《原阳子法语》

The Yuanyangzi Fayu is a Daoist work of the Ming dynasty, written by Zhao Yizhen and compiled by Liu Yuanran, in two juan. The extant base text comes from the Taixuan division of the Zhengtong Daozang. This is the opening of the upper juan, which names Zhao Yizhen as the author and Liu Yuanran of Zhanggong as the compiler. “Huandan Jinye Ge bing Xu” is the title of the piece, referring to a song-formula on the cultivation of Neidan (internal alchemy) together with its preface.

The Dao (the Way) converges within emptiness and non-being; from the beginning there are not two different Daos. Cultivation is divided into Neidan (internal alchemy) and Waidan (external alchemy) only because the conditions people encounter differ and the efficacy of practice differs slightly, yet the Dao ultimately realized is the same.

What is called Neidan means that a person’s own nature and Dharma-body are originally complete. They need not be sought from outside, for they are natural and authentic. In cultivation one must gather in emotion and desire, return the mind and Shen (spirit) to original nature, and then return original nature to its source. Although there is action in cultivation, it issues from Wuwei (non-action); although one speaks of realizing something, true realization does not cling to what is realized. When practice reaches the completion of the elixir embryo and the transformation of Jing (essence) and Shen, one can leave the mortal body and ascend to the True. An oral formula says: “The one numinous true nature is called the Golden Elixir; the four provisionals serve as the furnace and are refined into a pill.” Here the “Golden Elixir” (jindan) refers to a person’s true nature, and the “four provisionals” refer to the four great elements that temporarily assemble to form the body. It is also called the “True One” and the “Mysterious One,” and it is also called Neidan.

What is called Waidan means that the ordinary body of form is illusory and subject to decay, so one must rely on external medicine to transmute it and make it true. In the practice of ingestion and refinement, one gathers the essential radiance of the sun and moon and seizes the creative transformations of heaven and earth. Once the elixir enters the mouth, it is said, emotion and desire vanish at once, bone and flesh dissolve, form and Shen both become mysterious and wondrous, and one can ascend in broad daylight into the Jade Clarity (Yuqing). An oral formula says: “Wood-liquid originally issues from cinnabar; metal refines the wood-liquid and restores the body of the elixir. The elixir transforms again into metal, and the metal is liquefied. This is the reverted elixir and the golden liquor, also called Waidan.” This describes the process by which Waidan is refined and transformed.

Neidan and Waidan each further distinguish “inner” and “outer.” In Neidan cultivation, gathering in emotion and desire and returning to original nature is to begin with external work; the return of original nature to its source is internal work. When original nature is still, emotion and desire have dispersed, and one no longer clings to movement or stillness, there is no longer any distinction of inner and outer. In Waidan cultivation, the “wood-liquid” within the body is the root, and one relies on “true lead” coming from outside to control and refine it. Once the inner medicine has been refined, the outer medicine may be set aside, and there is likewise no distinction of inner and outer. This is the inner and the outer of which Neidan and Waidan each speak.

The inner scenery is subtle, without form and without name. Sagely teachers find it difficult to explain directly, and can only borrow the names and images of Waidan as metaphors in order to clarify the principle and make it easy to understand. It is therefore also called the “reverted elixir of golden liquor.” If later students cling to these names and images, they will instead give rise to doubt. Some think that, since the Dao of the elixir is divided into inner and outer, the branching paths seem many, and they do not know which is correct. In fact the Dao is like a great city. If people coming from the four directions take narrow paths and winding roads, the journey is long and they may even lose the way; if they take the level and proper road, then whether they enter by the eastern gate or by the southern, western, or northern gate, they all arrive in the city at last. What is there to dispute among the gateways on the four sides?

In Buddhism, some enter the Dao by reciting the Buddha’s name, and some by investigating Chan. After they have inquired into many gong’an and reached the place of awakening, the distinction between Chan investigation and Buddha-recitation is laid aside. In Daoism, some advance by cultivating Neidan, and some by refining Waidan. Although there are three thousand six hundred methods, once the Dao is realized one no longer clings to the methods of cultivation. Neither gong’an nor methods are things to be possessed in the end. It is like forgetting the bamboo fish trap once the fish is caught, and forgetting the net once the rabbit is caught. How can differing paths be grounds for judging one another right or wrong?

In ancient times the Celestial Worthies expounded the teaching in eighteen thousand chapters, and the World-Honored One preached more than five thousand scrolls of Jing (scripture/classic); this seems too prolix. When the Sovereign Lord of Eastern Florescence opened his teaching, he alone manifested the Dao of Quanzhen (Complete Perfection), while Bodhidharma came from the west and established no written words; this seems too terse. Yet once one is awakened, the Dao is everywhere, and there is neither prolixity nor terseness. Once one is lost, dark paths are everywhere, and the more one pursues, the farther one departs from the Dao. How, then, can one choose what to adopt or reject solely by whether it is prolix or terse?

Some people do not understand the Dao of the elixir and recklessly interpret the elixir Jing. Citing the Yijing (Classic of Changes)—“One Yin and one Yang, this is called the Dao,” and “The Dao of Qian forms the male; the Dao of Kun forms the female”—they compare the bodies of men and women to heaven and earth and to the cauldron and furnace, and take male and female Yin-Yang as the medicine. In truth the great Dao originally has no image of male and female. When immortal teachers use images as metaphors, they are explaining the mutual relation of pre-heaven Yin and Yang; they do not mean the post-heaven physical forms of men and women. An oral formula says: “What can be seen cannot be used; what can be used cannot be seen.” This is precisely the medicine of which Neidan speaks: the true medicine cannot be seen, and what can be seen is not what is used.

A poem of earlier generations says: “Each thing originally has its own truth; each body further contains a Qian and a Kun. Know that the myriad things are complete in me—would one let the Three Powers set their root elsewhere?” Immortal teachers also say: “Within one’s own body there is a husband and wife.” And again: “One husband and one wife take charge of six children.” All these sayings mean that the creative work of Yin and Yang is already fully present within a single person’s body and need not be sought from outside.

Those who realized the Dao through Neidan may be cited as evidence. The Perfected Lord Yousheng entered Mount Taihe to cultivate at the age of seven and later ascended in flight. The Celestial Master (Tianshi) Xujing likewise entered the Palace of Highest Clarity to cultivate at the age of seven and later became an immortal by the method of deliverance through the corpse. At that time, from where did they obtain the medicine? Clearly the medicine is sufficient in oneself and is not sought from another person. If one clings to perverse views, one will only grow farther from the Dao.

Documents of Keyi (liturgy), such as the Yellow Register and the Red Writ, were originally established for householders, so that they might restrain desire and nurture the body. Later people, however, used them to indulge desire and harm the body. This truly calls for caution.

The great medicine of Waidan is likewise not obtained from some person outside the body. The five metals and eight minerals of the world are all formed things generated by heaven and earth; they are not what Waidan truly employs. The elixir medicine is originally formless. From things that have form one extracts their Qi (vital energy) and liquid, so that the formless manifests as form. An oral formula says: “What has image is unfit to be a companion; substance born from the substanceless is called the reverted elixir.” Worldly people do not understand and so dismiss it as a deviant side path and revile it. This only brings guilt upon them, even to the point of falling into the Uninterrupted Hell.

Some hold that the mind is the Dao and that the Dao has no image, whereas Waidan says that the formless can give birth to the formed; the two seem unrelated. Others cling to external methods of refining and fear that they will thereby fall into empty nothingness. The art of medicine may make the point. A person may be invaded by wind pathogen or bitten by a dog. Although the injury lies in the physical form and in Qi and blood, it may lead to pain in the heart, confusion of spirit and mind, mad raving, and even the forgetting of things. Others become unsettled in mind and Shen, and fall into madness, through fright, worry, or excessive thought. If external medicine is used to regulate the body’s Qi and blood, it can in fact settle the mind and Shen. If the two were wholly unrelated, how could such an effect occur?

This is because, before Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) had divided, the three were an undifferentiated unity. Once movement and stillness arise, Yin and Yang separate, the myriad things take form, and each is endowed with Taiji. Principle and breath depend upon each other; the myriad things are all rooted in the Dao; the formed and the formless constrain one another. Hence there is this effect. Although refining Waidan is a matter of deliberate action, after the elixir is ingested one need not undertake any further separate practice. The bodily form returns to the Great Nothingness, Jing and Shen return to the Great Stability, one reverts to the undifferentiated beginning of Taiji, and one unites in truth with the Dao.

When a person receives life, one is endowed with the Qi of Yin and Yang. Heaven and earth form the body, and one is limited by the two Qi and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). After the Dao is realized, one can master Yin and Yang, hold command over heaven and earth, and transcend the two Qi and the Five Phases. The bodily form can then no longer be destroyed, nor will Jing and Shen pass away. It is like gold: once smelted from the ore, it can no longer be forced back into the mine.

Some still do not believe that the fleshly body can ascend and be transformed. When marvels are measured by ordinary understanding, doubt is indeed hard to avoid. Yet the world contains many transformations. A dragon may change into a tiger and can mount the sky; pickled amaranth may change into a soft-shelled turtle; when the vermilion herb is split open, a human form can be seen; and some things can even divide Jing and Shen and disperse the bodily form. An old maple can change into a feathered immortal, and rotten wheat can change into butterflies: these are insentient things becoming sentient. A worthy woman can change into chaste stone, and a mountain earthworm can change into a lily: these are sentient things becoming insentient. Earth, wood, metal, and stone each also have their own Jing-souls and dispositions. By comparison, the transformations of insects, beasts, grasses, and trees are not strange. The human being is the most numinous of the myriad things. The bodily form corresponds to heaven and earth, and by cultivating the Dao one can join in harmony with the Three Ultimates, already possessing the foundation for becoming an immortal. The elixir can skillfully seize the powers of creation and harmonize heaven and earth, and a person can ingest it. Thus the turbid body melts away like ice and snow: form is transformed into Qi, Qi into Shen, and Shen returns to emptiness and non-being. In an instant one transcends the ordinary and enters the sacred realm. This is precisely the foundation of the highest vehicle of cultivating the Dao.

In the past, the Most High Lord Lao (Taishang Laojun) once sought instruction from the Unsurpassed Primordial Sovereign (Wushang Yuanjun). At the very outset he said: if those who study the Dao (the Way) truly wish to become immortals, yet do not ingest the reverted elixir and golden liquor, they merely suffer in vain, and will also be assailed by pathogenic influences such as cold, heat, wind, and damp; when that time comes, even the Director of Destinies cannot save them. One ought to refine the divine elixir and safeguard one’s own person early. Hardship lasts only for a time; once the elixir is achieved, one may become an immortal—and where would such joy ever end?

From the Zhou, Qin, Han, Jin, Tang, and Song onward, among the great immortals who attained the Dao and ascended to heaven, there was not one who did not do so by this method. The places where they once cultivated—elixir cliffs, elixir chambers, elixir wells, elixir springs, elixir furnaces, and medicine mortars—can still be seen today; the writings they left behind, such as the Taiqing Danjing (Scripture of the Elixir of Great Clarity), the Baopu Huoji (Fire Record of Baopu), and the Caoyi Gesong (Songs and Hymns of the Grass-Robed), can still be consulted. To judge this path by the standards of ordinary arts and techniques, and therefore refuse to believe in it, is like a tiny insect in a vinegar jar that does not know how vast heaven and earth are.

What is lamentable is that some intelligent people are trapped in obstinate empty talk, or slip into unrestrained self-indulgence; some of shallow insight cling to prejudice and enter side doors and divergent paths. Some have only just entered the mysterious gate, yet, not knowing from whom to seek instruction and inquiry, simply sit in barren stillness; some stand for long periods, some practice the circulation of Qi (vital energy), and some devote themselves solely to visualization. They cannot yet truly gather in the mind, yet they forcibly suppress it, and in time they may become frantic and disordered. There are also those who act in ignorant recklessness and contend in strength and ferocity; those who can only speak in grand phrases and show off through clever argument; those who, knowing only a little, boast of their ability and look down on the ordinary world; those who, without truly having inquired and awakened, found their own schools and have others venerate them; and those who steal secret texts of cultivation, pass themselves off as teachers, and deliberately confuse the ignorant.

There are, further, those who speak only of fasting and purification, those who learn to abstain from grain, and those who prize strange appearance or dress. Such practices may be esteemed in the mundane world, yet they are not necessarily connected with attaining the Dao. Among the ancients, some managed their livelihoods and acquired property, yet later suddenly ascended and became immortals; others drank wine and ate meat, and before long attained the Dao and departed the world. This was because, in their hearts, they had transcended the mundane and cultivated in seclusion amid the dust of the world. Their attainment is not something ordinary people can see through—how, then, can one judge solely by outward conduct?

Alas, when the principle can neither be made clear nor put into practice, no situation is more serious than this. Some, without discrimination, remark: “So-and-so fell ill from studying the Dao; so-and-so cultivated without achievement; so-and-so died from ingesting elixir medicines.” They then conclude that the Dao cannot be learned, and even regard speaking of cultivating the Dao as shameful. Yet they do not know that, from ancient times to the present, those who have attained the Dao and become immortals are too many to count. To take those who strayed onto wrong paths, those whose practice came to nothing, and those who acted in ignorant recklessness, and treat them all as the outcome of cultivating the Dao, is like never eating again because one once choked. They know only that matters are thus; they do not know the reasons why.

There are four difficulties in visiting teachers while cultivating the Dao (the Way), and ten conditions for seeking to advance in the Dao; these one must know. What are the four difficulties of seeking instruction? First, the roads are perilous and long, the rivers and lakes are full of wind and waves, and the human world is vast, so that it is hard to find a teacher one may consult. Second, cold and heat assail the body, and clothing, food, and daily life often leave one in hardship; before one’s studies have succeeded, one may also meet with unexpected disaster. Third, those who do not understand the Dao pass themselves off as lofty masters, while those with true knowledge live in silence; students are not yet good at judging people and often enter the wrong teacher’s gate. Fourth, even if one meets a true teacher, if one’s own aspiration and character are not yet enough to win trust, it is hard to follow and learn; and even if one is permitted to follow, what the teacher transmits may not be complete, so that by the time learning is accomplished, one is often already advanced in years. These are the difficulties of seeking instruction.

There are ten foundations for seeking to advance in the Dao. The first is to meet a true teacher early and clearly discern the correct Dao. The second is truly to possess De (Virtue/Power) and upright conduct in accord with the will of Heaven. The third is to make a vast vow to bring relief to all living beings. The fourth is to rely on deep merit and good fortune, so that one may hope to avoid obstacles and demonic disturbance. The fifth is to have the root capacity for cultivating the Dao and to meet a suitable opportunity. The sixth is to associate with fellow cultivators of the immortal Dao whose aspirations and conduct agree with one’s own. The seventh is to leave the turmoil of the dusty world and dwell in a pure and quiet place. The eighth is to be temperate in food and drink and regular in one’s daily routine. The ninth is to be careful in speech and diligent in practice, so as not to invite criticism. The tenth is to serve the divine perfected with reverence, remaining sincere and unremitting from beginning to end. These are the fundamentals of advancing in the Dao, and they are especially hard to achieve. If even one item is lacking among the four difficulties of seeking instruction and the ten conditions for advancing in the Dao, it is very hard to attain complete accomplishment.

Tao Yiju’s Dengzhen Yinjue sets forth in detail the prohibitions and precepts of cultivation. The Tiantai Zhiguan and Guifeng’s Xiuzheng Yi also explain the demonic occurrences one may meet in practice, teaching people to prepare in advance for the unexpected. Some people today have not sought instruction enough, yet they are eager for quick success, often because they do not understand their own capacities and conditions.

Even if someone fulfills everything required for cultivating the Dao, that person may still not escape calamity. The Buddha Shijiawen once suffered the severing of his limbs, and the ancient Buddha Dingguang was once tattooed and banished to Nan’an. Yan Hui died young; Zilu was chopped into mincemeat; Gongye Chang suffered imprisonment; Boniu fell ill. Zhang Guo was once beaten by King Zhou; Guo Pu was executed by Wang Dun; Perfected Ziyang three times underwent penal servitude and tattooing; Perfected Qing’an was in the end hindered by affairs of tea. Although they did not change their resolve because of hardship, nor take life and death to heart, the fleshly body in the end cannot avoid dissolution, and fixed karmic retribution is hard to escape. The Jing (scripture/classic) says: “Walking overland, one does not avoid rhinoceroses and tigers; entering the ranks of an army, one does not avoid weapons.” This speaks of those who have already accomplished the Dao. How could it be something a student of the Dao can do at once?

It is said that Perfected Bai of Ziqing wandered for nine years and, only after every hardship, met a true teacher; after another twenty years, he was at last able to lodge in the residence of Chancellor Jin in Hongdu, where he cultivated in secret for ten years and finally completed the work and departed as an immortal. Even the immortals, buddhas, and sages of former ages underwent all kinds of trials—how much more so ordinary seekers? Yet one must not, merely because the way seems difficult, lightly abandon one’s aspiration. To study the way of immortals and buddhas is like a Confucian hoping to become a sage: one should only steady the mind and cultivate diligently. Whether one succeeds is decided by the will of Heaven and need not be forced.

Once this profound principle has entered the ear, it becomes a seed for later advancing toward the sagely Dao. Thus Perfected Guan Yin said: “If one hears the principle in the morning, one may die in the evening without regret.” The meaning is that even if a student has not yet reached the highest realm of realizing the great Dao, compared with those who study only worldly knowledge, or who have never studied at all, there is already a great difference.

I am honored that Fanghu (the name of an immortal realm) has praised Daoism, and that a Zhenren (Perfected Person) has moreover written to me in his own hand, citing and explaining words mysterious and hidden, which speak of the Great Reversion in Waidan (external alchemy: the art of refining medicines by firing them in furnace and cauldron, in pursuit of longevity and immortality). I, Yizhen, also once took as my teacher Daoist Master Li of Taiqing (Grand Clarity), and it has already been thirty years since I received this teaching, yet I have rarely spoken of it. Now I have once more the chance to read and recite it, and so I recall the words of Zhichuan, Zhenren Ge (Ge Hong): “I received from Lord Zheng the Scripture (jing) of the Reverted Elixir and Golden Liquid, and twenty years have now passed. My household is poor; not even a single shoulder-load of grain has been laid by, and I am too destitute to buy the medicines. Although I know the method of refining the elixir, I cannot put it into practice, and am no different from one who does not know.” These are truly words to draw a long sigh. Reading to this point, I am deeply moved, and I write this preface, thereby giving voice to a warning and also dispelling the doubts of those who put their faith in this Dao (the Way). I have therefore also composed the Song of the Reverted Elixir and Golden Liquid, in reply to the one who came to visit under orders. The Zhenren’s learning is profound and his experience rich; he dwells immersed in the mystery of the Dao. I hope you may find a moment to read it and bestow your instruction—this is what I look for.

The song says:

The old immortal in the palace of Fanghu sits quietly upon a rush cushion, and within the chamber it is as if a bright white light is born. The vast and boundless world can be gathered into what is minute; he comprehends the root of the mysterious and, in deep stillness, guards the One. Formerly, in Nanchang, I met one who had attained the Dao, and once heard him tell the secret of elixir-refining; he said this method can reach through to the true Dao. Rolled up or spread forth, creation returns to primordial chaos; the coupling of Yin-Yang is accomplished in but an instant.

The cauldron is not the cauldron ordinarily spoken of, nor is the furnace the furnace ordinarily spoken of; the opening and closing and the transformations of Heaven and Earth all follow one and the same principle. Fire is the medicine, and the medicine is fire; the rising and setting of sun and moon are not separate from one another either. The green-robed Maiden of the Stamens and the White-silk Lad (names in the terminology of elixir-refining for Yin-Yang, lead and mercury, and other medicinal substances) join as matchmakers within the bridal chamber, as if brought into being by the mingling of smoke and vapor. To give birth to being out of non-being is the root of elixir-refining; this is true lead, the matrix of Heaven and Earth. After mercury has been subdued and refined into the elixir, the lead must still be cast aside, just as, once the child has grown up, the mother returns to the dust. When the elixir is completed it transforms into the Golden Liquid; ingest it, and one may ascend to the heavenly court in broad daylight.

Why, already white-haired, does one still remain in the dusty world? Only because there are not means enough, and one cannot seek the medicines and refine the elixir. In the end one ought to enter the quiet chamber and regulate the fire-phases and the tally-intervals (the control, in elixir-refining, of the force of the fire and of the timing); when the work is accomplished, one mounts a crane and departs in the company of the immortal of Fanghu.

Gatha of the True Dao Returning to the One

Respectfully offered in reply to the Feathered Guest of the Golden Gate, the Perfected One of Attaining Emptiness, Pure Whiteness, and Singular Unity, Venerable Master Fang of Fanghu, who extols the teaching.

The supreme Dao (the Way) manifests its true nature out of form and Qi (vital energy). It establishes the Three Powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—and nourishes the myriad things. At its most subtle, no trace can be found; at its most vast, it has no boundary. Look forward, and no beginning can be seen; look back, and no end. The Dao circulates everywhere and is embodied in all things—who can comprehend it completely? It shows itself alone, like a solitary peak rising, with nothing to screen it.

The Dao lets the senses—eye, ear, nose, tongue, and the rest—each perform its own function, yet it is not entangled by notions of arising and ceasing, completion and decay. An offhand point of the hand reveals the Three Bodies (a Buddhist term for the Dharma Body, the Reward Body, and the Transformation Body); though one speak a thousand sentences, a single word may still fail to say it all. Fuxi, the legendary sovereign of high antiquity, silently accorded with the Great Dao and opened primordial chaos. He set standards for the people and made plain the goodness endowed by nature. Before written words and the images of the hexagrams appeared, the Classic of Changes had no concrete form. Wuji, the formless and imageless origin of which Daoism speaks, lies outside the circle of the diagram of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), yet it is not empty nothingness. Looking up to the patterns of Heaven and down upon the myriad things, affairs and principles interpenetrate in the finest detail; the hawk flying in the sky and the fish leaping in the water likewise manifest the Great Dao with clear evidence.

Do not deliberately forget, nor deliberately force growth; guard the inner mind with care. Be single-minded, concentrated, and pure, and hold to the center and the upright. If utmost sincerity never ceases, where is there a place one cannot come to rest? In accord with the De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth, cultivation reaches its utmost.

The Zhenren, one who has attained the Dao, knows how to follow Heaven’s mandate and values “feeding on the Mother”—drawing nourishment from the root of the Dao. Attaining emptiness and observing the return—making the mind and Shen (spirit) empty and still, and watching the myriad things revert to the root—is the foundation of refining the elixir and cultivating the Dao. To master, by force of presence, the fierce nature within the heart is like subduing the tiger and the dragon; to harmonize body and mind with stability and wisdom is like employing civil and martial means together. Gather in emotion and desire so that original nature returns to the primordial beginning; let go even of the thought of the Primordial One, and at last forget even the thought of letting go. Embrace the Three Realms—the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm—and enter emptiness; shatter even emptiness, and reach a state beyond compare. Though one pass through the calamities of countless kalpas, the luminous mind-nature remains bright and unextinguished, shining upon past and present.

Practitioners of the Buddhist gate have not yet thoroughly grasped the intent of “The Sign of Virtue Complete” in the Zhuangzi. They raise by itself the question whether a dog has Buddha-nature, and answer with “nothing.” The ball of doubt congeals until no breath can pass, like first undergoing a great death before one can revive. Suddenly awakening to the “meaning come from the West”—the true intent of the Buddha-dharma, as Chan speaks of it—one is certain that the other is precisely oneself. When the mud-ox becomes the lion’s roar, one no longer keeps company with the myriad dharmas. Perfection is fully present everywhere; whoever dares to bear this realm is a true person of great stature.

Sages, worthies, immortals, and Buddhists, though each establishes a separate gate, arrive in the end at one and the same path. Beyond the thorough awakening of body and mind there is no further mystery. One ought early, and in earnest, to investigate and seek genuine realization. In the boundless expanse of Heaven and Earth, where can a true teacher be found? Who, misreading the mysterious Jing (scriptures and classics), can understand the true meaning within them? People crowd onto side gates and minor paths, clinging to “nothing” or bewildered by “something,” and at last sink into delusion. Before the ball of doubt has opened, they claim already to have awakened to the Dao; poring over old books again and again, they merely make them matter for talk. With nothing but fluent speech to display clever repartee, how could they know the ultimate realm to which the raised flower and the smile point?

Most to be lamented are the many followers of “wild-fox Chan”—deviant cultivators who adorn their facade with the language of Chan. Their words are lofty and pure, their conduct foul, and thus they lose the true teaching. If affinity with immortality has any basis, it lies in illuminating De; the Way of Heaven favors no one in particular, yet it surely looks with care upon the worthy and the virtuous.

My ancestral master was the elder of the Wild Hermitage, his hair unbound. Among the peaks of Mount Wuyi he once sought the Great Dao with his whole heart. He would often draw fresh spring water from the Sacred Well, and with learning nourish and moisten his disciples while spreading the Great Dao. Master Fanghu, the Feathered Guest of the Golden Gate, once received instruction from my ancestral master and was bathed in his teaching. The ancestral master said, “Words of seeing one’s nature differ of themselves; one need not wait for a teacher to transmit them, and may still awaken marvelously and penetrate through.” Master Fanghu, though already accomplished on the Dao, continued to inquire more deeply. At dawn he came to ask me for the essential point of seeing one’s nature. I gave one long whistle, and between Heaven and Earth it was as if spring had come; the Golden Crow—the golden divine bird in the sun, standing for the sun—flew out from the east, and the sky grew bright with it.

Heaven and Earth were blended into one undifferentiated whole, and the myriad things already existed before the primordial beginning. From this the myriad kinds unfolded, each displaying its own distinct condition. It comes and goes alone, giving rise to generation and transformation; it neither increases nor decreases, but only appears in accordance with the forms of the myriad things. Through endless kalpas it still has no end. It presides over the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth, and lies deeply hidden within the void.

In my youth I wore the robes of a Confucian scholar and, lighting one lamp after another, pored over the Yijing (Classic of Changes). At that time the numinous light within my heart already shone like stars across the heavens; later, the troubles brought on by two stubborn attachments gradually subsided. I grew weary of life in the turbid world, disturbed and benighted by the six dusts—the sights, sounds, scents, tastes, touches, and mental objects that delude a person—as if waking from a yellow-millet dream, every illusion dispersed.

The Immortal Elder of Shouchang, Tie Xuanweng, once took Master Jin as his teacher at the Sacred Well. Later he turned toward the Dao (the Way) of Qinghua, opening a realm of clarity, brightness, peace, and ease, and instructed me in the methods of the Dao, so that I recovered my spirits from hardship. After this I also followed Master Li in cultivation and study. I heard that Feng, the lay historian of Puyi, had likewise taken Patriarch Jin as his teacher, carrying on the immortal Dao, residing at Longsha, and setting forth the ultimate principle.

I therefore set off lightly in straw sandals to seek his instruction: “The myriad dharmas return to the One—where, then, does this One return?” At that moment Lay Historian Feng was sitting in stillness when thunder suddenly came with great speed, as if rending the void. He asked me where I had come from. A clear wind scattered the clouds of delusion, and I asked again: “The myriad dharmas return to the One—where, then, does this One return?” At once my mind opened and grew bright. I saw everywhere that every household had its bright moon, and I perceived with complete clarity that, from the very beginning, there was nothing to be said.

Colophon to the painting Lofty Wind beneath the Trees.

The wondrous substance of True Constancy—the eternal, subtle fundamental substance—originally has no form. To comprehend it beyond form requires genuine cultivation and real power. The courses of the sun and moon are grasped from this, and the opening and closing of Yin-Yang may be gathered or released at will.

The old immortal of Mount Kongtong is pure and cold in temperament, like ice and snow. Transmitting only from mind to mind, he can recall what has gone before. In clear autumn a bright moon hangs above the jade terrace. He leans on a goosefoot staff and wears a robe patterned with clouds, its collar adorned with cranes. My homeland lies on the sunward side of the Xunyi plain. With a single breath of true Qi (vital energy) I once restored the springtime vitality of all things; I also once roused wind and thunder to resist demons and specters, yet now I let the precious sword in its case draw in its radiance.

Yesterday I went to Mount Kongtong to visit an old friend, and with the old immortal I agreed to halt the flow of time and look out over heaven and earth in the eight directions. Gathering the Jing (essence) of Metal, blending the fluid of Wood, and summoning the numinous Qi of the star Yaoguang, I sat in stillness and circulated the transformation until it condensed into mysterious frost. The subtle accord within this was like a fish in water. Aside from that, what among the tangle of other things is worth mentioning?

Dongguo Zi, the Daoist of the Mysterious Capital, merely offers a painter an outward appearance, and to no avail. Who would think that the Dao (the Way) lies in form and color? One ought to seek the original face beyond images. If you ask where my original face is, I wave my fly-whisk, smile, and depart upon the wind.

Inscription on the Painting of Transmission

The supreme Dao cannot be transmitted in words; words can only be used to lead one to grasp the subtle and profound principle. Dongguo Zi, the Daoist of the Mysterious Capital, merely offers a painter an outward appearance, and to no avail. Who would think that the Dao lies in form and color? One ought to seek the original face beyond images. If you ask where my original face is, I wave my fly-whisk, smile, and depart upon the wind.

Inscription on the Painting of Transmission

The highest truth cannot be passed on by words alone, yet people must rely on words if they are to grasp its mystery. The Hangu Chapter therefore points directly to the path of return to the true origin. Zhongli Quan and Lü Dongbin transmitted the teaching one after the other, awakening later cultivators of the Dao (the Way); its methods then divided into northern and southern lineages and have circulated for a thousand years.

When cultivation is accomplished, heaven and earth seem to lie entirely in the palm, and one can move in accord with the mysterious working of the Heavenly Dao; sun and moon appear to halt their light, and from this the golden lotus blooms. The poet once followed with a sword at his side, tracing the footsteps of former worthies, and feasted on rare delicacies in the immortal dwellings of the Jade Terrace. The Three Flowers show themselves faintly, their radiance drifting like roseate clouds; the Four Seas are vast, and he trusts that he can wander them alone.

Of late he has ridden the wind of heaven and gone forth like a solitary crane, surveying Mount Song and Mount Hua in full and passing beyond Mount Kongtong. The sound of the xiao flute fills the valleys, as if it had blown the mountains and waters green; who could share this state of mind that has left the dusty world behind?

The Daoist who plants peaches is named Yuanran. His conduct is lofty and pure, his spiritual bearing clear and bright, his tastes quiet and refined. He labors to gather firewood and boil stones, absorbed in cultivation; in seeking the Dao he will stand long in the snow with no regard for his body, and he makes light of the illusory, unreal flesh. He received from me the Book of Ascending to the True and Assisting Transformation. At times he enters the sea to seek the precious pearl beneath the black dragon’s jaw; at times he drives the thunder, harnesses primordial Qi (vital energy), and rises straight to the pole of heaven, then, keeping the measure, turns the Northern Dipper and returns to the realm without form and without limit.

Ten years after we parted at Mount Kongtong we meet again, and I have already seen the portrait that records what once occurred. Rather than cling to outward traces, it is better to comprehend the realm of the “body beyond the body”: subtle, emptily harmonious, and vacuously still—originally without any trace that can be found.

Gatha Encouraging Diligent Progress in the Dao: a verse that urges people to cultivate the Dao with diligence.

Leaving the household is undertaken so as to rise above the affairs of the dusty world and to cut away the ties of kinship and affection, lest one be bound and driven by love and by worldly matters. The practitioner should carry simple vessels for food and drink, travel far in search of an enlightened teacher, serve with a whole heart and labor with all one’s strength, in order to receive that teacher’s sincere instruction.

One must accumulate Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), nurture the primordial Qi, and keep body and mind at peace; train mind and nature, subdue stray thoughts, and let wisdom grow bright. Inner work is subtle and profound, and what is prized is to persist in cultivation unseen; outer conduct must likewise be diligent and made complete in every respect. One should forget outward traces and clever artifice, and not presume upon one’s own intelligence and talent; draw in reputation, soften and blend one’s radiance, and rest content in poverty and solitude. One should uphold the upright and dispel the deviant, assist the divinities, bring relief to living beings, and widely form good affinities; put others before oneself, lower pride and arrogance, restrain anger and bear humiliation, and take no account of favor or disgrace. Wear coarse cloth and eat plain fare, and abandon glory and splendor; endure hardship and clear away faults, so as not to be entered in the registers of guilt kept by ghosts and spirits.

When the karmic conditions of merit and virtue and the power of wisdom are both complete, one’s name may be set upon the Cinnabar Terrace (the place, in Daoist legend, where the names of immortals and perfected beings are listed) and one may take one’s station among the ranks of the immortals. Riding the void, one roams abroad; the Shen (spirit) wanders realms without border, and looking down sees the great sea as though it were the trail of a snail’s saliva. Kin through successive generations may thereby receive blessing and joy—and is the benefit gained no more than distinction before ruler, teacher, and parents? Even if karmic causes of the past draw down demonic obstacles, once the retribution of karma has been fully undergone, one can in the end still perfect the fruit of the Dao (the Way).

Why is it that, in this latter age, some among the Daoist priests who wear the star crown do not understand that leaving one’s kin and leaving the household is for the sake of inquiring into the mysterious and wondrous great Dao? They willingly sink into passion and desire, long bound by the chains of wealth, profit, and fame. Having lost their original true nature, they chase outward after property instead, and scheme to pass it on to persons of another surname. When the day comes that the body dies, everything must be cast aside; only karmic force follows them to the destination that accords with it—and who then can pity them and save them?

I now speak these words to those who cultivate and study as companions on the path. Wealth and honor, poverty and low station, each differs. Who says that one skilled at calculation is sure to amass a great store of money? Many who excel at reckoning may still be without even clothing; and there are those whose plans are poorly laid, yet whose households are rich, with fields lying close beside the city walls. In the end, all such circumstances are bound up with causes and conditions accumulated in former lives; what one receives in this life seems as if appointed long before. Flourishing and decline have their own ordering in the creative transformations of things—why toil in attachment, and crave without cease?

Even one who remains at home should learn a meditation that forgets the burdens of the household, keep good deeds in mind, turn away from the dusty world, and strive toward awakening. How much more, then, should those who cultivate the Dao, having left the family and gone beyond ordinary life, seek true joy outside the world. Turn back in good time, and do not let the days be lost; the principles taught by the way of the immortals and by the Buddha’s Dharma are indeed not mistaken. Have you not heard that Shuizhuang in Danyang (a place name), richest of its region, regarded the family property as worn-out shoes to be cast aside, and never collected it?

They dressed in deerskin and lived on the food of a hundred households, husband and wife set a thousand li apart; Lord Pang’s household was ample, yet he did not take what came of debts, and left the gold to remain long upon the shoal at Lumen. The whole family gathered to discourse on the principle of non-arising (transcending birth and death and realizing true nature); the daughter sold bamboo fences, and the son herded cattle. The two elders were lofty in virtue: they cut off the desire for profit, honored the Dao and De (Virtue/Power), and did not follow the fashions of the age. Even if their realm is hard to reach, it is not something that only a few are able to pursue; everyone may resolve to follow their example and to look up to the mysterious Dao. With wealth wound about the waist, what need is there to hurry to Yangzhou in search of profit?

The prophetic sayings (writings of prediction) in the Record of Hualin have circulated for a thousand years down to the present; the “among the eight hundred” of which the prophecy speaks is perhaps waiting precisely for one who can answer to it.

I still remember the former scene in which Venerable Master Li transmitted the “Dao of the Mysterious One” (the Dao, or the Way; a Daoist method of cultivation).

In mid-autumn I again paid my respects to Venerable Master Li at the lofty Pavilion of the Prince of Teng and received the “Great Return” (in Neidan, or internal alchemy, the term for the completion of the Golden Elixir). At midnight an impetus like wind and thunder crossed the vast sea, and in an instant transformations like clouds and rain arrived at the Mysterious Pass (the crucial aperture through which Qi, or vital energy, enters and leaves in cultivation).

The vitality of spring enters beneath the earth, and golden tender shoots begin to grow; the handle of the Northern Dipper circles the heavens, and the water in the clepsydra is about to drip away. The moon hangs full in the great void, and I still ride an immortal crane, lightly ascending Mount Yujing (the legendary sacred mountain of the immortal realm).

In mid-autumn I again paid my respects to Venerable Master Li at the Pavilion of the Daoist Sword and received the “Great Return.” At midnight an impetus like wind and thunder crossed the vast sea, and in an instant transformations like clouds and rain arrived at the Mysterious Pass.

The vitality of spring enters beneath the earth, and golden tender shoots begin to grow; the handle of the Northern Dipper circles the heavens, and the water in the clepsydra is about to drip away. The moon hangs full in the great void, and I still ride an immortal crane, lightly ascending Mount Yujing.

The Daoist Sword

He personally transmitted the Pure Yang Daoist Sword (a sword method among Daoist ritual arts). Such a sword need not be cast of hard steel by Ou Yezi (the renowned swordsmith of the Spring and Autumn period). It is born together with the cultivator’s own body, endowed with the Qi of life, and transforms with nimble subtlety; it takes form according to the mind’s intent and displays a chilling aura of lethal force.

Its edge seems whetted at the bottom of a mountain stream, and when it is swung it flashes past like lightning; it is also as if one had cut the cassia tree in the Moon Palace and become steeped in fragrance filling the sky. Sometimes, when it is hung beneath the Southern Mountain, it can frighten the yin-demons (the malign spirits spoken of in Daoism) into fleeing far away and hiding.

In Respectful Reply to Venerable Master Li

I had agreed to go to the Purple Mystery Abbey at Longmen (the name of a Daoist abbey) to refine the divine medicine, yet I did not keep the appointment. The Venerable Master came to visit; finding me absent, he sent this poem.

You are an old friend who has come here once again; the former hermitage at Longmen seems already to have passed through a thousand years. The Dao you have realized is traced back to the time before the Image Sovereign (the designation in Daoist classics for the supreme Dao) yet had a name; the learning you have investigated reaches to before Fuxi (the legendary sage-king of high antiquity) had drawn the Bagua (Eight Trigrams).

Metal Qi arises in response to the season, and one must still continue to advance the fire (in Neidan cultivation, using intention and the regulation of breath to drive the firing process); where the florescence of mercury congeals, lead is gradually drawn forth (all of these being Neidan terms that use metal, mercury, and lead to describe the process of refining and nourishing). If only you share with me one spoonful of the divine medicine, I can at once follow the luan bird and go to pay homage to the superior immortals.

In the Tang dynasty the immortal Luo Gongyuan came and went freely within the forbidden precincts of the palace, displaying his spiritual powers and roaming the palace at will. Emperor Minghuang of the Tang grew wary of him, summoned him before the hall, had soldiers lying in ambush shoot him dead, and ordered that he be buried. When the coffin was lifted it proved strangely light; opened, it was empty of any person, with only a pair of shoes left inside.

One day tribute oranges were delivered to the palace. Emperor Minghuang peeled them and found that a single segment lay hidden within each orange, and he questioned the envoy who had brought them. The envoy answered, “On the road I met a one-eyed Daoist priest. He asked me for the oranges; I did not give him any, and only let him smell them. As he was leaving he charged me: ‘When you see the emperor, please peel the oranges for me, and draw one segment out of each.’” Hearing this, Emperor Minghuang laughed and said, “This is Luo Gongyuan.”

The place where Luo Gongyuan cultivated was the Taixuan Abbey at Longmen in Taihe County. The abbey stood near Sanhua Mountain: the summit was the place of his ascension, and halfway up the slope the Zixuan Abbey was built to offer worship to him.

Matching Reply to Secretary Fu

While I was staying on Yunyin Mountain, I spoke one day of the principle that “the Three Teachings are one family”—that the Three Teachings of Confucianism, Buddhism, and the Dao (the Way) originally arise from a single truth. At the time Secretary Fu of Qingyuan Mountain heard this and remained doubtful in his heart. More than a month later we met again. I took up those earlier words once more, and he came to an understanding on the spot. The next day he came into the mountains bearing incense and a ritual robe to offer his thanks, and he wrote an eight-line gatha expressing his wish to remain in the mountains. I then composed a poem in reply:

Cast off evil thoughts, yet still nurture the tender shoots of good thoughts; what a rootless tree bears is only empty flowers. Turn back and awaken, and you are naturally the Buddha of the Three Bodies; since we have already met face to face, why drink the tea of Chan Master Baizhang?

Ordinary people and sages are illumined in equal contemplation, with no distinction of one from the other; the luminous mind shines in stillness, reaching throughout the vast heavens and earth. When spring comes, the scenery is fine everywhere—why leave the dusty world far behind and hide away in the mountains?

After Secretary Fu departed, he sent another poem using the original rhymes, and I replied once more:

Where primordial chaos has not yet divided, what need is there to seek root and shoot? The principle is clear and bright of itself; let it turn as it will into the wisdom spoken of in the Fahua Jing (Lotus Scripture). “Donglao wine” means the wine with which a host entertains his guest; when shall I drink with you, and once more make plain for you the tea-talk gongan of Chan Master Zhaozhou?

Sit still for a moment, and it is as if a thousand years have passed; see through heaven and earth, and they are no more than a single tiny grain of sand. Alas that the beings of the world come and go in crowds, yet will not turn back and awaken, vainly exhausting the brief span of a life.

Before chaos had yet been divided, where is the root to be sought? Every transformation stands perfectly clear; it is precisely through its flowing and changing that all manner of methods are brought to completion. When shall I be able to drink Donglao’s wine with you, and explain to you once more, in careful detail, the Chan meaning of Zhaozhou’s tea?

Sit quietly for a moment, and it is as though a thousand years have already passed; only when one sees through heaven, earth, and the myriad things does one know that they are as small as a grain of sand. Alas that the beings of the world bustle in confusion, yet will not turn back and awaken, vainly exhausting their finest years amid this floating life.

Three Gathas in Reply to Refining Master Zhibai’s Discussion of the Methods of the Dao (the Way)

Who can recognize the Great Dharma King of Qingwei (the supreme deity venerated in Daoism)? The Three Powers of Heaven, Earth, and Humanity, together with the myriad things, are all opened forth from this. From the beginning every method issues from me; in their use, even if one takes them contrary to the ordinary and transforms them at will, there is no hindrance.

People know that this Dao seems to be nothing but empty void, yet they do not understand that true emptiness is not a state in which there is nothing at all. The clear light of the moon shines upon the waters of a thousand mountain streams, yet leaves no trace of itself.

When the field of the heart (the inner mind) is bright and lucid, then wherever one may be, one can respond as conditions arise without acting falsely. The deluded see only that he has traveled a thousand li, and do not know that in truth he has never moved a single step.

A Hymn on the Millstone, in Reply to Abbey Superintendent Hu

At the crown gate (the site of cultivation at the center of the top of the head) there is an aperture. It takes in an essence like pearl and jade, which becomes white snow dancing all about the body. The resolve here is firm as iron and will not turn back; whether it comes from the left or goes to the right, one lets it be pushed and shifted as it will.

Five Gatha Verses Matching Those Inscribed by Magistrate Zheng of Baling at the Chunyang Feiyin Pavilion in Yueyang

Only after walking all through Yueyang does one know that there is no one with whom one can truly be mutually recognized; alone one flies across the level lake, chanting aloud. Looking back, three layers of mist and smoke already stand between; in the turn of an eye, the vast sea has again become mulberry fields.

The tender, foolish Stamen Maiden (an alchemical image symbolizing yin Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy)) cherishes the Infant (an alchemical image symbolizing newly born true Qi, or the elixir embryo), and the moment is precisely midnight on an autumn night. Yin-Yang is inverted, so that the numinous essence is conceived and takes form; within the boundless four seas, who can serve as teacher and guide?

Medicinal materials may be old or tender; the timing of their gathering and refining must be mastered. Gather them and ingest the daogui (an alchemical term for a minute quantity of elixir or medicine), and life can thereby be sustained. Exhaust every kind of yin Qi and refine a body of pure Yang; after the embryo has been carried and the elixir has formed, one ought then to believe that a “boy” is truly born.

Within the Biluo (the blue heaven spoken of in Daoism), immortal music echoes and the myriad immortals gather; a precious pearl hangs aloft to a height of five zhang, expounding principles profound and mysterious. The Dao embraces the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) and at last returns to the original life-mandate; the wondrous principle that accords with the Lingtai (the seat of mind and Shen (spirit)) does not lie in words.

Who can, together with me, penetrate this subtle aperture of mystery upon mystery? In a single smile, each forgets the other, as if set in a heaven beyond heaven. With a wave of the hand one sings aloud and delights in the bright moon; rising on the wind, one unfurls and dances like the Embryo Immortal (in cultivation, the immortal spirit symbolizing the condensation of Jing, Qi, and Shen, and the light ascent into flight).

End of the Upper Scroll of the Dharma Discourses of Yuanyangzi

Lower Scroll of the Dharma Discourses of Yuanyangzi

Written by Zhao Yizhen of Junyi; compiled by his disciple Liu Yuanran of Zhanggong.

The immortals and sages often pity those who study the Dao (the Way) yet whose foundations are shallow and who have lost their way, just as a loving mother cherishes her infant. The heart of one who studies the Dao should likewise be like a child seeking its mother, turned wholly toward the Dao; if he is like this, why should he worry that the immortals will not come to deliver him?

The Yellow Emperor once took seventy teachers as his masters, but were these teachers, every one of them, truly immortals? After he met Guangchengzi (a legendary immortal), he grasped the mysterious principles at their first meeting, and only then understood that those former teachers had never brought him truly near the great Dao.

Before Heaven and Earth had differentiated, and before time had any reckoning of years, there were originally neither forms nor directions; once bodily form existed, directions existed as well. Cultivators who call themselves “persons beyond the directions” (fangwai zhi shi, those who transcend the secular world) should forget bodily form and outward appearance and inquire into the eternal, true Dao.

A person of the Dao should take the Dao as the root of his own being; the illusory, temporarily existing body is not the true self. If one clings to outward appearance in order to recognize a person, or seeks someone by the sound of the voice, it is hard to find the true “I”; if one goes on to reckon age and date of birth, one only strays farther from the true Dao.

It is said that the Daoist Luo He took a teacher at the age of ninety, while the teacher was only sixteen and still a youth. In the way of learning, what is valued is respect for those who have learned first, regardless of age; only thus can one understand the principles of elder and younger, of what comes before and what comes after.

Do not follow those domineering adherents of heterodox side-paths: having learned only a few things said by word of mouth, they bluster and throw their weight about. They envy the worthy, deceive the world, and scramble for fame and profit; their minds are full of the distinction between self and other, and their desires are as endless as river water.

Do not follow those who have lost the orthodox transmission: they do not understand the mysterious principles, yet they revile the worthies of earlier generations. They are only, for a time, idle guests in the human world; in Heaven there are no muddled, ignorant immortals.

Do not follow those who borrow Chan (Zen) reasoning to speak recklessly of “emptiness,” casually wiping away good and evil, sin and blessing, and showing off nothing but verbal cleverness. They merely work their lips, startling people who cannot understand, yet they give no thought to the fact that they themselves will still have to suffer in the sea of bitterness.

Do not follow those deviant teachers who mislead later students, absurdly treating the distinction between male and female as Kun and Qian (figures in the traditional mantic arts that symbolize Yin-Yang), and taking other people’s Jing (essence) and blood as the basis for refining the elixir (dan). How could swallows and sparrows give birth to a zhan (a bird of prey)? This saying serves to show that by relying on such a method one cannot refine a true elixir.

The purport of the great Dao is profound and subtle, and hard to transmit directly, so metaphors and written words are used to inspire later students. Sadly, some people, like the blind, lack right view; they take every sort of deviant doctrine for correct principle and throw the true methods of the Dao into confusion.

To exhaust one’s gold in seeking so-called “earth” with which to replenish the body is like adding fire to fire, or pouring yet another cold spring into cold water—vain effort without benefit. Nothing harms life more than the arts of the bedchamber (fangzhong shu, the use of sexual intercourse as a means of cultivation); this practice has misled and injured not a few young people.

True mercury and true lead, born before Heaven and Earth, have neither form nor image, yet they are subtle and profoundly mysterious. When, within emptiness, a person apprehends the true message and, according to the proper time, brings Yin-Yang into conjunction, the way of becoming an immortal can be verified.

Guarding primordial Qi (vital energy) and single-mindedly holding to the One are the foundation of cultivation; only when emptiness is broken through may one’s practice be called complete. Later students of the Dao, one after another, strayed from the middle way. Infatuated with deliberate doing, they instead lingered in empty talk of Wuwei (non-action).

Having only just grasped a little of the workings of cultivation, and not yet having integrated them thoroughly, they hasten at every moment to pursue results. Only when, in contact with the myriad things and in meeting causes and conditions, one can remain free of attachment—only then may one say that one has truly returned to the source.

Once one has stepped ahead onto the farther shore of awakening, the boat is no longer needed. When its timbers have rotted and its nails have fallen away, why should one still gather it up? Most regrettable are those later seekers who ask the way: they lean on others’ oars and gunwales, gaze toward the middle of the river, and yet will not cross themselves.

Tunes of classical elegance and feelings of true sincerity do not stand upon reputation; chasing novelty and catering to the crowd can also win a fine name. The auspicious and the perilous, life and death, are all like what one meets upon a journey—why take pains to establish one’s own gates and courtyards?

Head Seat Yi and Secretary Qiao are intimate friends. After a long separation, I was moved to write this.

The Three Teachings—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—together open the gate of the Way and of right principle. Their minds communicate, and many words are unnecessary. Why, then, is the heart-mind instead veiled by floating dust? I do not believe that the precious mirror which reflects Heaven and Earth would truly grow dim.

To an Old Friend

Brewing tea at a crucial crossroads to receive guests and widely forming good affinities—when will the blessings of the human world and the heavenly realm be fulfilled? Better, while the spring wind is just right, to take up the golden hoe with one’s own hands and sow a single seed in the field of the heart.

Inscribed on a Painting of Immortals Playing Chess

Black and white pieces crisscross in every direction. The immortal elder sits there laying out his plans, yet does not know how many springs and autumns the human world has already passed through. In the game there is one move that no one comprehends; its mystery lies only at the immortal elder’s fingertips.

On Seeing the Tumi on the Trellis (source note: nian shi mi) in Full Bloom, While the Crabapple Alone Does Not Flower. Feelings Beside the Wine.

The whole trellis of bright-red blossoms lies heaped like brocade, while the prized flower keeps quietly to itself, as if too shy to open. At dusk, facing it over wine, I grieve for you that the light of spring is drawing to an end, and the wine in the cup is hard to drink dry.

— Wang Guang of Yuyang

On Seeing the Tumi on the Trellis (source note: nian shi mi) in Full Bloom, While the Crabapple Alone Does Not Flower. Feelings Beside the Wine.

The whole trellis of bright-red blossoms lies heaped like brocade, while the prized flower keeps quietly to itself, as if too shy to open. At dusk, facing it over wine, I grieve for you that the light of spring is drawing to an end, and the wine in the cup is hard to drink dry.

Two Verses in Reply to Wang Guangwen of Yuyang’s Inquiry into the Principle of Nature and Life

Wang Guangwen of Yuyang inquired into the Dao (the Way) of nature and life (human innate nature and life), and I answered with two gatha verses:

To say that it exists is still not to say that it solidly exists; to say that it does not exist is not to say that it is entirely nothing. On an autumn night, emerald pool water mirrors the moon; stars are scattered on every side, and one sees only a single solitary moon.

The moon in the water may be reached out for and grasped; the clouds at the sky’s edge seem as if they could be bound with a rope. Gather these into a gourd, and they are the medicine of long life. Here the inconceivability of catching the moon and tying up the clouds is borrowed to describe the cultivator’s skill of collecting body and mind and condensing Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy).

In Praise of Myself

I examine the primordial harmonious Yang Qi and follow the guiding norms of the Great Dao. I do not deliberately advertise myself, and I leave it to others to praise or revile me. I stand alone between the vast heavens and the earth, my state of mind as untrammeled as drifting clouds and flowing water.

Bestowing Cap and Robe upon Disciples

I give you the star cap (the cap worn by a Daoist priest) as the attire worn at the head. Within the cap it is as if thousands upon thousands of strands of hair were stored, and one can also discern the Two Modes of Yin-Yang. As soon as the head is shown, a bearing appears that is dignified and upright, standing apart and independent.

I give you the crimson robe (the deep-red Daoist robe) as the ceremonial garment of the body. The hems lie neat as clouds, and the rosy ornaments set one another off. The clothing covers and protects the whole body; when it is worn one dares not be in the least careless or disrespectful, and one’s conduct ought to be solemn.

I give you the blue-green tablet (the blue-green ceremonial tablet) to set dignified bearing aright. Gaze and movement must not be partial or deviant; one must hold oneself in reverence. The mind is inwardly concentrated, looking up toward the divinities, as grave as if one held the great gui (the jade ritual object used in ancient court ceremony).

I give you the yellow altar (the yellow altar ground used for performing rites); one’s going and stopping must be scrupulously careful. Circle according to the positions of the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), and walk and pause among the positions of the Nine Palaces. Stand erect like a swan to pay homage to the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning (Yuanshi Tianzun); after performing the tiger bow, bow the body in reverence.

An Inscription for the Diary

When I was young and followed Venerable Master Li in studying the Dao, the first teaching I received was these words: “Gaze and movement must not be partial or deviant; one must hold oneself in reverence. The mind is inwardly concentrated, looking up toward the divinities, as grave as if one held the great gui.”

The master further charged me: I give you the yellow altar; one’s going and stopping must be scrupulously careful. Circle according to the positions of the Bagua, and walk and pause among the positions of the Nine Palaces. Stand erect like a swan to pay homage to the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning; after performing the tiger bow, bow the body in reverence.

When I was young and followed Venerable Master Li in studying the Dao, the master first gave me a diary and ordered me each day to record in the booklet the words I had thought in my mind, the words I had spoken, and the course of my dealings with people and my handling of affairs. What cannot be written down should not be done; once it has been done, whatever the outcome, it must be recorded.

If what one does accords with principle, it accords with the heart of Heaven; if it goes against principle, it deceives the heart of Heaven. If one does not yet understand the principle involved, acts rashly, and does not know that an error has occurred, this belongs to unintentional wrongdoing, and the fault may still be forgiven. If one clearly knows that it goes against principle and nevertheless does it, this is deliberate evil-doing and becomes a great offense. If one further fabricates lies to cover the fault and for that reason does not record the matter, the offense is heavier still.

The master taught in this way because the human heart is the heart of Heaven, and to deceive one’s own conscience is to deceive Heaven. Therefore he took “Heart of Heaven” as the title of the diary booklet, and further admonished me with a gatha:

The Heavenly Heart (Tianxin)—the impartial justice and natural principle embodied by the Dao (the Way) of Heaven—is originally in communion with my own heart. If I deceive my conscience, I obscure the creative transformation of the Heavenly Dao. Whenever I take up the brush, I must at once grow vigilant: even alone in a dark room, the spirits will not permit a person to act against conscience.

Since I first received instruction, I have kept this teaching carefully in mind and practiced it without slackening. At the outset I disciplined myself and strove to meet and respond to things, examining my heart each day in the hope of penetrating the principles of affairs, yet I found it exceedingly difficult. Only after long practice did I gradually gain some understanding, so that I could respond fittingly as things differed, though I still could not fully accord with the creative transformation of the Heavenly Dao.

Since I first received instruction, I have kept this teaching carefully in mind and practiced it without slackening. At the outset I disciplined myself and strove to meet and respond to things, examining my heart each day in the hope of penetrating the principles of affairs, yet I found it exceedingly difficult. Only after long practice did I gradually gain some understanding, so that I could respond fittingly as things differed. Although I still cannot fully accord with the Heavenly Heart, I have been striving toward the state of the gentleman; perhaps I may draw a little nearer to it and avoid sinking into the condition of the petty person. This is truly great good fortune.

Fellow cultivators of our school today have uncommon aspirations, and by fortunate affinity we resonate with one another; it seems we may advance in the Dao together. Still, the principles for dealing with things must be discerned with breadth and generosity. If one has not yet thoroughly penetrated them, one will inevitably be entangled by the stains of habit without knowing it. Sometimes what can clearly be done is left undone; sometimes what ought not to be done is done. These especially call for careful scrutiny. I therefore pass on to everyone the teaching of the “Heavenly Heart” transmitted by my father-teacher.

Alas, a terrace of nine stories is raised basket by basket of earth, and a journey of a thousand li begins with a single step. The gateway into the Dao and the foundation for accumulating De (Virtue/Power) must likewise begin from here. This is precisely what I hope for my companions on the Dao. The realm of the Dao is exceedingly lofty; only through long and genuine effort may one someday suddenly awaken, so that the inner heart and the principles of affairs become one. The joining of Heaven and humanity in De must also begin from here; only then does one understand that cultivating the heart is cultivating the Dao. How could the records written down each day ever suffice to prove that one has truly gained the approval of the Heavenly Heart?

The Jing (scripture/classic) says: “Heavenly nature is manifested in the human person, and the human heart is the pivot of action.” When one side is stirred, the other responds, as a shadow follows form. Hidden places and minute matters most reveal what is true; how, then, can one fail to be cautious?

Elders often say that, on the paths of the human world and the heavenly realms, doing good and accumulating blessing comes first, while in the bitter sea of birth, death, and cyclic rebirth, cultivating wisdom and awakening to the Dao (the Way) is what is fundamental. Those who give themselves wholly to cultivating wisdom must gather in mind and nature, awaken to the original mind, keep the precepts, and practice meditative concentration, so as to increase wisdom and go on to realize the great Dao. In this way one can leave the cycle of birth and death and enter the ranks of immortals and perfected beings. Yet if the affinity of blessing has not been accumulated, life is bound to be hard—and how then can body and mind be made calm and pure?

Those who give themselves wholly to doing good and accumulating blessing relieve people in the world and widely practice skillful expedient means, so as to plant the root of merit and virtue; in time to come they may be reborn among humans or in the heavenly realms and enjoy every kind of happiness. Yet if they have not yet realized the Dao, once the blessed recompense stored up in this life is used up, they will enter the cycle again. Thus the essential point in cultivating the Dao is that blessing and wisdom support each other, and neither may be neglected. It is not enough merely to make oneself well provided. Only when one both benefits oneself and helps others can each side receive the good.

In former times, when the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning expounded the scriptures, the men and women of an entire kingdom all received protection and deliverance. Laozi said that when cultivation is applied to one’s own person, De (Virtue/Power) is genuine, and when that cultivation is extended to all under heaven, De is vast. Confucius restrained private desire and followed ritual propriety, so that the people of the world turned toward humaneness and virtue. From making the intention sincere and rectifying the mind all the way to ordering the state and bringing peace to the world, this too is accomplishing oneself while accomplishing others. The Buddha is honored as the “Honored One Perfect in Both,” precisely because merit and wisdom are both fully complete.

Later, the Sixth Patriarch served as the one who pounded rice at the pestle, and Chan Master Lingji served as the cook in charge of meals; after they attained the Dao, they also subdued a baleful dragon. After attaining the Dao, the Chan master of Sizhou subdued the Water Mother. The Ancestral Celestial Master (Tianshi) said, “My elixir is already refined; if I take it, I can ascend in flight. But now I ought to bring benefit and remove harm for the state and the people, so that later, when I attend upon the Three Realms—the realms of the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing), as Daoism speaks of them—I may do so with a clear conscience.” He then entered the land of Shu, subdued demons, distinguished humans from ghosts, and restored the salt industry, so that state and people alike benefited. Lord Immortal Ge often cured illness with talisman water, and through rites of offering and refinement delivered eight hundred thousand ghosts. Immortal Xudu likewise treated illness with talismanic medicines; after attaining the Dao he cut down a vicious flood-dragon, and his merit may be set beside that of the divine Yu. All of these people practiced with bitter effort and tempered their conduct, cultivating blessing and wisdom together, and only afterward realized the Dao.

Perfected Person Huan Kai cultivated the Dao of soaring aloft with the sun and moon. Hearing that Tao Yinju had many disciples, he went to serve as a gardener; this is a case of realizing the Dao first and cultivating blessing afterward. Perfected Person Ziqing, after hearing of the Dao of the Great Return of Golden Liquor, further wandered the clouds, practicing the methods and relieving the world and delivering people, and later succeeded in cultivation while relying on the household of Chancellor Jin; this is a case of cultivating blessing first and realizing the Dao afterward. From this one may know that the teachings of immortals, Buddhas, and sages may differ on the surface, yet, seen from the standpoint of cultivating oneself and helping others, the principle is the same. Immortals and Buddhas cultivate wisdom and blessing with the aim of saving the people of the world, and retribution for good and evil is examined according to the three lives—past, present, and future. Sages cultivate themselves and relieve the age with the aim of ordering the present world, and retribution for good and evil is viewed in light of the outcome of this life. Between the two there is only this fine distinction.

The scriptures say, “Ghosts and spirits punish the wicked and bestow blessing on the humble; do good, and every kind of auspiciousness descends; do evil, and every kind of disaster is drawn in.” What the sages say of ghosts, spirits, and cause and effect has its own reason. When I was young and reading, I too believed these sayings. Later, having passed through the affairs of the world and observed how things actually stand, I found that some matters are hard to explain by the good and evil of this life alone.

Yao and Shun were both great sages, who by rights should have ordered heaven and earth and nurtured the myriad things, yet there came a great flood of nine years, and the people suffered from the waters. Yao and Shun were clear-sighted in human affairs and skilled at employing officials, yet in controlling the flood they mistakenly used Gun. Cheng Tang too was a sage, yet he met with a great drought of seven years, and rain fell only after he examined himself and reproached himself in six matters. Why could a remedy not have been sought sooner? Yan Hui was worthy and virtuous yet died young; Robber Zhi did evil yet lived long; Bodao had no son. Similar cases, ancient and modern, are too many to count.

Since the recent wars and disorders, I have seen in the villages families that did good for generations, whose sons and younger kin were worthy, thoroughly versed in the classics, and cultivated themselves while keeping to the Dao, yet most of them were poor. Their blessed recompense seemed not to fall upon themselves. One had supposed it would be left to descendants, yet in the end the family line was cut off. Can it be that all such people were unfilial? By contrast, some treacherous and violent persons were wealthy at home, and their power grew by the day. If this is explained only by retribution for good and evil in the present life, it truly does not hold; if it is reasoned out by cause and effect across the three lives, it can be made to hold. Therefore both accounts should stand side by side, if the full shape of things is to be covered.

Those who met with disaster in the floods of old and were buried in the bellies of fish—how do they differ from those who, in the warfare of a declining age, filled the ditches with corpses and wandered in misery? All of these are karmic causes made in former lives and already fixed, which, when conditions happen to ripen in this life, are nothing other than the repayment of karmic debt. Consider the present: some are intelligent yet poor and short-lived; some are dull yet long-lived and wealthy. Why is this so? It is, in all likelihood, because the intelligent devote themselves to learning and do not believe in cause and effect; in the life to come their intelligence stands out still more, and their poverty is deeper as well. The dull, though they do not pursue learning, believe in and value the affinity of blessing; in the life to come blessing and longevity increase, yet the dullness does not change. As the common saying has it, “Those who cannot speak well may rise to high success; those who cannot read may instead have heaps of gold and silver.” There must be a reason behind this. If one is both intelligent and fond of learning, and also willing to cultivate blessing and accumulate virtue, then in the life to come one ought by rights to be both wealthy and intelligent.

Broadly speaking, all that a person does through one lifetime is shaping destiny for the life to come. The Fashioner of things does not arrange matters out of partiality, but only, through the power of cause and effect, brings people to receive the corresponding results. Some hold that after death the spirit is not necessarily extinguished, and yet they do not believe in karmic rebirth, and so they take even the Dao of immortals and divine beings to be empty and false. This is in truth to cloud one’s own nature, and such a person will also be slighted by those who have truly risen above the worldly.

When spirit depends upon bodily form, it becomes a human being; when a person dies and the spirit is not extinguished, it is called a ghost. The Book of Rites says that when Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) gather and congeal, they become things possessed of form, and when the wandering soul disperses, there is transformation. The former speaks of bodily form; the latter speaks of the ghostly soul. The sages of antiquity knew both that ghosts and spirits have feeling and appearance, and that ghosts and spirits can send down misfortune and bestow blessing. When the villagers performed the nuo rite of expulsion, Confucius, wearing court dress, stood on the steps before the chamber door and said that this was so the souls and Qi of the ancestors might have something to rely on, and not be alarmed. Do scholars of later times still hold that the affairs of ghosts and spirits in the hidden dark do not exist? The soldiers of Qin did not destroy the house of Confucius because they heard, sounding within it, bells and stone chimes, qin and se zithers, and vertical flutes and pipes. If no ghosts or spirits were presiding, would these sounds have arisen of themselves?

A poem of Shao Yong says, “My person stands after heaven and earth, yet my mind is before heaven and earth; heaven and earth seem born of me—beyond this, what else is worth mentioning?” How, then, can one assert that spirit is extinguished? After the Yellow Emperor attained the Dao, he rode a dragon and ascended to heaven, and the histories record it. A poem of Zhu Xi also says, “In the golden cauldron dragon and tiger coil; in three years the spirit-elixir is brought to completion; one small dose enters the mouth, and in broad daylight wings are born.” Must one still say that the Dao of immortals and divine beings is vague and unreal? In former times some discoursed on the immortal Dao and later actually met immortals; some reviled the Buddha’s teaching and later actually took refuge in it; some said there were no ghosts and later in the end saw them. Words, after all, also reach a point at which they can no longer be pressed.

These disputes are all a matter of each side clinging to one end, and I have no wish to contend with anyone. It is only that, when some speak of immortals, divine beings, ghosts, and spirits, and of retribution for good and evil, they feel that the circumstances of the present age do not agree with these sayings, so that the ground for encouraging good and chastising evil seems to be lost. For this reason I have cited at length the sayings of those who came before, by way of explanation. Living in the world, people pursue what has no end with a span of time that is limited, and in the turn of a moment it is like a dream. The six paths of rebirth—the six destinations of living beings spoken of in Buddhism—plainly exist, yet ordinary people do not know it. They give free rein to passion and desire, take suffering for pleasure, and, like those drunk on wine, will not wake. Since we have already heard this Dao, we ought to practice it with effort. Only when one reaches the point of not clinging to the thought “this is what I am practicing” has one fulfilled the rightful part of a true man. How can one drift with vulgar custom, chase illusory conditions, and vainly fail this life? That would truly be a pity. Therefore, at the opening, I have set forth the principle of the joint cultivation of blessing and wisdom, hoping that those of like purpose will encourage one another. I have written these words to submit them for instruction to my friend, Refinement Master Wu Ziyu, and I also invite fellow followers of the Dao, the company of immortals, and persons of high insight to weigh and comment upon them.

The fundamental purpose of the Daoist scriptures (Jing) is to transform the common people, guide them to do good, and ultimately bring them to comprehend the great Dao (the Way). These classics have circulated for a long time, and many people recite and study them. Yet the Daodejing, written by Taishang Laojun (the Most High Lord Lao, the ancestral patriarch of the Dao revered in Daoism), and the Wenshi Jing, written by the Perfected Guanyin (traditionally identified as Yin Xi, Guardian of the Pass), although both inquire into the roots of nature and life and of Dao and De (Virtue/Power), as well as the principles of Heaven and Earth’s creative transformation and the changes of ghosts and spirits, are truly recited and studied by very few. Is this because the most profound principles within them are subtle and hard to grasp, and not easy to investigate? Or is it because, after the wars, few of the texts have survived?

Earlier, when Yizhen traveled from Qionglin to Mount Song and Mount Hua in search of scattered and lost scriptures, he was already sighing over this very matter. Later, passing through Jiangxia, he came to Wudang Palace and, leading the scholars to join their efforts, had these two classics carved and printed so that they might circulate more widely, and for this reason he wrote this preface.

The Daodejing, in a little more than five thousand characters, truly encompasses the great Dao of the transformations of Heaven and Earth; the Guanyinzi, in one hundred and eighty chapters, further unfolds its mysterious principles. Handed down from generation to generation, these two books are the standards followed by the sages of successive ages. A person’s mind and nature may be awakened through the scriptures; without the scriptures, it is hard to recognize one’s original mind. Although the great Dao cannot be transmitted directly by words, it can be made manifest by means of words. If one can penetrate the scriptural text thoroughly in contemplation, one may, through the written characters, apprehend the principles that lie beyond the characters, so that moral transformation, like a wondrous change, benefits the people, and a governing order in accord with the correct Dao is established.

The present Son of Heaven has already composed commentaries on these classics, in order to promote the counsels of the sages and to let the classics circulate still more widely in an age of prosperity. To carve and circulate these two books anew now requires many people working with one heart. The aim is to preserve once more the ancient texts handed down around Hangu Pass and Louguan Terrace, as though the teachings had descended from Biluo and Fuli (celestial realms of Daoist legend), so that all who hear these classics may revere the great Dao and treasure De, and together enter the gateway of the mysterious Dao. Those skilled in cultivating the Dao ought to understand how to govern the present by the principles of antiquity; this is the principle of carrying out transformation without reliance on words.

Dwelling in seclusion and withdrawing from the world, one draws in one’s sharp edges and lives among others without displaying oneself, seeing through the illusory causes and conditions of the dusty world. When those causes and conditions disperse and the illusions fade away, one can stand alone in transcendence and ease.

A clear wind blows through heaven and earth, unobstructed and open in every direction; a blazing sun hangs high in the sky, its light illuminating the entire vast world.