《群仙要语纂集》

In daily practice one should be moderate in diet, sit upright in stillness, and give rise to no distracting thoughts. Set the myriad affairs of the world aside for the time being and devote yourself wholly to guarding the Shen (spirit). The eyes do not look upon external things, nor do the ears listen to external sounds; let mind and spirit rest within. The breath should be slow, long, and unbroken, barely perceptible, as if present and yet not. Practitioners hold that in this way the fire of the heart descends and the water of the kidneys rises, fluids arise in the mouth, and body and mind come into accord with spiritual truth, so that one sets out upon the path of longevity.

Through all twelve double-hours of the day one must preserve clarity and purity. “Not a single thought arising” is called “clear” (qing); when the “spiritual terrace” (lingtai)—the place where mind and spirit dwell—is free of stray thoughts, this is called “pure” (jing). The body is the dwelling of Qi (vital energy), and the heart is the dwelling of Shen. When thought stirs, Shen stirs with it; once Shen scatters, Qi scatters as well. When Shen gathers and coheres, the true Qi of the Five Phases (wuxing) within the body congeals into the “knife-measure” (daogui)—the refined essence condensed in the practice of Neidan (internal alchemy). Then it is as if there were another body within the body; a harmonious Qi courses through the whole form, fresh and lucid, like clarified butter poured upon the crown.

Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, one should maintain the awareness proper to practice: as if a wind were moving through the body, thunder sounding in the abdomen, and immortal music heard at the ear—like a tune without strings, seeming to sound of itself without speech or striking. When Shen and Qi mingle and Yang Qi turns back, one can discern the scenery within the body. One may also feel able to speak, to behold the realm of emptiness, and to dwell in the company of the holy perfected; Shen comes and goes freely, one’s lifespan equals that of heaven and earth, and one is freed from birth and death. In practice, Shen and Qi must not be injured, and clarity and purity should be kept through all twelve double-hours. Shen is the child of Qi, and Qi is the mother of Shen. To preserve and nurture Shen and Qi, one should remain with them without interruption, as a hen broods upon her eggs. This is truly profound and subtle.

Guan Yinzi said: It is not because the Dao (the Way) cannot be spoken of or thought about that one takes what “cannot be said” or what “cannot be conceived” to be the Dao. To speak of the Dao in words is like blowing a shadow apart; to seek the Dao through deliberation is like trying to bind dust with a silk thread. Even sages and the wise may be bewildered by this, and ghosts and spirits are likewise unable to discern it.

He also said: Not to understand the Dao, and yet to guess and divine out of thin air, is like covering a bowl and guessing what is held underneath. Those who guess on the grander side say there is gold and jade inside; those who guess more ordinarily say there are animal horns and bird feathers; those who guess more meanly say there are tiles and stones. Whether the guess is right or wrong, only the person who placed the things there knows.

He also said: The Dao can never, in the end, be obtained; whatever can be obtained is called De (Virtue/Power), and is not called the Dao. The Dao can never, in the end, be followed so as to be made into some particular conduct; whatever can be carried out by following a pattern is called “practice,” and is not called the Dao. The sage relies on those things that can be obtained and put into practice in order to settle his own life, and relies on those principles that cannot be obtained or put into practice in order to settle his own death.

He also said: When a single thought in the mind accords with the profound and formless Dao, one is a sage; when a thought turns toward the good, one is a worthy person; when a thought turns toward evil, one is a petty person. The thought that accords with the Dao returns from what is formed within oneself to the formless, and cannot be taken out and displayed. Thoughts of good and evil, by contrast, give rise to the formed out of the formless, and cannot be concealed. The ability to distinguish good from evil is an expression of sentient awareness, and only animals possess this kind of awareness; the thought that accords with the Dao has no discriminating awareness. Between heaven and earth, the Dao is present everywhere.

He also said: A single flame can burn up the myriad things. After the myriad things have vanished, where is the fire? The Dao, like a single breath, can return the myriad things to the dark and formless; after the myriad things have vanished, where is the Dao?

He also said: My Dao is like dwelling in darkness. A person in a bright place cannot see what lies in the dark, yet one who remains in the dark can see the general outline of what lies in the light.

He also said: A winnowing basket does not question beans, nor can beans answer the basket; a tile does not question a stone, nor will a stone answer a tile. The Dao has not been lost—so who, after all, is asking, and who is answering? As the one Qi (vital energy) comes and goes in its circulation, where is the Dao?

He also said: A single spectacle of motion and transformation is confined within the vast emptiness of space; rising from the center, it becomes heaven, and descending from the center, it becomes earth. There is nothing that only rises and never descends. [The text that follows repeats the point that tiles and stones cannot question and answer one another, and again speaks of the coming and going of the one Qi and of where the Dao is.]

The patterns by which the myriad things move and operate extend throughout the whole of space: rising upward from the center, they become Heaven; descending downward from the center, they become Earth. There is nothing that only rises and never descends, and nothing that only descends and never rises. What rises manifests as Fire; what descends manifests as Water; what seeks to rise yet cannot manifests as Wood; what seeks to descend yet cannot manifests as Metal. Wood is such that drilling it brings forth fire, and wringing and pressing it brings forth water; Metal is such that striking it brings forth fire, and melting it turns it into water. Metal and Wood are the states in which Water and Fire act upon one another.

Water stands for Jing (essence) and for Heaven; Fire stands for Shen (spirit) and for Earth; Wood stands for the hun (ethereal soul) and for the human being; Metal stands for the po (corporeal soul) and for things. What moves without cease is time; what embraces the myriad things and gives each its place is space; Soil runs through from beginning to end, receiving the myriad things as they emerge and as they return to storage.

Although Heaven and Earth are vast, they possess color, form, number, and direction. Yet there is another kind of existence that has neither color nor form, nor number nor direction, and that nevertheless enables Heaven to be Heaven and Earth to be Earth.

In the dream, in the mirror, and in the water, there is in each case a Heaven and an Earth. To make the Heaven and Earth within a dream disappear, one must refrain from sleeping; to make the Heaven and Earth in a mirror disappear, one must keep form from being reflected; to make the Heaven and Earth in water disappear, one must not draw water from the basin. Whether they exist depends on the side that perceives them, not on the side of the dream, the mirror, or the water. Therefore the sage does not do away with Heaven and Earth, but does away with the discriminations and attachments produced by the mind’s consciousness.

Heaven and Earth are lodged in a certain place; the myriad things are lodged in a certain place; I too am lodged in a certain place; and the Dao (the Way) is likewise lodged in a certain place. If one departs from this lodging, the Dao has no basis on which to be established.

Even conduct that is lofty and extraordinary cannot be free of the distinction between high and low; even words that are fair and impartial cannot be free of judgments of right and wrong; even ability that is wondrous cannot be free of the difference between the skillful and the clumsy; even appearances that differ from one another cannot be free of assessments of beauty and ugliness. The sage uses these distinctions to indicate something to the people of the world; only when they have grasped the principle behind these distinctions can they see the sage’s intent.

The Dao has no fixed form. If one takes the Dao as some particular matter with which to meet the world, that is only a concrete matter, not the Dao itself. The Dao has no fixed position. If one lodges the Dao in some particular thing, that is only a concrete thing, not the Dao itself. In the end the sage cannot take the Dao out alone from among the myriad things and display it to others.

Centipedes, snakes, frogs, and insect grubs devour one another. The sage’s words work in a similar way: first he speaks of the faults of clinging to “being” and “non-being,” then of the faults of clinging to “neither being nor non-being,” and next he says that even “neither being nor non-being” should be abandoned. The discourse advances layer by layer, like a saw drawn back and forth. One who truly knows how to enter into the sage’s Dao (the Way) understands that these words are only guidance and does not rest on any single statement.

The more clearly a person calculates benefit and harm, the harder it is for kin to live in harmony; the more one distinguishes the worthy from the foolish, the harder it is for friends to open their hearts; the more one clings to right and wrong, the harder it is to get things done; the more one picks at beauty and ugliness, the harder it is for people and things to accord. The sage therefore harmonizes these discriminating minds.

The sage sometimes speaks, acts, and thinks, because in this way he can communicate with ordinary people; yet he can also remain unbound by words, deeds, and deliberation, and so differs from ordinary people.

To take the sage as the model for learning to be a sage is to be a worthy person; to take the worthy person as the model for learning to be a sage is to be a sage. If one merely imitates the outward appearance of the sage’s words and deeds, one easily becomes stuck in the traces and forgets the Dao; only by grasping these traces through the worthy person and reflecting on them can one return to what is essential and accord with the Dao.

Ordinary people let the po (the spiritual activity linked to the physical form) govern the hun (the spiritual activity that presides over conscious awareness); the sage instead uses the hun to regulate and move the po. The po is stored in the body, and the hun’s activity must rely on the po; when the hun wanders forth, it likewise takes the po as its support. By day the hun lodges in the eyes, so a person can see; at night the po rests in the liver, so a person dreams.

Inside a fruit there is a kernel. Only when the three conditions of water, fire, and earth are all present will it continually grow and multiply. If the three are incomplete—as in great drought, great flood, or barren soil—none can nourish the myriad things. Jing (essence) is like water, Shen (spirit) is like fire, and yi (intention) is like earth. These three do not join of themselves; only by means of what is fundamental in a person can they be brought into union.

When a cook was boiling crabs to make a stew, one crab leg fell onto the table. The crab had already been cooked into the stew, yet that leg was still moving. From this we can see that what is called life and death is nothing more than a current of Qi (vital energy) gathering or dispersing. Originally there is no such thing as life and death; it is people who, out of nothing, distinguish “life” from “death.”

The mind cannot deliberately seek single-mindedness: the five senses each act on their own, and so thought cannot concentrate on only one place. The mind cannot deliberately seek emptiness: the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) are all contained within it, and the mind cannot exclude them altogether. The mind also cannot deliberately seek stillness: the myriad things of the world are constantly undergoing subtle change, and the mind cannot bring that change to a halt. If one forces a search for oneness, one falls into opposition; if one forces a search for emptiness, the mind is instead filled up; if one forces a search for stillness, thoughts instead begin to stir. Only the sage can gather all things into a single breath, allowing no thing to drive his words and actions, and can also spread that single breath among all things, without being constrained by any thing in what he does.

Flowing water carries the boat forward; what truly makes the boat move is the water, not the boat. When a cart advances, what truly propels it is the ox, not the cart. When a person thinks, the bearer of thought is the mind, but what gives rise to thought is intention, not the mind itself. The movement of the myriad things has no fixed cause that can be stated, yet it is naturally so. Precisely because one cannot point out why it is so, its coming cannot be traced, and its going leaves no track to follow. When neither coming nor going can be determined, one can accord with the root of Heaven and Earth, unbound by the limits of past and present.

Right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, success and failure, fullness and depletion—all are the workings of creative transformation. They seem to exist because people cling to them through a selfish mind and a discriminating consciousness; even if one tries to use “non-being” to eliminate these distinctions, they still remain. Only by regarding these phenomena as not truly existent in themselves can one accord with the root of Heaven and Earth, unbound by the limits of past and present.

It is further said: Right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, success and failure, fullness and depletion—all of these are brought about by the workings of creation. The reason people cling to these distinctions as if they were truly real is their own selfish minds and consciousness. Even if one tries to dispel the clinging by means of “non-being,” the attachment remains; and if one then tries to dispel it by means of “neither being nor non-being,” the attachment is still there. It is like a place one visited in the past: when one returns later, the events of former days are remembered with perfect clarity. Such memories are hard to forget and hard to drive away. One who is skilled at removing attachment can transform discriminating consciousness into wisdom. Do you know how to turn consciousness into wisdom?

The reply says: What is called “thought” is like becoming afraid when one thinks of ghosts, or feeling dread in the heart when one thinks of robbers. What is called “consciousness” is like mistaking proso millet for foxtail millet, or mistaking jade for stone. All such imaginings and cognitions are like floating images, without any fixed foundation. When, for example, one sees something strange, strange thoughts and cognitions about it arise; yet the root of these thoughts and cognitions does not lie in oneself. Take today: what thoughts and cognitions will arise tomorrow cannot yet be foreseen. When tomorrow comes, all manner of confused thoughts and cognitions arise from causes and conditions, and that is why they are called “thought” and “consciousness.” This is like a rhinoceros gazing at the moon: the moon’s image is reflected in the rhinoceros’s horn. Through imagination and cognition, a person sees the moon’s reflection upon the horn, but the true moon is not in the horn. The myriad things of heaven and earth within the breast are just the same. One who understands this principle does not cling outwardly to the things that are seen, nor cling inwardly to one’s own emotions.

It is further said: Emotion arises from the mind, and the mind arises from original nature. Emotion may be compared to waves, the mind to flowing water, and original nature to water itself. When external things stir me, it is like a spark of fire flashing past. If one receives this with original nature, the mind will not thereupon give rise to all sorts of things and thoughts; it merely drifts of itself, without becoming stuck.

It is further said: Among people there are differences of the worthy and the foolish, the genuine and the false, and some can recognize them while others cannot. The other person may indeed be worthy or foolish, genuine or false; yet when we judge that person to be so, the judgment is a discrimination made after our own consciousness has been stirred. Once one knows that these judgments are constituted by consciousness, one understands that even things that are real may be regarded as illusory.

It is further said: Although heaven and earth are vast and can govern things that have form, they cannot govern things that are formless. Although Yin-Yang is mysterious and subtle and can govern things that possess Qi (vital energy), it cannot govern things that lack Qi. One who understands that one’s own mind is without Qi and without form will find that heaven and earth and Yin-Yang cannot govern it.

It is also said: When unusual things suddenly appear before a person’s eyes in ordinary times, they are all produced by the concentration of spirit (Shen); when unusual things are suddenly seen during illness, they are all produced by some deficiency within the heart. If one understands that one’s own mind can bring tangible things into appearance out of nothing, one will also understand that one’s own mind can make tangible things disappear. It is only because people do not believe this that it cannot spontaneously display its wondrous working. Someone asked, “When consciousness is already confused, who can help believing what appears before the eyes?” I replied, “It is like those who catch snakes: if they do not fear snakes in their hearts, they will not be afraid even when they dream of snakes.” Thus the Yellow Emperor said, “The Dao (the Way) has no ghosts or spirits; it merely comes and goes alone.”

It is also said: Someone asked me, “What is your surname, your given name, and your courtesy name? What clothes do you wear, and what do you eat? What friends do you keep, and what servants accompany you? What qin do you play, and what books do you read? Do you speak of antiquity or of the present?” At the time I remained silent and did not answer a single word. That person kept pressing the question, and I was obliged to reply, “You cannot even see me—how then could you know that these things belong to me?”

It is also said: Qi (vital energy) both gathers and disperses. Yet the root by which I circulate Qi has never gathered and has never dispersed. When Qi gathers, there is life; when Qi disperses, there is death. None of these changes is my own self.

It is also said: Qi both gathers and disperses. Yet the root by which I circulate Qi has never gathered and has never dispersed. When Qi gathers, there is life; when Qi disperses, there is death; but that which has never gathered and never dispersed is without life and death. What comes and goes is only a passing traveler; the posting station remains ever as it is.

It is also said: To baffle the cleverest people in the world, one relies not on cleverness but on dull simplicity; to leave the most eloquent people in the world without an argument, one relies not on skillful speech but on silence and few words; to make the bravest people in the world submit, one relies not on valor but on timidity and weakness.

It is also said: Those who speak little do not easily incur others’ resentment; those who do little are not easily blamed; those who use their minds little are not easily trapped by intellect; those who display their abilities little are not easily put to use by others.

It is also said: when people discuss a given matter, some say it is beneficial, some say it is harmful, some say it is at times beneficial and at times harmful, and still others say that benefit and harm are both present in it. Though the accounts are many, each must fall under one of these. One who truly understands the Dao (the Way) will not speak of it merely in these terms.

It is also said: to speak of the Dao is like recounting a dream. The one who tells the dream may say that within it there were gold and jade, vessels and implements, birds and beasts; yet though he can describe them, he cannot take the things of the dream and hand them to another. The listener, though he hears, cannot thereby truly obtain those things. One who listens well does not cling to the letter of the words, nor does he contend.

It is also said: the methods and arts of the world—its various techniques, teachings, and practices of cultivation—are many. Some esteem what is hidden and obscure, some what is manifest and clear, some the firm and strong, some the soft and yielding. Cling to these methods, and they are only particular affairs; only by not clinging to them can one apprehend the Dao through them.

It is also said: one who listens well does not cling to the letter of the words, nor does he contend.

It is also said: the methods and arts of the world are many. Some esteem what is hidden and obscure, some what is manifest and clear, some the firm and strong, some the soft and yielding. Cling to these methods, and they are only particular affairs; only by not clinging to them can one apprehend the Dao through them.

It is also said: my Dao is like the great sea. Cast into it hundreds of millions in gold, and no increase can be seen; cast into it hundreds of millions of stones, and still no increase can be seen; cast into it hundreds of millions of foul things, and the water of the sea is not changed thereby. It can bear tiny shrimp and small fish, and it can also bear the great kun and the mighty whale. When the many streams gather into it, it does not seem to have any surplus; when the many streams are dispersed, it does not seem to fall short.

It is also said: the people of the world are perhaps too numerous to be counted even by the hundred million. Each person’s dreams are different, and the dreams of one and the same person differ from night to night. Within dreams there are heaven and earth, persons and things, and the myriad beings, all formed of the mind’s thought, in numbers too great to be counted by dust and sand. How, then, do we know that the heaven and earth before our eyes are not formed of some thought?

It is also said: a fetus that dies in the womb, and a life that dies within the egg, were once human beings or other living creatures. Though heaven and earth are vast, they have no way of knowing that heaven and earth exist. What is called measuring and knowing heaven and earth is nothing but my own personal discernment. It is as when the hand does not touch the edge of the blade: the blade then wounds no one.

It is also said: What has sequence in time is Qi (vital energy)—the Qi that moves and changes—while the source from which Qi arises itself admits of no division between day and night. What has position in space is form, while the source from which form arises itself admits of no distinction between south and north. What is the source of Qi? It is like waving a fan to produce wind: before the fan is waved, the wind has not yet formed; only when the fan is set in motion does the wind come into being. What is the source of form? It is like drilling wood to obtain fire: before any drilling takes place, the fire has not yet appeared; only after the drilling does the fire come into being.

It is also said: The sage is not fundamentally different from an ordinary person; it is only that external things cannot bind the sage.

It is also said: When the mind does not cling to any fixed place, the appearances of things present themselves of their own accord. In movement it flows like water; in stillness it is clear like a mirror; in response it rises like an echo. It seems blank and without trace, and yet still and lucid. Dwelling among others, one accords with them in harmony; if one supposes that one has gained something, one will instead lose it. He never pushes ahead of others, but always follows along with them.

It is also said: In what is light and pure, the po (the part that constitutes a person’s spirit and vital activity) ascends following the hun (the part that governs spiritual activity); in what is heavy and turbid, the hun descends following the po. When hun and po each make up half, one is born as a human being. When the hun ascends, one appears noble; when the po descends, one appears lowly. The luminous hun is worthy and good; the fierce po is dull and foolish. The light and pure hun is bright; the heavy po is dark. The expansive hun is like feathers; the sharp and severe po is like hair. The bright hun becomes Shen (spirit); the dark po becomes a ghost. Their forms, dwellings, cognition, and preferences all correspond to the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water).

It is also said: Loving attachment belongs to Jing (essence); contemplative illumination belongs to Shen. Although loving attachment and contemplative illumination differ, both arise from conscious thought. If loving attachment occurs without discriminating conscious thought, it is like a lock and clasp fastened together; if contemplative illumination occurs without discriminating conscious thought, it is like lamplight shining upon things. If my conscious thought does not arise, from what, then, would my life come to be?

It is further said: A fruit pit can send forth young sprouts—no one knows how many tens of thousands of plants. Although heaven and earth are vast, they cannot cause a sprout to grow out of nothing where there is no seed. The eggs a female bird lays can hatch many birds, yet however wondrous the transformations of Yin-Yang may be, they cannot cause a female bird with no male involved to lay eggs out of nothing. Whatever comes to me I take in and contain with a single breath of Qi (vital energy), and thus the myriad things are transformed into me; there is nothing that does not belong to me. As for the so-called Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), who could alter them?

It is further said: This is like striking a drum with a mallet. The form of the drum is what I possess; the sound the drum gives forth is what I perceive. As for the so-called Five Phases, who could alter them?

It is further said: This is like striking a drum with a mallet. The form of the drum is like my Jing (essence); the sound the drum gives forth is like my Shen (spirit). Once the mallet has gone, the lingering sound remains for a while, yet in the end it too disappears. The lingering sound is like the hun and po (ethereal and corporeal souls). If one understands that they appear suddenly and vanish in a moment, one will see that the Qi of the Five Phases stands in no fixed relation to oneself.

It is further said: If one understands that this body is like a body in a dream, appearing in accord with the mind’s intent, one can employ spiritual thought, let spirit become the self, and roam in the Taiqing (the pure and empty realm spoken of in Daoism). If one understands that the myriad things are like things in a dream, appearing in accord with the mind’s intent, one can concentrate spiritual thought, cause spirit to transform into things, and roam the eight wildernesses (all quarters of the world). This Dao (the Way) can prolong life by discerning the spirit, and it can also transcend life and death by forgetting the spirit. Drawing in breath to nourish Jing is like Metal generating Water; drawing in the Qi of wind to nourish Shen is like Wood generating Fire. One thus relies on external things to sustain Jing and Shen. Rinsing with water can nourish Jing so that Jing is not exhausted; warming and rubbing with fire can nourish Shen so that Shen does not fail. One thus relies on inner cultivation to sustain Jing and Shen. As for the method of forgetting the spirit and transcending life and death, I have already spoken of it before.

It is further said: As for views of life and death, some say that after death one still exists, some say that after death one returns to nothingness, and some say that after death one both exists and does not exist. Some say that one ought to count long life a blessing, and some say that one ought to detach oneself from life and death. I have already spoken of this before.

It is also said: On the matter of life and death, some hold that a person still exists after death, some that nothing at all remains after death, and some that after death one both exists and does not exist. Some feel that life and death are cause for rejoicing, some that they ought to be feared; some advocate letting things follow their natural course, some advocate transcending life and death. Views of every kind only keep the discriminating consciousness in constant change, racing on without rest. Yet they do not realize that my life and death are like a horse growing hands or an ox growing wings: they cannot be established in the first place. Once it is said that they originally do not exist, there is no need to cling any further to “nonexistence.” It is as when water and fire meet: water cannot drown out fire, and fire cannot burn away water.

It is also said: When external things and the self act upon one another, thoughts of the mind arise from this; when two pieces of wood rub together, fire arises from this. Such thoughts cannot be said to lie only in the self, nor only in external things; they cannot be said to be wholly the self, nor wholly external things. To cling to dividing the one from the other is folly.

It is also said: Do not use your own mind to conjecture about others; understand another according to that person’s own intention. Grasp this principle, and one can handle affairs with thoroughness, practice De (Virtue/Power), penetrate the great Dao (the Way), associate with others, and also forget the self.

It is also said: If you see strange forms—a snake’s head on a human body, the arms of an ox covered in the scales of a fish, or a ghostly shape borne on the wings of a bird—do not be startled by them. Strange events in dreams are not yet worth regarding as strange, and what is seen in dreams falls short of the strangeness seen while awake. That a person has ears and eyes, hands and arms, is itself equally strange. The great principle cannot be exhausted in words, nor can great wisdom be exhausted by deliberation.

It is also said: The eyes cannot see themselves, the ears cannot hear their own sound, the tongue cannot taste its own flavor, and the mind cannot take itself as an external thing and measure it. Ordinary people chase after external things; the worthy hold fast to what is within; the sage sees that these distinctions of inner and outer are merely constructions set up by human beings.

It is also said: Do not conclude that a person has no self merely because he is without knowledge and abides in Wuwei (non-action); even with knowledge and with action, nothing prevents him from attaining no-self. No-self is like fire: restless and never still, yet there has never been a fixed, unchanging “I.”

It is also said: Take the great sea as an example. It can give rise to hundreds of millions of flood dragons and fishes, yet the water is in the end of only one kind. I and the myriad things flourish in dense abundance within the Great Transformation (the unceasing process of change of heaven, earth, and the myriad things), and the nature with which we are endowed is likewise of only one kind. One who understands that nature is one no longer distinguishes between persons and things, nor between death and life.

It is also said: Water lies hidden below and therefore contains the five Jing (essences); fire rises and leaps upward and therefore gives off five kinds of scent; when trees grow lush, they display an appearance of dense flourishing. Although the myriad things each have their own forms, they all exist within the Great Transformation, and their nature is of only one kind. One who understands that nature is one no longer distinguishes between persons and things, nor between death and life.

It is also said: Water lies hidden below and contains the five Jing; fire rises upward and gives off five kinds of scent; trees grow lush and display five colors; metal is hard and gives forth five sounds; earth harmonizes and nourishes five flavors. The five kinds of constant states are fixed, yet change cannot be calculated; the classes of things are five, yet the ways in which they mingle with one another cannot be calculated. Therefore, of the myriad things between heaven and earth, one cannot cling to saying that they are of ten thousand kinds, of five kinds, or of only one kind; nor can one cling to saying that they are not of ten thousand kinds, not of five kinds, or not of one kind. To view the myriad things as gathered together or as set apart, and on that basis to determine their forms, their numbers, and their Qi (vital energy), is only to weary the mind in vain. The myriad things do not understand me, and I do not understand the myriad things.

It is also said: Birds and beasts now chirp and cry, now move back and forth, now flee and scatter; grasses and trees now sprout, now stand upright, now wither and fall. Heaven and earth cannot hold them, and the sage cannot bind them; within them there is of itself a power of movement and change. Their existence appears over there, and their disappearance appears over here. If a drum is not struck by a drumstick, it gives forth no sound; the sprouting, standing, and withering of birds, beasts, grasses, and trees likewise depend on the working of change. Their even numbers appear over there, and their odd numbers appear over here; if the drumstick is not in the hand, it cannot strike.

It is also said: The myriad things originally come forth from one and the same body, yet ordinary people are misled by names and see only things, not the Dao (the Way). The worthy analyze the principles of things and see the Dao, yet do not see particular things. The sage accords with heavenly nature, fuses the two into one, and clings neither to the Dao nor to things. Everywhere may be called the Dao; if one does not cling to it, it is the Dao, but once one clings to it, it becomes a particular thing.

It is also said: Those who in former times spoke of the Dao (the Way) sometimes explained it with the phrase “日碍厂,” sometimes said that it is profound and deeply remote, sometimes said that it is clear and thoroughly lucid, sometimes said that it is vast and undifferentiated, and sometimes said that darkness and light exist together in it. When you meet with such sayings, you must by no means grow afraid and draw back because of them. The highest principle under Heaven can never, in the end, be fully expressed through words or through the mind. If one can understand that the Dao cannot be spoken and cannot be grasped by intention, one has already gone beyond those fine and subtle words and those mysterious meanings, and has comprehended the principle of which I speak.

It is also said: The things of the world each have that to which they refer, and words likewise each contain a principle of their own; yet the Dao has no fixed place, and words about the Dao likewise have no fixed and unchanging principle. If one understands that words are in themselves without any fixed principle, one can apprehend the Dao amid all manner of words; if one does not understand this, then even while clinging tightly to the most exquisite discourse, one will be obstructed and blinded by it.

It is also said: People know only that a true loss may also be found within a false gain, yet they do not know that a true loss may likewise be found within a true gain; they know only that a true “wrong” may lie hidden within a false “right,” yet they do not know that a true “wrong” may also be contained within a true “right.”

Tan Jingsheng, Huashu (Book of Transformations).

The order in which the Dao (the Way) operates is this: from emptiness is generated Shen (spirit), from Shen is generated Qi (vital energy), from Qi is generated bodily form, and from form are in turn generated the myriad things; the myriad things thereby fill heaven and earth. The working of the Dao proceeds in the opposite direction: form transforms into Qi, Qi transforms into Shen, and Shen transforms into emptiness. When emptiness is luminous and fully open, the myriad things likewise pass through without obstruction.

The ancient sages therefore inquired into the root of openness and blockage and grasped the source of creative transformation. They forgot form in order to nourish Qi, forgot Qi in order to nourish Shen, and forgot Shen in order to nourish emptiness, so that emptiness and substantiality interpenetrate. This is called Datong, or “Great Unity” (the state of oneness with the Dao). When the Dao is stored, it is original Jing (essence), the essential Qi at the source of life; when it is put to use, it transforms into the myriad numinous beings. When it is held within, it is called Taiyi (the source before the myriad things have differentiated); when it unfolds, it is called Taiqing (the clear, bright, and vast Qi of the Dao). Kan and Li (terms symbolizing water and fire, and Yin-Yang) mutually nourish one another within the body, bringing emptiness and substantiality into communication; this too is called “Great Unity.”

Thus the waxing and waning of Kan and Li circulate throughout the whole body, and movements of Qi like wind and cloud issue from the seven orifices (the two eyes, the two ears, the two nostrils, and the mouth). True Qi warms and nurtures within the body, so that one is not assailed by cold or heat; the flowing infusion of pure Yang enables one to transcend the distinction between life and death. This is the Dao of wondrous transformation.

Suppose, for example, that a clod of earth is placed in an empty space: one sees only the clod and not the emptiness; once the clod is crushed to pieces, one sees only the emptiness and no longer the clod. Form does not of itself create obstruction; it is people who set up the barriers. The myriad things are not inherently impeded; it is people who confine themselves within obstruction. A dragon can travel through empty space, yet empty space is not sheer nothingness; it can fill metal and stone, yet metal and stone are not absolutely solid. Being and non-being interpenetrate, and there is no fundamental distinction between the myriad things and oneself. Life does not begin only at some particular moment, nor is death the end of everything. For one who understands this principle, the body is not truly destroyed, and the spirit does not truly pass away.

A child plays with his own shadow, yet does not realize that he himself is also drawn along by the shadow; an arrogant person trifles with a portrait, yet does not realize that he himself is also affected by the portrait. Those who govern a household often fail to notice that they too are influenced by the atmosphere of the household; those who govern a state often fail to notice that they too are influenced by the conditions of the state; and those who govern the world may not even know that they are swayed by the situation of the world.

From the Void, Shen (spirit) is transformed and generated; Shen transforms and gives rise to Qi (vital energy); Qi transforms and gives rise to blood; blood transforms and gives rise to bodily form; bodily form transforms and gives rise to the infant. The infant grows into a child, the child into a youth, the youth into the prime of life; the prime of life declines into old age, and old age moves toward death. Death returns again to the Void, and from the Void Shen is once more transformed and generated. Shen is again transformed into Qi, and Qi is in turn transformed into the myriad things. Transformation follows upon transformation without cease, like a ring turning in endless cycle. The myriad things do not themselves wish to be born, yet they cannot but be born; nor do they themselves wish to die, yet they cannot but die. One who fully grasps this principle can bring it about that Shen no longer transforms and bodily form is no longer born.

Fingernails and hair are both parts of the body, yet clipping the nails does not injure the body, and cutting the hair brings no pain, because nutritive Qi and defensive Qi (the Qi that sustains the body’s functioning and defends the body) do not reach them. This shows that the original “I” is not injured—what is injured are the sinews and bones—and that the original “I” does not feel pain—what feels pain is flesh and blood. Therefore joy and anger are not truly set in motion by me, nor are sorrow and delight truly aroused by me: I am obscured by bodily form, and bodily form is in turn clung to and cherished by me. One who fully grasps this principle can transcend life and death.

The Supreme (Taishang, the highest realm of which Daoism speaks) is the Shen (spirit) of the Void; Heaven and Earth are the Shen of Yin-Yang; human beings and insects are the Shen of flesh and blood. They are alike in that all possess Shen, and they differ in that their forms are not the same. Thus form is not numinous while Qi (vital energy) is numinous; Qi is not numinous while sound is numinous; one is not numinous while awake, yet numinous in dreams; not numinous while alive, yet numinous after death.

Water is originally of the utmost clarity, yet once it freezes into ice it is clear no longer; Shen is originally of the utmost lucidity, yet once it congeals into form it is lucid no longer. When the ice melts, clarity returns; when form disperses, lucidity returns. One who understands the Dao (the Way) of “true death” may roam at will in the capital of the Supreme (the immortal realm where the Supreme dwells).

The Void transforms and gives birth to Shen; Shen transforms and gives birth to Qi; Qi transforms and gives birth to form; when form and Qi join, sound arises. The ear does not actively go to hear sound; rather, sound enters of itself. A mountain valley does not actively answer sound; rather, the echo fills it of itself. The ear is a small aperture, and the mountain valley a great aperture; a mountain pool is a small valley, and Heaven and Earth a great valley. When one aperture gives forth sound, the myriad apertures can all respond; when one valley hears, the myriad valleys can all hear as well.

Sound guides Qi, Qi guides Shen, and Shen guides the Void; the Void contains Shen, Shen contains Qi, and Qi contains sound. They guide one another and contain one another, so that even the faint flight of a mosquito in autumn, or the buzzing circles of a fly, is conveyed to every place. From this one may know that even the subtlest thought is surely perceived, and even the slightest word is surely heard. Only the workings of the mind and the deeds of the great person are such that Heaven and Earth cannot see them, Yin-Yang cannot know them, and ghosts and spirits cannot fathom them.

A wooden board roughly one chi square, set on the ground, is more than ample for a person to step onto; the same board, placed atop a pole, feels inadequate when one crouches on it. This is not because the boards themselves differ in size, but because the mind may be spacious or constrained. Thus, in the fierce heat of high summer, the more restless one grows within, the hotter one feels; when scorched, the more one fears, the more it hurts. Human thoughts are not constant and unchanging, and the qualities of the myriad things likewise show themselves differently as circumstances change. From this we may see that water can leave a person unfeeling of wetness, and fire can leave a person unfeeling of dryness.

That sea fish take shrimp for eyes strikes everyone as absurd. Yet people may not consider that the ancients once put fireflies into a bag and borrowed their light, nor that without sunlight by day one can hardly tell direction, and without candlelight by night one is easily deceived. People see that a puppet—a wooden figure manipulated by a person—is false, yet do not suspect that the worldly affairs they inhabit may be just as illusory; they lament a friend’s departure, yet do not know to grieve for their own inevitable going. Wise or foolish alike, one may fail to see through these truths; only those who preserve a pure nature and nurture the Taixuan, the profound and subtle Dao (the Way), do not fall into such artifice.

A mirror does not of itself seek images from external things, yet external things are reflected in it of their own accord; a leather bag does not of itself seek to be filled with air, yet Qi (vital energy) fills it of its own accord. Thus the nose can smell because it is empty, the ear can hear because it is empty, the eye can see colors because it is empty, and the tongue can taste flavors because it is empty. When the mind is like a deep and silent realm, it can contain the myriad things; when Shen (spirit) accords with emptiness, it can comprehend every kind of affair. Therefore the great person who has attained the Dao can grasp the pivot on which things change, and can keep what is subtle hidden rather than revealed.

Feather talismans (Yufu)—a class of feather-shaped Daoist Fulu (talismans and registers)—and yin fluid (Yinye), the yin form of Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), or the yin fluid spoken of in cultivation, are both extraordinarily marvelous and precious. They can be used to protect the state and rescue the times, and they can also enable a person to sit at ease and become a teacher of emperors.

People throughout the world, whether wise or foolish, bustle about like moths plunging into a candle flame at night or flies striking a window at dawn: they know only how to press forward, not how to turn back; they know only how to advance, not how to yield. In pursuit of advantage they bring disaster upon themselves, yet they do not understand that accumulated profit may also lead toward calamity. If a person shows De (Virtue/Power) toward others but does not know how to cultivate himself, how can he be called wise? If one understands external things broadly but does not know how to know oneself, how can that be called wide learning? Therefore, one who truly possesses De lets go of both profit and harm, and there is nothing the heart cannot contain.

In what way, then, do birds and beasts differ from human beings? They have nests and dens in which to dwell, male and female mates, the affection of parents and children, and a sense of life and death. The crow feeds its parents in return—this is benevolence; the falcon pities birds that are with young—this is righteousness; bees have a leader of their community—this is propriety; the sheep kneels while suckling—this is wisdom; the pheasant does not mate again with the same partner—this is faithfulness. If one carefully investigates the principles of the myriad things, one finds that the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness) and every kind of virtuous conduct exist, without exception, among the myriad things.

Yet human beings teach the common people to spread nets and set snares and to take up hunting and fishing. To burn the nests of animals is a failure of benevolence; to seize their kin is a failure of righteousness; to treat what is gained by hunting and killing as something to enjoy is contrary to propriety; to teach people to harm living beings is a failure of wisdom; to make the myriad things regard the human heart with suspicion and fear is a failure of faithfulness. If the craving for rank, strong-smelling meat does not cease, the intention to kill living creatures will not be cut off. Though birds and beasts cannot speak, they will surely look upon us as greedy and ferocious jackals, wolves, and great pigs; though creatures of scales and shells lack human intelligence, they will surely call us giant whales and great venomous snakes. On what grounds can we set our hearts at ease, and how can we not feel shame? Alas—it truly makes one doubt whether, from ancient times to the present, there have ever really been junzi (persons of noble character).

Only one who comes to the aid of the myriad things is called righteous; yet people call scaled and shelled creatures—fish and crustaceans, the aquatic animals—unrighteous.

If you help others yet call it your own righteous deed, others will not take it for true righteousness; if you bestow kindness and do good while expecting a return, others will not repay you either. This is the ordinary way of human feeling: yield, and what you gain is greater; contend, and what you gain is less; draw near of your own accord, and others withdraw; deliberately step aside, and others come forward instead; give lightly, and others do not treasure it; clutch it tightly and refuse to let go, and others will seize it. Thus true great righteousness has no fixed form, and profound great kindness bears no conspicuous mark. When great righteousness is accomplished, even those who do not know of it receive its benefit; when great kindness is carried out, even those who do not know of it repay it without meaning to. Those who can sing, sing, and those who cannot, listen; those who can dance, dance, and those who cannot, watch. Those of high skill display their ability, while those clumsy in the art comment from the side; the worthy undertake affairs, and the unworthy hand affairs over to them.

One who raises trees will certainly fell them; one who treats scholars with courtesy may also bring them to their death, for he binds them with office and ritual as with a net, and hooks them with rank and salary as with a hook. When a horse draws a carriage, the dignity of the equipage does not belong to the horse; when a pig feeds on wine dregs and grain husks and grows fat, that plumpness is not its own merit. Therefore a person of great De (Virtue/Power) does not pursue honor without cause, nor cling to name and station without reason; in poverty there is something to rely on, and in withdrawal into seclusion there is something to hold to. Those who retire do not love cold poverty and humble station, nor do they willingly accept being cast aside.

Those who do evil fear that others will know, yet someone has often already noticed; those who do good hope that others will know, yet there will instead be those who remain unaware. Therefore only evil that no one perceives may be called great evil, and only good that no one knows of may be called supreme good.

(The repeated sentence at the end has the same meaning.)

The Dao (the Way) is an empty, formless support; it is the source of the creation and transformation of the myriad things, the root of the spiritual and the divine, and the origin of Heaven and Earth. It is vast without limit, yet so minute that it cannot be found anywhere; deep, remote, and dark, nothing can stand opposite it. Profound, hidden, and subtle, it is hard to perceive, yet it can manifest a bright radiance; still and without intention, it nevertheless gives each of the myriad things its proper order. Chaotic and formless, silent and soundless, the myriad phenomena arise from it, and the five tones are formed through it. Growth and development all have an end, and things that take form will in the end decline and decay; yet the myriad things continually grow and take shape, and this pattern has not changed from ancient times to the present. This is the Dao.

De (Virtue/Power) is the power that Heaven and Earth receive and upon which Yin-Yang relies. By means of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) it runs through things, and by means of the four seasons it sets Heaven and Earth in motion; governed by the ruler and taught by teachers and elders, it enables things in darkness, animals, and plants all to find their proper places. Its bounty is inexhaustible: grasses and trees grow, yet do not know that they have received its merit; its favor extends to all, and the common people likewise do not know that they depend upon its power. This is De.

What penetrates Heaven and Earth and enables the myriad things to grow is called the Dao; the Dao has never had a fixed name. What nurtures the myriad things and brings them to completion is called De; De likewise has never had a fixed designation. Let us try to put it this way: Heaven and Earth, human beings and creatures, numinous immortals, ghosts and spirits—without the Dao they can neither live nor come to completion. The myriad things grow, yet do not know where their beginning lies; things reach completion, yet the time of their ending cannot be seen. In searching the profound and tracing the hidden and subtle, who can clearly see its source? It lies within the furthest limit of things that have form, and also before the appearance of things that have no form. No one can exhaust its beginnings, and therefore it is called ziran (the self-so). Ziran is the constant state in which the Dao and De operate, and it is also the fundamental principle of the movement of Heaven and Earth.

The above is a discussion of the Dao and De.

At the beginning of the Great Void—the state in which the myriad things have not yet taken form, still, empty, and without shape—all was silent and vast, and nothing existed. When the Qi (vital energy) of utmost Jing (essence) was stirred and set in motion, the True One, the earliest and purely unitary origin, arose. As the True One exercised its wondrous function, Yuanqi (primordial Qi) was thereby generated of itself.

Yuanqi is form born from within the formless, and also the formless still contained within form. It is too vast to be measured and too subtle to be fathomed. As breaths intermingle and gradually become manifest, undifferentiated and boundless, the beginnings and first signs of the myriad things all sprout from here.

Qi that is clear, penetrating, lucid, and gently radiant rises to form Heaven; Qi that is turbid, stagnant, dim, and agitated accumulates to form Earth; Qi that is peaceful and yielding congeals to form the ethical order of human relations in the world; Qi that is disordered, perverse, hard, and violent disperses to form the various miscellaneous kinds. The myriad things are nurtured by one and the same Yuanqi, and the beginnings and first signs of the myriad forms all spread forth from here.

Yuanqi gives rise to things of endless variety, and the myriad things each belong to their own kind. Once they enter the process of creative transformation, they continually shift and change without end. Yet the bodily forms of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things come from Yuanqi, while the spiritual natures with which they are endowed come from Shenming (divine spirit). Qian and Kun (Heaven and Earth) comprehensively govern Heaven and Earth; the essence-soul presides over human beings and other beings. Qi changes in accordance with Yin-Yang, yet Shenming is unaffected by the alternation of cold and heat.

Even though the activities of the myriad things are so abundant they cannot be counted, passing through perishing and coming to life again, ending and beginning anew, the fundamental substance of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), together with the mind of Shenming, can still operate without limit through responsive resonance, and is never wearied by acting upon a world of endless transformation.

The above discusses Yuanqi.

Heaven and earth and the myriad things cannot arise out of nothing. What creates heaven and earth is Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the root of cosmic generation. Taiji cannot move of its own accord either; what sets Taiji in motion is “true Jing” (essence), the primordial and genuine essence-energy, Qi (vital energy). True Jing is spontaneous of itself, numinous and pellucid. It has no ancestor and no source, no beginning and no end. It holds within itself peace and compassion, pities the people of the secular world, and grieves for the ignorant and unenlightened. Because the pure and the turbid are differently received, the truly numinous and the ordinary differ as well. True Jing sends down its breath and disperses its light, and thus Taiji brings human beings forth in the human world.

The worthy, intelligent, and thoroughly understanding take the relief of the many as their own accomplishment. As rulers or elders, they cause all things each to find its proper place and to reach one another.

Pure Yang Qi blazes in the regions above, and above the Nine Heavens there is no Yin Qi; pure Yin Qi dwells in darkness below, and beneath the Nine Earths there is no Yang Qi. The interfusion and steaming transformation of Yin-Yang, from which the myriad things arise, takes place between heaven and earth. Thus the configurations of Qi change without cease, and brightness and darkness each have their form: Yang Qi is bright and upright, and where it is pure and refined it becomes true spirit; Yin Qi is obscure and deviant, and when it gathers it becomes demons and specters. Those born endowed with numinous Yang are generally intelligent and discerning; those nurtured by dark Qi are generally vicious and obstinate. Yang Qi delights in giving life and nurture, so the intelligent and discerning are surely generous and kind; Yin Qi inclines toward stern destruction, so the vicious and obstinate are surely perverse and contrary. Those who are both good and evil, and who appear ordinary, are born of the balanced union of the two Qi of Yin and Yang.

Since the intelligent and the vicious each receive a different endowment, where is moral instruction to be applied? Those to whom instruction can be applied are people of ordinary capacity. Why is this so? The intelligent and discerning understand principle even without being taught, while the vicious are hard to change even when taught, because they have respectively received pure Yin Qi or pure Yang Qi. Fire can be extinguished, yet it cannot be made cold; ice can melt, yet it cannot be made hot. Such is the principle by its very nature.

Life arises from the Dao (the Way), and the spiritual nature bestowed on human beings comes from Shen (spirit); yet the length of a life, and whether one lives or dies, remains or departs, cannot be decided by oneself. Why is this so? Because once innate nature stirs into activity it becomes emotion, and when emotion returns again toward the Dao, a person is carried along by the transformations of creation and cannot be fully self-determining. If one wishes to pass beyond the bounds of life and death, survival and perishing, and to rest in a state of freedom and ease, one should take the Dao as teacher and Shen as friend.

Why say this? The Dao and Shen act through Wuwei (non-action), letting Qi (vital energy) transform of itself; without deliberation, the myriad things come into being of themselves. They enter into all things, and yet they also pass beyond the range of life and death. Therefore the cultivated person must cast off cravings and desires, set aside cleverness and ingenuity, cling neither to the colors that are seen nor to the sounds that are heard, and make the mind tranquil, plain, pure, and single. Body and mind are brought into harmony, the spirit grows clear and lucid, and the heart-spirit, empty, still, and peaceful, forgets the bodily form—only then can one join with the most subtle essence. This is the realm beyond life and death; it is also a return to one’s own source and a reunion with the Dao. The workings of creation cannot fathom it, nor can ghosts and spirits know it—how much less can human beings?

One who has fully attained the Dao, even while wandering beyond the cosmos, remains inwardly at peace; even while the body rests in the most minute place, Qi still moves of its own accord. If the mind is not at peace, one cannot unite with the Dao; if Qi does not circulate, the bodily form cannot endure. When the form is preserved and the heart-spirit is once more united with the Dao, the De (Virtue/Power) of heaven and earth is made manifest.

Thus, to act without noticing that one is acting is to go beyond action; to be still without noticing that one is still is to go beyond stillness. One who transcends action is not driven by Yang Qi; one who transcends stillness is not shifted by Yin Qi. If even Yin and Yang (Yin-Yang) cannot alter such a person, how much less can the myriad things of the world? Not to be drawn by external things is called utmost stillness. Utmost stillness can join with utmost emptiness; when emptiness reaches its extreme, clarity arises; when clarity reaches its extreme, it becomes crystalline; when crystalline clarity reaches its extreme, it becomes thorough penetration. For one who has reached thorough penetration, however vast heaven and earth and however numerous the myriad things, none can escape the clear discernment within the mind.

The Dao embraces hundreds of millions of quantities, yet does not thereby seem vast; it reaches to the tip of an autumn hair, yet does not thereby seem minute. When clarity reaches its extreme it becomes crystalline, and when crystalline clarity reaches its extreme it becomes thorough penetration. For one who has reached thorough penetration, though heaven and earth are broad and the myriad things many, none can escape the clear discernment within the mind.

The Dao (the Way) embraces countless things, yet does not thereby appear vast; it runs through what is as fine as an autumn hair, yet does not thereby appear narrow. It precedes even emptiness, yet one cannot say that it has a beginning; it exists after heaven and earth, yet one cannot say that it has an end. It rises to where Yang Qi (vital energy) gathers, yet does not thereby become brighter; it sinks into where Yin Qi lies deep and heavy, yet does not thereby grow dim.

The Dao originally has no nature of Shen (spirit), yet when emptiness and stillness reach their utmost, its wondrous function naturally appears. The Dao originally has no Qi; as that wondrous working turns, Qi is naturally generated and transformed. Qi originally has no form or substance; once it condenses and accumulates, bodily form takes shape. Bodily form originally has no emotions or desires; once it is set in motion and put to use, it wears away one’s original nature. When form is established and desire is aroused, people grow ever farther from the Dao. Thus they sink into the transformations of life and death, shifting along with Yin-Yang, unable to bring themselves to rest. This does not mean that the Dao still exists while the myriad things have already perished.

The Dao can bring being forth from non-being; how could it be unable to return being to non-being? If being can return to non-being, it is not truly extinguished. Yin and Yang unite, and human beings are thereby born. The hun is the spiritual consciousness belonging to Yang; the po is the numinous nature belonging to Yin. Yin and Yang congeal into an embryo; as breath circulates, the body gradually grows to completion. Yet the forces of Yin and Yang cannot remain fully present together forever; in the end each returns to its own source. Thus, when Yin Qi gains the upper hand and Yang Qi is exhausted, a person dies; when Yang Qi gains the upper hand and Yin Qi recedes, a person becomes an immortal.

Gentleness, compassion, goodness, steadfast integrity, and pure stillness belong to Yang; harsh violence, cruelty, jealousy, and turbid disorder belong to Yin. When the heart within is detached, empty, and still, harmonious Yang Qi enters; when the mind is restless with craving, Yin Qi intrudes. To understand these two conditions, and to let Yang Qi prevail while Yin Qi remains latent, is the gradual process that leads toward longevity.

In cultivating the Dao (the Way), one should not deliberately cling to any particular thought, or the true Qi (vital energy) cannot gather; nor should one force the mind into complete emptiness and forgetfulness, or external deviant Qi will seize the chance to enter. Thus, so long as one’s own mind is not biased or deviant, external things will not lose their proper alignment; once a thought arises and attachment takes hold, external things likewise appear deviant and false. Whether deviance or correctness arrives depends entirely on oneself.

Therefore, if a cultivator of the Dao is slack in guarding the mind, the yin corpse (dark, stagnant thoughts or forces) will gain the upper hand; if one delights in diligent and single-minded practice, the yang spirit (the pure yang power of the spirit) will gain the upper hand. When slackness and diligence alternate, victory and defeat are not yet decided. To settle the outcome, one must restrain oneself, keep to disciplined practice, strive to cast off the impulse toward laziness, and remain concentrated without interruption at all times. Persisting over a long period, the yin corpse recedes and the yang spirit grows strong; this is called “the victory of yang.” One in whom yang prevails is, in all likelihood, near to the Dao.

When the body is active while the mind within remains still, and the spirit is settled while outward activity never ceases, this belongs to Wuwei (non-action—neither acting falsely nor forcing things by deliberate will). When, in solitude, the spirit is disordered, and one sits in outward silence while the mind races without rest, this belongs to youwei (deliberate contrivance and restless agitation of mind and spirit). Wuwei accords with the principle of things; youwei readily falls into disorder. Though Wuwei seems the easiest to achieve, only those of the utmost clarity and insight can truly attain it.

Heaven and Earth, by day and by night alike, follow what is natural and undertake nothing of themselves. The principle of Wuwei (non-action) is fundamentally one and the same, yet the world is sometimes at peace and sometimes in disorder. Why is this? Day is bright of itself, so Yang Qi (vital energy) appears while Yin Qi lies hidden; night is dark of itself, so Yin Qi stirs while Yang Qi comes to rest. When the ruler is clear-sighted and practices Wuwei, the loyal and worthy are advanced, and the treacherous and fawning withdraw into concealment, so that the world is at peace. When the ruler is benighted and acts willfully, the loyal and good are buried in obscurity, while the crafty and sycophantic are instead employed, and the world falls into disorder. Thus the Wuwei of one who has attained understanding arises from clear wisdom, whereas the Wuwei of one who is dull arises from darkness. Clear wisdom reaches through to the Dao (the Way); darkness blends one with the things of the common world.

One who has succeeded in cultivating the Dao may at times be lifted by lofty feeling and give himself to an open, expansive mood, resting in quiet contentment and sensing that he seems able to draw near the true immortals and ascend into the clouds. This is a sign that Shen (spirit) is flourishing. Yet even when Shen is strong, one must still guard carefully lest harmonious Yang Qi leak outward and deviant Yin Qi seize the opening to enter. One may enter a quiet chamber, settle the thoughts of the mind, restrain stray notions as they arise, and remain silent and single-minded. In this way Shen and Qi do not scatter, and the luminous spirit of Yang can be preserved. One must be cautious and not indulge moods of ease and pleasure, lest deviant Yin be drawn in.

If at times one feels restless, contentious, and agitated, departing from ordinary reason, it is because the various po within the body (the souls bound to the physical form), after being refined by numinous Qi, cause the stagnant Qi of the Yin corpse (a term of Daoist cultivation, referring to Yin Qi that is sluggish and untransformed) to begin scattering in disorder and to disturb the true spirit in the Crimson Palace (the Neidan [internal alchemy] site where the heart-spirit resides). At such a time one may enter a quiet chamber, hold to the one Qi, and practice wogu (clasping the hands firmly so as to gather in mind and spirit). When Shen is clear and intention is calm, one then joins with emptiness and stillness. This too is a method of cleansing the thoughts of the mind.

One’s words should not go beyond one’s actual conduct, and one’s conduct should bring no shame to one’s own heart. If one can remain like this always, Heaven and Earth will cherish and protect you, and the gods and spirits will watch over you; dangers and calamities will have no way to harm you, and ghosts and spirits will be unable to disturb you. Conversely, if one’s words are pure while one’s conduct is foul, and one’s reputation is clean while one’s deeds are improper, then however skillfully the outward appearance may be concealed, the heart within will still feel shame. Heaven and Earth will loathe such a person, and the gods and spirits will punish him; even if he seeks the Dao (the Way) by force, he cannot attain his goal. Therefore, it is better to endure the vilification of others than to bring upon oneself the censure of Heaven. The vilification of people can still be dispelled, but Heaven’s condemnation cannot be avoided.

In cultivating the Dao, what is most to be avoided is indulging desire, wanton killing, and secretly harming others—these are indeed easy to guard against. As for the small joys and angers of daily life, the judging of right and wrong, and the making of choices, these are ordinary human feelings and are difficult to treat with constant caution. One should not allow trifling matters to stir the heart; when the mind is settled and the spirit is calm and at ease, deviant Qi (vital energy) cannot invade. When will and intention remain undisturbed, one can keep company with the zhenren (perfected persons, those who have attained the Dao).

To delight in praise and to dislike vilification is something even the worthy and discerning cannot avoid. Yet one must examine oneself: if one has performed no good deeds and yet receives praise, this is inauspicious; if, upon reflecting, one finds no fault in oneself and yet suffers slander, what is there to be wounded by?

The essence of Yang Qi is called the hun and Shen (spirit); the essence of Yin Qi is called the shi (corpse) and the po. When Shen gains the upper hand, a person tends toward good; when the shi gains the upper hand, a person tends toward evil. Restrain evil thoughts and promote good deeds, and order can be established; forget good thoughts and indulge evil deeds, and the heart falls into disorder. Maintain order for a long time, and the shi will perish while the po is refined and transformed; remain long in disorder, and Shen will depart while the hun disperses. When the shi perishes and the po is refined, Shen and bodily form can unite and one becomes an immortal; when Shen departs and the hun disperses, one becomes the same as the shi and the po and becomes a ghost. This is the natural principle of things.

The eyes are easily beguiled by seductive beauty; the heart habitually treats fame as something noble; the body delights in light, brightly colored adornment; the mouth craves rare and exquisite flavors; the ears love pleasing music; and the nose favors fragrant scents. These six desires all corrupt De (Virtue/Power), injure one’s inborn nature, and harm the root of a person’s spiritual being. What one already possesses should therefore be kept at a distance, and what one does not have need not be pursued.

Only clothing and food are daily necessities of human life; yet for those who cultivate the Dao (the Way), attachment to clothing and food can itself become a fault. One should let the mind relax and follow what is natural, and the needs of life will fall into place of themselves. Heaven and Earth bring forth and nourish birds and beasts, and even shelter them with feathers and feed them on insects and grain—how much more so human beings? What matters is to forget the chase after material desire and let everything proceed of its own accord.

When one is awake, Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) unite with Yang Qi; when one is asleep, Shen and Qi answer to Yin Qi. The more time one spends awake, the stronger the hun (ethereal soul) becomes; the longer one sleeps, the more the po (corporeal soul) flourishes. A strong hun is the sign of abundant vitality; when the po grows excessive, one draws near to death. If one can take in the yuanhe Qi—the harmonious and pure primordial Qi of Heaven and Earth—lessen the craving for flavor, and bring the spirit to clarity and the breath to ease and freshness, even to the point of not sleeping by day or by night, that is the finest state of cultivation.

If the thoughts of the mind are long left to run free, they scatter without measure and forget to turn back; if they are suddenly suppressed and forced to stop, they grow restless and start up again, losing their root. To indulge thought is to cloud one’s original nature; to press thought down by force is to weary and injure the spirit. How, then, can one who seeks the Dao become still? Human nature is originally settled and one-pointed; thought arises only when it is stirred by external things. If one grows accustomed to moving whenever a thought arises, disturbance will only increase.

If the mind and will are left unchecked for a long time, they grow scattered and unrestrained and are hard to draw back; if one suddenly binds them, it is like leaping up without a foundation, and hard to settle. Letting thoughts run free obscures one’s original nature; forcing them into restraint consumes the spirit. How, then, can one who seeks the Dao (the Way) bring the mind to stillness?

Human nature is originally tranquil and firmly settled; it changes only when stirred by external things. If one has long grown accustomed to restless thoughts, how could they become settled all at once? Since restlessness can keep spreading through habit, a person can also, by practicing stillness of mind, gradually grow calm and peaceful. Those skilled in the practice are inwardly quiet and at ease; those unskilled become anxious and confused, and their effort comes to nothing.

Therefore, use tranquility to press down agitation, uprightness to guard against deviation, relinquishment to check craving, and clarity to purify turbidity. Rest composed and at ease, neither craving nor toiling; be this way in action, and the same when still; the same in moments of haste, and the same in leisure. Practiced over a long time, external things no longer disturb the inner mind, and the spirit within naturally grows clear and discerning. One need not deliberately think of becoming still; the mind will quiet of itself.

To tread on frost underfoot is the beginning from which solid ice forms; practicing stillness of mind is the stairway to accord with the Dao. The ancients said, “Accumulated habit becomes the constant,” meaning that habits built up over a long time become one’s ordinary state. This is precisely the point.

Someone asked, “From ancient times to the present, many have studied to become immortals, yet few have truly attained the Dao. Why is this?” The answer was: “Of a thousand ordinary people who study the Dao, only one truly understands the Dao; of a thousand who understand the Dao, only one resolves to seek the Dao; of a thousand who resolve to seek the Dao, only one applies himself with single-minded diligence; of a thousand who apply themselves with single-minded diligence, only one can persevere. Thus, though many study the Dao, few ultimately achieve anything.”

Someone asked: Attaining immortality is the finest state a human life can reach, while death is the outcome people most detest. No person of discernment in the world fails to know this, yet those who follow ordinary custom are many, and those who cultivate the immortal Dao (the Way) are few. Why is this?

The reply was that there are two reasons. First, if the temperament with which one is endowed at birth is not lofty enough, the aspirations one forms cannot be broad. People therefore easily become absorbed in what lies immediately before them and forget pursuits that lie far ahead; disturbed by the pleasures of sound and sensual beauty, and clouded by desire, they are in the end caught in the net of the secular world and cannot enter the realm of the immortal Dao. Second, although some are by nature pure, tranquil, empty, and luminous, and their minds and Shen (spirit) are lofty and exceptional, the meritorious work of aiding the world and helping others is not yet complete, and the path to immortality remains distant. They therefore linger in attachment to ranks and titles in the human world, and have not yet released from their hearts their concern for sovereign power and position.

Someone asked: “The Dao (the Way) originally has no form or image, yet immortals prize the bodily form. To accord with the formless by means of what has form is, in principle, hard to sustain for long. How could this compare with the marvel of awakening to one’s original nature and abandoning the body?”

The reply was: “The Dao is supremely empty, still, and profound. It harbors divine subtlety, circulates primordial Qi (vital energy), and brings being forth from non-being. Thus hollow void and dark obscurity are the formless form of the Great Dao, while heaven and earth, the sun and the moon, are its formed form. The formless sustains what has form, and what has form in turn contains the formless. Therefore heaven and earth endure, and immortals and sages do not perish.

“Life is the greatest grace of heaven and earth. The many forms of heaven and earth, the sun and moon, and the rest make the Six Harmonies (above and below together with the four directions, that is, all between heaven and earth) vast, and cause the Three Origins (heaven, earth, and humanity, or the three fundamental sources spoken of in Daoism) to appear bright and clear, and thus they become our bodily form. Once one sinks and changes along with birth and death, none of the myriad things of heaven and earth any longer belongs to us. Death is the calamity of the human world. One must therefore cultivate from ordinary mortal to immortal, from immortal to Perfected Person, and from Perfected Person until one accords with the mysterious and wondrous Dao. According with the mysterious and wondrous, one becomes identical with the numinous spirit. When the numinous spirit accords with the Dao, the Dao becomes one’s very self. One may then ascend to Yujing (the celestial capital of the immortals in Daoist legend) and wander the Jinque (the palaces of the heavens), able both to appear and to vanish, unbound by ending or extinction. How can it be said that this principle of cultivation is hard to sustain for long?

“If one takes only the awakening to original nature as the marvel, yet does not know that refining and nourishing the bodily form is what is essential, then one is merely what is called a pure, numinous, and airy ghost. How could such a one be compared with immortals of high rank?”

End of the upper volume of Collected Essential Sayings of the Assembled Immortals (Qunxian yaoyu zuanji).

Lower volume of Collected Essential Sayings of the Assembled Immortals

Compiled by Huanchu Daoren (the Daoist Who Returns to the Origin), Dong □chun

Discourse on the Heart-Mind by Celestial Master Xujing (Tianshi)

The heart-mind is the root of all phenomena, the master of the body’s nine apertures (the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and other orifices), and also the source of life and death and the starting point of good and evil. It exists together with heaven and earth and presides over a person’s spiritual activity. Some call it the “True Lord” (zhenjun), because, like a teacher, it governs body and mind; some call it “True Constancy” (zhenchang), because it transcends past and present and is never destroyed; some call it “True Suchness” (zhenru), because it is silent and unmoving.

When the heart-mind is active, it can fill heaven, earth, and the four quarters; when it does not display its activity, no one knows where it is. Call it great, and there is nothing outside it—the entire universe is contained within it. Call it minute, and there is nothing inside it—even the tip of an autumn hair can enter. It cannot be sought through any concrete image. This is my original heart-mind, and also the self originally possessed before the empty kalpa (the primordial age before heaven and earth had taken form).

What, then, is the original heart-mind after all? It is profound, dark, and far-reaching, elusive and hard to fathom, and it cannot be grasped by ordinary cognition and discrimination. If one forces names upon it—“Dao (the Way),” “Shen (spirit),” “nature,” or “heart-mind”—one can do no more than that. Seen in this light, is the original heart-mind not vast and precious?

Yet why do people still revolve in birth and death, unable to be their own masters? Because once a single thought arises within, the six consciousnesses without (the cognitive functions of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) follow external conditions and turn with them. If a person does not incline toward good, they incline toward evil. There then arise karmic retributions such as heaven and hell, and also rebirth along the six paths (being born again and again in different forms of life), with no end to getting free. How can this fail to move one to grief and sorrow?

Those of penetrating understanding are not like this. They fast and purify themselves, and through sincerity and reverence they clarify their own virtue, so that the true original heart-mind becomes lucid and settled and every kind of misfortune is removed. The Laozi says: “Bring the mind to the utmost emptiness, and firmly hold to stillness. The myriad things grow all together; from this I observe how they return. The myriad things flourish, each returning to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to one’s original destiny. Returning to one’s original destiny is called the constant; to recognize the constant Dao is called illumination. Not to recognize the constant Dao, and to act recklessly, brings disaster.” What is called “the constant” is the nature that transcends past and present and is never destroyed; what is called “recklessness” is a thought at the very moment it arises.

The Zhuangzi says: “Once one has already become a concrete thing, is it not very difficult to wish to return to the root?” Those who can accomplish this are perhaps what the Classic of Changes calls the “great person.” From then on, one should be careful in speech and moderate in food and drink, cast off distracting thoughts, still the mind, and guard the One; remain empty, still, tranquil, and plain, silent in Wuwei (non-action); draw the gaze back and look inward, sheath one’s sharpness, and dwell among ordinary people without going against them.

A thought that suddenly arises is the illness; not letting it continue is the medicine. One need not fear that thoughts arise; one need only worry that awareness comes too late. It is like a hair on the wall, which must be set in order every day. Since one has a body and has thoughts, why not tend them with the same care? Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, one should not leave this practice for a moment. In this way, one may let the heart-mind roam in the “Village of Nothing Whatsoever” (a realm free of all constraint) and the “Country of Huaxu” (the legendary ideal realm of peace and ease).

The Great Dao (the Way) is not far from us; it lies within ourselves. Although the myriad things are all empty, original nature is not empty. If original nature is not empty, harmonious Qi (vital energy)—Qi that is balanced and peaceful—can abide securely. When Qi returns to the primordial sea, the root source of Qi, life can be long.

If one wishes the Shen (spirit) within the body not to go outward, one must not let anything remain on the spiritual terrace, the place where mind and spirit dwell. When stray thoughts stay in the mind, Shen cannot be clear and lucid; this dissipates true Jing (essence), the vital essence of life, and injures the sinews and bones. Shen governs Qi, and Qi fills and nourishes the bodily form. Without resort to disordered arts and techniques, one may naturally enjoy long life. Techniques are easy to learn, but the Dao is hard to encounter. Even if one encounters it, should mind and spirit be unclear, true Jing be dissipated, and the sinews and bones be injured, one still cannot bring cultivation to completion. In practice one must concentrate and persevere; thus, of the thousands and tens of thousands who study, in the end not even one or two succeed. If Shen goes out, gather it back; when Shen returns into the body, Qi naturally returns as well. Continued in this way from morning to night, day after day, one will naturally, like a newborn infant, conceive the true embryo—the inner fruit attained through cultivation.

Patriarch Chongyang, Fifteen Discourses on Establishing the Teaching

On Seated Meditation

What is called seated meditation is not a matter of merely sitting with the body held upright and the eyes closed; that is only seated meditation in outward form. Through all the twelve double-hours, whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, and amid every kind of activity, one keeps the mind as steady as Mount Tai, neither swaying nor moving, and guards the four gates of the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and mouth—the senses and the mouth—so that external things do not intrude and mind and spirit do not scatter outward. Only this is truly called seated meditation. One who can do this, though dwelling in the dusty world, already has a name and place entered in the palaces of the immortals; without traveling far in search, one is already a sage of ordinary flesh who possesses the Dao. When practice has been fulfilled for three years, one can leave the bodily shell and become an immortal; when the elixir is completed, spirit-consciousness may roam the eight directions.

On Subduing the Mind

The method of subduing the mind is to make the mind clear and settled, unmoving and unshaken, silent and still, not drawn along by the myriad things, deep and tranquil, neither clinging within nor attaching without, and not giving rise to a single stray thought. This is called a settled mind, and it need not be subdued any further. If thoughts arise in response to outer conditions, and mind and spirit are thrown into confusion, chasing disorder and finding no peace, this is called a disordered mind. It ruins the Dao and De (Virtue/Power) and injures nature and life, and it must not be indulged. Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, one should constantly gather in the scattered mind. If one is led along by what is heard, seen, sensed, or known, then mind and spirit have been disturbed—and that is precisely the affliction that must be tamed.

On Refining Nature

To know and to temper human nature is like tuning a zither: if the strings are too tight they snap easily, and if too loose they yield no sound; only when the tension is rightly set is the instrument well tuned. It is also like casting a sword: too much steel and it breaks easily, too much tin and the edge readily turns; only when steel and tin are properly proportioned is the sword well cast. In tempering true nature, one must likewise understand these two methods and hold to due measure.

On Transcending the Three Realms

The Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm are together called the Three Realms. When the mind no longer clings to cares and anxious thoughts, one can transcend the Realm of Desire; when the mind forgets all external things and circumstances, one can transcend the Realm of Form; when the mind does not cling to “emptiness,” one can transcend the Formless Realm. Leaving these Three Realms, Shen (spirit) comes to dwell where immortals and sages abide, and the nature of the mind reaches Yuqing (the pure, empty, and sublimely lofty realm of which Daoism speaks).

A Poem Further Says

Set aside cunning and cleverness, and learn to be like one who is dull and simple; once one reaches the state of Wuwei (non-action), there is, on the contrary, nothing one cannot do. The affairs of the world before one’s eyes amount to no more than this; even if wind and thunder sweep past the ear, one does not take them to heart. Wherever the feet wander as they will, the luminous mind remains always accompanied by Qi (vital energy). At times body and mind grow intoxicated and hazy; one lifts the head and asks the blue heaven: Who, after all, am I?

Inscription on Sitting in Oblivion

To remain often in stillness keeps primordial Qi from harm; with fewer thoughts, the inner light of wisdom appears. Without anger, the Qi and blood throughout the body flow in harmony and without obstruction; without vexation, the mind is clear and cool. Seeking nothing, one does not flatter or bend one’s will; clinging to no single side, one’s conduct can be both rounded and square. Not to covet is itself wealth and honor; if one does nothing base or compromising, why should one fear a ruler?

When the desires of mouth and belly are cut off, the numinous spring (the inner fluids) wells up of itself; when the breath is settled, true breath (a harmonious, deep, and prolonged respiration) continues of its own accord. Once the body is touched and thereby harmed, the physical form dies and Shen departs from the body; when thoughts arise in profusion, spirit and soul scatter as in a dream, and only the form remains, barely holding on. When breath disperses, the body at last returns to the deep earth; when thought loses its guard, spirit and soul incline toward the path of ghosts. Only when thoughts cease can spiritual illumination become active; only when the yin po (corporeal soul) fades away can the yang hun (ethereal soul) flourish.

To master external things is hardly to exhaust the subtle principles within them; in according with change, one does not depart from the fundamental constant Dao (the Way). The most refined Dao lies hidden in the vague and indistinct; the greatest of forms mingles in the remote and profound. If one can discern the patterns of creative transformation, even ghosts and spirits can scarcely fathom one’s comings and goings. Neither eating nor drinking, nor yet sleeping—this is called the Perfected Person’s sitting in oblivion.

I tell you the most essential principle: the root of a person’s nature and life is always bound to true breath—the inner, prolonged, and natural respiration. Illuminate yourself, and you can realize that the Dao (the Way) of long life is neither empty nor remote. If one can understand the laws by which creation proceeds, even ghosts and spirits will find it hard to discern one’s coming and going. When cultivation is no longer burdened by food, drink, sleep, and the like, it is called the sitting-in-forgetfulness of the Perfected Person (Zhenren): in quiet sitting, one forgets body, mind, and external things.

Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the origin of the cosmos, bestows its mysterious principle. If a person obtains even one part of it, that part must be carefully guarded and must not be lost. When the heart’s Shen (spirit) dwells in emptiness, stillness, and ease, it settles of itself; if Shen is left to be scorched and tormented, Jing (essence) and blood dry up. Sorrow and joy in alternation, thought without rest, or giving free rein to feeling and exhausting the body—all injure body and mind. Harmed morning and evening, one remains confused and unaware, and Shen gradually loses its support. Worn away little by little in this way, the body grows weaker day by day; when primordial harmony—the harmonized primordial Qi (vital energy) within the body—is exhausted, Shen too disperses.

Some think that walking meditation and seated meditation are the same. A sage may indeed practice in this way, but an ordinary person may not be able to. At the beginning of cultivation, the mind’s thoughts are like tender shoots just sprouting and must be carefully nourished. When foundation and insight are not yet firm, one easily grows muddled and unsteady. If one hesitates and will not advance, unwilling to clear the thorns from the heart, it is like a wild field in which no good crop can grow. After nine years of cultivation, when skill and fire-timing have matured, one can meet events and respond to things without the mind being moved, and the transformations of Shen are swift and natural.

Only a heart without clinging is the true mind; clinging neither to movement nor to stillness is freedom from desire. Shen concerns nature, and Qi concerns life. When Shen does not race outward and scatter, Qi naturally settles. Shen and Qi are, in cultivation, a pair that depend upon each other; lose them, and life loses its root. When the two unite as one, and then even the thought of uniting as one is forgotten, one can come and go together with the creative transformations of heaven and earth. To pass through metal and pierce stone is no difficult matter, and liberation while seated, or departure from the world while standing, may occur in an instant. The principle is easy to understand, yet not easy to practice. Only when even the thought “I am cultivating” is forgotten is the Dao complete.

Do not take the holding of breath as the main task of cultivation, and do not suppose that counting the breaths or practicing methods according to diagrams is the correct path. Lately some say that once the dust and toil of the outer world are set down, one may cultivate; yet if the mind is still entangled by inner thoughts, how are the two any different? One need only look at an infant in the mother’s womb: where is there any conscious reckoning of the breath? Regulate the breath with single attention and make it soft, and Shen can abide securely for a long time. True breath then comes and goes of itself, continuous and unbroken, returning to the source of life. There is no need to draw deliberately upon the so-called numinous spring; it will circulate of its own accord.

When the cultivation of thirty-six thousand days has accumulated, the seasonal measures of Yin-Yang are all contained within it. The workings of Qi steam and fuse, open the passes and vessels, transform sinew and bone, and make every part of the body bright and unobstructed. The Three Peng (Sanpeng)—the three corpse-spirits within the body, as Daoism speaks of them—leave the dark bodily shell, and the myriad kingdoms come to court at the Palace of the Red Emperor, the palace that symbolizes the dwelling of the deities within. If one asks whence the Perfected Person comes, he was in fact originally already at the Spiritual Terrace (Lingtai), the place where mind and Shen reside. Once cloud and mist concealed the way; now that one has met it, the road appears. This is not the work of a single morning or evening, nor an outer technique, but a return to original authenticity. To be as firm as metal and stone in the cold of winter, to overcome the yin-demons—the dark desires that obstruct cultivation—and to increase wisdom depends entirely on emptiness, stillness, plainness, and perseverance. This is the pure and still realm of Huaxu, the ideal state of peace undisturbed.

With what, at the outset, should one establish the foundation? When one reaches the realm of Wuwei (non-action), there is instead nothing that cannot be accomplished. The illusory images among one’s thoughts ought to be removed, and even in dreams one must guard Shen and not let it scatter. Clinging neither to movement nor to stillness is the essential point; not being bound by shapes square or round is the ultimate Dao. Only by inwardly refining the Qi of primordial harmony can one become perfected; chasing outwardly after methods of breathing can never bring the work to an end.

When primordial Qi stagnates, Shen cannot be at peace, like a withered tree without roots whose branches and leaves will in the end dry up. Do not speak only of mucus, saliva, Jing, blood, and the other secretions of the body. Trace them to their source, and all are bound to one and the same root. These things have no fixed form; they change with the occasion and are also moved by the mind. When the body feels heat, sweat comes forth; when the eyes feel grief, tears flow; when feeling stirs in the kidneys, Jing is generated; when the nose meets the wind, mucus runs. They circulate through the whole body and moisten it, and in the end none of them leaves Divine Water (Shenshui)—the name, in Daoist inner refinement, for the subtle substances of life, such as Jing, Qi, and the fluids. Divine Water is hard to put into words, and few understand it. That the myriad things are born and nourished depends on true Qi.

If one only remains quiet and plain, lessens thought, settles the mind in fasting and abstinence, and is sparing of speech, the subtle substances within the body may be compared to sweet ghee and sweet dew: they relieve hunger and thirst and reveal what is originally true. When the work is in time accomplished, one will naturally roam free. Yet a beginner in refinement and nourishment must indeed apply effort with diligent hardship. Within that hardship one must not force things too far, but only nurture the primordial Shen with composure. It is a pity that the human mind so often cannot come to rest. At this stage, whether to let go or to draw in lies wholly with oneself.

I cultivate through hardship upon hardship, living in coarse clothes and plain food, solitary, pure, and still. In my heart I understand the great Dao, yet I find it hard to practice. Fame and the body have instead become a great illness. Rather than exerting oneself in idle places, it is better to cultivate with calm the Great Stability (Dading), a deep and steady state of meditative absorption. Although form and Shen are said to be hard to fulfill together, if one wishes to fulfill life (ming), one cannot but first fulfill nature (xing).

If one does not chase fame and profit and is not dragged along by human feelings, one can have few affairs and remain pure and still. Whether one can advance with resolve depends on oneself; and what external thing can truly stand in the way? What does an illustrious reputation matter? Even the talent to dash off a finished composition while leaning against a horse is nothing to prize. Splendor, clothing, and food are not set upon the heart; of what use is heaping jade and piling gold? Ingenuity, essays, and rhapsodies—too many talents and arts will also obstruct cultivation. They are like thin mist and light smoke, drifting among fallen blossoms and willow down. Though faint and elusive, they can never become the rain and dew that nourish the myriad things.

Fame and life—which, in the end, is the nearer? Half a lifetime is often wasted in delay. Cultivation depends on Shen and Qi. If Shen and Qi do not find rest, however hard one labors, nothing is gained. What a pity that there is originally a fine foundation, yet the golden halls and jade chambers have no master. If one can urge the master to abide for a long time, let him dwell in the place of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei. The wondrous principle by which being arises from non-being is hard to grasp. To nurture the infant-like true nature in the heart, one must know how to cherish the root that fosters it. Rein in a sharp gift for argument, set aside cleverness and cunning, gather Shen inward, and let oneself appear plain. Make the will firm and go forward with a single mind, and the great Dao will not, in the end, fail a person.

If a practitioner wishes to work from within the mind, the first requirement is to avoid discrimination and attachment. The moment a discriminatory thought arises, one is still caught in the activity of ordinary consciousness. What does it mean to work from within the mind? One must first let go at once of every entanglement, then eliminate attachment to self and to others, and cut off craving and anger completely. The body is like a withered tree and the mind like cold ashes; inner and outer are no longer divided, and all things are regarded as one. When the mind is clear, pure, and transparent, numinous light naturally appears.

Numinous light is the light of Shen (spirit), the radiance of spirit-consciousness. When the light of spirit shines inward and through, the mind is free of darkness and confusion, and outer things can hardly disturb it. If this spiritual light does not go out by day or by night, spirit-consciousness naturally grows stable and the breath becomes peaceful. This is true cultivation. The Zhuangzi says, “When the mind is vast and settled, the light of heaven appears.” What is called the light of heaven is the principle by which spiritual illumination operates.

Once the light of heaven descends, the Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang mutually responds, and Jing (essence) and Qi are stirred, as if the sea were surging. A current of Qi rises to the Niwan, the Muddy Pellet—a Daoist term for the region within the crown of the head, referring to the brain—and, with a sound like a thunderclap, the passes and apertures throughout the body all open. This is the sign that numinous light has arrived. Thereafter the five viscera come naturally into harmony, heart-Qi wells upward, sweet saliva forms on the tongue, a rare fragrance is sensed in the nose, and food and drink gradually diminish. By circulating Qi and refining one’s practice, the impurities in the stomach and intestines recede, the clear and the turbid become distinct, Yin is transformed into Yang, and primordial Qi fills the abdomen. One may even cease eating altogether, and the Yin Qi within the body all disperses. The Most High says, “One need only ingest the Qi of primordial harmony, and the five grains may be set aside.” This is precisely the condition described.

When these confirming signs appear, one must on no account slight body and mind, nor grow lax because spirit-consciousness is elated, nor become absorbed in talking about profound principles and the wondrous Dao (the Way); otherwise harmonious Qi will gradually disperse. If one fails to guard carefully the work already accomplished and loses the proper measure, one will incur, unseen, the reproof of the sages and worthies.

On Recognizing the Mind and Awakening to One’s Nature

A practitioner must first recognize the mind and intention before awakening to original nature. What is the mind? That which is capable of awareness is called the mind; the thousand thoughts and myriad reflections are called intention. Intention arises from thoughts, and the mind is born in response to external things. Once one understands the source from which mind and intention arise, one knows that both lie within the space of a square inch. The square inch means the originally true mind.

The nature of the mind is originally no-mind, and the nature of intention is originally without intention as well. Only because familiar circumstances and ingrained habits are hard to forget, so that the mind and its Shen (spirit) drift and intentions fall into confusion, is true nature obscured and prevented from appearing. One must therefore clarify the mind’s thoughts, settle intention, and turn awareness inward. When the mind is clear and steady and no longer wavers, this is called “concentration” (ding); when, within concentration, a luminous and numinous awareness arises, this is called “wisdom” (hui). Concentration is the root, and wisdom is its function. When concentration and wisdom are both present, everyday conduct can be complete and without shortcoming.

On the Dharma Realm

The Dharma Realm (the fundamental realm in which the myriad things abide) is the Great Void and the Great Nonbeing, a realm of empty stillness without characteristics.

In the course of the year, during the eleventh month established under zi (the eleventh month, whose monthly establishment is the branch zi), Yang Qi (vital energy) sinks into the earth, lies stored deep beneath the Nine Springs, and returns to the northern Water of the heavenly stems ren and gui. The myriad things all withdraw and come to rest, dark and without trace, elusive and without form. The Yijing (Classic of Changes) compares this state to “Mountain over Water, Meng”: the upper trigram is Mountain and the lower is Water; Water and Fire have not yet interacted and come to completion, and one must await the proper time. It is therefore called “Meng,” a condition still obscure and not yet illumined.

Over the cycle of a month, the phases of the moon may be distinguished by hui and shuo. The end of the month is called “hui.” At that time the moonlight seems to have been refined away entirely by the sun; sun and moon share a single furnace, radiance withdraws, and the myriad appearances vanish. Just then, the residual Yin po within the moon once more receives the single point of true embryonic Qi of the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). It abides in profound dimness and silence, impossible to distinguish, like the Taiji before it has been differentiated and before Heaven and Earth, the Two Modes, have separated, holding within it layer upon layer of obscurity not yet brought to light.

On Transport by the Two Chariots

The sheep cart carries fire and the deer cart carries water, referring to two forces in cultivation likened to fire and water. The sheep cart and the deer cart travel back and forth among the upper, middle, and lower Dantian (energy centers)—the sites of practice within the body—rising and descending in ceaseless circulation: the Qi (vital energy) of the upper Dantian returns to the middle Dantian, the Qi of the middle Dantian returns again to the lower Dantian, and the lower Dantian returns once more to the upper Dantian; the Qi of the upper Dantian then gathers back into the Sea of Qi (Qihai), the place in the lower abdomen that stores and nourishes true Qi, thereby continuing the true Qi. After these three have converged, one then regulates the firing times (huohou). This practice of celestial circulation (zhoutian) is called the “great ox cart”; through steady accumulation of cultivation, the golden body is refined.

Beyond the three carts there is another called the “broken sheep cart.” Some who study the Dao (the Way) are overly hasty; their thoughts become entangled with the practice, so that Yin-Yang Qi runs without cease, and at times they even dream of heaven collapsing and the earth caving in. This is the condition of “wrenching and breaking the sheep cart.” It may leave the body unsettled and the limbs without strength, and may even bring illness; the heart-mind and Shen (spirit) may also be disturbed. Some see ghosts and strange beings, grow dazed in spirit, and lose all proper measure in advancing and retreating. They have already entered a deviant path and cannot attain realization as a True Person (Zhenren).

Baiyu Shi Xuanguan Xianmi Lun (“Baiyu Shi Xuanguan Xianmi Lun”)

A single phrase, or even half a phrase, can bring one through to the profound and subtle principle. Why read through tens of thousands of elixir scriptures? If a person is not burdened by the physical form, the Daluo Heaven (the supreme celestial realm spoken of in Daoism) is right before the eyes. To refine Qi (vital energy) and concentrate Shen (spirit), one must understand “returning to the root and restoring life”: letting life return to its foundation and recover its original condition. Thus returning to the root has its own essential point, and restoring life likewise has its own crucial aperture. If one can understand the true principle within them, what difficulty is there in returning to the root and restoring life? So it is said that, to know the secret of immortal cultivation, one need only seek the source of creation and transformation.

The ancients said that emptiness and non-being give rise to the spontaneous, the spontaneous gives rise to the great Dao (the Way), the great Dao gives rise to the one Qi, the one Qi divides into Yin-Yang, Yin-Yang form heaven and earth, and heaven and earth transform and bring forth the myriad things. This is the source of creation and transformation. It is the Qi of True Unity, the origin before the myriad phenomena appear—namely the Great Void, the Great Non-being, the Great Emptiness, and the Great Mystery. It is remote and profound, and cannot be measured by any scale; it is vast without limit, and its end cannot be fathomed. At its greatest it has no outside, and at its smallest it has no inside; when great, it embraces heaven and earth, and when small, it can enter between the finest hairs. It belongs neither to any color in the heavens above nor to any abyss beneath the earth.

There is something perfect, bright, and clear. It has been manifest from ancient times onward, yet it cannot be given a name. The sage realizes it with the mind and, only for lack of any alternative, calls it “Dao.” From this one can see that mind and Dao communicate: with no mind and no clinging, one accords with the Dao; with a mind that clings, one turns away from the Dao. Only the word “non-being” embraces all that exists without omission and transforms and generates the myriad things without ever being exhausted. Vast as heaven and earth are, they can govern what has form, but they cannot govern the formless. Subtle as the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) are, they can govern what has fixed number, but they cannot govern the numberless. Scattered thoughts can govern what is conscious, but they cannot govern what is without consciousness.

Those who cultivate the Dao may well begin with refining the form. The essential point of refining the form lies in concentrating Shen. When Shen gathers, Qi gathers; when Qi gathers, the Neidan (internal alchemy) can form; when the elixir is complete, the physical form becomes stable, and when the form is stable, spirit is fully sufficient. Thus Song Qiqiu said, “Forget the form in order to nourish Qi; forget Qi in order to nourish Shen; forget Shen in order to nourish emptiness.” The word “forget” means not clinging to anything, just as the saying has it: “Originally there is not a single thing; where, then, could there be any dust?” If one can grasp this principle and apply one’s effort to the word “forget,” one can enter the deep and subtle realm of the great Dao, experience the wondrous functioning of the spontaneous, lay the foundation of the elixir method in a single moment, and set creation and transformation moving within oneself.

The Dao appears silent and formless, so that nothing at all can be seen; it sounds remote and voiceless, so that nothing at all can be heard. Yet when it is contemplated with the mind, form becomes manifest; when it is listened to with the mind, sound can be perceived. If the cultivator can clarify the mind’s thoughts, concentrate spirit, and reach a state of emptiness and stillness, the mind will become bright and clear. This is indeed a spontaneous result.

The Taishang (an honorific in Daoism for the Dao or for the ancestral founder of the Dao) teaches people to cultivate by taking Qian and Kun, of the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), as the cauldron and vessel, and the crow and the hare (metaphors for the sun and the moon) as the medicinal ingredients; by letting the rise and fall of the solar hun-soul correspond to the rise and fall of the movement of Qi, and the waxing and waning of the lunar po-soul correspond to the flourishing and decline of spirit; by letting the seasons and their nodal periods correspond to the hours of a single day, and the movement of the stars through the celestial circuit correspond to the creative transformation within one furnace of Neidan. The cultivator gathers spirit to serve as the medicine and refines and nourishes it with the fire of stillness and stability, and can thereby refine the Great Reverted Elixir of Golden Liquid (the elixir in Neidan cultivation that symbolizes the completion of the work).

When true Yin and true Yang meet, and water and fire are joined, the key is first to distinguish clearly whether Qi floats or sinks, then to distinguish what is primary from what is secondary, and to examine carefully the moment for applying “extracting and adding,” as well as whether the back-and-forth changes of Qi remain steady. Gao Xiangxian said, “Gathering has its day; taking has its time.” Haichan said, “Open and close the creative mechanism of Qian and Kun; smelt and refine the true sun and moon in a single furnace.” Those who understand these things can model themselves on the movement of the sun and moon and respond to the creative transformation of heaven and earth. Heaven and earth can endure because heaven nurtures the myriad things without displaying a form, and earth bears the myriad things without revealing a form; the sun and moon are bright, the Qi of True Unity long abides, and the void does not decay.

I now cultivate according to this same principle: I cling neither to external affairs nor to the inner mind. Looking inward at the mind, I find that the mind originally has nothing that can be grasped; looking outward at the form, I find that the body has no fixed reality; looking afar at the myriad things, I see that they too have no constant, unchanging substance. Once one understands that mind is without mind, form without form, and things without thinghood, one can pass beyond every kind of illusion and reveal a uniquely luminous spiritual nature. An ancient scripture says, “I was given birth in emptiness and brought to non-being.” One should therefore return to the original source of one’s nature and revert to the condition before birth. Let the mind be stored within the mind and not displayed; let Shen be stored within Shen, able to penetrate yet not racing outward. In this way one can connect past, present, and future, bring the ten thousand cares to rest, purify the six sense faculties (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind), and make the inner mind bright and clear.

Cultivation neither remains stuck in “emptiness” nor remains stuck in “non-being.” One must empty out everything that is clung to, and one must also not treat “non-being” as an object that can be grasped. Only when even “emptiness” has nothing left to empty, and even “non-being” has nothing left to negate, and one reaches a state of purity without stain, is the spiritual clarity that appears alone the Dao. The Dao is not a deliberate pursuit of the void. When the human mind is empty and still, the Dao returns of itself. The Dao originally has no name. Near at hand it cannot be seized, and far away it cannot be cast aside. It does not lie within square or circle, nor is it confined to inside or outside. Only the sage can truly realize it in person.

The three poisons (greed, anger, and delusion) originally have no root, and the six desires originally have no seed. Upon suddenly awakening to this principle, one can return to emptiness and non-being. The Laozi says, “The space between heaven and earth—is it not like a bellows? It is empty, yet never exhausted; the more it is worked, the more wind comes forth.” If in stillness and stability one can hold the Qi of harmonious emptiness and preserve the Jing (essence) of True Unity, this is like sealing the furnace fire, securing the elixir furnace, and refining and nourishing according to the firing times. Fire belongs to the south and to the Li trigram, and the Li trigram corresponds to the heart. The heart is Shen, and Shen is also fire. Qi, then, is the medicine. Using the fire of Shen to refine the medicine of Qi and thereby complete the elixir is to guide Qi by means of Shen and thereby accomplish the Dao.

If the cultivator can make use of the sun and moon and grasp the Hongmeng (the primordial Qi of the time before heaven and earth were divided), one can naturally experience the bellows-like opening and closing of Qi and the rising and falling of the River Chariot (a metaphor in Neidan for the conveyance of Qi): water-Qi nourishes the Palace of Life, and fire-Qi pours into the Elixir Terrace. Metal and fire blend, and water and earth unite. The Lovely Maiden and the Metal Lord (symbolic names in Neidan for Yin and Yang, lead and mercury, and the like) each have their pairing. Qi passes through the Three Passes (the apertures through which Qi commonly circulates in cultivation), rises to the Inner Court, transforms into jade mercury, and then descends to the Multi-Storied Tower (a metaphor for the region of the throat). Within this there is a place called the Elixir Terrace. Lead and mercury meet, and water and fire join. There seems to be movement, yet it actually arises from non-movement; there seems to be action, yet it actually appears out of Wuwei (non-action).

At this time a scene like white snow fills the sky, and yellow sprouts (a symbol of the generation of the Neidan) grow all across the ground. The dragon chants and the tiger roars, and Yin and Yang respond to one another. The liquid in the jade cauldron boils, the flame in the golden furnace blazes, and thunder and lightning alternate, as if shaking heaven and earth. The channels and vessels of the whole body are stirred, the Three Passes are open and unobstructed, the Mysterious Pearl (a symbol of the Neidan) appears, and the Qi of the Great One returns to its true origin. Wind arises in the Mud Pellet (the site indicated in Neidan for the head), the Crimson Palace (the Neidan name for the region of the heart) is bright as the moon, the Dantian (energy center) is warm, and the Grain Sea (another name for the sea of Qi) is calm. The reverted elixir is then completed as easily as turning over the palm.

Only after seven reversions and nine returns can the great medicine be refined. Refining and nourishing day after day, gently heating and simmering hour after hour, until the ninth cycle, one seems to hold both the gate of heaven and the axis of earth in one’s own hands. A scripture says, “If a person can remain constantly clear and still, heaven and earth all return.” This is the realm in which the three florescences gather at the crown and the five Qi pay court to the origin (a description in Neidan of Jing, Qi, and Shen being fully sufficient, and the Qi of the five viscera returning to the one source). One can long enter the gate of all wonders and reach the state of mystery upon mystery.

Going further, one circulates the spiritual mechanism day and night and warmly tends the firing process, so that the sacred embryo matures and forms the infant, until the embryo is shed and spirit is transformed, Yang is restored and the bones are exchanged (symbolizing the completion of cultivation and the transformation of form and spirit). This is to preserve spirit with the jade talisman and refine the physical form with golden liquid, reaching the realm in which both form and spirit are wondrous and one unites with the Dao in truth. Zhang Pingshu said, “Altogether it is no more than the work of a moment, yet one can forever retain inexhaustible peace and joy.” These words are indeed true.

The Dao is the foundation of cultivation and the root of De (Virtue/Power). It is also the source of dragon and tiger, of lead and mercury; the place where the three fires converge, the eight waters return together, and the ten thousand spirits come to court; and the source of the wondrous function of the Golden Elixir. This is precisely the crucial aperture of returning to the root and restoring life. Once this aperture is understood, one need not deliberately drive desires away, for the mind will grow still of itself; one need not specially clarify mind and spirit, for Shen will become clear of itself. When not a single thought arises, every illusion subsides with it. The body moves as if riding the wind, and the spirit wanders in a realm of plainness and stillness. Only then does one know that the clear breeze and the bright moon all reveal the basis on which lead and mercury join, and that emerald waters and green mountains all present the principle of the meeting of dragon and tiger.

Bai Ziqing of the South Sea gave rise to no thoughts in the mind, and every vain illusion and phantasm had already subsided. His body harnessed the Qi (vital energy) of the soaring whirlwind, and his spirit-consciousness roamed in a realm of clarity, stillness, and plain detachment. Only then did he understand: the clear breeze and the bright moon both make plain the principle that “lead” and “mercury”—the Yin-Yang Jing (essence) and Qi of Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation—are the foundation; the blue waters and green mountains likewise reveal the purport of the “tiger” and the “dragon,” terms in the art of Neidan that symbolize the transformations of Yin-Yang.

At the outset, Bai Ziqing of the South Sea studied the methods of the elixir under Chen Niwan. Whenever at noon the juncture of the “winter solstice” appeared—the moment in Neidan cultivation when yang Qi first stirs—he applied the formulas of opening Qian, breaching Xun, retaining Kun, and sealing Gen (four of the Bagua, the Eight Trigrams), and practiced in accordance with Tiangang (a star among the stars of the Northern Dipper). He grasped the handle of the Dipper, paid homage to Xuanyuan, passed Fusang, entered Guanghan, faced the Quail’s Tail, and raised the Yellow Bell (one of the twelve ancient pitch-pipes, here referring to the measure of cultivation). He boarded the sea raft (the immortal raft upon the sea), ascended Kunlun, wore the Tang talisman—Fulu (talismans and registers)—roused the thunder of Heaven, and traveled through the Wu Mountains. He called the Yellow Lad and summoned the Vermilion Child (spirits of the practice, or the inner Shen (spirit) and Qi), took the liver of the Azure Dragon, the marrow of the White Tiger, the blood of the Scarlet Phoenix, and the Jing of the Black Tortoise (all of them symbolic Jing and Qi in the art of Neidan), and placed them in the earthen cauldron (symbolizing the elixir furnace within the body). He set Yinghuo in motion (Mars, here connected with the firing process of internal refinement), commanded Guanbo (the spirit who presides over the passes), and brought the cinnabar to transformation. He opened the Flowery Pool (the place where the fluids of the mouth gather), drew in the divine water (the name given in cultivation to the saliva), and swallowed a knife-measure (a small quantity of elixir, or a subtle medicinal essence). From nothing he brought something forth, causing what has no form to congeal into a substance that has form; he drew out lead to replenish mercury, and at last the sacred embryo was formed. When the ten months were complete, breath was full and bodily form was perfected, and there was a body beyond the body. This is called the “embryo immortal” (the immortal embryo attained through Neidan cultivation).

An oral teaching says: “Only when mind and will are single and undistracted can the spirit be gathered and condensed; when the heart is quiet and deep as dead ashes, the Golden Elixir (Jindan) is refined within the body.” This is the method of cultivation that I have obtained.

Shi Jianwu said: “Qi is the medicine that lengthens life; the mind is the Shen that harnesses and governs Qi. If one understands the secret of circulating the breath, one can become an immortal.” This poem is plain, concise, and thoroughly clear; it reaches deep into the mysterious principle, and its attainment is subtle. Therefore I carry it with me and recite it, and of themselves I arrive at the state in which the autumn moon hangs on high and the mind is empty, still, and profound, so that the Golden Elixir is refined within the body. This is the method of cultivation that I have obtained.

Shi Jianwu said further: “Qi is the medicine that lengthens life; the mind is the Shen that harnesses and governs Qi. If one understands the secret of circulating the breath, one can become an immortal.” This poem is plain and concise and penetrates the mystery; its imagery is subtle and fine. Thus I carry it with me and recite it, and of themselves I reach the state in which the autumn moon shines upon the sky and emptiness dissolves. Unless one is a person whose mind is withered into stillness, pure, cool, and settled, one cannot comprehend these principles.

Since I have obtained these methods, I cannot remain silent. The Taishang Xuan Ke (the Daoist precepts and norms of transmission) says: “To meet one who may be taught and yet not transmit is to fail the Dao (the Way) of Heaven; to transmit to one who is unfit is to divulge the treasure of Heaven.” I have traveled to the ends of the earth and the corners of the sea and still have not found a suitable person; therefore I dare not transmit it lightly, for fear of Heaven’s punishment. Yet I also deeply fear that the great Dao will have no one to carry it on, and that the elixir Jing (scriptures) will from this time be lost. I therefore wrote the Treatise on Revealing the Secrets of the Mysterious Pass, hoping to awaken the people of the world and instruct later students, so that the lineage of the Golden Elixir may continue. Fearing still that people of the world would not understand the principle within it, I offer a further explanation:

Turn the light of the eyes back upon your own eyes, listen in stillness with the ears to your own ears, regulate the breath through the nose, and restrain speech with the mouth. Whether body and mind are quiet or active, the key in every case lies in the one mind. In practice, one must first sit quietly and enter settled concentration, gather Shen (spirit), restrain anger, and curb desire. Only then can Water and Fire aid one another, and Metal and Wood join in union. Once Metal and Wood have united, true Earth—the harmonizing force in the cultivation of Neidan (internal alchemy)—returns to its proper place. When true Earth is restored to its place, the Golden Elixir (Jindan), the coalescence of Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) spoken of in Neidan practice, naturally forms, no larger than a grain of millet. Ingest one grain each day, and Shen and Qi will fill heaven and earth.

What the Mencius says of those who are skilled at nurturing their own flood-like Qi refers to precisely this condition. Those who cultivate and study should ponder it with care. I respectfully set these words down and entrust them to Liu Ziyuan.

The Direct Words of the Perfected Ma Danyang

Cut off passion and desire and subdue the thoughts of the mind, and Shen and Qi will fill heaven and earth. What the Mencius says of those who are skilled at nurturing their own flood-like Qi refers to precisely this condition. Those who cultivate and study should ponder it with care. I respectfully set these words down and entrust them to Liu Ziyuan.

The Direct Words of the Perfected Ma Danyang

One must cut off emotional attachments and reduce desire so that the mind becomes settled. Do not constantly keep company with relatives, and do not let the mind wander in every direction. Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down—even while chopping wood, carrying water, or using the toilet—one must keep mind and spirit calm, stop stray thoughts, and remain clear, tranquil, and unmoving. This is what is called the “true mind.”

In cultivation one should seek a quiet place, speak little, and associate with suitable companions. Do not give rise to stray thoughts, for thoughts are the root of karmic action. If external things do not intrude upon the mind, and the thoughts within do not rush outward, and if one also speaks little in ordinary life, the mind will naturally grow calm and the breath will come into harmony. If one cannot clarify the mind and stop stray thoughts, and is unwilling to reduce desire and cut off attachments, while the mind still chases endlessly outward, how can the breath be regulated of itself? Such a mind is like an empty room: the thoughts that run out of it are like monkeys and wild horses, difficult to restrain.

From ancient times, those who cultivate immortality have not dared to pass over the two words “chengzhan”—that is, clarifying the mind so that it becomes still and deep. One must also keep the mind from pursuing external things: only when the “mind-monkey” is firmly held in check will the Neidan (internal alchemy) not leak away; only when the “intention-horse” is constantly subdued will original nature become manifest. “Mind-monkey” and “intention-horse” are metaphors for thoughts and intentions that are disordered and hard to control.

Master Zuoyuan said: As soon as the mind stirs, a thought is born; as soon as a thought arises, intention races outward. Only when the mind is clear and intention is settled, and one forgets both external things and the self, can clarity and tranquility be maintained. What then appears is solely original nature, and it is by original nature that one responds to external things. All the myriad things that people see are seen within the mind; the key to cultivation is not to lose original nature. If one sees only external things and does not see original nature, one becomes attached to external things and therefore remains in the cycle of rebirth. The master further said that it is only because one sees external things without seeing original nature that one loses everything.

Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, one must subdue the inner mind so that original nature constantly appears and does not grow dim. What is called stopping thoughts is to recognize at every moment that all worldly stray thoughts are the root of karmic action. One must let original nature be clear and tranquil, see through every entanglement and every illusion, gradually tame the subtlest thoughts, and at last bring them to the point where they arise no more.

Someone asked, “What does it mean to face external things without losing one’s original mind?” The reply was: “Although the ears and eyes hear and see, and although the mouth speaks, it is enough that the mind does not cling to these things.”

Someone asked, “What is the realm that even ghosts and spirits cannot fathom?” The reply was: “It is every realm of emptiness and stillness—that is, a mind that is empty, luminous, and quiet, unmoved by external things.”

Someone asked further, “The Daodejing says, ‘The gate of the mysterious female is called the root of heaven and earth.’ What does this mean?” The reply was: “Xuan is the father and pin is the mother; each accounts for eight liang, and together they make one jin. A single point of primordial yang Qi (vital energy) is the root.” Here the union of Yin and Yang is used to explain the source of the generation and transformation of heaven and earth.

Someone asked further, “How can one return to one’s destiny and go back to the root?” The reply was: “So long as the mind does not chase external things, remains unstained and unattached, gives rise to no deluded thoughts, and does not let Qi scatter and be lost, this is returning to the root. If one cannot do these things, one cannot return to the root.”

Someone asked further, “What is meant by seeing one’s nature?” The reply was: “When there are no stray thoughts in the mind and one clings to nothing, clear and deeply still, it is like the bright moon hanging high in the sky.”