《随机应化录》

Preface to the Record of Wugouzi’s Responses and Transformations According to Occasion

In Shaanxi there was a Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) Daoist whose ancestral home was Siming in Zhejiang and whose father lived in Qiantang. He was He Daoquan. From youth Master He cultivated the Dao (the Way) and bore the sobriquet Wugouzi. He once wandered in the region of the Eastern Sea, and at the time people found nothing remarkable about him. Later he traveled west to Mount Zhongnan and settled in the area of Guifeng. Only after he had achieved something in cultivating the Dao did people regard him as extraordinary. His deeds have already been recorded in stele inscriptions.

After the sixteenth day of the first month of the jimao year of Hongwu (the twelfth year of Hongwu, 1379), Master He died at a medical hall in Chang’an. Lord Wang performed for him the rites that, upon a Daoist’s death, are called “feathered transformation,” and buried him in the cemetery of the assembled immortals. Two years later, Sun Shoutong came and told me: “I had long been associated with Master He; now he has passed away, and I shall never see him again.” Alas, how lofty were Master He’s aspirations! Sun Shoutong then bowed to me and asked me to write a preface to open this book.

I said with feeling: The great Dao is difficult to make plain by outward appearance alone; genuine De (Virtue/Power) must be recorded. Although my learning is shallow, I shall still write on the basis of the relevant words and deeds. From ancient times to the present, those who revere the Dao have often been unable to penetrate its essential purport; yet Master He understood the principles of nature and life, practiced the teaching of Wuwei (non-action), and even ordinary people looked up to his transformative influence. If his inborn nature had not been pure, substantial, and sincere, how could he have done this?

Jia Daoxuan, a disciple of Master He, came from afar bearing medicines, not shrinking from a journey of a thousand li, and thereby brought this preface into being. Were it not for Sun Shoutong, why would I have written? Sun Shoutong’s attainment in the Dao is thereby made manifest, and Master He’s attainment in the Dao is likewise made clear; the two set each other off. After Master He’s death, had there been no Sun Shoutong, the orthodox teaching would perhaps have had no one to transmit it. Master He was senior to Sun Shoutong, yet Sun Shoutong treated him with respectful courtesy; after Master He had passed away, Sun Shoutong further made his deeds known. From this, Master He’s De can fully be seen. Their friendship was deep. This collection of recorded sayings was compiled after Master He’s death, and within it there is naturally the intention of transmitting the teaching.

On the upper-gradual day of the sixth month of the xinsi year of Hongwu (the fourteenth year of Hongwu, 1381), Ling Tongzi of Kunqiu composed this preface.

Record of Responding and Transforming with the Occasion, Upper Volume

Composed by He Daoquan, the Songxi Daoist, Wugouzi (the Unsullied Master)

Compiled by his disciple Jia Daoxuan

Wugouzi left Zhejiang and traveled through the regions of Huai and Chu until he reached the Zhenwu Hall at Red Lotus Lake in Muyang. There he met his old Daoist friend Gao Woyun, who had come to visit while Wugouzi was laboring in the mud together with his disciples. Gao Woyun said jokingly, “Wugou, all these years you have remained pure and unstained, yet today you too are smeared with mud and water.” Wugouzi replied, “You know only that the lotus root grows in the mud; you do not know that the lotus flower can rise clear of the water and bloom.”

Gao Woyun asked, “Between the lotus root and the lotus flower, what difference is there as regards the body and innate nature?” Wugouzi said, “The lotus root is a figure for a person’s body; the lotus flower is a figure for a person’s mind and nature.”

A Daoist, like an ordinary person, must meet the affairs of daily life; the difference lies in what is guarded within the heart, which is not the same. Wugouzi composed a verse:

In the void there is, from the beginning, not a thread of dust. Outer forms are not the real, yet inner reality is held within them.

One knows only that the lotus root grows in the filthy mud, and does not know that the lotus can emerge fresh and clear and open upon the water.

The Master set out on a journey, crossed the Yellow River to the west, and came to the hermitage of Head Monk Zhan, where he sat in conversation with an old monk. Just then a monk arrived to hear the Dharma. The old monk said, “There is no Dharma that can be expounded.” The Master said, “This is truly the expounding of the Dharma. Have you not heard the Diamond Sutra (Jingang Jing) say, ‘There is no Dharma that can be spoken; this is called expounding the Dharma’?

“The Confucians say that a person’s seeing and hearing do not rely on the ears and eyes alone, yet in the end they cannot do without the working of the ears and eyes. Long ago, Subhuti sat in stillness among the cliffs, and heavenly beings scattered flowers for him, saying, ‘I see that the Venerable One is skilled in expounding prajñā (wisdom).’ Subhuti said, ‘When I expound prajñā, I do not speak a single word.’ The heavenly beings said, ‘The Venerable One has not spoken, and we have not heard. With neither speaking nor hearing, this is true prajñā.’

“The Scripture of the Thunder Ancestor (Leizu Jing) says, ‘If you wish to hear the supreme Dao (the Way), the highest truth, the supreme Dao is profound and subtle and is not found elsewhere. Since you wish to hear it, take non-hearing as what is right.’ Those who study the Dao must be sincere and plain, silently holding to it with a gentle and humbly yielding attitude; only then can they enter the Dao.”

The monk then asked what zhong (the Mean) means. The Master said, “The place where a thought arises is called zhong; this is the zhong of which the Daoists speak. The Buddhists say: think neither of good nor of evil; just when this thought has not yet arisen, which is one’s original face? This is the zhong of which the Buddhists speak. The Confucians say: before joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure have been expressed, it is called zhong; this is the zhong of which the Confucians speak. You should ponder this carefully.”

The Master arrived at Pining An (the name of a Daoist abbey). Abbot Zhang came forward to pay his respects and asked, “Which came first, the peach pit or the peach tree?”

The Master replied, “One sees only the hundred flowers in full bloom in the garden, yet does not know that they all depend on the Qi (vital energy) of yang harmony—the warm, harmonizing power that brings the myriad things to life. This is primordial Qi differentiating and manifesting in different forms, from which the myriad things are transformed and born. When Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) first divided, that which has neither form nor image could give birth to the myriad things; though formless, it could still govern what has form. This is what is called ‘prior to the image of the Sovereign’—before the ruler of the myriad things appears.”

The abbot asked again, “Which came first, the egg or the hen?”

The Master said, “This is the same principle.”

The abbot asked, “Why do some eggs fail to hatch into chicks?”

The Master said, “This is like a peach pit suspended in midair, never touching the soil—how could it sprout and grow into a tree? The Wenshi Jing (scripture) says: The various seeds fall into the earth, and the transformative power of heaven and earth causes them to sprout; the sprout grows into a tree, the tree blossoms, and after the flowers fall, fruit is formed; the fruit becomes seed again, and the seed once more sprouts and grows into a tree. Seed and sprout thus give rise to each other in a cycle, through who knows how many hundreds of millions of trees, transforming and multiplying without end. If a seed is hung in the air, with nothing around it to rely on, and it does not lie in the soil, then however vast heaven and earth may be, they cannot cause that seed in the air to transform into a sprout and grow into a tree.

“In the same way, a female egg requires the male; only when Yin-Yang are joined can the power of transformation give birth to birds. The birds in turn produce eggs, and through incubating those eggs they multiply, through who knows how many hundreds of millions of birds, life giving rise to life without cease. If an egg is not joined with the male, then however subtle and wondrous Yin-Yang may be, they cannot cause it to transform into a living being. This is to have Yin alone and no Yang. The ancients said: Pure Yang, free of all admixture, is the immortal; when Yin-Yang are joined, they can generate the myriad things; pure Yin without Yang is the ghost. This is precisely the principle they meant.”

True Lord Yin (a Daoist perfected immortal) said, “There is nothing that can make me change. So long as I gather in the mind and Shen (spirit) and hold to a single breath, the myriad things can thereby be transformed. As for the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) of my own person—the five fundamental powers that constitute the body and the myriad things—what could alter them?”

The Master continued, “When a practitioner faces the things of the outer world, he should pass through them lightly, neither lingering in attachment nor becoming entangled by all manner of cares. In this way, the myriad things come under one’s own mastery. If one clings to things, one changes along with them, falls under the dominion of Yin-Yang, and shifts and drifts with the movement of thoughts—and so falls into the cycle of rebirth, adrift amid birth and death. The moment even a thread of thought arises, one should subdue it. If thoughts can truly cease, desires fade and are forgotten, and the myriad conditions are suddenly stilled, how could the Five Phases still change you? How could Yin-Yang still shape you?

“This is like the seed in midair, and like the egg unjoined with the male: one is not situated within heaven, earth, and the four directions, but returns to the state before the Great Beginning. This is no small matter.”

When the Master arrived at Youde Abbey in Nazhou, a monk named Xiu Jufeng came to pay his respects and asked him what the two characters “reciting the Buddha” meant. The Master said, “Why go looking for it far away? The Buddha of your own self—why do you not recognize it? If you invite the Buddha of the West, where will you put the Buddha of your own house? Have you not heard Elder Chuan say, ‘If one says that he is the Buddha, one oneself instead becomes a demon’? The Daoists say, ‘Within the body there is already the true Primordial Beginning; why seek the Celestial Worthy outside the mind?’ The Confucians also say, ‘Within my own person there is a Taiji (Supreme Ultimate).’”

The monk asked again, “Please, Master, show me the shortcut to reciting the Buddha. How can one see the Buddha’s face?” The Master smiled and said, “I will tell you. The ancients said, ‘Recite the Buddha once, and there is one response; the original face stands out with unusual clarity. Strike the peach pit with a staff of no-mind, and startle awake the one whose head is wrapped.’ This is precisely laying bare the true face of the Buddha.”

The method of reciting the Buddha falls into three kinds: subduing the demons of the mind, visualization, and investigation. None of these three is as simple as merely reciting the Buddha’s name and fingering prayer beads.

Those who are beginning to recite the Buddha must first, through that recitation, subdue delusive thoughts and the demons of the mind. Only when stray thoughts have been brought down and the mind has settled can one enter the Dharma gate. If one does not do this, one will only waste one’s spirit in vain and find success hard to reach. The crux is to subdue the demons of the mind and still the stray thoughts. While reciting the Buddha, do not let stray thoughts arise; do not take stray thoughts for right mindfulness, but replace the restless and stubborn mind with the mind of the Buddha. If one’s roots are shallow and one cannot turn about all at once, one should remind oneself: “Since I am a person who recites the Buddha, how can I have a thought like this? This is an old karmic habit.” In this way one restrains oneself and cuts off stray thoughts, then slowly raises the Buddha’s name, reciting from a single utterance to ten, or on to a hundred, without letting stray thoughts break in. The moment a thought arises, sweep it away; when there are no stray thoughts, raise the Buddha’s name. The former master said, “Recite the Buddha within no-thought, and within the recitation of the Buddha there is no-thought.” This is the meaning. Practice for a long time, and once one is skilled, understanding will come of itself.

Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, one should constantly raise the Buddha’s name and not let it be interrupted. The mind never leaves mindfulness of the Buddha, and one does not forget it in either movement or stillness, until, without one’s deliberately raising it, the Buddha’s name surfaces of itself; even when one is not specially reciting it, the mind continues to recite the Buddha. Only this counts as truly applying the practice. Reciting the Buddha in this way will bear good fruit in days to come. If the mind is filled with evil thoughts, and the mouth recites the Buddha while the mind goes against the Buddha’s teaching, one is creating karma. This is called “a Buddha’s mouth and a snake’s heart.”

Reciting the Buddha through visualization means that, whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, whether speaking or silent, and in movement or stillness, the mind at every moment recollects the Buddha, and one need not necessarily speak aloud. The mind does not leave the Buddha, and the Buddha does not leave the mind, like a mother and child who hold each other in their thoughts. As soon as some external circumstance shakes one’s thought, one draws attention back into the mind and concentrates on visualizing this: within one’s own mind there is a true Buddha, of purple flame and golden body, seated upright within, majestic and unmoving. Visualize at every moment, not letting the image of the Buddha leave one’s thought, so that mindfulness of the Buddha appears clearly again and again.

Whether one meets favorable circumstances, adverse circumstances, or evil thoughts, all are to be swept away together. With a single mind one visualizes and recollects Amitābha Buddha, taking the Buddha as the sovereign within the mind. One must be as firm as one who relies upon Mount Sumeru (the immense mountain spoken of in Buddhism), and like a person in a swift current who clings tightly to a bridge pillar and never lets go. In this way the demons of the mind disperse of themselves, and evil thoughts of themselves return to what is right. When the hundred years of one’s life come to an end, one should likewise be single-minded in taking the Buddha as one’s thought, the mind never departing from it, and one will naturally not go off along deviant paths. While alive, reciting the Buddha at every moment and not forgetting over a long time, one will gradually find the place of entry. Suddenly there is an awakening: one recognizes the Amitābha within one’s own mind and can then understand completely. At this point a single recitation of the Buddha surpasses hundreds or thousands of recitations; karmic offenses diminish, the mind of the Dao (the Way) grows, and one’s original nature becomes manifest of itself.

Reciting the Buddha through investigation is practiced in a quiet place. One moderates food and drink, spreads a thick, soft cushion, wears loose clothing, sits in full cross-legged posture (the two legs crossed and folded), straightens the spine, evens the breath, and clears away stray thoughts. Then one gently raises the Buddha’s name, without needing to speak it aloud, silently reciting from one utterance up to a hundred. If a stray thought arises midway, one begins again from the start, until a continuous hundred utterances pass without interruption. With each recitation one must investigate the meaning within it: Who is it that recites the Buddha? When the four great elements (the four constituents of the human body: earth, water, fire, and wind) disperse and life comes to an end, to where does the person who recites the Buddha return, and where is one to settle and take one’s stand?

Investigation and reciting the Buddha must go on together, never apart at any moment; whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, one must not forget. One must trace the matter to its root, until one understands. After a long time, one will suddenly recognize one’s own original face, and recognize Amitābha as well. At that time a single recitation of the Buddha is like reaching the other shore, surpassing the recitation of countless Buddha-names and the weary effort of fingering prayer beads. The ancients said, “The Buddha is at Spirit Mountain; there is no need to seek afar. Spirit Mountain lies right in your mind. Every person has a Spirit Mountain pagoda, and should cultivate well beneath the pagoda of Spirit Mountain.”

Although the West has hundreds of millions of Buddha-names, reciting too many of them only drains one’s mental energy. The ancients said: “The Buddha is at Spirit Mountain; there is no need to seek him far away. Spirit Mountain lies in your own heart. In every person’s heart there is a Spirit Mountain pagoda, and one should cultivate beneath this Spirit Mountain pagoda.” He then composed a hymn:

In the West there is a Buddha named Amitabha (a Buddha-name);

in truth he is within the heart—only people do not know it.

If, while reciting the Buddha’s name, the mind is no longer a flurry of stray thoughts,

then even in a pit of fire one can transform it into a pool of white lotuses.

The Master came to Pizhou. A good man, Su Deshan, paid his respects to the Master and asked what the two words “nourishing the heart” meant. The Master said: “To nurture the mind and spirit (Shen), one must remove the defilement in the heart and still the stray thoughts. When stray thoughts disperse and the heart’s defilement is cleared away, the heart naturally becomes pure and calm.” He then asked how to nourish Qi (vital energy). The Master said: “Speaking little can nourish Qi.” He asked again what the two words “head of the assembly” meant. The Master said: “‘Assembly’ means gathering. One who can urge everyone to do good and accumulate blessings holds the foremost place in an assembly.”

Speaking in terms of inner cultivation, “head of the assembly” also means regulating the spirit and refining the vital breath, so that Yin-Yang is harmonized, the Four Images (the four kinds of qi-movement or states spoken of in cultivation) are coordinated, and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water) gather together; one passes through the Three Passes (the three barrier-points through which the movement of qi travels in cultivation), ascends to the Heavenly Valley (the cultivation aperture in the head), and reaches the state in which the Three Flowers gather at the crown and the Five Qi return to the origin (as Daoist internal cultivation puts it: Jing (essence), Qi, and Shen gather, and the Qi of the five viscera returns to the origin), assembling in the Mud Pellet (the aperture of internal cultivation in the head).

He then composed a gatha:

Do not think that because a fault is small, it need not be minded;

drops of water, too, can gather into a river that flows on without cease.

Do not think that because karmic rewards are already many, one need do no further good;

still be watchful, for as one walks in the human world, karmic rewards both increase and decrease.

When karmic rewards are gained, one must go on adding good deeds;

evil thoughts must also be cut off, one by one.

Until one no longer clings to either good or evil,

only then can one be thoroughly clear and unobstructed.

The Master came to the Cave of the Seven Perfected on Dongyu Mountain in Suqian County. A good friend, Liu Botong, asked the Master about the two words “movement and stillness.” The Master first composed a gatha:

Be still, and you are naturally settled;

move, and all kinds of distinctions arise.

When a single thought returns to the original mind, every entanglement is cut off.

Clouds and mist disperse, and above the blue sky the bright moon is clear and pure.

It illuminates the original face, which neither arises nor ceases.

This is the essential point; there is no need to put out further side shoots.

Let go, let go—be firm and decisive.

Go straight ahead; what more is there to say?

If you can receive this with reverence and faith and cultivate accordingly, you will come to understand of yourself.

There was also a monk named Xinchan who paid his respects to the Master and asked what the “original face” ultimately is. The Master composed a hymn, saying:

The formless, shadowless fruit of the Dao (the Way) is truly hard to find. Those who see through things perceive it clearly, while those who are confused and benighted sink and are lost. When the dust and attachments upon the body have all fallen away completely, one’s perfectly round and luminous inherent nature, like a ball of gold, is revealed.

A monk presented a fan to the master, and the master replied with a poem:

This fan cannot withstand the autumn. The moment the autumn wind rises, it can no longer be used. I urge you from now on to learn how to let go, lest afflictions like a raging wind sweep you away.

The fan’s handle rests entirely in the grasp of the palm; folding it shut and opening it out are both free and easy. When you can take it up, you must also know how to set it down. Once you have just gained a little coolness, do not shake it again and stir up a breeze.

Someone else presented a pair of shoes to the master, and the master replied with a poem:

Golden needle and jade thread, the workmanship finely wrought; the shoes accompany the steps, advancing one pace at a time. May you not be stained by so much as a thread of mud or water, and walk pure and clean toward the lotus pond—a symbol of the Pure Land.

When the master arrived at the Abbey of the Immortal Elder in Yuzhou and heard the cicadas calling noisily, he composed a poem on the spur of the moment:

In the Mud Pill—the upper Dantian (energy center) in the head, as Daoism speaks of it—one applies effort over and over for a long time, and before one knows it turns about and slips free of the filthy place. Casting off the former foul old shell, one perches alone on the highest branch of the green willow.

While the master was at the Abbey of the Immortal Elder, Superintendent Su came to pay his respects and asked the meaning of the four characters “clarity, stillness, Dao, and De (Virtue/Power).” The master said: “When the mind is free of miscellaneous affairs, that is clarity; when not a single thought arises, that is stillness; to be silent and unmoving is the Dao; to meet affairs, respond to them, and be able to penetrate them is De. Those just beginning to cultivate should, when they settle into stillness, guard their resolve and subdue stray thoughts; when they act, they should set others at ease and benefit the myriad things.”

Superintendent Yang asked: “In learning the Dao there are four things: standing like a pine, walking like the wind, sleeping like a bow, and speaking like a bell. What does this mean?” The master then answered with a poem:

Set your resolve like a pine tree, able to endure the cold of the year; conduct your affairs like the wind, meeting circumstances without obstruction. Master the spirit (Shen) as one draws a bow and nocks an arrow; do not let it slip, or it will be hard to recover. Speak too much, and you may invite the misfortune of wounding others; yet to remain forever silent is also not easy to do.

From now on, one ought to be like bells and drums: when struck, they sound; when the striking stops, they fall silent. If one who studies the Dao (the Way) can be like this, what vexation remains, and what joy?

Should one suddenly turn back onto the road walked when one came, one will find that the dream of yellow millet—a metaphor for the glory of a human life being no more than a dream—collapses of itself.

These four matters divide into internal cultivation and external cultivation. Beginners should start with external cultivation and then go on to internal cultivation; neither may be neglected.

It was early summer, and the master, as the mood took him, wrote a ci lyric to the tune Full Courtyard of Fragrance (Man Ting Fang):

Sun and moon pass like a weaver’s shuttle, and time flies like an arrow. Before one is aware of it, a person has grown old, and the features have changed. In those days one heard, high in the willows, the new cicadas singing; today early summer has come round again, and suddenly another year has passed. Consider a single lifetime: how much time in it can truly last?

The word “emptiness” is something all of you should grasp early and set your hand to cultivating at once—yet you are forever putting it off. I urge everyone to lay aside worldly affairs as soon as possible and wash clean the three fields, the upper, middle, and lower Dantian (energy centers) spoken of in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy). Through this training, Yin Qi (vital energy) recedes and Yang Qi increases. The mist disperses, a bright sun hangs high in the sky, and its radiance shines everywhere; the ten directions—the four quarters, the four corners, and above and below, a general term for every place—grow clear, revealing the original realm before birth.

The master said that beginners may practice four methods of nourishing the body and securing ease. One is to tap the teeth often; another is to swallow often the saliva in the mouth; another is to comb the hair often; and another is to regulate and refine the breath often. These belong to the Lesser Vehicle, that is, comparatively elementary methods of cultivation. Kept up over a long time, they can dispel illness and prolong life, leaving the body light, vigorous, and well moistened.

Internal cultivation, for its part, requires that distracting matters in the mind be few, words from the mouth be few, food and drink in the belly be few, and sleep at night be few. The Holy Mother said, “If one can fulfill these four ‘fews,’ the way of the immortals is certain to be achieved.” This is the same teaching.

The Master came to the Guangwu Temple in Sanxiang. The lay devotee Qin Weijing presented himself and asked, “What is meant by ‘non-being within being’?”

The Master said, “Although a practitioner has a body temporarily formed by the coming together of the four elements—earth, water, fire, and wind—and dwells amid love and desire, not a trace of worldly thought remains in the mind. This is called ‘non-being within being.’ One may also say that it is cultivating a formless body within a body that has form.”

Another Daoist then came forward and likewise asked, “What is meant by ‘non-being within being’?” The Master gave the same explanation, and added, “This is also the wondrous formless body contained within the body that has form. The patriarch said, ‘What has form is false; only what is without marks is real.’”

The Daoist asked further, “What is meant by ‘being within non-being’?”

The Master said, “Although the mind is free of passion and thought, one must not fall into stubborn emptiness—that rigid, vacant stillness in which there is nothing at all. A spark of true nature must be kept clear and enduring, and must not grow dim. This requires that vitality remain within emptiness, and that the substantial arise from the void. An old saying puts it thus: ‘From within emptiness and non-being, white snow is born; amid stillness and silence, the yellow sprout emerges.’ Here ‘white snow’ and ‘yellow sprout’ are metaphors in Neidan (internal alchemy), referring to the inner transformations of Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) that appear within emptiness and stillness.”

The Daoist asked again, “What do ‘movement’ and ‘stillness’ mean?”

The Master said, “Movement refers to the mind, and stillness to nature. When thoughts arise, nature is obscured; when thoughts subside, nature appears.”

The Daoist asked, “What is meant by nature being obscured?”

The Master said, “Incoming desires overpower the host—that is, the original mind is weak while guest-thoughts are strong—so that one grows dim and loses one’s original true nature.”

The Daoist asked, “What is meant by the subsiding of thoughts?”

The Master said, “When the original mind is upright, deviant thoughts naturally withdraw; when stray thoughts disperse, the passions fade away with them.”

The teacher came to Fuchang County and met a man sitting in closed retreat. He asked, “Sir, when will you come out?” The man replied, “Only when the round house collapses will I go out.” The teacher said, “If the round house collapses, where will you live?” The man said, “The collapse of the house is only a metaphor.” The teacher said, “Why wait until everything has dispersed before realizing that the myriad things are originally empty?”

Sitting in closed retreat is no light matter. It is a pass that tests those who cultivate immortality, known as the “Three Passes of Stillness.” Thus the Jing (scriptures) say: the lesser stillness is cultivated for one hundred days, the middle stillness for two hundred days, and the greater stillness for three hundred days. In practice one must distinguish the correct path from deviant ways, and must not cling to outer visions. The ancients said, “All forms that can be seen or sensed are illusory.”

During this period of cultivation, one must temper mind and nature so that not the slightest dust remains in the heart; regulate food and drink, taking little of richly flavored fare; resist demonic disturbance, and also overcome drowsiness. The breath should be fine, slow, and continuous, and the spirit (Shen) gathered within, entering a state of hazy stillness free of attachment. If one can reach a condition of luminous clarity and settled calm, as if congealed, and sustain it over a long time, there will naturally form what is called the “numinous embryo of emptiness” (a term, in the practice of Neidan (internal alchemy), for the attainment of inner spiritual nature). Afterward one must continue to nurture it.

Only when this supreme treasure has been brought to maturity can one regulate the spirit and leave the bodily form. One begins by practicing nearby, then gradually extends farther, until coming and going are free and fully adept. When one wishes to remain, one stays as conditions allow; when one wishes to depart, one separates from the body. One must not deliberately manipulate body and mind in the quiet chamber, or take the ghosts and spirits one sees as real. If this continues for long, one is easily troubled by deviant demons. The ancients said, “In the Dao (the Way) there are no ghosts or spirits, only coming and going alone.” A former master said, “Dwell at ease in the round chamber and keep to purity and stillness, and the Dao arises from purity and stillness.” When stillness reaches its extreme, yang Qi (vital energy) is reborn. Through long nurturing and cultivation, and by grasping the essential point within, one can naturally attain the Dao.

The master came to Dulao Hermitage (the name of a Daoist temple) at Lushan, where Ritual Master Shen approached to ask for guidance: “Where should cultivation begin?” The master replied, “The place to begin does not lie in the use of the hands. When nourishment is properly regulated, what is needed will naturally be present. Cultivate the leakless chamber—a Daoist image for the state in which the Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) of body and mind do not leak outward—and one can attain long life.”

Those just beginning cultivation cannot do without eight kinds of nourishment: nourishing the body, nourishing the stomach, nourishing the heart, nourishing Shen (spirit), nourishing Qi, nourishing Jing, nourishing one’s nature, and nourishing wisdom. To nourish the body, lighten its burdens and keep it light and vigorous; to nourish the stomach, be temperate in eating and drinking and take little richly flavored food; to nourish the heart, think less and desire less; to nourish Shen, reduce miscellaneous affairs and do not pry into external things; to nourish Qi, speak little and keep silence; to nourish Jing, reduce sexual activity and listen less to sounds that disturb the mind and spirit; to nourish one’s nature, rest content with what one knows and do not think idly; to nourish wisdom, remain deeply calm, at ease, and silent. None of these eight kinds of nourishment may be neglected.

Cultivation need not be sought elsewhere; the Grove of Seven Treasures lies within one’s own heart. Clearly recognize the Mysterious Pass—the crucial aperture in cultivation that points toward inner realization—this true aperture, and then one will behold the Heart of Heaven, the original mind through which one’s innate nature communicates with the Dao (the Way) of Heaven.

The teacher came to Andong Prefecture, and a fellow practitioner of the Dao (the Way), Gao Mingyuan, came to seek instruction: “What does ‘turning the light around and reflecting back’ (huiguang fanzhao) mean?”

The teacher said: “‘Turning the light around’ means bringing the thoughts of the mind back to oneself; ‘reflecting back’ means becoming aware of the thoughts and actions one has just had. In turning the light around, do not let the mind and spirit (Shen) race outward; in reflecting back, examine yourself at every moment. Confucians speak of ‘those who awaken first awakening those who awaken later,’ whereas Daoists hold that awakening oneself is superior to merely enlightening others. When one examines oneself, one does not easily go astray; if one thinks only of examining others, one instead loses the original mind.

One must examine oneself at all times, gather in one’s thoughts, and settle the mind and spirit, until no thought remains to cling to and no awakening is deliberately sought. Only one who can live amid ordinary worldly life yet remain unstained by the dust of external affairs may be called a cultivator of the Dao. As the old saying has it, ‘Passing through a thicket of a hundred flowers, not a single petal or leaf clings to one’s person’—this is precisely the meaning.”

Gao Mingyuan asked further: “Living in the midst of the world, how can one possibly remain unaffected by the dust of external affairs?”

The teacher said: “Water flows of itself, and mountains stand still of themselves; the sky is at leisure, and the clouds drift as they will. However turbulent worldly affairs may be, I remain calm and unmoved. The key is to let the inner mind be master, neither led along by external things nor obscured by the circumstances before one’s eyes. Only thus can one continually preserve one’s true suchness (zhenru)—the original nature of the mind.”

Records of Responding to Circumstances (Suiji Yinghua Lu)

The Master came to the ancient Fotuo Temple on Dayi Mountain in Donghai. While he was conversing with Monk Liang, Monk Tieniu came to pay his respects and asked the Master for instruction: what is the path that leads to birth and death, and how can one find the place of transcendence?

The Master said, “Where there is success and failure, that is the path of birth and death; where there is neither going nor coming, that is the place of transcendence.”

After bowing in thanks, Monk Tieniu said, “All day I busy myself only with the fishing rod, yet I never come to know such sights as the reed flowers turning white and the smartweed blossoms turning red.” The “fishing rod” (lun gan) here is the rod used for catching fish; through the image of everyday labor, his words express that he has no leisure to experience nature or to contemplate birth and death.

The Master said, “If you can get through just this once, that is the place of transcendence; put down the fishing rod, and you leave the path of birth and death.” He added, “Without the east wind, the flowers will not bloom; once the flowers have bloomed, they are blown down again by the wind. This is the path of birth and death. Clouds rise from the mountain ridges, and the moon’s reflection shines in the heart of the river—this is the place of transcendence.”

The Master then spoke directly: “When emotional attachments fade and distracting thoughts cease, that is the gate of life; when the mind is in turmoil and the spirit (Shen) grows frantic, that is the road of death. When the mind does not cling to the myriad things, and the inner nature is clear and bright in itself, lucidly illuminating all things—this is the place of transcendence.”

He then composed a verse, saying:

The nature that is neither extinguished nor born is pure and luminous, neither coming nor going, and it transcends the Three Realms (the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm).

If you wish to know this place of turning and transcendence, you must tread through emptiness and fully penetrate the mysterious and subtle principle.

When the Master came to Chongyang Cave on Yilu Mountain, the hermitage master Zhou Daolong came to pay his respects and asked about the principle of “sitting with the bowl” (zuobo). The Master said, “The meaning of the character bo is ‘the root’; it is made of metal. What is called the metal root…”

The last two lines of this poem likewise reaffirm the point: to find the place of transcendence, one must go beyond attachment and delusion and penetrate the mysterious and subtle principle.

The master came to Chongyang Cave on Mount Yilu. The hermitage master Zhou Daolong came to pay his respects and asked the master to explain the principle of zuobo, “sitting the bowl.”

The master said: “The character bo carries the sense of ben, ‘root’ or ‘origin,’ as though formed by the joining of metal and root. What is here called ‘metal and root’ is a metaphor for the feelings of metal and the nature of wood. When feelings and nature come together, they are like the bowl. Feelings are like waves; nature is like water. Sitting the bowl means calming the stirrings of feeling so that original nature becomes settled.

There is a small opening in the bowl, symbolizing the changes of rising and falling: where there is ascent there is descent, and where there is fullness there is waning. When settling the bowl, one must close the mouth and keep silent, sit with the body upright, set aside all thought, and refrain from speech. In cultivation this is the uniting of feelings and nature, and the concentrated guarding of the one Shen (spirit).”

The xiucai Jing’an came to take the master as his teacher and asked, “What is the original face—the innate nature of a person before any influence from outside?” The master said, “It is neither the same as the mental and bodily phenomena before one’s eyes, nor apart from those phenomena. If one says that the original face is found only by leaving these phenomena behind, then when one is moving or sitting still, speaking or silent, and when the Four Great Elements—earth, water, fire, and wind, which make up the human body—and the Six Roots—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—are active or at rest, and every part of the body works in concert, who, after all, is in command? If one says that the original face simply is these mental and bodily phenomena, then a dead person also has the Four Great Elements and the Six Roots—why can such a person not move? Moreover, before our parents gave birth to us, this body made of the Four Great Elements, together with the Six Roots, did not yet exist. At that time, what was moving and what was still, and who was aware?”

The Daoist Jing (scripture) says, “You do not see me, nor hear my voice; transcending every kind of opposition and boundary—this is called the wondrous Dao (the Way).” The Buddhist scriptures likewise say, “If one looks at me by form and appearance, or seeks me by sound, that person walks a deviant path and cannot see the Tathagata.” The formless can give rise to form; the shapeless can govern what has shape. The original face is not the five colors that the eyes can see, nor the five tones that the ears can hear. It sees without eyes, hears without ears, smells without a nose, tastes without a tongue, speaks without a mouth, clenches a fist without hands, and walks without feet.

Once the Dharma-body—the fundamental reality beyond physical form and beyond birth and death—makes any movement, it is easily drawn along by external phenomena; when the Six Roots grow quiet, the original face appears of itself. What is active at this moment is the ruling principle driving what is subordinate to it; only when stillness is settled does the ruler return to its proper place. Muddle and confusion are ghost; clarity and lucid understanding are Shen (spirit). If a practitioner wishes to see the original face, one must bring every entanglement to rest, purify the Six Roots, concentrate with a mind that is not divided, leave not the slightest attachment, and fix the thought on nothing at all. In this way the clouds and mists of delusion disperse of themselves, and the bright moon of mind and nature shows its light. The ancients said, “When the mist clears, the sun is bright; when the dust is wiped away, the mirror is clear.” And so a verse was composed:

After one has looked, though there is no form or image, one yet senses that it is there;

Never has it been stained by so much as a thread of dust.

If one can set down the myriad dharmas,

The original, imperishable nature is revealed.

When the master came to Anlewo, the Nest of Peace and Ease, on Mount Taibai, a lecturer named Chen Hongdao came to pay his respects. What is recorded below begins from a fragmentary sentence, and from it one cannot determine the question he asked.

The teacher arrived at Anlewo on Mount Taibai (a place name). Lecturer Chen Hongdao came to ask the meaning of these words in the “Qiwu” chapter of the Zhuangzi: “Great knowledge is broad and even; petty knowledge draws distinctions at every turn; great speech blazes so as to carry conviction; petty speech is fussy and contentious.”

The teacher said: “‘Great knowledge is broad and even’ means that great wisdom is expansive and peaceful, able to embrace and accept. ‘Petty knowledge draws distinctions at every turn’ means that petty cleverness makes distinctions and calculates everywhere. This is a difference in wisdom. ‘Great speech blazes so as to carry conviction’ means that grand utterances can lead people to accept their judgments of right and wrong. ‘Petty speech is fussy and contentious’ means that trivial words argue back and forth, revealing a cramped and constrained manner. This is a difference in speech. All kinds of discourse are merely different expressions of these four situations. The myriad things and the myriad feelings each have their own preferences and aversions, as if there were a ‘True Ruler’ (the fundamental power that governs the myriad things) causing them to proceed of themselves. Would you see the True Ruler? Ah! Though it comes and goes without a trace, it manifests everywhere among the myriad things.”

Daoist priest Liu Zonghai came to ask what cultivation and refinement are. The teacher said: “‘Cultivate’ is to cultivate outward conduct; ‘refine’ is to temper body and mind. Cultivating outward conduct includes, for example, caring for orphans, looking after widows, respecting the elderly, pitying the poor, building bridges and paving roads, and helping those in distress. Good deeds of this kind number eight hundred in all. Tempering body and mind means dwelling in quiet stillness, holding to stability, forging the body and the mind-nature, cherishing Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), nurturing primordial Qi, and refining Shen (spirit) so as to return to emptiness (cultivating the spirit so that the state of mind returns to vacuity and stillness). Inner practices of this kind number three thousand in all. Outward good deeds can accumulate blessings; inner cultivation can give rise to wisdom. When both blessings and wisdom are complete, one can transcend birth and death.”

Someone else asked: “When a man reaches the age of sixty-four, he can no longer cultivate life (cultivate the root of life and nourish and refine Jing and Qi). What is the reason?”

The Master said: Of all things, the human being is the most spiritual. One’s lifespan originally comes to more than 43,200 days. A person’s Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) together number 36,000, and the primordial Yang true Qi—the Yang Qi inherent in life—originally weighs 384 zhu, corresponding inwardly to the Qian hexagram of the Yijing (Classic of Changes). If people do not know how to preserve and nurture it, and allow the true Qi to dissipate, they die before their time, midway through the allotted span. The six lines of the Qian hexagram are all Yang, symbolizing abundant Yang Qi. If one does not yet know how to nurture and cultivate, but comes to understand these principles and puts them into practice, one can become an immortal.

From the age of fifteen to twenty-five, if Jing (essence) and Qi are continually leaked and depleted, the true Qi is diminished by 48 zhu, and what remains corresponds to the Gou hexagram (Coming to Meet) of the Yijing. If desire runs to excess, then after another ten years a further 48 zhu are lost, and the state that remains corresponds to the Dun hexagram (Retreat). If one still does not know how to preserve and nurture it, after another ten years a further 48 zhu are lost, corresponding to the Pi hexagram (Standstill); what remains by then is already the centrally harmonious Qi between Heaven and Earth. If one still does not cultivate and restore oneself, after another ten years 72 zhu are lost, corresponding to the Guan hexagram (Contemplation). If one still does not replenish and nourish it, after another five years a further 8 zhu are lost, and the state that remains corresponds to the Pi hexagram; what remains at this point is still the centrally harmonious Qi between Heaven and Earth. If one still does not cultivate and restore oneself, after another ten years 72 zhu are lost, corresponding to the Guan hexagram. If one still does not replenish and nourish it, after another five years a further 96 zhu are lost, and the state that remains corresponds to the Bo hexagram (Splitting Apart). If one still does not preserve and nurture it, and passes through all sixty-four hexagrams—eight times eight—the primordial Qi is exhausted, corresponding at last to the Kun hexagram (The Receptive).

The Kun hexagram is pure Yin. At this stage a person can sustain life only by the grain Qi (guqi) obtained from food and drink, and so this is called “goushou,” that is, a lifespan of barely managing to remain alive. By this point one is not far from death, and it is no longer possible to cultivate Neidan (internal alchemy). If the primordial Qi is depleted even more severely, one may not even hold on until this stage, and will die before reaching it. It is like an old tree whose Jing and Qi have already declined: should it then meet a great wind and a fierce fire, it is sure to wither and die.

Those who cultivate should understand the measures of zhu and liang, and should know how, in the course of practice, to advance and retreat by means of “choutian” (extracting and replenishing), and how to apply effort in the work. When the ancestral master says, “One gourd is 384 zhu,” this is precisely what is meant.

Lecturer Chen inquired into the Dao (the Way) of “corpse liberation” (shijie). The Master said: “There are five kinds of corpse liberation: liberation by arms, liberation by substituted traces, liberation by water, liberation by fire, and liberation of the Great Yin. Liberation by arms means departing the world by means of weapons or penal punishment—for example, Guo Pu was killed in the marketplace, and Zhou Pu suffered the punishment of the saw. Liberation by substituted traces means manifesting the signs of deliverance through an object or image—for example, Changfang was transformed into a walking staff, and Patriarch Bodhidharma left only his shoes and returned to the west. Liberation by water means attaining deliverance by means of water—for example, Feng Yi drowned in a great river, and Taibai sank to the bottom of the river. Liberation by fire means attaining deliverance by means of fire—for example, Fengzi was burned upon a fire-tree, and Immortal Lu ascended from within a pile of firewood. Liberation of the Great Yin means that the corpse does not change color or turn livid, the skin does not wrinkle, the eyes are not destroyed, and the body remains soft when bent or stretched; this, too, belongs to corpse liberation. The flesh of the corpse can remain undecayed for a hundred years and can later be formed once more into a complete person. Even so, one ultimately cannot achieve the Dao of the celestial immortals, but can only attain deathlessness.”

In the ninth month of the bingyin year, the Master came to the Temple of the Eastern Peak in Huayang and rested there in seated meditation. It happened to be raining, and the roof leaked, so he composed a poem:

The house leaks in the rain, yet the person is not distressed; the multitude bustles, while I remain at ease.

Moving to a place of security, worldly stray thoughts are all forgotten.

On the fifteenth day of that month, three Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) Daoists—Dong Guyun, Wang Yishan, and He Lanyun—went to the Wanshou Palace in Danyang to serve as “masters of the bowl.” The master of the bowl is the office that presides over Zhaijiao (purification ritual) rites and is responsible for the bowl and other ritual affairs. The three composed a poem, took leave of everyone, and set out:

Deep mountains and secluded valleys are my home; the life I have enjoyed all my years is truly worthy of praise.

The earthen bowl is often filled with honey wine; in the porcelain jar, tea of paper-mulberry buds is often brewed.

In leisure I smile and point to the bright moon at the sky’s edge; when vexed, I go beside the brook to enjoy the flowers.

Today I bid farewell to all my friends and depart; gazing afar at mountain forests and ravines, I cannot help but sigh in melancholy.

On the twenty-second day of the ninth month, the Master arrived at the Danyang Wanshou Palace in Chang’an. Commander Deng came to pay his respects and said, “I have long heard of your attainment in the Dao (the Way).” The Master replied, “I merely dwell in the mountains, cultivating body and mind and resting content in plain simplicity.”

Commander Deng said, “If one can truly grasp the word zhuo—unpolished simplicity—then the cultivation of the Dao has reached its fulfillment.” The Master said, “Conceal your light and do not show a cutting edge; keep to plainness and hold fast to what is originally genuine. Even if you are eloquent, seem as though you were not good with words; even if your mind is clever, seem as though you were clumsy. The eyes do not covet the sight of external things, and the ears do not covet the hearing of sounds. Though the mouth answers the affairs of daily life, within there is no desire; the mind does not cling to its thoughts, and within thought no delusive notions arise. This is my way of cultivating zhuo.”

Commander Deng asked, “What do the two words ‘nature’ (xing) and ‘life’ (ming) mean?” The Master said, “Nature is the substance of life, and life is the function of nature. Apart from substance, function cannot be manifested; apart from function, substance is not complete. They are like the root of a tree and the tips of its branches: originally joined, they are only provisionally spoken of as two aspects.”

Commander Deng asked, “If substance and function exist at the same time, why divide them into two aspects?” The Master said, “Nature and life are originally one. Only because desires and stray thoughts separate them do they appear to be two different things. The ancients said, ‘Wood and Metal stand apart, dividing the crow and the hare,’ and this is the principle they meant. ‘Crow and hare’ commonly refer to the sun and the moon. The line borrows the imagery of the Five Phases (wuxing; Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) to show that, once nature and life are obstructed, they take on the appearance of separation.”

Commander Deng asked further, “What, after all, is the ‘nature’ of which the Daoists speak?” The Master said, “It is expressed through the metaphor of the Golden Elixir (jindan). True nature endures through vast kalpas and still constantly remains; it comes and goes without obstruction. Thus it is as firm as gold, as sharp as a keen blade, and as perfectly round as an elixir pill. The Imperial Lord Chongyang (Wang Chongyang) said, ‘Original true nature is called the Golden Elixir. One borrows the body, a provisional compound of the Four Great Elements, as furnace and cauldron in order to refine it. When the mind is not stained by external things and does not dwell on delusive thoughts, and when delusive thoughts are removed, the Golden Elixir is naturally refined and one ascends to the realm of the immortals.’ This is what is meant.”

The next day, after everyone had finished paying homage, the Master said, “Rotten wood needs no carving; a person of plain simplicity can instead be spared a great deal of mental toil. Eloquence is not as good as few words, and cleverness is not as good as keeping to simplicity. When jade is hidden in stone, the stone is harmed; when a clam harbors a pearl, the clam too loses its life. From this one sees that sincerity without falsity is what truly matters.” He then composed a poem:

A single green pine grows as tall as a grove;

when the spring wind comes, it itself has never noticed.

Its branch tips let the wind toss them as it will;

its root has long been set deep and firm, and is not moved.

Here the upper fascicle of the Suiji Yinghua Lu (Record of Responding and Transforming in Accord with Circumstances) comes to an end.

Suiji Yinghua Lu, Lower Fascicle

Composed by He Daoquan, the Pine-Han Daoist, Master Wugouzi;

compiled by his disciple Jia Daoxuan.

Someone asked, “What is the principle behind Master Dong Niupi’s sitting the circle?” The master answered, “My former teacher said that the principle on which sitting the circle rests is only one, though the methods of transmission differ. What is called the ‘circle’ means returning to the root and restoring the origin; in the end it is nothing other than the practice of stillness.”

Someone asked, “There are three thousand six hundred methods of cultivation. Which one do you practice?” The master answered, “I received the oral formula transmitted by my teacher, and it does not fall within the number of those three thousand six hundred methods.”

Someone asked, “Could it be a side path?” The master answered, “My former teacher said: On the four sides there are no walls, and on the eight faces there are no gates. The Great Dao (the Way) has no limit, and emptiness too is hard to measure. It is only because those who seek to learn differ as wise or dull that there came to be different modes of cultivation, such as the Great Vehicle and the Lesser Vehicle. Biased and deviant views arise from the human mind itself; the Great Dao originally admits no distinction between going with the current and going against it.”

Someone asked, “If there is no distinction between the partial and the correct, why then speak of the three vehicles—upper, middle, and lower?” The master said, “The sages of old saw that people differ in wisdom and folly and in the depth or shallowness of their foundations, and so they established these three methods, guiding each person according to his or her capacity. ‘Vehicle’ means something that carries a load: a large cart can carry large things, a medium cart medium things, and a small cart small things. The sages measured a person’s foundation and power of understanding and taught according to aptitude. In application there are three, yet the Dao is only one. The ancients said: water divides into different streams, yet in the end all flow into the same sea; at the source there is no difference.”

Someone asked, “The principle of ‘sitting in the ring’ of which Master Dong spoke—you surely know it?”

The master replied, “My former teacher once explained the difference between the ‘dead ring’ and the ‘living ring.’ The so-called ‘dead ring’ means that walls stand on all four sides. The practitioner sits inside, seals the door so that no one may enter or leave, and food is brought in only at set times. The practitioner must settle body and mind, cut off stray thoughts, regulate the breath, and nourish Shen (spirit), and may come out only after a hundred days. Those with firm resolve may gain something; those without resolve may instead fall ill because of it.

“The so-called ‘living ring’ takes a person’s four great elements—the four constituents of the body: earth, water, fire, and wind—as its walls, and takes the ‘jade lock and golden pass,’ a metaphor for the method of gathering in body and mind and sealing off Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), as its closure. A single point of luminous awareness is left within, kept clear and wakeful at every moment and never dulled, so that Shen does not leave Qi and Qi does not leave Shen. The inner mind does not chase outward, and thoughts from outside do not enter. One must remain quiet amid clamor, and within that quiet still stay lucid and distinct, guarding the spirit so that the external world cannot disturb it. A hundred days of practice in this way surpass a thousand days of sealed sitting in the ‘dead ring.’

“The ‘dead ring’ merely confines the body; it cannot truly nourish Shen. Even if one forcibly controls the mind’s thoughts, this is only strained suppression, like shutting a monkey in a cage or tying a horse with a rope. Once the cage and the rope are removed, they grow restless and untamed again. This is not natural stability. If one can temper mind and nature while facing external things, that surpasses using every sort of method, in an external setting, to force restraint upon oneself.”

Someone asked, “How does one temper mind and nature when facing external things?”

The master replied, “When you see all kinds of things, if the mind does not crave them, you will not cling to objects; when you meet all kinds of realms, if the inner mind is not stirred, you will not chase after those realms. Tempered in this way over a long time, one can enter the samadhi of no-mind—the settled state in which the mind is not drawn along by external things. Unmoved where there is quiet concentration, and unmoved where there is none: this alone is true clarity, stillness, and stability.”

Someone asked, “From ancient times there have also been immortals who sat in stillness and cultivated behind closed doors. Why is this?”

The master said, “When the perfected of antiquity sat quietly in closed retreat, it was not because their own cultivation was still incomplete. They saw that later people are easily stirred by what they see, and that a thought arises in them as soon as they hear a sound. So they shut their doors for a hundred days, that the mind might not be disturbed. They did this to set an example for later generations, making it easier to teach people to succeed in cultivation and to return to the root and restore the origin—that is, to return to their original state. Bodhidharma, for example, came from the West to China and, at Shaolin Monastery, covered his head and faced the wall for nine years; afterward he converted Master Shenguang. These practitioners had not failed to complete their own cultivation. They were laying down a standard of practice for those who would come after.”

Someone asked, “Today there are also people who cover their heads and face the wall. Why, then, can they not attain the Dao (the Way)?”

The master said, “They know only how to arrange an outward appearance, and do not understand the true method of cultivation within it.”

Someone asked, “What is the inner principle of cultivating with the head covered?”

The master said, “Covering the head teaches a person to gather in and restrain the thoughts. Facing the wall means seeing things yet not being drawn along by them—that is, turning away from external conditions and turning toward the inner mind. The Guandao Jing (scripture/classic) says, ‘If one does not look at things that arouse craving, the mind will not be thrown into disorder.’ A practitioner should not let the eyes chase after forms, nor the ears chase after sounds: seeing as though one had not seen, hearing as though one had not heard, keeping far from sound and sight, and clearing away stray thoughts. If one merely puts on the appearance of cultivation, what benefit can there be in the end?”

Patriarch Lü said:

“Break through the empty void and behold the true realm,

and one can then meet, fist raised, whatever comes head-on.

Only this is the finest life of cultivation.

If one does not grasp the subtlety of gathering in the thoughts

and cultivating with the head covered,

one will truly be laughed at by the patriarch who came from the West.”

With that, he finished speaking.

Someone asked, “You said earlier that this does not fall within the number ‘three thousand six hundred.’ How, then, should one cultivate in concrete terms? Where does one set the furnace and establish the cauldron? What serves as the medicinal ingredients? And how does one temper and refine them with water and fire until, at last, the elixir is formed?”

The master replied, “Take Qian and Kun—Heaven and Earth—as the furnace and cauldron; take Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) as the medicinal ingredients; take stillness and stability as water, and illuminating wisdom—the contemplative gaze of wisdom—as fire. Let mind and intention be made wholly one, so that the three treasures of Jing, Qi, and Shen fuse together, condense like a pellet, blend and return to unity, and long remain without dispersing: this is called the completion of the elixir. Yet even this way of speaking is like dust that has entered the eye. Only when the very thought of ‘becoming one’ is also removed can one accord with the Dao (the Way).”

A poem by Master Li Qing’an says:

The principle that upholds Heaven and Earth is profound and hard to fathom; one merely lets the original spirit (yuan Shen) abide at rest within it. If anything at all is still left within this, how can one realize the Great Dao and join with emptiness?

Someone asked, “In practicing this way, will one not fall into empty nothingness?”

The master said, “Since awareness and illumination—lucid, wakeful awareness and contemplative observation—are still present, how could one fall into empty nothingness?”

Someone asked further, “Once there is awareness and illumination, will one not chase external conditions and cling to things?”

The master answered, “Although the lamplight shines throughout the four quarters, the candle flame has never, of itself, left the lampstand.”

He then composed a poem:

Ten thousand sounds rise with the wind, and from the beginning they bear no feeling; a thousand rivers mirror the moonlight, equally bright in every place. External conditions and the myriad things have never stained a person; the mountains tower of themselves, and the waters flow of themselves.

Someone asked, “What is the Dao (the Way)?” The master replied, “It is the place the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) that constitute the myriad things cannot reach—that is, before the One Qi (vital energy), the primordial breath of the time when the myriad things had not yet differentiated, had come into being.”

Another person asked, “In what state ought one who cultivates to dwell?” The master replied, “When one clings to neither good nor evil, and before a single thought has arisen, the mind within is clear and still, and one then accords with the Dao.”

He asked again, “How should one cultivate in order to reach this state?” The master replied, “Substance and function must both be fully present.”

He asked again, “What are substance and function?” The master replied, “The function of the Dao is to settle the human mind and benefit the myriad things; the substance of the Dao is Wuwei (non-action) and pure stillness. If one can subdue the stirrings of the mind so that deluded thoughts do not arise, one will naturally be clear, still, and at rest in Wuwei. When the mind does not move vainly, raises no waves at slander or praise, and does not let anger or joy lose their proper measure—this is keeping to the Dao.”

Yet another person asked, “In the end, do heaven and hell exist?” The master replied, “If one says they do not, then let the matter rest; if one says they do, then the noble person can ascend to heaven, and the petty person will fall into hell. The Dao Jing (scripture) says that while alive one has no sorrow of punishment and imprisonment, and after death one has no pain of sinking into suffering. Under the sagely and enlightened governance of the present, good is rewarded and evil is punished—and this, too, is heaven and hell. The various classics and discourses of the ancient sages all place loyalty and filial piety first; whether in heaven or in the human world, doing good and benefiting others is what matters most.”

Someone presented the master with a pair of fire tongs, iron tongs for stirring the fire, and the master replied with a poem:

This pair of fire tongs is steel through and through. Straight they pass on through, advancing and retreating together with you. They never leave the stove, coming and going in company. They stir the coals and gather the blaze, and the fierce flames glitter bright. They sweep away the darkness and refine pure Yang Qi; cast into the fire they are not damaged, and placed in water they come to no harm. When the ashes are cleared away, the whole body appears; and suddenly the great earth sends forth a radiance of ten thousand zhang.

He composed another poem:

Stand properly in the midst of the stove; do not lean against the wall and fall into the dust.

Suddenly rake open the buried coals, and the firelight shines throughout heaven and earth, warm as spring.

The Master came to the quiet chamber. The monk Congdu came forward to pay his respects and asked, “Suppose a woman were walking straight toward me—should I regard her as a woman, or as a man?”

The Master said, “This is a gong’an left by the ancients; you must investigate and awaken to it for yourself. If I explained it outright, you would have no chance to apply yourself.” The monk begged again and again for an answer, and the Master rebuked him: “To regard her as a woman is to cling to outward form; to regard her as a man is to lack the eye that discerns things clearly. People’s true nature is originally without difference; only clinging to form gives rise to discrimination. Turn away from external circumstances and return to inner contemplation, and you will naturally penetrate all affairs.”

The Master rebuked him again: “Learn to be like fallen blossoms drifting away with the water.” The monk said nothing. The Master said, “If you see and yet it is as though you had not seen, how could there still be any distinction between man and woman? If the mind holds no attachment, how could one still become entangled in sin and blessing? The great Dao (the Way) does not distinguish male from female—why must you discriminate? The Jing (scriptures) say, ‘View all as one body,’ yet you still cling to form. If one can meet the affairs of the world with flexible ease, acting as naturally as the wind stirring the myriad sounds, and regarding the myriad things as clearly as the bright moon reflected in a thousand rivers, such a person is a person of lofty attainment.” The monk thanked him and departed.

While the Master was sitting quietly in the quiet chamber, Censor He came to visit and asked, “Teacher, as you sit in quiet cultivation, how is your practice?”

The Master replied, “I am merely cultivating my own plain simplicity.”

Censor He said, “Being unable to do anything at all is what is called clumsiness—how can one cultivate the way of the immortals like that?”

The Master said, “The plain simplicity I cultivate takes as its model the character of ancient, unadorned naturalness: sincerity that keeps to one’s proper place, following what is so of itself and forcing nothing. The Lei Jing says: to employ sincerity looks like dullness; to be silent and sparing of words looks like reticence; to be gentle and yielding looks like clumsiness—this is precisely the principle meant. Practiced in this way, one can return to pure simplicity, go back to the root, and recover one’s original nature. Understanding the principle of revealing and concealing, and guarding inner stillness, one can give rise to wisdom, transcend birth and death, and attain the realization of immortals and Buddhas. How could this be the clumsiness of ‘being unable to do anything’?”

The censor asked again, “Stillness of mind matters more than quiet in a room, and forgetting one’s outer surroundings falls short of forgetting the distracting thoughts within the mind. What need is there, then, for a quiet place?”

The master answered, “In the clear blue sky of an autumn night the moon is already bright, and when no clouds obscure it the moonlight is clearer still. When the room is quiet, disturbances from outside do not easily enter; when the mind is quiet, distracting thoughts within do not arise. When inside and outside are both pure and still, body and mind become lucid and transparent. This is the daily practice of one who cultivates the Dao (the Way). The Most High said, ‘Do not look upon things that can arouse desire, and the mind will not be thrown into disorder.’ The immortals and the perfected likewise said, ‘When the outer world does not come to intrude, the Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) within naturally settle.’ This is precisely the principle they describe.”

The censor asked again, “The Daoist scripture says, ‘Those who do not lose their proper place endure.’ What does this mean?”

The master answered, “The saying applies to three situations. Chief ministers, scholars and common people, and cultivators each have a station they ought to keep; so long as they do not lose their proper role, they can endure. A chief minister should be loyal to the sovereign and benefit the state, show concern for the soldiers and care for the people, be just and selfless, and balance firmness with flexibility. Keep to this proper role, and rank and stipend will long endure. Scholars and common people should hold the laws of the state in awe, understand the ethical relations among human beings, be diligent in their work, and frugal in their livelihood. Keep to this proper role, and the family’s livelihood will long endure. A cultivator should remain unstained by the clamor of the dusty world and unbound by secular affairs, single-minded in clarity and stillness, so that the Three Treasures—the Dao, the Jing (scripture/classic), and the Master, the three fundamentals revered in Daoism—are thoroughly integrated. Keep to this proper role, and body and life will long endure.

“What is more, within every person’s body there are said to be inner palaces and chambers—the Golden Tower and the Jade Chamber, the Spirit Terrace and the Crimson Palace, the Secret Door and the Gate of Life, the Mysterious Pass and the Cinnabar Watchtower, and others of the kind—names for important sites in the body or for the critical apertures of cultivation. If one does not personally cultivate and maintain them, they gradually fall into decay, and the one who should dwell there as their master has nowhere to reside. This is what is meant by ‘losing one’s proper place.’”

The Imperial Censor asked again, “When it is said, ‘One has died and yet does not perish, and so this is called longevity,’ what does that mean?”

The Master replied, “When a cultivator comes to the end of life, the breath may already have ceased, yet the Qi (vital energy) of the Dao (the Way) has not vanished; the body may have died, yet the true nature is not extinguished. The true nature stands lofty and alone, clear and firmly settled, neither drawn by external things nor bound by the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth. It no longer passes through the turnings of rebirth, and so it wanders free and at ease, enduring between past and present. This alone is longevity without end.

“Ordinary people are not like this. The fleshly body has a limit to its years, and a human life likewise has its term. After the four great elements that constitute the body—earth, water, fire, and wind—have scattered, the true nature loses its stability. Drawn by the realms it clung to while alive, and carried along by the changes of Heaven and Earth, it cannot be its own master. It then enters a womb to be reborn, receives retribution according to the force of its karma, and comes and goes without rest in the cycle of transmigration. Therefore it cannot abide in lasting peace.

“My former teacher said, ‘The allotted span of the fleshly body must at last come to an end, yet the Dharma-body—the nature that transcends the flesh—endures without limit. If one recognizes the original face that was one’s own before birth, one remains as free as the bright moon and the clear breeze.’ The Perfected Ji said, ‘The bodily form may be forgotten, but the innate true nature is never lost.’ This nature that is not lost is longevity that transcends birth and death.

“The Buddhists say, ‘When all forms and appearances are extinguished, the original nature is not extinguished. The awakening nature of true suchness stands far from dust and defilement. If one can understand the distinctions among the view of annihilation, the view of permanence, roots, fruits, and the like, this is called seeing the Tathagata with the Buddha-eye.’ Longevity of this kind has no end. Yet if a person does not cultivate, this state cannot be reached.”

The Imperial Censor bowed and took his leave.

A Commander Deng sent Commandant Li to present the Master with a staff of purple bamboo, and the Master in return offered a poem:

The yellow sprout grows up from the soil, yet its emerald leaves endure the cold. Its skin is black as lacquer, while its inner heart is clear and cool as frost. Joint by joint it opens through into emptiness, and its roots coil about an ancient ritual ground. The worthy pluck it with their own hands; only the wise dare to take it upon themselves. Enter the water, and its depth is known; climb the mountain, and a course of one’s own is found. It opens the road to release from birth and death and goes straight into the homeland of the immortals.

Having heard this poem, Commandant Li (a military official) bowed and asked, “Why, in former times, did the monk Zhigong hang a whisk, a pair of scissors, and a ruler upon his staff?”

The master answered, “This is a Chan teaching that does not spell things out, and also a metaphor, so that one may investigate for oneself and awaken for oneself. Now I will tell you: the staff spoken of here is not the cane held in the hand, but a figure for the sovereign within the human body. The scissors and the ruler teach one, at every moment, to examine and measure those places in the mind that fall short of proper measure, and to cut them away at once. The whisk is for brushing away the thoughts and deliberations in the mind. The whole of this work rests on one’s own sovereign; do not seek it outside. If one only talks emptily of what lies outside, that is not the true Way (Dao). When there are no thoughts left to brush away, and no deviations left to correct, the scissors, the ruler, and the whisk are of themselves of no use at all, and only the sovereign symbolized by the staff abides to the end. The ancients said, ‘When the clouds and mists clear from the blue sky, a single solitary moon alone appears.’”

The master composed a lyric to the tune Zhegutian:

Zhigong was no ordinary monk; the whisk, the ruler, and the scissors all hung upon his staff. How would a holy monk take the measure of things for someone else? Everything lies in each person’s own ground of mind. The principle in this is worth realizing by way of the staff. Drawing in mind and spirit (Shen) and returning to original nature turns on letting go and on putting to use. Whatever in the mind falls short of proper measure must be cut away; brush off the dust, and the pearl of mind-nature shines bright.

After the fifteenth of the eighth month in the wuchen year (a year of the sexagenary cycle), the master returned to Wangxiang Terrace in Huayang Valley, sat in stillness, and cultivated for a hundred days. After emerging from stillness he composed a poem, saying: A hundred days of practice, subtle and profoundly mysterious—I pass on, only in brief, the principle within it to the people of the world.

The Wood Dragon (the Qi [vital energy] of the wood nature) raises the fire of the Li Palace (the place where the heart-fire resides), and it must be cut away; brush off the dust, and the Pearl of Nature (original nature, like a pearl) grows bright.

After the fifteenth day of the eighth month in the year Wuchen, the Master returned to Wangxiang Terrace in Huayang Valley. After a hundred days of quiet sitting and cultivation he emerged from retreat and composed a poem, saying:

A hundred days of cultivation, and its wonder grows still more mysterious and remote; I pass on just a little of its inner message to the world.

The Wood Dragon raises the fire of the Li Palace; the Metal Tiger (the Qi belonging to metal) races toward the northern springs of the Kan Palace (kidney water).

The Four Greats (the elements that make up the human body—earth, water, fire, wind, and the like) can serve as furnace and forge, while the Three Corpses (spirits which, as the Daoist teaching has it, lodge in the human body and stir up desire and fault) are skilled at simmering and refining within the cauldron.

Smelted into one mass of priceless treasure, the light of Shen (spirit) can then pierce the nine heavens.

The Master came to the shrine of Yuanjun, the Primordial Lady, at the northern gate of Chang’an and sat in stillness. Someone mocked him, saying his furnace and cauldron had grown old. The Master laughed and composed a poem, saying:

Do not say that the furnace and cauldron are new or old; what matters is that one seek in earnest for oneself.

From emptiness and stillness one gathers the purple lingzhi (a symbol of the medicine of long life); this is the treasure of longevity without death.

After emerging from retreat, the Master composed two lyrics to the tune Wumeng Ling:

A hundred days of cultivation are like polishing a precious mirror bright; when the dust is entirely gone, the mirror’s light is clear and luminous. It reflects one’s original true nature, and there is then a way leading to the mysterious realm and on to the realm of the sages. True stillness, true stillness; of themselves spiritual luminosities appear and confirm the orthodox Dao (the Way).

And again:

When the hundred days’ work is accomplished, the precious mirror too has grown bright; the dust entirely gone, the mirror’s light is clear and luminous. It reflects one’s original true nature, and there is then a way leading to the mysterious realm and on to the realm of the sages. True stillness, true stillness; of themselves spiritual luminosities appear and confirm the orthodox Dao.

And again:

The hundred days’ work is now wholly complete, and the passes and apertures long sealed are opened. Amid the cold silence a clap of thunder suddenly sounds; from the sea floor (the lower Dantian [energy center] within the body) a red light rises and fierce flames leap up. They gather and then part, gather and then part; upon the jade lodges and jasper towers (the palaces of the immortal realm) another layer of snow is added.

When the Master was staying at Yuanjun Temple, a Chan monk named Haifu from Western Shu came to pay his respects and asked, “Once a monk sought instruction from Dongmen, who replied in three statements. The monk asked, ‘At the Dharma assembly on Spirit Mountain, the World-Honored One (the Buddha) held up a flower and showed it to the gathering, and Kāśyapa smiled. What does this mean?’ Dongmen said, ‘A seller of gold has met a buyer of gold.’ The monk asked again, ‘And if everyone smiled?’ Dongmen said, ‘Then hold a communal offering.’ The monk asked once more, ‘And if no one smiled?’ Dongmen said, ‘The goods remain in store; sooner or later someone will come with money to make use of them.’ How should this be explained?”

The Master said, “Old Master Dongmen was compassionate; it is only you who are confused. When the World-Honored One held up the flower, he was personally handing the Dharma over. When Kāśyapa smiled, he received and accepted it face to face. If everyone smiles, it means that the nature of the Dharma is equal, with no distinction of high and low. One may also say that grasses and trees all manifest the nature of perfect enlightenment, and that mountains and rivers everywhere display the bodily form of the Dharma King (the Buddha). If no one smiles, it is like rivers frozen solid, with the current no longer flowing. One may also say that white clouds return to the cavern dwelling, and sky and the myriad things merge into a single hue.” On hearing this, the Chan monk Haifu understood, bowed, and offered his thanks.

When the Master came to the Yue Temple in Huayang, a virtuous layman, Zhang Bingyi, came to pay his respects and presented a lyric to the tune of “West River Moon”:

“The passions of father and mother joined, forming this body shaped by the creative work of Yin-Yang. For years I have been driven about by this body, and have never been able to depart bearing my true body whole. Today I met the teacher’s guidance and instruction; in the past I spent much effort in vain. Hearing a single word from the teacher, I suddenly awoke—fortunately protected by Shen (spirit).”

The Master then continued the lyric in reply:

“The true numen was never in the least obscured; immortal frame or ordinary body appears as conditions allow. Who, after all, has been driving things these many years? Not understanding oneself, one insists there is coming and going. If you have not yet awakened, you should seek a teacher’s instruction; once you thoroughly understand, why spend further effort? When the mind grows quiet, there is no need to murmur indistinctly; your own Shen will of itself protect you unseen.”

When the teacher was in the Huayang Quiet Chamber (the pure and tranquil residence at Huayang), a guest asked, “What is the reason that one may drink wine and yet not become drunk?” The teacher replied, “If a person’s innate nature has a master to govern it, wine cannot disturb the mind and Shen (spirit).”

The guest asked further, “And how should one understand music being performed at a banquet?” The teacher said, “Music can bring delight and set the feelings at ease. The Perfected Sun (Sun Simiao, the physician and cultivator of life revered in Daoism) says in the ‘Chapter on Nurturing Life’ that the spleen delights in music, and that when it hears music its transforming and transporting become all the better.”

The guest asked, “Is the music of the world the same as immortal music?” The teacher answered, “Worldly music includes the five tones—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—and also the popular airs current in the regions of Zheng and Wei. These may disorder the hearing and stir the emotions. Immortal music, by contrast, is a clear and subtle sound beyond the dusty world; it can set the mind’s intent aright and settle the spirit. Listening to worldly music, one easily slips into indulgence and gives rise to wayward thoughts; listening to immortal music can bring the Qi (vital energy) to peace and nourish one’s original authenticity.”

The guest then asked, “What is immortal music?” The teacher said, “A flute without holes, and a zither without strings. Such music sounds of itself, without being struck or blown. The Most High (Taishang, a Daoist honorific for the Dao) said, ‘The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five tones deafen the ears.’ If the eyes are bewildered by sights and sounds, how can one contemplate the Great Void (the vast, empty, and luminous realm)? If the ears are clouded by musical sound, how can one hear immortal music?”

The guest bowed with pleasure and asked again, “People of the world make merry; do those of the Daoist tradition make merry as well?” The teacher said, “What worldly people seek is unrestrained pleasure; what those of the Daoist tradition seek is true joy, not wanton enjoyment. The immortal perfected said, ‘True joy is like drinking tihu (a sweet draught of pure essence); one need not buy wine. What is sung aloud is a song without sound.’”

The teacher composed a poem, saying: The music of the world is not true happiness; immortal sound has a mystery of its own. People of the world prefer the music of the world, while the spirits hold immortal sound in highest regard. The music of the world comes at last to an end, but immortal sound knows no distinction of past and present. If the worthy and virtuous would hear immortal music, they must accord with the Dao of Heaven.

Someone asked, “What are the medicines of Neidan (internal alchemy), and what is the work of refining them?” The teacher answered, “Take the three—Jing (essence), Qi, and Shen—as the medicines, and smelt and refine them with civil fire and martial fire (terms in the art of alchemy for the lighter and heavier degrees of firing). One must go neither too far nor fall short; the firing must be exactly right. One must also have the child and the mother guard one another, until at last they return into the Yellow Chamber (in Neidan cultivation, the place within the body where Jing, Qi, and Shen are refined and nurtured).” The teacher then composed a poem, saying:

Three kinds of medicinal materials are to be used, gathered into the cauldron and decocted. The firing must distinguish gentle fire from fierce fire; in the refining one must neither go too far nor fall short, but must hold to precisely the right measure. The child medicine and the mother medicine are to guard one another, and at last return into the Yellow Chamber (an alchemical term, referring to the place where the elixir congeals and is stored). A poem is then composed, which says:

In refining the medicine, three kinds of materials are used and gathered into the cauldron to be decocted. They are refined into a priceless treasure, pure white and bright, hanging in the long sky above.

Poems, Lyrics, Songs, and Praises Chanted Where the Master Traveled

Poem Cautioning the World

The roads of the world are muddy and hard to travel; one misstep, and one is injured. Do not let go of the staff at will; in walking, be cautious at every point.

One should always take the level and upright road, and not draw near steep mountain ridges. Sitting in the shade of the trees, one need not wave a fan, and yet it is naturally cool.

Instruction to the Assembly

A person’s four great elements (earth, water, fire, and wind, which make up the human body) are like a house, and the six gates (the six sensory portals of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) must also be kept fast. Beams and pillars should stand true, the foundation firm, and the walls whole and solid.

In this way, even if a violent wind blows, it cannot blow the house down, and the candle of wisdom can remain bright for a long time. When the master opens his rightly set eyes, he can see heaven and earth within the cavern.

Inscribed on Jinping Mountain

Jinping Mountain is like spring all year round, and takes on not a speck of the dust of the human world. Sacred streams withdraw their waters, and sweet rain descends from heaven; when the divine wind rises, the chill sinks deep.

Green pines and emerald bamboo befriend one another; the bright moon and the clear breeze become near neighbors. In leisure one sits in stillness and forgets the calculating mind, and before one knows it the spirit has wandered to the Purple Court (the residence of the emperor; here referring to a realm of purity, stillness, and lofty remoteness).

The Three Teachings, One Source

With a cap of the Dao (the Way) on the head, a Confucian robe on the body, and a Buddhist kasaya over the shoulders, the three teachings of Daoism, Confucianism, and Buddhism have from ancient times been one family. The red lotus, the white lotus root, and the green lotus leaf; green bamboo, the yellow bamboo runner, and the purple bamboo shoot—though their colors and forms differ, all come from the same root.

Though the outward dress and forms of the three teachings differ, their root is in fact without difference. The Great Dao is originally pure, still, and luminously empty, and draws no distinctions; how could one tree put forth two different flowers?

Exhortation

Do not boast of being shrewd and clever, or of being good at showing strength; even if cleverness is used to the very end, what of it? The sun, having reached noon, still gradually declines to the west; the moon, once past mid-autumn, also gradually wanes.

Just when life is flourishing and one is seeking a way forward, do not lose your footing and fall into the wind and waves. Even if one possesses splendid halls and valleys heaped with gold, of what use are they? In the end one may still be left bare of body and empty of hand.

The old Daoist who lives in the mountains keeps his courtesies simple and speaks straight to the point; there is little about him worth lingering over. Though his eyes are dim and blurred, his mind and spirit (Shen) remain clear and undimmed; though noise clamors at his ears, his inner nature is not thrown into confusion by it.

A plain and quiet life has a flavor of its own, and the realm of clarity, stillness, and emptiness leaves no trace. Only because he has drawn in the whole quintessence of the void is he able to behold the Primordial Honored One of the beginning (the innate honored deity revered in Daoism).

Walking

In his hand he trails a staff of raw iron; his feet are unbound, and he wanders as he pleases. White clouds are by nature without mind or intent; coming and going, how would they care whether the mountains in the distance are many or few?

Abiding

Good and evil are both set down, and one is no longer pulled about by the affairs of the world; with no distinction of coming and going, the mind is clear and settled. Within it that single point of True Suchness (the true nature, free of error) appears, shining with a light that cannot be covered.

Sitting

One sits upright and unmoving, at ease and unhurried, using the work of quiet sitting to nourish the inner spirit. This is not lifeless, like dead ashes or a withered tree; it is like a bright moon illuminating one’s own nature and the place to which one returns.

Lying Down

Set aside body and mind and the four great elements (earth, water, fire, and wind, which make up the human body), and one may fall asleep in peace, legs stretched out, resting soundly. Of late one has learned the method of Xiyi (a Daoist practice whose essentials are clarity and stillness, Wuwei (non-action), and the drawing in of sight and hearing); even in the deep of night, the heart within is as bright as the sun hung high.

Pointing Out Delusion

The ox runs all through mountains and streams; one must use wisdom to tame it with patience and lead it along slowly. Once it turns back and grows obedient, one may keep and nurture it in peace, planting the seed in the Dantian (energy center; the place in traditional internal cultivation where Qi (vital energy) is gathered and spirit is nourished).

It is also said:

When the ape sleeps at ease, there is no need to lead it any further; only when the good horse returns does one truly need the whip to guide it. Hold the golden railing (a figure for the boundary that guards body and mind), raise and keep it well, and it will of itself turn into a purple-gold lotus.

It is also said:

This one point of numinous light has never in itself moved away; only because one clings to thoughts does one sink into Nili (the name for hell in Buddhist and Daoist writings). If one can let go of clinging and remain unstained by dust, the moon of nature (the radiance of innate nature, likened to the moon) will hang high and shine upon the root.

It is also said:

If one is bent on seizing the Great Void, one will feel that things everywhere come to meet one. If one can open the hand and let go on that other side, ordinary people will find it hard to arrive; only then can one stand apart and alone, and ascend the Wondrous High Peak (a symbol of a lofty realm of cultivation).

The Cake

Peel away the outer rind, and the inside is white as silver; then blend and temper it with the Qi of Yin-Yang, so that the two are even. When you see it, do not lightly let it pass, lest you remain an ordinary person who still goes hungry.

The prickly chestnut has a husk like a hedgehog and leaves like the indigo plant; it cannot be casually picked and eaten. One must wait until the void seems to open its mouth in a smile before the Purple-Gold Elixir is naturally brought to completion. Here the ripening of the chestnut is used as a metaphor for Neidan (internal alchemy): practice must wait for the right moment and cannot be hurried in hope of quick success.

Mesh Bag

Not a drop of water stays in the mesh bag, nor does it draw in the wind. Lifted up for a look, its openings are perfectly clear and communicate with one another throughout. With skillful hands a scripture master has woven a net that is eyes all over; cord after cord runs through it, as if linking the whole of the Great Void (Taixu). The lines use the meshes and cords of the bag to describe a state of open passage and thorough interconnection.

Road Lamp

Paper shelters the lamp on every side, and bamboo splints form its frame; a flame is lit within, and the light is bright and distinct. Wind from all directions cannot blow in, and it illuminates the travelers on the road to Chang’an. This describes a lamp that blocks the wind, gathers its light, and lights the road; the lamplight is also a metaphor for piercing the darkness and guiding the way ahead.

Bursting Black Beans

A black bean suddenly turns over and leaps out, unwilling to remain long buried in the ash of the fire. It sheds its coat, black as lacquer, and reveals its true appearance of golden yellow. The lines describe black beans bursting open when heated, and through this suggest casting off outer concealment so that the true nature within may appear.

Wind Bag

When the bag is empty inside, breath can move freely, and wind arises without the effort of blowing. The craftsman lightly works the wind bag in his hand, and the flame in the furnace naturally burns a deep red. The lines use the wind bag’s aid to the fire to depict the free circulation of breath and a vigorously burning furnace; the “furnace” may also be linked to the image of furnace and cauldron in Daoist Neidan practice.

Fly at the Window

The fly seeks a way out and chases the light; after striking the window paper it darts back and forth, unable to pass through, and so grows bewildered and restless. If it is willing to turn back and fly along the way it came, it will suddenly find a chance to get free. The lines use the fly striking the window as a metaphor for how clinging to the direction right before one’s eyes only leaves one trapped; only by turning body and mind around is it possible to escape the predicament.

Moth at the Lamp

The moth covets the red glow and hurls itself wholeheartedly at the flame; even when its body is scorched and its wings damaged, it still will not stop. A single step back would bring a cool and secure place; regrettably it circles and dives, unwilling to turn around. Through the moth flying into the flame, the lines show that craving what one loves may bring harm, while yielding and turning back offer the possibility of peace.

Fly-Whisk

The fly-whisk never leaves one’s own hand and is often held in the palm. Once it is whisked, one can understand . . ., and . . . Wang sits calmly upright in the Great Void. In the original, “wu □□” and “□ wang” contain missing characters, and the meaning of the surviving text cannot be known for certain. The fly-whisk is a ritual implement held by Daoist priests, and is also often used to symbolize brushing away dusty thoughts and revealing clarity.

Cooling Umbrella

A canopy like a blue-green cloud opens out and, when one walks, is always held aloft in the hand. Look at those travelers who bear the summer heat and pass through the red dust: with it, body and mind can find coolness. The lines describe an umbrella that shades the sun and wards off the heat, and also take coolness as a metaphor for leaving vexation behind and gaining peace.

Shoes

Shoes accompany a person step by step along the great road, keeping one from stepping into muddy water and deep pits. Suddenly setting foot on the road home, one can calmly take the shoes off and bring to an end a lifetime of hurrying about. The lines move from walking the road to returning home, using “homeland” as a metaphor for one’s final refuge, and express the sense of returning to the source and coming peacefully to rest.

Those who have left the household to cultivate the Dao (the Way) should keep a firm resolve, and early on seek the Dao, practice Chan meditation, and pursue learning. Do not be indolent, and do not change direction halfway. A life of a hundred years passes in an instant, and a person’s appearance soon grows old.

Since one has already left the household, one should early seek the mysterious great Dao, and not covet worldly splendor, lest one be dragged along by the force of karma. One must subdue restless thoughts that are hard to tame, and gather in a scattered mind. Only when one attains clarity, stillness, emptiness, and quiescence can one see one’s original face.

Practitioners of the Dao, please listen: do not put things off again and again, always thinking of doing them next year or the year after. One should promptly set about cultivating “mercury and lead” (a symbolic term in Neidan (internal alchemy), referring to the Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang, and the like). When the Golden Elixir is accomplished, one may enter the realm of long life.

Everyone possesses the “Hunyuan pearl” (symbolizing the innate original Shen (spirit), or primordial spiritual nature), yet without the guidance of an enlightened teacher it is hard to begin cultivation. Obscured by worldly dust, it is difficult for people to recognize and discern it. If one can find it and nurture it, one can be spared the calamities and faults accumulated over many lifetimes.

The Hunyuan pearl is recognized by very few, because people are often hindered by their own afflictions and attachments. When karmic force is deep and heavy, it is hard to meet an enlightened teacher and hard to begin cultivation. Obscured by worldly dust, it is difficult for people to recognize it. If one can find it, one can be spared the calamities and faults accumulated over many lifetimes.

The Hunyuan pearl is recognized by very few, because people are often hindered by their own afflictions and attachments. When karmic force is deep and heavy, it is hard to apply oneself to cultivation. Please seek out a teacher as early as possible, and obtain the gateway to cultivating the Dao.

This pearl is untainted by worldly dust, and through all twelve double-hours it never leaves one’s own person. By the practice of merit, one nourishes vital breath and spirit. When cultivation reaches a certain point, one can enter and leave the Three Realms (the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm), and radiance shines throughout them.

Mantingfang (Courtyard Full of Fragrance)

The lamp of numinous clarity in the heart cannot be blown out by the wind; from ancient times until now it has always been bright. Only the foolish cannot see it; when the heart dwells in darkness, one cannot follow it onward. It needs neither clear oil nor yellow wax; once it is lit, it can illuminate the four directions and make everything clear and distinct. Do you know why? It is all because people are pulled by external conditions and lose the original path.

I will now make the principle clear: do not seek outwardly; regulate and heal from within, so that body and mind are peaceful and evenly balanced. When the wind of wisdom rises and the fog of delusion disperses, it is like clouds parting to a clear sky.

The bright red sun shines upon all things; yin-demons (dark forces that obstruct cultivation of the Dao) disperse, and the great Dao is perfectly accomplished. Numinous light shines constantly, breaking darkness and universally aiding all beings.

Xiqianying (Joy at the Oriole’s Move)

Everyone originally possesses perfect radiance; only the foolish do not perceive it, and instead lose themselves and hold themselves back. Clinging to worldly feelings and desires, they grow ever more inverted—how then would they be willing to step back and turn to look?

Everyone originally has this spark of numinous light, yet does not know where it comes from, and so loses the true path, mistaking thorns for the lingchun (a legendary divine tree of long life) and taking tangled afflictions for the tree of awakening.

If one strays onto a false path, one sinks ever deeper, with no knowing when awakening may come. You are still young now, yet tomorrow you may no longer keep your youth—do not let the days pass in vain.

Set about seeking the true Dao (the Way) at once. Do not let the finest dust of defilement cloud mind and spirit, until you forget where you came from and where you ought to go. If the true Dao is lost, a thorny side path will be mistaken for the lingchun—the legendary divine tree of long life—and for the tree of awakening.

If one strays onto a false path, one sinks ever deeper, with no knowing when awakening may come. You are still young now, yet tomorrow you may no longer keep your youth—do not let the days pass in vain.

Set about seeking the true Dao at once, and do not let fine dust defile mind and spirit. If the will is firm and you step onto the great road of Chang’an—a figure for the way that leads toward the true path—you will surely advance with steady steps.

Song on Cultivating the True and Nourishing Life

Offered to disciples who seek the Dao within the Xuanmen (the Daoist tradition): turn back quickly and save yourselves. A hundred years pass in the blink of an eye; once this fleshly body is cast aside, what will remain to rely on?

If the yangshen—the pure yang spirit spoken of in cultivation—is lost, one falls into becoming a yin ghost, taking birth again and again within transmigration, turning without rest as if flesh and bone were being traded from hand to hand. One’s own nature and life are no small matter; do not abandon life lightly.

What is “nature,” and what is “life”? Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) are the root of cultivation. Draw them back and return them to one, joining them as a single whole; over time, one silently accords with the state of the worthy and the sages.

The method of cultivating the true is not elaborate. What matters is to cast aside clever artifice and stray thoughts, and to overcome dullness and the craving for sleep. Within quiet concentration, remain lucid, so that the spirit does not grow dim; nurture a true body and mind, and pass beyond the sahā—the sahā world spoken of in Buddhism, the actual world in which living beings suffer.

The essential point of nourishing life is to restrain one’s words and practice with single-minded care, just as when food is steamed in a covered steamer one must not lift the lid at will. The yang fire in the lower Dantian (energy center)—in Neidan (internal alchemy), a figure for the power by which true Qi circulates—must not be broken off, so that one gradually enters the gate of long life without death.

Jing (essence) is like the oil of a lamp, the radiance of Shen like the lamp’s light, Qi like the flame, and the body like the lamp vessel. When the oil is ample the flame burns bright; when mind and spirit are clear, limpid, and upright, one can clearly behold the person who holds the lamp and cultivates.

If any one of these is abandoned, cultivation cannot be brought to completion, and in the end one falls into a dark road of death.

Jing is like the oil of a lamp, the radiance of Shen like the lamp’s light, Qi like the flame, and the body like the lamp vessel. When the oil is ample the flame burns bright; when mind and spirit are clear, limpid, and upright, one can clearly behold the person who holds the lamp and cultivates.

If any one of these is abandoned, cultivation cannot be brought to completion, and one can only idle away the years in darkness. To reach a mountain of treasures and return empty-handed is to lose, for nothing, the chance once given to secure nature and life.

You who are awake and clear of understanding, hear me: these elements of cultivation must be harmonized and returned to one, and none of them left wanting. After a thousand days of work the Golden Elixir—the fruit sought in Neidan cultivation—is refined, and one thoroughly awakens to the round of birth and death.

The ordinary body is shed and immortal bones put on in its place; like a golden-maned lion, one comes and goes among the caverns, free and unobstructed. Awesome light throughout the body shines upon the Taixu—the vast and boundless void—and one no longer goes along with the common world like a fox, now hidden and now appearing.

The seed of a Dharma King is not hard to find, yet people of the fox’s kind remain a thousand mountains away. Honor the worthy and place your trust in them, but examine them with care; in time they will surely be ranked among the immortals.

Song of Self-Lament

Ever since I left the dust of the world and set out on the path of cultivating the Dao (the Way), I have never forgotten my first resolve. I vowed to come to some awakening within the Mysterious Gate (Xuanmen, the gate of Daoist practice), and also to save those drowning in the bitter sea of love and desire.

When I had just left home, I did not know where to begin. All day I let myself go and wandered about. I thought that a body at leisure was itself the cultivation of the Dao; how was I to know that this would instead bring faults upon a future life?

Later I suddenly quieted my mind and all at once understood: the porridge and rice of the teaching are not easily received. Having already left home, I ought to awaken to my own mind; if that aspiration remains unfulfilled, everything stays just as it was.

When I had just left home, I did not know where to begin. All day I let myself go and wandered about. I thought that a body at leisure was itself the cultivation of the Dao; how was I to know that this would instead bring faults upon a future life?

Later I suddenly quieted my mind and all at once understood: the porridge and rice of the teaching are not easily received. Having already left home, I ought to awaken to my own mind; if the mind has not yet awakened, everything stays just as it was.

My resolve was firm from the start, and my thoughts were urgent, so I sought teachers and inquired after the Dao without rest. It was deep in the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival when my master kindly instructed me in detail.

I am grateful that an enlightened teacher pointed out the road I had traveled, so that I might practice with a light step and sure footing. In this unhurried way I passed many years, and in the end I still had not gained the art of long life.

I trudged over mountains and rivers, often heavy at heart, intent only on finding a teaching that was true and exact. Then, wandering as I pleased, I came to Xiaoshan and by good fortune met Master Baiyun, who recognized me and raised me up.

His words rang in my ear like a thunderclap and startled me awake. Practicing in secret as he had taught, I gradually gained strength. All that I had done before was turned completely over, and after that I sought nowhere else.

Whether walking or sitting in stillness—whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down—there was no vexation in my heart. For more than twenty years I had been a man in want; today at last I drew out the treasure within the body, the Dao-nature inherently complete within.

The paper screen was broken through entirely. From then on I was free and at ease, passing my days as conditions arose. Let others turn me about in a thousand ways: when hungry I eat, and when sleepy I sleep.

I recall what I once said. I had thought to take the wondrous scriptures as a ferry and carry people across the bitter sea. Alas, many are sunk in it, drifting with the current—truly to be pitied.

If they will not turn back, it is hard to lift them ashore; for those of shallow fortune and no affinity, karmic obstacles are hard to exhaust. Once this boat has passed, there will be no other boat. Facing the vast wind and waves in days to come, their lot will be still harder to foresee.

I have written all these pages in vain, still hoping to take the exquisitely subtle scriptures (jing) as a boat to ferry people across the river. Alas, so many who are sunk in worldly life merely drift with the current; they are truly to be pitied.

If they will not turn back, they are hard to raise up and save. Their share of blessing is meager, and they lack the favorable conditions; their karmic obstacles are likewise hard to clear away. Once this ferry has passed, there will be no other boat. In time to come, they can only face the boundless wind and waves alone.

However much paper is written, it is wasted; however many words are spoken, they are useless. Not one person of true resolve is willing to make a firm decision. They want only fine talk, and do not act on it. At the thought of this, my eyes seem about to drip blood from sheer urgency.

Why remain helpless to no purpose? Better to turn back and keep silent. When causes and conditions come together, I will again reach out from the void a hand to save all living beings.

Enough—let it be. Set all good and evil aside for now, and stop reckoning them one by one. Far better to tend carefully the inner “pearl” (a metaphor for original nature, or the luminous awareness within), so that it keeps its light; then even spirits and ghosts will stand in awe of it.

Say a little less, lest the tongue be worn out in vain. Those who truly understand are few in the world; for the time being I will withdraw among the secluded mountain crags and keep to a plain, unadorned life of purity and stillness.

The silken line I have used for fishing these many years I gather in today, and gently turn the little fishing boat. Let the great waves churn and the storms rage outside; I only hide deep among the reed flowers.

Song of Idleness

I have seen through the affairs of the world from past to present, and so my heart is no longer eager to rush about. Let you come and go in pursuit of fame and profit; I pay no heed, and only gently turn the little fishing boat. Outside, though great waves and winds rise on every side, I still hide deep among the reed flowers.

Song of Idleness

I have seen through the affairs of the world from past to present, and so my heart is no longer eager to rush about. Let you come and go for fame and profit; I do not even lift my head, nor look to see who it is.

You tend to your busyness, and I sit with mine. Let others come and go, busy without cease, like people pushing a millstone. Among the busy, who is willing to let the heart settle into ease? Yet within ease and quiet there is the true work of cultivation.

I am not truly lazy; I only prefer simplicity and stillness. People of this age laugh at me for being too reclusive. It is precisely this reclusiveness that lets me rest at ease, break through the obstacles in the heart, and open the true eye of clear awakening.

Be diligent when it is time to be diligent, and idle when it is time to be idle. Though we live in the same world, our aspirations differ. Each day I turn the “river chariot” (heche; a term of Daoist Neidan, internal alchemy, meaning to guide the circulation of Qi, vital energy, within the body by intention), so that the Qi passes through the “Three Passes” (sanguan; the three barrier points in Neidan cultivation). Once the movement of Qi is stirred and set in motion, it swells into a rich, mist-like fullness.

I walk the correct path and bring what is deviant to rest. What others love, I do not necessarily love. The road I now travel—who is willing to walk it with me? If you are willing to walk it, you can accord with the principle of Heaven.

Do not seek outside; apply your effort only within, like a mussel hiding its pearl inside, the exterior seeming dull. Once the shell opens and the pearl emerges from the dust, its radiance is no longer obstructed.

In movement, stillness is maintained, and within stillness there is also activity. In a moment of elusive dimness, it is as if the White Jade Cavern has opened (symbolizing a realm of pure stillness and luminous clarity). The hazy clouds disperse and the bright moon hangs high; one holds the void in the hand and lets it turn and change as it will.

One is at ease in walking and at ease in quiet sitting; whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, a joyful countenance can unfold. People of the world laugh at me as foolish, dull, and idle; precisely because I do not contend in busyness, I have stepped beyond the turmoil of right and wrong.

The Dao (the Way) cannot be expressed in words, and originally there is nothing to be said; therefore one should draw in one’s sharp edge and learn to appear dull, simple, and clumsy. Displaying cleverness is not as good as concealing cleverness; only the light that remains in this way can endure without being extinguished.

Clarity shown outwardly is not as good as gathering that clarity within the heart.

The Dao cannot be expressed in words, and originally there is nothing to be said; therefore one should draw in one’s sharp edge and learn to appear dull, simple, and clumsy. Displaying cleverness is not as good as concealing cleverness; only the light that remains in this way can endure without being extinguished.

Clarity shown outwardly is not as good as gathering that clarity within the heart; when the heart and Shen (spirit) are nurtured completely, the Dao is naturally accomplished. When a single peal of spring thunder resounds, one can pass beyond barrier after barrier and arrive directly at the immortal realm of Penglai.

In Praise of the Daode Zhenjing

The Daode Zhenjing—the true Jing (scripture/classic) of the Dao and De (Virtue/Power), namely the Laozi—comprises five thousand characters; every character and every line contains subtle and profound principles. If those who study the Dao can grasp the principles within it, they need not ride the luan bird and ascend to the Nine Heavens.

In Praise of the Fahua Miaodian

The Fahua Jing has more than sixty thousand characters; every character is clear, and its radiance illuminates the Three Realms (the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm), dispelling the darkness. If those who study the Dao wish to transcend birth and death, the principles are all contained in these seven scrolls of the Fahua Jing.

Also:

This Fahua Jing contains subtle meanings of the Dharma; among them, the parable of the “three carts and the burning house” is especially precious. It sweeps away defilement so that the bright pearl appears; once a person turns and awakens, they can enter the house of the Dharma King (the realm of the Buddha).

In Praise of the Qingjing Jing

The Taishang (an honorific in Daoism for a revered deity) proclaimed this scripture with a golden mouth; its principles are profound, wondrous, and true. It sets forth the subtle Great Dao and washes clean every fine speck of dust. Those who study the Dao and cultivate according to the text, after setting aside emotional attachments, are as if they dwell in the immortal realm of Penglai.

In Praise of the Bore Xinjing

The principles of this Heart Scripture originally lie within one’s own heart, yet the deluded seek them in vain outside. If one can let go of every attachment, there is no obstruction in the heart; in the blink of an eye, the earth before one’s eyes seems entirely transformed into gold.

Farewell to All

This body, over eighty years, has been only a temporary form produced by the transformations of causes and conditions; today I shall return and leave the dusty world. I bow in farewell to my fellow practitioners of the Xuanmen (the Daoist tradition), wishing that all may abide peacefully and preserve their true nature.

On Departing the World

The body temporarily assembled from the four great elements of earth, water, fire, and wind was never solid to begin with. I came briefly into the dusty world and formed affinities with others. If one can let go of every attachment, there is no obstruction in the heart; in the blink of an eye, the earth before one’s eyes seems entirely transformed into gold.

Farewell to All

This body, over eighty years, has been only a temporary form produced by the transformations of causes and conditions; today I shall return and leave the dusty world. I bow in farewell to my fellow practitioners of the Xuanmen, wishing that all may abide peacefully and preserve their true nature.

The Four Great Elements (the four elements of earth, water, fire, and wind that constitute the human body) gather only for a time into a human form, which was never solid to begin with. Coming into the dusty world is merely the brief tying of a spell of human affinity. Now that this affinity is exhausted, one returns to emptiness and nothingness. When one might be reborn again to transmit the ancient teachings cannot be known.

Ice melts and snow dissolves, and in the end it is still water; when the bodily form perishes and spiritual consciousness departs, one ultimately returns once more to the realm of profound mystery. If anyone still presses to ask where the native place lies, then it still returns to what precedes the Image Emperor (Xiangdi, the primordial origin before the Dao, the Way, gives birth to the myriad things).