《玄虚子鸣真集》

The Dao (the Way) cannot by nature be put into words, yet without words it is hard to make manifest; the Dao by nature has no fixed Jing (scripture/classic), yet without scripture it is likewise hard to expound. Scripture lets those who have not heard come to hear, and brings insight to those who have not yet understood.

I first paid my respects to Master Xuanchong at Longxing Abbey in Fenyin and attended him for more than a year. Later the master went south, to the west of Mount Mian, to teach and transform the people, while I moved north and settled on the southern side of Mount Guye. At that time his speech was pure and exquisite, his words issuing like pearls and jade, often without any pause for composition: sometimes he recalled matters of old, sometimes he lodged his meaning in things, sometimes he offered poems in exchange, sometimes he gave voice to a rising mood—all arising as the heart moved. The poems, lyrics, and hymns he wrote all set forth the essential purport of the Dao. What he expressed was a state of mind difficult to grasp by thought; what he spoke was a principle that cannot be spoken. Every word and every line revealed true meaning, and every piece returned toward the Great Dao; the language was concise, the meaning far-reaching.

In Mingzhen it is said: “At the crown of the shadowless tree, flowers laugh as they greet the sun; upon branches that do not sprout, green leaves already hold the sense of spring.” It is also said: “With a rabbit’s horn, strike open the lock of the three poisons (greed, anger, and delusion); with a tortoise’s hair, sweep clean the dust upon the great thoroughfare.” These words pass beyond concrete images and stand far from the bonds of sound, form, and color. Without wisdom that penetrates the myriad dharmas, and clear awakening that rises above thought and concern, how could one comprehend the principle within them? Their meaning is deep as an abyssal spring, vast as the Great Void, abundant and luminous.

These works honor the mysterious manner of supreme De (Virtue/Power) and esteem the essential, wondrous Dao of Perfected Changchun. They do not use cunning to beguile the world, nor do they rely on the Daoist tradition to display themselves. They are crystalline and clear, like a bright pearl turning upon a golden platter, their pure light without end; and they are radiant and resplendent, like the autumn moon shining on the azure sky, their auspicious Qi (vital energy) inexhaustible.

During the Cheng’an era of the Jin dynasty, after the Master had passed away, a gentleman of Fenyin, Mr. Li, returned from the seacoast to his native place. The Master heard of this and, learning that Mr. Li was an outstanding disciple of the Perfected Changchun (Changchun Zhenren), wished to take him as his teacher. Mr. Li firmly declined and was willing only to pay homage to the Perfected Changchun. The Master therefore turned toward the place where the Perfected Changchun resided and performed the rite of bowing. From this he grasped certain profound principles, and his insight and understanding greatly advanced.

Fortunately, in Puban there was a fellow follower of the Dao (the Way) named Wang Juchuan, an elder sojourning in the dusty world. He praised the Master’s talent and discernment, saying that he had a rare and uncommon manner of discoursing freely upon the Great Dao: in movement he was as calm and unhurried as drifting clouds, and in stillness he was boundless, like the Valley Spirit (Gu Shen)—the deep and all-pervading Dao of which Daoists speak. He could not help sighing in admiration again and again.

Jizi, Sir Yang, together with Mr. Liu and others, brought out the Master’s collected writings and entitled them Mingzhen ji (Collection of Sounding the True). Fearing that the collection would gradually be buried and lost, they had it copied and set in order so that it might circulate widely. They asked me and others to compose an inscription. I was astonished and ashamed. How could learning as slight as mine contain the waters of a hundred rivers? They pleaded again and again, and still I declined again and again.

Reading through the whole book, I found every piece like fine wine and choice fare, a pleasure to read. The Master had realized the mystery of the Great Dao and also understood how to put the Dao to use. The words he uttered and the teachings he established are fit to serve as boat and ladder, leading people up onto the Dao and ferrying them beyond this world. What is called “sounding the True” (mingzhen) means that the voice of truth spreads throughout the cosmos: the more it is suppressed, the more it rings forth, like Dongjun, the spirit of spring and lord of the east, urging grasses and trees into life. The light of the True shines upon all things in heaven and earth, yet its own substance is empty, still, and without form, as the bright moon illuminates the myriad things. It is brilliant as the morning sun and mighty as thunder, and the subtle wonders within it are already complete.

Respectfully inscribed on the third day after the Chongyang Festival, in the xinhai year, by Zhang Zhiming of Fenyin, shallow in talent and slight in learning, who unworthily holds the office of Daoist Registrar (daolu) of Hezhong.

Five Poems on the Wisdom Sword (Huijian)

Since ancient times a sharp sword has been able to sever a fine hair, to guard the state and secure the realm, to assist the sovereign, and to overawe the violent and the powerful. When anger rises, a killing aura surges until heaven and earth seem to narrow; when rage lifts the hair against the cap, clouds massed like a battle line shoot straight up into the high heavens.

The cold gleam of a three-foot blade is stern enough to startle ghosts and spirits into retreat; ten thousand rays of chill light flash, enough to sweep away evil demons. One cry of the sword resounds like thunder through the nine heavens, and in an instant it becomes a flying dragon and vanishes without a trace.

This sword does not show its keenness by any distinction between the female blade and the male. It has an edge of another kind, able to drive out evil and shatter monsters, its cold light striking straight into the long sky. Where Tantai swung the sword, the Seven Stars blazed; when Zhou Chu swung the sword, ten thousand beams of red light came rushing forth.

The plain, uncolored Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang cannot be gathered and held, and its clear, bright radiance cannot be covered even by heaven and earth. Ever since the victory over Chiyou, the world has grown clear and peaceful, and there is no longer any need to resort to arms.

The precious sword is drawn from its case, and the blade is free of the slightest dust. When Ji Zha departed this life, he likewise did not brandish the sword; ten thousand rays of light flushed heaven and earth a deep red.

The plain, uncolored Qi of Yin-Yang cannot be gathered and held, and its clear, bright radiance cannot be covered even by heaven and earth. Ever since the victory over Chiyou, the world has grown clear and peaceful, and there is no longer any need to resort to arms.

The precious sword is drawn from its case, and the blade is free of the slightest dust. When Ji Zha departed this life, he was likewise without any lingering attachment. One would rather receive the credit Huang Chao gained for settling the altars of the realm, and is also glad to repay the sovereign of the Han, so that the bond between ruler and minister is made secure.

At a single movement of the precious sword, three feet of sword-light bring the various states to rest; sweeping the eight directions, the myriad kingdoms come to submit. One ought to thank the Yellow Emperor Xuanyuan for handing it down through the ages, for thus it can root out the treacherous and assist an enlightened ruler.

The three-foot Longquan precious sword sends its light straight toward the Dipper and Ox lunar mansions. Whenever it meets with injustice, it relieves others of their troubles. Once honed, its chill, lethal Qi stills the host of demons; when the edge shifts and crosses, the arrayed cloud-Qi strikes fear into a hundred strange beings.

The snow-bright blade is like the wind and can make even high summer feel cool; the frost-cold edge is like the moon, reflecting the austere clarity of autumn. When the work is accomplished and the business of great peace is done, the sword is hung at the edge of heaven, never to be taken down again.

I have possessed this precious sword for many years. It can enter the earth and pierce the mountains, and in use it follows what is naturally so. Auspicious Qi was cast into this sword, causing the host of strange beings to hide; its clear radiance was formed by polishing, causing every baleful influence to withdraw.

The sword-light blazes, shooting straight at the stars; the edge shines brilliantly, as if covering heaven and earth. Now it hangs idle beside the palaces of the azure empyrean. There is no need to raise it again; let it only keep company with the immortals.

Intelligence

In a sudden awakening the mind becomes perfectly rounded and whole, no longer stirred by external things. Only then does one understand that returning to plain simplicity is what reveals true intelligence. Look for it and it cannot be seen, because from the beginning it has no form or color; after one has listened, it is still hard to track down any hearing of it, for where would it have a sound?

The radiance of awakening shines over heaven and earth and brightens the four directions; the light of wisdom illumines all things, so that even ghosts and spirits are stirred by it. It embraces the myriad phenomena beyond Yin-Yang and alone reveals its original face, and thus the world attains peace.

The words of the title speak of “Chongpi, without color”; the lines that follow say again that after one has listened, it is still hard to track down any hearing of it, for where would it have a sound.

The radiance of awakening shines over heaven and earth and brightens the four directions; the light of wisdom illumines all things, so that even ghosts and spirits are stirred by it. It embraces the myriad phenomena beyond Yin-Yang and alone reveals its original face, and thus the world attains peace.

Six Poems Inscribed at Xuandu Abbey in Chongpi Valley

The ancient traces of Chongpi Valley remain as they were, and the scenery is elegant and fair; the mountain forests and springs are numinous and graceful, a place where followers of the Dao (the Way) dwell in seclusion and cultivate themselves. Amid layer upon layer of mountain mist, auspicious plants and trees arise; within fold upon fold of mountain color, numinous tender shoots grow.

The dawn light is at every moment joined to the morning air, and day after day the evening glow continues on from the dusk. This is truly a place of quiet peace and Wuwei (non-action); out in the vast sea, the tale of a frog transforming into a dragon is still passed on.

Strolling at leisure through Xuandu Abbey (Xuandu Guan, a Daoist temple), one finds the scenery truly beautiful. Among the dense woods and slender bamboo live recluses of immortal air and Daoist bearing. Rare fruits often come to ripen, and immortal flowers bloom in full day after day.

Cranes call from the pine trees, and the clouds and mist at once drift away; tigers roar before the cliffs, and the wind comes of itself. This place is cool and deeply secluded—who truly understands its subtle wonder? If one would seek the grotto-heavens and blessed lands (dongtian fudi) of the immortal realm, why look elsewhere for the Jade Terrace (Yaotai)?

Worldly affairs tangle without end, so that one cannot see where release might come. Wandering here at leisure, one forgets sorrow. Wind rises among the winding cliffs, and the gathered peaks are fair; when the mist clears, grasses and trees lie deep and still among the three summits.

Cloud and mist beyond the gate conceal the path the woodcutter walks; the stream before the hermitage screens and sets off the boat that ferries immortals. When someone comes to ask why I live in retreat and cultivate the Dao (the Way), I only point far off toward the white snow, smile, and give no answer.

I am one who dwells hidden in the human world, turning aside from common dust. In idle hours I follow a quiet path to Xuandu. The heart opens all at once, and I feel that all things may be regarded lightly; to enter this realm of purity and stillness is not difficult. Suddenly the ties of the dusty world are forgotten, and though time flows on, I am bound no longer.

The mind is bright as the round autumn moon; innate nature is lofty and free as drifting wild clouds. Let cold and heat succeed one another and the days fly past—I do not weigh merit or fame, and of itself nothing stands in the way within the heart.

Beneath Zhongtiao Mountain lives an immortal. Here all is calm and still, as though sun and moon themselves had grown long and unhurried. Mountains rise range upon range, a thousand cliffs lovely as jade; the land is rich, and a hundred grasses flourish in fragrance.

When a guest arrives, tea is brewed in welcome, clear and chill as snow on the pine tips; deep in the quiet of night, cypress seeds are burned in the brazier, and the fragrance is faint and lingering. Should anyone come here, every care of the world is wholly forgotten.

Northwest of Zhongtiao Mountain there is a Xuandu. Auspicious radiance appears without cease, and the qi (vital energy) of the Dao fills the place. Within groves of emerald bamboo a cavern for cultivating the Dao lies hidden; beneath cliffs of dark pine, the dwelling of an immortal is concealed.

Lingzhi, the numinous mushrooms, cover the unbroken peaks; a great pool is so deep it seems able to hold the pearl that knows no night. The recluse keeps clear of the turmoil of the dusty world and does not ask after ordinary affairs. Pure, secluded, and untrammeled, this place is like a little Penglai, the isle of the immortals.

Two Poems on Bamboo

Bamboo is solid without and hollow within, at once firm and empty of heart, just like the character of the gentleman. Its branches and leaves grow in dense, layered abundance—truly marvelous. Bamboo does not fear frost or cold, and stands graceful to meet the wind; new shoots rise proud against the snow, and rain nourishes their growth.

Deep-green pines are best planted beside the railing, and cypresses with delicate, finely wrought branches and leaves are equally well suited to being planted alongside them. At times they shed their old bark, as if spreading clouds and rain; to see this sight with one’s own eyes, one would scarcely be able to pass beyond that distant realm outside the Nine Heavens.

The cold cliffs are pure, elegant, and lovely, and few plants are suited to grow there; only langgan—legendary fine jade, often also used as a figure for beautiful bamboo—can endure the years. Its trunk stands straight, just right for quietly nurturing innate nature; its inner heart is empty and still, which likewise accords with the life of one who cultivates the Dao (the Way).

Facing the wind, the bamboo leaves rustle and bring coolness; taking in the rain, they sound in a soft patter, and the scene grows still purer and more beautiful. If it is to match the character of the gentleman who emblematizes true constancy, it is especially suited to growing at the dwelling of a Daoist of an immortal grotto.

Three Poems Expressing My Feelings

So long as one’s resolve stays firm and unwavering, one can reach the place of return; only then does one understand that scenery of immortal realms, like mist and rosy clouds, may be found everywhere. There is no need to speak of stroking the stars and the Dipper or of discoursing on mysterious principles; boasts of commanding wind and cloud are not worth mentioning either.

When the temperament is settled, one does not depart from subduing the Five Aggregates (a Buddhist term for the five classes of factors that constitute a person’s body and mind); once life has already sprouted, why deliberately turn the Three Carts (a term in the practice of Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy))? In every person’s heart there is the scenery of Caoxi (the ancestral seat of the Chan school, often borrowed to mean the pure original mind), and the road to Penghu (the legendary immortal mountains in the sea) is in fact close at hand.

What is truly leisurely and truly joyful is called xuanchong (a profound, tranquil, and bland realm). Over seventy years I have formed a life of idle ease and self-contentment. Everywhere, mountain forests and springs are a new daily livelihood; in household after household, wandering among the clouds and lodging by the waters carries on the old family tradition.

Only after passing through hundreds and thousands of affairs does one know that one ought to forget them all; only after trying every one of ten thousand methods does one understand that there is no end among them. Tell these essential words to the disciples: the moon will still sink toward the west, and flowing water will still run toward the east.

The life of one who cultivates the Dao is free of care from the start; the moonlight of mind and nature shines bright, and thus one attains freedom. Nurturing one’s nature need not be sought outside the body; in cultivating true nature, why pursue it deliberately within the mind?

The numinous pearl is bright and penetrates heaven and earth; the pure white moonlight shines upon Dou and Niu (names of constellations). The wondrous Dao has from ancient times always preserved purity and stillness; dwelling in the Pure Capital (the celestial immortal capital of Daoist legend), one roams at ease.

Inscribed on the Deep Stream of Chongpi Valley

North of Tiaoyang there is a stream that irrigates the Three Fields (a term of Daoist Neidan, often referring to the upper, middle, and lower Dantian (energy centers) within the human body) and secluded fields. The sound of the stream breaks into fragments in the clear wind, set against the verdant mountain hues; watery vapor joins with the daylight, and light plays upon the water.

A thousand layers of waves seem to surge forth from the grotto of the black dragon’s pearl (the legendary place where the black dragon keeps its pearl), and ten thousand branching streams urge the fishing boats onward. How laughable that Xu You (the legendary recluse) idly washed his ears—how could that compare with standing amid the waves, free and fully content?

Three Poems Warning the World

The trivial affairs of the mundane world swarm and clamor; busy all day long, they darken the inner root of numinous nature and leave no leisure for careful reflection.

(At this point the original’s “gains and losses, wind, emerald mountain hues; vapor joining the daylight, light floating on the water” repeats lines from the poem above, and the sense does not connect fully; it can therefore only be understood literally as follows: gain and loss shift like the wind, the mountain color is emerald green, and the light on the water floats, joining with the daylight.)

A thousand layers of waves surge forth from the Lizhu Cave (the legendary cavern where the black dragon hid its pearl), and ten thousand rivers urge the fisherman’s boat onward. How laughable that Xu You cared only for leisurely washing his ears—how could that compare with the keen pleasure of pressing forward to meet the waves?

Three Poems of Admonition

Worldly affairs are tangled and many; every day is filled with hurried busyness, clouding the inner spiritual source and leaving no leisure for careful reflection. Where profit and loss are contested, people brandish the sharp swords of speech; amid the waves of right and wrong, they wage battles of lips and tongues.

The human world is full of turmoil, and time flies swiftly; beyond the world, in clear stillness, the daylight seems long. How can this little glory before one’s eyes be set beside quiet purity? And who knows that every place in the dusty world may also become a realm of immortals?

Alas, secular affairs make people suffer from constant rushing about. Vying for superiority and quarreling, greedily seeking wealth—each brings vexation. A thousand cares entangle one, so that there is no escape; ten thousand matters twist together and also obstruct cultivation of the Dao (the Way).

Turn back and cut the chains of right and wrong; step freely and walk out of the arena of fame and profit. Go and dwell in seclusion beside the spring beneath the green cliffs, calmly and quietly nurturing your original nature and preserving pure Yang Qi (vital energy)—the pure yang energy spoken of in Daoism.

I urge you not to set foot in the field of right and wrong, where schemes laid through a thousand hardships prove vain in the end. How can you fail to understand that fame and profit are like a candle in the wind, extinguished in the blink of an eye? And how can you not know that affection and love are like a flash of lightning, brief and soon gone?

To covet glory—how can that compare with being one who pursues the immortal Dao? To be ardent for wealth and rank—how can that compare with returning to the homeland of the Dao? If you wish to leap free of the net of the dusty world, return early beneath the mountain cliffs and light the incense of the heart (offering reverence and cultivating with a sincere mind).

Sent to Master Zhang of Fenyin

I offer my respects to my intimate friend, Daoist Zhang. Since we parted, have you been well in all things, and do you still delight in according with your innate, true nature? The wild geese flying far have brought no news from Penghu (the legendary immortal mountains in the sea), and the crane returned from Liaodong only conveys in vain the spring colors of Langyuan (the legendary realm of the immortals).

The Daoist cloister stands empty and still, with the clear wind for company; the meditation hall is secluded and quiet, with the bamboo grove as neighbor. Sir, do not forget the pledge made in the poem; I look forward to admiring with you the bright moon upon the jasper terrace.

Three Poems Mourning a Horse

Alas, the fine horse has left this world—truly a cause for regret and sorrow. It accompanied me for ten years, and now its span of life is at an end. Its spiritual nature has drifted lightly away from the human world, and the three hun-souls (the three kinds of soul spoken of in Daoism) have likewise vanished into the distance.

Saddle and bridle lie idle, and I can no longer put them to use; whip and reins are no longer raised, yet they still display the service of its former days. Now it has shed its bodily form and returned to the source—depart in peace; when the spring thunder sounds once, it will transform into a flying dragon.

Alas for this rare and outstanding fine horse: I long for it, yet do not know where it now is as it runs and roams. Day by day it travels throughout the Shajie (the term in Buddhist and Daoist writings for the vast world); moment by moment it responds everywhere, and returns once more to Shenzhou.

After years of teaching and bringing relief to living beings, I have already given the utmost of heart and strength; only today’s farewell, offered in gratitude, brings the matter to a complete close. May your true spirit transcend the dusty world, cast itself into the vast sea, and transform into a flood dragon.

Alas for this fine horse of travel, which once carried its rider through mountains and rivers both near and far. Now you depart before me, and the merit of cultivation is already complete; yet I remain in the world, and fear I may not see this stretch of the road through in full.

For many years I rode in peace upon the soaring phoenix; now, about to leave this life, you will transform into a flood dragon. Gradually you rise into the air and fly toward the Purple Prefecture (Zifu, the dwelling of immortals in Daoism), come to a peaceful halt, and keep company with the immortals.

Resting in Tranquility and Nurturing Simplicity

The life of one who cultivates the Dao (the Way) does not lie in pride, luxury, and pleasure, but in passing the years amid clarity, stillness, and emptiness. In silence one regulates and nourishes mind and Shen (spirit), with no need of wine; in a gentle drowse one guards life, with no need of tea.

At ease and content, one holds to unpolished simplicity and nurtures the plain, preserving purity, harmony, and unadorned substance; carefully one cultivates De (Virtue/Power), without craving idle comfort or empty show. When the priceless innate treasure has been refined, one may mount the luan bird and, faintly visible, fly toward the immortals’ abode.

Quiet Stillness Without Worry (Two Poems)

A person was never meant to go about forever with brows knit in sorrow; when original nature is at leisure, what is there to worry over? Wherever the bright moon shines, every karmic bond seems to disperse; when a clear breeze passes before the eyes, all manner of clinging concerns come to rest.

Let the waves of worldly affairs in the streets surge as they will; let the storms beyond the gate turn freely of their own accord. Learn from Xiyi (the obscure, subtle, and silent realm of which Daoism speaks) to be idle and unhurried, sleep in peace, and snore to the full.

Nothing Clinging and Nothing Contending—What Is There to Seek?

Let the waves of worldly affairs in the streets surge as they will; let the storms beyond the gate turn freely of their own accord. Learn from Xiyi to be idle and unhurried, sleep in peace, and snore to the full.

With nothing entangled in the heart and no contention with others, what further pursuit could there be? Free and unrestrained, all affairs may be set down. The various postures of the secular world do not come to bind one; the tangle of human feelings and worldly dealings does not keep one lingering long among them.

The Spirit Pearl (Shenzhu, symbolizing the clear and luminous original nature) shines bright and clear—how could it be stained? Original nature gleams like the bright moon—how could it be obscured? There is no need to wear out one’s feet searching for Langyuan (the immortal realm of Daoist legend); once one awakens, in the space of a turn of the head one has already reached Yingzhou (the legendary immortal mountain in the sea).

The Dao Values the Natural (Two Poems)

The single point of numinous brightness in the heart is natural from the very beginning—why weary oneself rushing about in search of immortality? When the rain has passed and the sky clears, the stones of the treasure mountain are moist and lustrous as jade; when the clouds and mists of the Dharma Sea (Fahai, a phrase often used in Buddhist and Daoist scriptures as a figure for the vastness of the teaching) disperse, flames seem to turn into lotuses.

After awakening, one no longer hears the lion’s roar (a Buddhist expression symbolizing exalted teaching); after realizing the Dao, one also casts aside wild-fox Chan (Yehuchan, referring to teachings that lack correct insight and are only speciously true). Drawing near to teachers and elders and grasping the profound and mysterious purport of the Most High (Taishang, the Daoist honorific for the supreme deity or the Great Dao), one can transcend the transformations of Yin-Yang and reach the realm that precedes the lord of the myriad things.

Attaining the Dao (the Way) through cultivation does not require deliberate effort, still less those vain and fruitless doings. Shaking the sinews and bones, or tugging at the marrow, is an empty gesture; practices such as swallowing saliva and ingesting the salivary fluids only prove roundabout and improper.

The so-called divine elixir involves no great number of complicated methods of refinement; true Qi (vital energy) is, from the outset, bound by nothing. It is laughable that some people always seek outwardly, when the way of the immortals in fact lies within the square inch of the mind.

Finding Delight in Leisure: Two Poems

Dwelling at leisure has its own ease and pleasure; one need not live among clouded mountains and rocky valleys. Quietly set aside close study of the classics of the Three Teachings—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—and no longer bury oneself in reading many books.

The household manner is austere, plain, and unattached, with little of anything to spare; daily life is quiet and simple, without superfluous cares. How could cultivating the Dao consist only in sitting at ease in meditation? So long as the mind is whole and luminous, it can, like a bright mirror, constantly reflect the myriad things while remaining as it originally is, unchanged.

Put up a thatched hut in a secluded stream valley, and do not live in the bustle of the marketplace. Abide within the inner “Palace Without Night” (a metaphor for a state of mind that is clear and never darkened), and be a person with nothing to do; rest at ease in the “Hall of Everlasting Light” (a metaphor for an inner spiritual realm of constant brightness), free of worldly entanglements.

The clear Sea of the Dharma (a metaphor for mind-nature or for principle) is calm and waveless, and the deep pool of Shen (spirit) (a metaphor for the inner spirit) has no empty, floating swells. As with “Wangxiang obtaining the pearl,” if one harbors no mind of deliberate seeking, realization can come; there is no need to exhaust one’s thoughts in purposely pursuing the realm of Huaxu (the ideal dreamland of legend).

Presented to the Daoist Li Zhiyu

The mind of Daoist Li is truly at leisure and still, as if he dwelt in a palace where nothing need be done; unbound, he rests at ease in a realm as clear as the Hall of Everlasting Light.

The clear Sea of the Dharma is calm and waveless, and the deep pool of Shen has no empty, floating swells. As with “Wangxiang obtaining the pearl,” if one harbors no mind of deliberate seeking, realization can come; there is no need to exhaust one’s thoughts in purposely pursuing the realm of Huaxu.

Presented to the Daoist Li Zhiyu

Daoist Li is at ease and free, his original mind pure and unstained. The realms of wisdom, precepts, and meditative concentration are hard to put into words; he realizes Wuwei (non-action) through his aspiration, and does not often keep these principles on his lips.

The woods and springs of the blessed lands are all his friends; the clouds, mists, and flowing waters of the grotto-heavens are likewise as his neighbors. He knows how to turn the light back upon himself and to grasp the meaning of everlasting spring, and thus he passes beyond the transformations of Yin-Yang and the turns of kalpic fate, entering the realm of eternal spring.

Presented to Wu the Daoist Judge

I am old and too lazy to take up the brush and grind the ink; suddenly I am startled to find that, without my noticing, the hair at both temples has turned white as frost. Familiar scenes before the eyes change in swift succession, while life beyond the world seems as enduring as the daylight.

One ought to learn from Chen Tuan (a Daoist figure of the Five Dynasties and the early Song, famed for his skill at sleeping) and sleep long in peace, and need not, like Du Fu, let sorrow twist within a hundred ways. Enough—be a leisurely, carefree old man; once free of the toil of the dusty world, what is there to regret?

Two Poems Expressing My Thoughts

Leaning idly on a staff, I walk out of the thatched cottage. Looking about, I find the familiar scene before me still the same, yet time has passed with startling speed. A life withdrawn from the dusty world has an unhurried air of its own, and even the daylight seems unusually long.

One might as well follow Chen Chuan (that is, the Daoist figure Chen Tuan) and rest in peaceful sleep, rather than, like Du Fu, be tied in knots of sorrow. Enough, then: let me be an idle, easygoing old man. Once the toil of the world has been cast off, what remains to regret?

Two Poems Setting Forth My Feelings

Staff in hand, I stroll idly out of the thatched cottage and look across the open country beyond; the view is finer than brocade. Flocks of wild geese leave Hengyang and fly north, and the sky is pale and far-reaching; swallows leave the hills by the sea, and the rain grows gradually thin.

Along both banks of the stream the scenery is pleasing, and the peach blossoms open in delicate beauty; in the spring light spread over the ground, the willows stretch out their branches. Returning at evening with nothing on my mind, I settle myself to nourish the spirit (Shen) and keep to a plain, simple nature—and the delight is endless.

Forget the myriad affairs of the world; there is no need to step outside the thatched cottage. Draw in worldly cares so that they no longer obstruct you, and body and mind can rest easy and free. “Ruru” is an expression often used in Buddhist and Daoist scriptures; it means remaining undisturbed by external things and abiding in one’s original condition. Every sort of benefit and harm, gain and loss in the human world has been regarded lightly, and the various shows of splendor before the eyes grow gradually remote.

When the mood arises, I sit cross-legged on a rush cushion; when the heart feels vexed, I stretch out on the earthen bed. I have now become a careless, leisurely old man, content in my ease, and within me there is the joy of the Dao (the Way).

Inscribed at Xuantong Abbey in Wangguan Valley

Wangguan Valley preserves traces of the past, among them an altar for offerings to the stars. This Daoist abbey, named Xuantong Abbey, is said to have once sheltered an immortal in seclusion. The mountains are beautiful, and cloud and mist half conceal the bamboo grove where, according to legend, a phoenix made its perch; the land is fertile, and vapor shrouds the spring where, according to legend, a transformation into a dragon took place.

A single peak bears the thousand-year-old memory of an emperor’s enterprise, and the immortal’s pavilion raised by three imperial summons has come down to the present day. Both the immortal and the emperor have already passed beyond the ordinary world and cannot be seen in person; yet the fair name they left behind ought to be celebrated through the ages.

Wangguan Valley preserves traces of the past, among them an altar for offerings to the stars. This Daoist abbey, named Xuantong Abbey, is said to have once sheltered an immortal in seclusion. The mountains are beautiful, and cloud and mist half conceal the bamboo grove where, according to legend, a phoenix made its perch; the land is fertile, and vapor shrouds the spring where, according to legend, a transformation into a dragon took place.

A single peak bears the thousand-year-old memory of an emperor’s enterprise, and the immortal’s pavilion raised by three imperial summons has come down to the present day. Both the immortal and the emperor have already passed beyond the ordinary world and cannot be seen in person; the fair name they left behind will not be erased, and from ancient times to the present it will continue to be told.

Seven-Character Quatrains

For the Beginner

To form the resolve to cultivate the Dao is easy; to persist in it for long is hard. So long as the heart does not change, one’s aim can stand as firm as Mount Tai. Cut off cares and bonds of feeling, and do not let the dusty world stain the original mind; then, of itself, one becomes free and at ease, and gains a clear leisure.

In Reply to Master Wang, Who Asked Where the Dao Is

Hold fast to the original mind, forget your faults, and extinguish desire. The Dao lies within emptiness and nothingness—why go searching for it everywhere? Recognize your own original face: take up what is to be taken up, and set down what is to be set down. Such a person is one who truly understands.

Presented to Master Zhang, Who Has Not Yet Awakened

Undo the lock of sorrow between the brows and withdraw from the dusty world; sever the bonds of fame and profit, and liberation is gained. If mind and nature are as free as scraps of white cloud in a clear blue sky, then the ten thousand things cannot obstruct you, and the heart too will be open and at ease.

Presented to Daoist Li

Daoist Li, a follower of the Dao (the Way), cuts off all stray thoughts and lets things take their natural course; he can set everything aside. This is true cultivation. Serene and content in himself, he has already grasped the true meaning of longevity and transcended the calamitous bounds of Yin-Yang transformation, as if dwelling in an eternal spring.

Ode to Tea

Set down your cares and withdraw; cut through the tangle of fame and profit, and the mind can rest. One’s nature is like patches of white cloud in a clear blue sky, unbound by the myriad affairs of the world, the heart open, free, and at ease.

Presented to Daoist Li

Daoist Li cuts off all stray thoughts and lets things take their natural course; he can set everything aside. This is true cultivation. Serene and content in himself, he has already grasped the true meaning of longevity and transcended the calamitous bounds of Yin-Yang transformation, as if dwelling in an eternal spring.

Ode to Tea

The Golden Boy gathers the leaves of the lingzhi, and the Jade Maiden collects tea buds from Langyuan (the realm of the immortals). If someone truly knows its flavor, its pure fragrance will seem to surpass the tea of Zhaozhou (the tea famed in the public cases of the Chan school).

The Divine Pearl

This divine pearl is perfectly round, yet formless, and no trace of it can be found; ten thousand beams of rosy light shoot straight into the blue void. Its radiance illumines the great thousandfold world and pervades the entire dharma-realm (the totality of all things, as spoken of in Buddhism). How, then, could heaven and earth contain it?

Chan and the Dao

Chan and the Dao alike take Wuwei (non-action) as their aim. Chan is the Dao, and the Dao is Chan; between them there is no distinction and no one-sided deficiency. From the beginning there is a single point of numinous clarity in one’s nature: it draws no line between self and other and, clear and still, remains manifest at all times.

Sitting in Purity

The mind is clear and silent, as if one dwelt in a fangzhang chamber (the lodging where a monk cultivates in quiet). One gathers the spirit in stillness and nourishes body and mind. The hun and po (the ethereal and corporeal souls) are peaceful and pure; host and guest meet (that is, the inner aspects of body and mind come into harmony). Every thought is forgotten, and the heart holds nothing at all.

Mysterious Action

The Dao is Chan. Chan and the Dao are not two, nor is there any one-sided deficiency. From the beginning there is a single point of numinous clarity in one’s nature: it draws no line between self and other and, clear and still, remains manifest at all times.

Sitting in Purity

The mind is clear and silent, as if one dwelt in a fangzhang chamber. One gathers the spirit in stillness and nourishes body and mind. The hun and po are peaceful and pure; host and guest meet. Every thought is forgotten, and the heart holds nothing at all.

Here ends the Mingzhen ji of Xuanxuzi (the Collection of Sounding the Real, by the Master of Mysterious Void).