for a long time, woodcutters and hunters occasionally saw him and thought him extraordinary. His reputation gradually spread, and people slowly opened up the mountain paths. Some who were interested in the arts of the Dao came to visit him.

A scholar named Rong Bohua heard about Chaoyun. Undeterred by the rugged mountain paths, he made a special journey to see him. He brought several people with him. When he saw Chaoyun, thin and haggard, he reproached him: “A great man, learned and full of spirit, ought to stand out from the crowd and benefit the people. He should establish achievements and win a fine name, enter and leave the court, and enjoy honor and wealth. Everyone wants to rise above others; better to be the beak of a chicken than the tail of an ox. Yet you hide, anxious and constrained, in remote mountains and ravines. You are worse off than a frog at the bottom of a well. How can you bear it?”

Chaoyun looked up at the sky, sighed, and slowly replied, “Have you not seen the flow of Qi throughout Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang opening and closing, clouds and rain changing, the sun and moon shining, wind and thunder moving, and frost and dew causing things to grow or wither? Each has its own function, and all follow the Dao of Heaven. Mountains are still, rivers flow; fire is hot, metal is hard, trees stand upright, and stones are solid. Birds fly, beasts walk, fish swim, and insects move. Their natures differ, yet each arises from the Qi of Earth and has its own place. Each has received its own allotment, and none can take another’s place. There is no need to resent the allotment one has received, and the changes that renew themselves day by day cannot be predicted. If people use their limited knowledge to make reckless calculations and try to force things through sheer strength, how could they go beyond their proper place and obtain everything they desire? That is what it means to act heedlessly, without understanding how things ordinarily work.

“Things as fine as an autumn hair and things as great as Mount Tai, the long-lived Peng Zu and those who die young, wealth and poverty—all are allotments received by each. From the perspective of the Dao, things with form and fixed limits are empty in an instant. So size, longevity and early death, wealth and poverty, high and low rank have no essential difference. Within me is something not confined by size, form, or fixed limits, and untouched by longevity or early death, wealth or poverty, high or low rank. It will not be destroyed even after countless ages. This too is the allotment I have received. What could I possibly resent?”

Bohua said, “A person of talent who puts his abilities to work in the world can protect others. As things stand, you are of no use to the world; you are simply a useless person.”

Chaoyun replied, “You see only the hardship of being useless, and do not know that usefulness can also bring harm. Living creatures are controlled by people for the sake of food and bodily needs, and live in misery. Horses are driven on long journeys, and oxen are led along under heavy loads. Reins are fitted at the front and whips strike from behind. All because people give them fodder, their lives in their natural state are damaged.

“That is why the clever are often exhausted and the wise often worried. A straight tree is the first to be cut down, and sweet spring water is the first to be drawn up. A lacquer tree is tapped because it is useful; a cinnamon tree is cut down because it can be eaten. Oil is burned away because it gives light, and charcoal is used up because it burns. Early-ripening grain is harvested because it can be eaten, and birds are caged because they can sing. All these things, because they seem useful in the world, cannot preserve the life that is natural to them.”

Bohua asked, “Being useless may have its advantages, but how does it help you preserve life?”

Chaoyun said, “What the people of the world call preserving life is simply satisfying the body and the appetite. They know only the conditions needed to sustain life, not what truly governs life. What governs life is spirit: while spirit remains, life continues; when spirit departs, a person dies. People crave longevity and pursue nourishment, yet damage their spirit, all to gratify the nose and mouth with fragrance and flavor, and the ears and eyes with sound and color. The six desires, seven emotions, three poisons, five defilements, and all manner of deluded thoughts and crooked desires harm the spirit. When the spirit is damaged, it departs; when it departs, the body dies. Once the body has died, how can life be discussed? What the people of the world call preserving life may not truly preserve it, because they cannot let go of pursuing usefulness and enjoyment.”

Bohua asked again, “What is the use of being useless?”

“Have you never seen still water grow clear, or a mirror reflect things when its surface is free of dust? When something comes, the mirror reflects it. It responds without keeping anything; when things leave, it does not hold on to them. It reflects without clinging to reflection, and functions without deliberately seeking to be useful. This is the ‘use of being useless.’ Because it does not deliberately seek to be useful, the body is not wearied and can remain at peace. Because it does not cling to what it sees, its brightness is not damaged and remains constant.

“If the mind is always intent on making deliberate use of itself, it becomes like someone unable to see with the eyes, hear with the ears, speak with the mouth, smell with the nose, grasp with the hands, or walk with the feet—someone whose whole body is stiff and helpless, as if paralyzed by wind. My mind does not cling to being useful, yet every part of my body can function naturally. Heaven acts through Wuwei, and the myriad forms still move on their own. Earth does not force things, yet the myriad things are born and transformed naturally. With Wuwei, nothing is left undone; without deliberate thought, nothing is left unanswered. Heaven and Earth communicate, and creation and transformation come together, beyond the perception of even spirits and deities. Large and small, coarse and fine—all are contained within my nature, which has never been destroyed through countless ages. Why, then, would I make dust, dregs, and illusory forms my goals?”

At last Chaoyun said, “Go. Your understanding is shallow. Do not disturb me.” Bohua was bewildered and stood with his mouth open, unable to speak. Only after a long while did he take his leave.

The Dao can flourish in the world, and the world can flourish through the Dao. When the Dao and the world promote one another, people can share in the wondrous teachings, forget greed for private gain and acts of struggle and theft, and grow more virtuous day by day. They can keep to their proper place and preserve their lives, no longer violating their station or disrupting the natural order. Would this not bring all under Heaven close to peace and stability? Is the Dao’s benefit to the world really so slight?

At a time of dynastic change, when every undertaking was being renewed, Perfected Changchun was summoned to court. He later established himself in the Yanran region, reopening the lineage and texts of the Daoist tradition’s secret transmission. People throughout the land who longed for Daoism came in great numbers. Among them was Zhang Gong, a man of extraordinary purpose who could accomplish what ordinary people could not. His name was Zhixin, his courtesy name Xiaoyaozi, and he was from Zhangchuan.

By nature he was resolute and regarded worldly entanglements lightly. During the turmoil of the southern migration in the Zhenyou era, people gathered into armed groups and raided one another. Fearing that the disorder would reach him, the Master considered even his own person a great burden. He left behind a comfortable life, withdrew into remote mountains and valleys, and sought a way to cultivate the Dao and transcend the world, but for a long time he found none.

Later, he heard that Master Wang of Qiyun was teaching the Dao at Pan Mountain and that many people had come to study with him. He traveled a thousand li to seek him out, carefully observing Master Wang’s practice and teachings, and was ultimately accepted. After some time, he was admitted among the disciples and paid his respects with solemnity, never growing lax as he delved into the teachings’ subtleties. After taking leave of his teacher, he descended the mountain and lived in a valley, leading a simple life like a quail and sustaining himself on plants and grain. The state of mind he had reached was beyond what the person he once was, attached to the self, could have attained.

He made the world his dwelling and regarded his body as a temporary inn. He wore coarse clothes tied with a grass cord; dust covered his face and his hair was unkempt. Through the changing seasons, his way of life remained the same. From beginning to end, his resolve never wavered. He looked like an ordinary person, yet was not bound by worldly emotions. In his eyes, the comings and goings of worldly things and the turmoil of human affairs were like sparrows and mosquitoes passing before him; he never gave them a thought. Without inner realization, how could anyone live this way? Perhaps by quieting the mind and guarding the Shen (spirit), withdrawing from notice and cultivating in seclusion, he sought the subtle principles and grasped the fundamental truth that has endured since antiquity. Looking only at appearances, people saw a life of hardship that ordinary folk could scarcely endure. How could they glimpse his profound attainment or truly understand him?

In the autumn of the dinghai year, on the seventh month, the Master walked to Chanyuan. The local people saw that his bearing was extraordinary and regarded him with solemn respect, even venerating him as though he were divine. When Magistrate Zhao met him, he sincerely invited him to stay and arranged for him to live in the temple of the Perfected Lord Lingxian, often sending him food. From then on, more and more people came to visit and follow him, beyond counting. His disciples numbered in the hundreds. They usually practiced quiet sitting and spoke little, yet some came in humility and left with much to gain.

Director Cai admired the Master’s character. He offered land beside his own temple, marked out its boundaries, and selected a separate site for a residence where the Master could live. Commissioner Wang praised the rigor of his conduct and provided funds to help with construction, and the Daoist temple gradually took shape. First they built the main hall and enshrined the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing), the three highest deities revered in Daoism. Then they built a lecture hall and kitchen to receive Daoists devoted to quiet cultivation, and arranged living quarters so that this blessed site had the facilities it needed. Once construction was complete, the community petitioned the Patriarch Perfected to inscribe a plaque and bestow the name “Shenqing.”

Let us consider this: people establish their conduct and way of life through the Dao, while the Dao is made manifest through people’s efforts to promote it. When the Dao is understood within the heart, it appears in one’s words and actions. Thus, when Kangcangzi was in the state of Lu, the people held him in such reverence that they seemed ready to build a shrine to him and offer sacrifices. When Lie Yukou went to the state of Qi, even those who sold fermented drinks competed to express their respect, leaving accounts of their admiration for him.

If one preserves one’s own nature and brings it into accord with the nature of all things under Heaven, nothing will be beyond one’s understanding. If one keeps the heart at peace and harmonizes it with all things under Heaven, nowhere will be beyond one’s reach. From this we can see that one who can move Heaven and Earth, respond to ghosts and spirits, pass through water and fire, and penetrate metal and stone—whose influence reaches things both great and small—can surely move people as well. Who would not love and respect someone who meets others with a peaceful spirit?

Master Zhang Xiaoyao may be said to have possessed these virtues. His disciple Zhao Zhiwan recounted his teacher’s aspirations and conduct, and recalled the places where he had lived and the traces he had left behind. He planned to have these things carved on a stone stele so that his teacher’s deeds would endure, and so he asked me to write an account. I had intended to decline, but in the end I recorded the matter as he had related it.

Recorded on the twentieth day of the first spring month, in the year Tai Sui was in Qiangyu and Dahuangluo.

End of Volume Eight of the Collected Works of Yunshan.