《坐忘论》

After Heaven and Earth had separated, Heaven, Earth, and human beings each received their proper place. Living between Heaven and Earth, a person holds within the body the joined Qi (vital energy) of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), and can therefore live long. Later people, however, gradually lost their original nature. They drove the mind and Shen (spirit), disturbed the breath, and depleted Jing (essence) and Qi, and so could no longer accord with Heaven and Earth. That they were content to go toward an early death is truly lamentable.

The Yijing (Classic of Changes) says: “By exhaustively investigating the principles of things and fully realizing one’s nature, one can arrive at the mandate of Heaven.” The Laozi says: “Make the mind empty and still, and make the body full.” It also says: “Only by constantly remaining without desire can one observe the subtlety of the Dao (the Way).” The Analects says that Confucius set aside four mental habits: subjective conjecture, forcing matters in every case, clinging to one’s own views, and taking oneself to be invariably right. Mencius says that human nature is originally good, and also says: “I am good at nurturing the vast, flood-like Qi.” All these words point out the essentials of cultivating nature and life.

While looking through my collected books, I read the seven essays of the Zuowang lun (Discourse on Sitting in Forgetfulness) written by Master Zhenyi of the Tang dynasty, together with the appended Shuyi (Pivot Wings). The book’s insight is uncommon, and it clearly indicates the great Dao. It first teaches one to cultivate the Dao with reverence and faith, so that the mind does not fall into wild confusion; next it teaches one to cut off the worldly affairs that entangle mind and spirit, to gather in one’s thoughts and lessen miscellaneous concerns, so that the inner mind becomes quiet and lucid; it then discusses zhenguan (true contemplation: genuine and penetrating observation), bringing both the inner and the outer back to emptiness and stillness. Only when these have been accomplished can one enter the realm of stable, profound concentration. When the breath is peaceful and mind and spirit are settled, this is called attaining the Dao.

What has been set out above is the sequence for practicing sitting in forgetfulness. “Sitting in forgetfulness,” taken as a whole, means not clinging to external things or to the self, so that stray thoughts no longer arise in the mind. The chapter “Reverence and Faith” states directly that, in practice, inwardly one no longer perceives one’s own body, and outwardly one is no longer aware of Heaven and Earth; one becomes one with the Dao, and every kind of deliberation thereupon dissolves.

The classics on cultivating the Dao through the ages do not differ on these principles. If one can reach the wondrous state of sitting in forgetfulness, Shen and Qi naturally guard one another, the hundred vessels are nourished, the three passes of the body—the several important barriers spoken of in cultivation—become unobstructed, and the true Qi of heavenly Yang comes into the body. This is regarded as the secretly transmitted way of long life and enduring vision, and it has been revered since ancient times. The immortals, out of pity for the people of the world, spoke of it only because they could not do otherwise. Those who study should reflect with a quiet mind and practice diligently, and should not treat these teachings as the stale words of the ancients and vainly give up the opportunity to cultivate.

On the Double Ninth day of the dingwei year of Qing, the woodblocks were carved and this book printed so that it might circulate widely. Respectfully prefaced by the lay scholar Zhenjing.

Sima Chengzhen, courtesy name Ziwei, composed this text.

What people treasure most is life, and what life treasures most is the Dao (the Way). For a person to possess the Dao is like a fish possessing water. A fish stranded in a dried cart rut still hopes for a little water, yet those who have drifted far from home and lost the way back show no interest in the Dao at all. People of the world detest the suffering that birth and death bring, yet they greedily cling to the desires bound up with birth and death; they prize the reputation of the Dao and De (Virtue/Power), yet they slight the practice of the Dao and De. On careful reflection, nothing is more serious than this inversion of root and branch.

When people reach an impasse, they long to find a way through; when they lose their bearings, they long to return to the right path. Time is fleeting, and every inch of it is as precious as a jade disc. Ashamed and sighing over this, one’s thoughts grow tangled. I have therefore respectfully inquired into the meaning of the scriptures (Jing) and, joining this with methods of inner cultivation, have briefly set out seven items as the successive stages of cultivating the Dao, together with supplementary explanations.

Reverence and Faith, the First

Faith is the root of the Dao, and reverence is the stem of De. Only when the root is planted deep can the Dao endure; only when the stem is firm can De flourish. Yet a jade disc whose radiance lights up an entire city… (Here the original text appears to be missing or corrupt, and the sense is unfinished.)

Appendix: Reverence and Faith, the First

Faith is the foundation of the Dao (the Way), and reverence is the root of De (Virtue/Power). When the root is planted deep, the Dao can endure; when the foundation is firm, virtuous conduct can flourish.

Yet Bian He’s jade shone with brilliant luster and was worth cities, and still Bian He had both feet cut off because of it. Wu Zixu’s counsel had the power to preserve the state, yet in the end he was put to death. This is because, when external things appear, the human mind is thrown into confusion instead; the moment principles and affairs begin to emerge, feeling and thought are easily clouded. How much more is this so when the ultimate Dao transcends form, color, and flavor, and a person’s true nature is cut off by desire? How, then, can one hear the subtle Dao and believe firmly, or hear a principle without form or image and remain unconfused?

If someone hears of “sitting in forgetfulness” (zuowang), recognizes it as an essential method of cultivating the Dao, reveres it, believes in it firmly without doubt, and practices it with diligence as well, that person will surely attain the Dao. Thus the Zhuangzi says: “Forget the limbs, cast aside cleverness and intelligence, leave the body behind, let go of the mind, and commune with the Great Dao—this is called sitting in forgetfulness.” What, then, is sitting in forgetfulness meant to forget? When practice reaches its depth, one no longer perceives one’s own person within, nor distinguishes heaven, earth, and the cosmos without; one merges with the Dao as a single whole, and every kind of thought dissolves away. What the Zhuangzi calls “communing with the Great Dao” is plain in wording yet profound in meaning. The confused hear it and do not believe; they already hold a treasure and still go searching everywhere for treasure—what is to be done?

The scripture (jing) says: “When faith is insufficient, disbelief arises.” This means that if the mind’s faith in the Dao is not firm enough, it will bring on the misfortune of unbelief. How, then, can one hope to attain the Dao?

Severing Entanglements, Section Two (a chapter title of the Zuowanglun, the Treatise on Sitting in Forgetfulness, meaning to cut off the conditions and desires that entangle body and mind.)

Cutting off external ties means severing one’s involvement with worldly affairs. Set aside miscellaneous matters, and the body is not wearied; accord with Wuwei (non-action), and the mind is naturally at peace. A quiet, simple life is cultivated day by day, and the entanglements of the mundane world diminish day by day. The farther one stands from the secular, the closer the mind draws to the Dao (the Way). Who, in reaching the realm of supreme sageliness and spirit, did not begin from here?

The scriptures say: “Block the apertures of the senses and close the gates of desire, and one will not toil throughout life.” Some people display their De (Virtue/Power) and abilities, seeking others’ favor; some use greetings, congratulations, and condolences as occasions for social intercourse; some pretend to live in seclusion while secretly hoping for official advancement; and others entertain people with wine and food, expecting repayment later. All these practices conceal cunning and calculate profit. They do not accord with the Dao, and they seriously obstruct the proper work of cultivation. All matters of this kind should be cut off.

The scriptures also say: “Open the apertures of the senses and foster the growth of desire, and throughout life there is no remedy.” If I do not speak first, others will naturally not respond; even if others speak first, I do not echo them. Old associations should be gradually severed, and new entanglements should not be formed. Even when kinship, friendship, or power and influence make contact unavoidable, one should find a way for the relationship to grow naturally distant. Only when affairs are unhurried and body and mind are settled is one suited to cultivate the Dao.

The Zhuangzi says: “Neither actively curry favor nor deliberately refuse; do not use a mind of Wuwei to manage worldly social ties.” It also says: “Do not make the mind a storehouse of schemes, do not make yourself the bearer of affairs, and do not become the master of knowledge.” If some matters truly cannot be abandoned and can only be done because one has no choice, do not on that account give rise to attachment, nor let them occupy the mind and become a fetter.

Collecting the Mind, the Third

The mind is the master of a person’s body and the center that governs every kind of spiritual activity. When the mind grows still, wisdom can arise; when the mind grows restless, confusion follows. Those absorbed in illusory realms always take phantoms for reality, while among those who cling to the conditioned affairs of the world, who can see the emptiness within them? The mind-spirit becomes confused precisely because the conditions on which it depends are not right.

Even in choosing neighbors to live among, a person is influenced and changes in habit; in choosing friends to associate with, one can also gain benefit. If the body is kept far from the condition of birth and death, and the mind is made to abide in the Ultimate Dao (the Way)—the fundamental principle and realm of which Daoism speaks—how could one cast aside such a benefit, and how could one fail to reach such a realm? Therefore, at the beginning of learning the Dao, one must sit quietly, gather in the mind-spirit, keep the mind from being drawn by external circumstances, and abide where nothing is clung to. When the mind clings to nothing, it naturally enters the realm of emptiness and in the end unites with the Dao.

The scripture says that within the Ultimate Dao there is stillness and no thing, yet its numinous functioning is inexhaustible and without fixed form; the original substance of the mind is the same. Tracing the mind’s inherent nature, it originally takes the Dao as its root. Only because the mind-spirit is stained by external things, and the obscuration grows deeper day by day, does it drift for a long time without returning and thus become cut off from the Dao. Working to remove the filth in the mind and to bring forth the nature of the mind-spirit is called “cultivating the Dao.” Ceasing to drift, uniting with the Dao, and abiding in the Dao is called “returning to the root.” Guarding the root and not departing from it is called “stillness and stability.” When stillness and stability endure, illness recedes and life is restored; when life is restored and continues without cease, one can realize the constant. Understanding the constant, one penetrates the principles of things; realizing the constant, one is not trapped by change and extinction, and in the end transcends birth and death. This is the essential method of settling the mind-spirit by following the Dao: what is precious is non-attachment.

The scripture says: “The myriad things grow in profusion, and in the end each returns to its root. Returning to the root is clarity and stillness; clarity and stillness is a return to the innate nature of life; returning to that nature is the constant; knowing the constant is illumination.” If one deliberately fixes the mind on “emptiness,” that is still a form of attachment, not true non-attachment. Whenever the mind rests on some object, it grows weary; this does not accord with principle and instead becomes a fault. Only when the mind does not cling to external things and yet remains unmoving is there true stability. On this proper foundation, cultivating stability accordingly, mind and Qi (vital energy) come into harmony; over time, body and mind grow lighter and more refreshed. Taking this as a test, one can distinguish correct practice from deviant practice.

If, the moment a thought arises, one suppresses and extinguishes it without discrimination, awareness is cut off and one falls into a state of blind stability. If one lets thoughts arise at will and does not gather them in at all, one is no different from an ordinary person. If one only presses down and cuts off thoughts of good and evil, yet gives the mind no place to which it may return, leaving intention to drift and hoping it will settle by itself, one only holds oneself back. If in handling affairs one’s conduct is biased, yet one claims that the mind is unstained, the words sound fine but the practice is badly mistaken; those who truly learn the Dao should be especially alert to this.

Cultivation should still confusion without extinguishing awareness, and maintain clarity and stillness without clinging to emptiness. Practiced with constancy, genuine realization naturally arises. When doubts sometimes arise about affairs or about principle, one may think in due measure so that the matter is resolved and the doubt clarified; this too is a proper path by which wisdom arises. Once one has understood, one should stop and not continue thinking. Excessive thought uses cleverness to damage tranquility and injures one’s nature. Even if one seems intelligent for a time, in the long run it harms the root of cultivating the Dao.

If confused and deviant thoughts rise in disorder, they should be removed as soon as they are noticed. On hearing of slander, praise, good, or evil, one should likewise let them go at once and not allow them to enter the mind. If the mind takes in these external things, it becomes stuffed full; once the mind is full, the Dao has no place to dwell. To hear and see things as if one had not heard or seen them, and not let right and wrong, good and evil, remain in the mind, is called “emptying the mind.” For the mind not to chase external things is called “settling the mind.” When the mind is settled and empty, the Dao naturally comes to abide. The scripture says: “If a person can empty the mind and practice Wuwei (non-action), not deliberately seeking the Dao, the Dao will return of itself.”

When there is no attachment within and no reckless action without; when one neither contends nor acts corruptly, slander and praise have no way to arise; when one neither shows off cleverness nor sinks into dull folly, benefit and harm cannot disturb one. In ordinary affairs one should accord with the way of balance and rectitude; when change comes, one adjusts and responds as the moment requires. To be able to avoid entanglements of every kind is to be wise. If something suits neither the time nor the actual circumstances, yet one exhausts the mind forcing it into being and still claims to be unattached, that is not truly cultivating the Dao. The mind is like the eye: even a grain of fine dust entering it makes it uncomfortable; when a small matter stirs the mind-spirit, the mind too is thrown into disorder. Once the mind is already restless, it is hard to enter stability. Therefore the urgent point in cultivating the Dao is to remove the mind’s illness quickly. If the illness is not removed, stability will in the end be hard to attain. It is like thorns in good farmland: if they are not pulled out first, then even if seed is sown the seedlings will not grow well. Love and hatred, bias, and anxious thought are all thorns in the mind; if they are not thoroughly cleared away, stability and wisdom will not arise.

Some people live in wealth and rank and are thoroughly versed in the classics and histories. Their mouths speak of kindness and frugality, yet their conduct is greedy and cruel. They can cover their faults with skill in argument and use power to oppress others; when there is benefit they claim the credit, and when there is fault they blame others. This is the deepest illness of the mind. However much they read, it is of no benefit. The trouble lies in their taking themselves to be right.

Yet the mind has long depended on external conditions and is not yet used to abiding on its own. Suddenly deprived of support, it finds it hard to be steady. Even if it settles for a while, it soon scatters again. Therefore, as soon as a thought arises one should gather it in, making sure the mind is no longer restless. After a long time the mind gradually becomes well regulated and can rest at ease of itself. Whether day or night, walking, standing, or sitting still, and whether or not one is handling affairs, one should consciously settle the mind-spirit. If the mind attains stability, one should nourish it well and not disturb it. With even a little stability, one can find ease and joy in it; as it is regulated day by day and grows familiar, the mind becomes ever clearer and more profound. Things one formerly loved now seem to veil the mind-spirit and appear shallow; how much more, once wisdom arises from stability, can one discern the true and the false in depth.

Oxen and horses are domestic animals; left unchecked, they still grow stubborn and will not accept the reins. Wild birds such as hawks and cranes, kept tethered close at hand, grow tame over a long time. How much more, if one indulges the mind-spirit and does not gather it in, will the mind only grow ever more scattered—and how then can one observe the mysterious principle? The scripture says: “Even a pair of jade discs, with four horses set before them, is not equal to sitting down and cultivating this Dao.”

The excellence of cultivating the Dao lies in being able to practice it, not in being able to speak of it. Once it is practiced, what is said becomes solid and real; if it is not practiced, however well it is spoken it is like empty delusion. People of the world often prize principles that are hard to understand and look down on methods that are easy to practice. If the essentials of the teaching are made abstruse and profound, so that thought can scarcely grasp them and practice has nowhere to begin, people instead praise them as inconceivable and follow them with reverence. If a trustworthy principle is stated directly, so that one understands it upon hearing and can practice it as soon as it is explained, people instead find it shallow, slight it, and do not believe it.

The scripture says: “My words are very easy to understand and very easy to practice, yet in all the world no one can understand them and no one can practice them. Precisely because no one understands, no one understands me.” There are also those who say “fire is not hot” and “a lamp cannot light the darkness,” and call such sayings mysterious principles. Yet the working of fire is to give heat, and the use of a lamp is to give light. If one truly claims that fire is not hot and that a lamp does not illuminate, yet still uses fire at every turn and keeps a lamp burning all night, this contradiction between word and deed is in fact without principle. Such words are spoken only to break attachment to forms, yet people take them instead for profound and mysterious doctrine. Even of someone as skilled in debate as Huizi, Zhuangzi held that arguments of this kind were not worth praising. Among those who remain at the surface of understanding, who can discern the true meaning of these words? Those who truly seek the Dao should hope not to be led along by such sayings.

Someone asked: “A person who cultivates the Great Dao (the Way) may live bodily amid the myriad things, yet the mind is not stained by anything external; may stand amid turmoil, yet the spirit (Shen) is not thrown into disorder; even when there are no affairs, there is nothing left undone; and at any time can remain in stillness. You, however, wish only to avoid affairs, and are unwilling to meet them with your mind.”

Someone else said: “A person who cultivates the Great Dao lives bodily amid the myriad things, yet the mind is unstained; dwells amid activity and change, yet the spirit is not disordered; when there are no affairs, it is not that one does nothing at all; and at any time can maintain stillness. You, by contrast, seek peace only by avoiding affairs, and seek quiet stability only by withdrawing from activity, straining to suppress yourself. In this way two mental orientations arise, one of movement and one of stillness. You cling to remaining in and holding fast to a certain state, and this becomes the two faults of grasping and rejecting. You have not yet noticed that you are attached to outward forms, yet you take these for the key to entering the Dao. How great an error this is!”

The reply was: “To gather the myriad things together as a whole is called ‘great’; to run through and connect the myriad things is called the Dao. To be amid the myriad things without being stained, and to handle affairs without falling into confusion, is indeed vast, and indeed subtle. Still, I think your grasp of this principle is not yet clear enough. Why? You see only the bright luster of figured brocade, and do not know that at the beginning it was nothing more than strands of plain white silk. You have just heard the crane call and soar into the sky—how could you know that, before it takes flight, it must still rely on grain to ease its hunger? A great tree able to block out the sun likewise grows from a tiny sprout. For the spirit to gather and settle, and to reach the realm of the highest sagehood, is also achieved only through practice accumulated day by day and month by month. You have merely learned to talk about the sage’s De (Virtue/Power), without knowing how sagely De comes to be formed. This is like seeing the mao hour, the early-morning double-hour, and at once wanting to know that night is over and dawn has come, or like seeing a pellet bow and at once wanting roast magpie. It is far too hasty! Thus the scripture (Jing) says: ‘Mysterious De is profound, far-reaching, and subtly hidden, contrary to the ordinary inclinations of the myriad things. Only when this is achieved can one arrive at the greatest accord.’”

Simplifying Affairs, the Fourth

A person living in the world will inevitably come into contact with all kinds of affairs and things. These are of countless kinds, and it is impossible for all of them to be placed in the hands of one person. A bird in the forest needs only to occupy a single branch; why should it feel that something has been left out merely because the forest is vast? A wild animal that goes to the river to drink needs only to fill its belly; why should it take any notice merely because the river is boundless? Therefore, if what one requires of external things stays within due measure, one can attain the greatest accord.

Living in the world, one inevitably comes into contact with all kinds of affairs and things. The affairs of the world are myriad, and it is impossible for a single person to take them all on. A bird in the woods needs only one branch on which to perch—would it have nowhere to go merely because it has not occupied the whole forest? A wild beast drinks from a river, and once its belly is full that is enough; why should it care how broad the river is?

Outwardly one must understand things; inwardly one must see oneself clearly. One must know that human life and ability both have definite limits, and not pursue what lies beyond the range of one’s capacity. One must also discern which matters ought to be done and which ought not to be undertaken. Taking on what should not be done impairs judgment; forcing oneself to do what exceeds one’s ability harms the body and the spirit. If one cannot even keep oneself secure, how can one draw near to the Dao (the Way)?

Therefore, those who cultivate the Dao should reduce their daily affairs, distinguish what is important from what is not, weigh the light against the heavy, and decide what to keep and what to relinquish. Whatever is unimportant or unnecessary ought to be set aside. Seeking wine and meat in food and drink, seeking gorgeous silks in clothing, seeking fame and official rank in status, and seeking gold, silver, pearls, and jade in wealth—these are all extra pleasures pursued by desire, not what is required for nurturing life. Yet the multitude chase after them, and the result is ruin. Quiet the mind and consider: why does one become lost in this way?

The Zhuangzi says: “One who understands the true condition of life will not pursue what life itself does not need.” What life itself does not need is external things that exceed one’s proper lot. Plain tea and simple fare, and worn-out clothes, are already enough to sustain life—must one have wine, meat, and fine garments before life can be preserved? Therefore, whatever is of no necessity to life ought to be removed; even what is of some use in daily living, yet already exceeds what is needed, ought also to be given up.

Wealth carries a hidden danger of harming people; once accumulated, it injures oneself. Even when it is not much, it may become a burden—how much more so when one possesses a great deal? People would still laugh at using the pearl of the Marquis of Sui (a precious gem) to shoot at sparrows high in the sky; how much more, then, if one turns one’s back on the Dao and De (Virtue/Power), neglects life, and pursues only what is unnecessary, so as to bring harm upon oneself all the sooner?

If one compares fame and official rank with the Dao and De, fame and rank are empty and base, while the Dao and De are genuine and precious. Knowing what is precious and what is base, one ought to choose and reject accordingly: do not harm oneself for the sake of fame, and do not alter one’s aspirations for the sake of office. The Zhuangzi says: “To act for the sake of fame and thereby lose oneself is not to be a person of the Dao.” The Xisheng Jing (a Daoist classic) says: “To embrace and guard primordial Qi (vital energy) and remain single-minded without dispersion is to be able to transcend the dusty world and become an immortal; if you cannot hold fast to your original mind, you are merely sitting in enjoyment of exalted official rank.”

If one makes no selection and takes up whatever one encounters, mind and strength grow weary and the head grows muddled, and the cultivation of the Dao is thereby neglected. If one can handle affairs at ease and remain unentangled by external things, then one is naturally a person who has already attained some realization. If in fact one has not yet achieved this, yet claims to be free of entanglement, one is merely deceiving oneself.

True observation is the capacity of a wise person to recognize things in advance and to judge them well. It can trace the origins of unexpected fortune and misfortune, examine the good and ill luck that action and stillness bring, become aware before the decisive turn of affairs is revealed, and respond fittingly on that basis. It carefully protects one’s person so that life is not harmed. To conduct oneself from beginning to end without leaving entanglements behind, and without going against the principles of things—this is called “true observation.”

A single meal or a single period of sleep may become the starting point of increase or depletion; a single action or a single word may likewise become the source of fortune or misfortune. Even if one takes great pains to handle secondary details with ingenuity, this is not as good as guarding the root with plain sincerity. Observing the root and understanding the outcome is not something that those eager to contend and win can accomplish. One should therefore gather in the mind and Shen (spirit), reduce miscellaneous affairs, and day by day subtract deliberately contrived business. Only when body and mind are quiet and at ease can one observe what is mysterious and subtle. The scripture says: “Only by constantly being without desire can one observe the subtlety of things.”

Those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) still need clothing and food. Some affairs cannot be abandoned, and some things cannot be discarded. When such matters arise, one should open the mind and receive them, facing them with clarity, and not grow irritable from feeling that they obstruct cultivation of the Dao. If one becomes irritable over affairs, the mind has already been disturbed—how then can one speak of a settled mind?

Daily affairs, together with clothing and food, are like the boat used to cross the sea. If one wishes to cross, one cannot do without the boat; once the sea has been crossed, one naturally no longer needs to keep it. Why, before one has crossed, think first of throwing the boat away? Clothing and food are illusory and not worth excessive management. The reason cultivation of the Dao still requires them is so that one may depart from within illusion. Even when affairs must be handled, one should not cling to gain and loss. Whether busy or at leisure, the mind should remain steady and at ease. Seek a livelihood as others do, yet do not crave what is obtained; acquire things as others do, yet do not hoard them out of greed. Without craving there is no sorrow, and without hoarding there is no anxiety over loss. Outward conduct may be the same as that of others, but the inner mind should differ from the worldly. This is an important principle in the practice of cultivating the Dao, and one should strive to carry it out.

Among the methods of practice mentioned earlier, some habitual tendencies are hard to uproot, and one may observe them according to the corresponding method. If the habit of craving beautiful form is very strong, one should observe that attachment to beautiful form is produced by imagination in the mind; if such imagination does not arise, the corresponding craving will not arise either. Beautiful form lies outside and is originally empty of any fixed nature, while the mind’s judgment of it is delusive. If delusive thought is empty, who then is the subject that craves beautiful form? The scripture says: “What is called form is nothing more than what arises from thought; once thought is empty, where is there still any form?”

Consider further: seductive beauty can bewilder people even more than fox-spirits. When a fox-spirit bewitches someone, it arouses aversion. Even if a person loses his life because of it, he will not fall into an evil path, because he harbors aversion toward the fox-spirit and will in the end leave wicked conduct. Seductive beauty, however, makes people love and cling, so that even in losing their lives they remain unwilling to let go. Precisely because wicked thoughts are deep and heavy, after death they follow their karma into various realms, even being born in hell. The scripture says that those who in this life vow to become husband and wife will not necessarily be born together again in the human realm after death, and that this is brought about by wicked thoughts.

If beautiful form were truly a fixed beauty, why do fish dive to the bottom when they see it, and birds fly to the heights? Immortals regard it as filthy, and worthies compare it to knives and axes. If a person does not eat, he may lose his life within seven days; yet even if he does not see beautiful form for a hundred years, he will not die young on that account. From this one knows that beautiful form is not something necessary for sustaining body and mind. On the contrary, it may become an enemy that harms life. Why cling to it and bring injury upon oneself?

If aversion arises upon seeing others do evil, it is like seeing someone take his own life and then stretching out one’s own neck to meet the blade, so that the other person’s knife wounds oneself. When another does evil, the harm falls upon himself. Why seize another’s evil deeds and turn them into a sickness of one’s own mind? Moreover, if one finds evil people detestable, then one ought also to feel aversion upon seeing those who do good, because both good and evil may become obstacles to cultivating the Dao.

If one is beset by poverty, one should also observe carefully: who has made me poor? Heaven and Earth are impartial and will not, out of partiality, impose poverty upon me. Parents give birth to children in the hope that they will be wealthy and honored, so poverty and low station are not caused by parents either. Human beings and ghosts and spirits can scarcely look after themselves—what power do they have to force poverty upon me? Searching again and again, one finds no external source, and only then knows that this is one’s own karma, which may also be called allotted fate. Karma is created by oneself, while allotted fate is conferred by Heaven. The two are like a shadow following a form, or an echo following a sound. They can neither be escaped, nor should they be resented. Only the wise can accord with Heaven’s mandate and understand destiny, and therefore they are not anxious. What poverty is there worth being distressed about?

The Zhuangzi says: “Once karma has arrived, it cannot be cast aside.” Because of one’s own karma, poverty and illness come to one’s side and cannot be forcibly shaken off. The scripture also says: “Heaven and Earth cannot alter a person’s moral integrity, and Yin-Yang cannot reverse his karma.” Seen in this way, allotted fate is a condition one truly undergoes, not something imposed by external things. What is there to resent?

When a brave warrior meets bandits, he is without fear. He draws his sword and meets them, and the bandits scatter. After he has established merit, he enjoys honor and salary. Now poverty and illness come to disturb my body, like bandits. If I hold to a correct mind, I am the warrior. Observing with wisdom is like brandishing a sword to meet them; the elimination of afflictions is like defeating the enemy; and peace and joy within the mind are like obtaining honor and salary. When bitter circumstances press near, if one does not contemplate in this way but instead worries and clings, it is like meeting bandits yet winning no merit, throwing away helmet and armor, fleeing the ranks, and in the end incurring punishment. This is to abandon peace and happiness and walk toward suffering. What is there to pity?

When one suffers from illness, one should observe that illness has something to rely on only because this body exists. If there were no body, where could illness attach? The scripture says: “When I no longer have a body, what worries will I still have?” Observing further within the mind, one also cannot find a true and unchanging master. From inside to outside, one cannot find a person who truly undergoes the suffering, and the mind’s various calculating thoughts are all produced by the deluded mind. If the body can be made to crave no longer and the mind within to cling no longer, many illnesses and afflictions will subside.

If one fears death, one should consider that the body is a temporary dwelling of spirit-consciousness. When the body now grows old and ill, and Qi (vital energy) and strength decline, it is like a house that has decayed and is no longer fit to live in. One naturally leaves it and seeks another place to settle. The death of the body and the departure of spirit-consciousness follow the same principle. If one craves life and loathes death, resisting change, spirit-consciousness becomes disordered and loses the correct Way. Going on in this manner to be reborn, receiving Qi and taking form, one will find it hard to obtain a clear, bright, and refined condition, and easy instead to encounter turbidity and humiliation. This is precisely the root of foolish, greedy, and base people.

If one can refrain both from craving birth and from loathing death, it is partly because one understands that birth and death are equal in principle, and partly because the life of a later existence is still formed by one’s own karma. Craving and loving the myriad things gives rise to every kind of affliction. When even a single limb is ill, the whole body is already ill at ease; how much more so when one mind holds countless cravings and afflictions—how can one still hope that the body will long remain free of decline? All love and hatred are delusive thoughts. If delusive thoughts accumulate and are not removed, they obstruct realization of the great Dao. One should therefore abandon the various desires, abide in a state free of attachment, gradually clear away the roots of clinging in the mind, and then turn back to observe the things one formerly loved. A mind of weary renunciation will naturally arise.

If one looks at things with a mind wholly immersed in them and identified with them, it is not easy, in a whole lifetime, to discover their faults. Only by observing with a mind that has already left attachment can one see clearly what is right and wrong. It is like a sober person who can see the faults of one who is drunk, while the drunkard himself cannot perceive them. The scripture says: “I am, from the first, to abandon the worldly and leave the dust of the world.” It also says: “The sounds and forms perceived by the ears and eyes leave people with faults; the fragrances and flavors loved by the nose and mouth are, on the contrary, misfortunes.” Lord Lao rejected worldly life and alone saw clearly that even fragrance and flavor can become misfortunes. How would one sunk in desire know that the smell in a salted-fish shop is foul?

“Stability” is the highest state that cultivating the Dao (the Way) can reach, and it is also the foundation for entering the Great Dao. It is the fruit of long practice in clarity and stillness, and the fulfillment of a cultivation that abides in peace. Cultivated to this point, the body seems like withered wood and the mind like dead ashes: there is no responsive stirring and no seeking, and quiet detachment reaches its extreme. One does not deliberately think, “I must enter stability,” and yet one is settled in every circumstance. This is why it is called “Taiding” (great stability).

The Zhuangzi says, “When the mind’s expanse is vast and settled, celestial light appears.” Here “expanse” refers to the mind, and “celestial light” to the manifestation of wisdom. The mind is the vessel that bears the Great Dao. When the mind reaches the utmost of emptiness and stillness, the Dao comes to rest within it, and wisdom arises along with it. This wisdom comes forth from one’s original nature; it is not something newly born at that moment, and so it is called “celestial light.” It is only that people are commonly stirred up by craving and attachment, so that mind and Shen (spirit) grow turbid and they sink into obscurity. After cleansing and tempering, one returns again to pure stillness, and the originally genuine spiritual consciousness gradually becomes clear. This is not to say that some other wisdom is produced at that time.

Once wisdom has appeared, one must treasure and guard it, and not let knowing a great deal damage the state of stability. The difficulty lies not in wisdom arising, but in having wisdom and yet neither flaunting it nor misusing it. From ancient times, many have been able to forget the body, but few have been able to forget reputation. To have wisdom without displaying it is precisely to forget fame. Very few in the world can do this, and so it is especially rare.

If one has rank without arrogance and wealth without extravagance, one will not fall into the faults of ordinary society, and can therefore preserve riches and honor for a long time. If one is settled without being shaken, and has wisdom yet does not misuse it, one will not go against the Dao, and can therefore deeply realize the constant and true Dao.

The Zhuangzi says, “To know is easy; not to speak after knowing is hard. To know and not speak is to accord with the Way of Heaven; to know and speak of it is to fall into human contrivance.” The ancients accorded with the Way of Heaven and did not confine themselves to worldly cleverness and ability. To be able to know the Dao is not the same as already having attained the Dao. People often know only the benefits that wisdom brings, but do not know the benefits of attaining the Dao.

Some use wisdom to understand principles and rely on argument to move the hearts of others. Once the mind rises to chase after affairs, one matter draws out many more, and they still claim that, though they stand amid disturbance, their inner mind remains constantly still. Yet how could they know that if this so-called “stillness” exists only in order to cope with external things, it is still not Taiding? Even if cleverness surpasses that of ordinary people, one may be even farther from the Dao—like setting out after a deer and ending up with only a rabbit. What is gained is too little, because both the aim and the field of vision are too narrow.

The Zhuangzi says that the ancient cultivators of the Dao used calm repose to nourish wisdom. After wisdom arises, one does not treat it as something to depend on; this is called using wisdom to nourish calm repose. Wisdom and calm repose nourish each other, and inner harmony and ordered pattern then appear from one’s original nature. Here “calm repose” and “wisdom” are stability and wisdom, and “harmony and pattern” are the Dao and De (Virtue/Power). Though wisdom is present, it is not misused. One peacefully guards calm repose, and as days and months accumulate, the Dao and De are naturally accomplished.

This stability is sometimes gained through practice. Some observe that harm lies hidden behind benefit and, fearing misfortune, bring delusive thoughts to rest. Others cast off and wash away stray thoughts, practicing again and again until the mind’s activity becomes thoroughly familiar. In the end, all return to the state of stability, which then looks as though it had been reached naturally. In this state, thunder shaking the mountains does not startle the inner mind, and blades crossing before the eyes do not cause fear. Fame and profit are regarded as things that merely flash past the eyes, and life and death as a collapse that scatters away. From this one can see that when attention is undivided, Shen is able to gather.

The emptiness and subtlety of the mind are hard to fathom. As for this thing called the mind, if one examines its substance, it seems not truly existent; if one observes its functioning, one cannot say that it is wholly nonexistent. It need not chase after things, yet it arrives swiftly; it need not be summoned, yet it suddenly appears. In anger, it can drive an arrow into stone until the feathers sink in; in resentment, it seems able to bring frost even in high summer. If evil thoughts are indulged, the dark and unseen realm is not far away; if good deeds are accumulated, the realm of the immortals is not necessarily hard to reach. The mind comes and goes abruptly, and both movement and stillness are hard to name. At times it can be followed, at times it cannot, and even divination can scarcely discern it. To regulate and guide this mind—could that really be easier than guiding deer and horses?

The Most High Lord Lao (one of the highest deities venerated in Daoism), through constant good conduct, delivers the people of the world, ascends the Spirit Terrace, and expounds wondrous principles. He briefly sets forth the causes and fruits of the Three Vehicles (methods of cultivation at different levels), and broadly clarifies the principle that the myriad things each follow their own naturalness. Cultivation may advance step by step, daily reducing purposeful contrivance; or one may suddenly realize the truth and return to the state of nothing further to learn and of Wuwei (non-action). As a metaphor, one must regulate oneself as in stringing a bow and shaping an arrow; as a method, one blunts the sharp point and untangles what is confused. If cultivation is kept up, long practice becomes second nature. By restraining the pull of the ears, eyes, and senses and settling body and mind, one can reach “zuowang” (sitting in forgetfulness: in quiet sitting, forgetting the body and discriminative attachment). The mind is not bound by stillness, and even what is subtle can enter contemplative awareness.

For those who have traveled other paths, who knows how long it will take to understand the principles thoroughly? Those who cultivate this Great Dao may look forward to beholding the mysterious and wondrous. It requires little effort yet yields great results, and is truly subtle.

The Dao (the Way) is a numinous and marvelously subtle presence. It possesses a spiritual nature, yet it has no fixed form. Whether one goes to meet it or sets out in search of it, it is hard to foresee, and it cannot be grasped by deliberate seeking. Without knowing why, it is simply so of itself; it courses through life and is never exhausted. This is what is called the Dao.

The supreme sages of antiquity once realized the great Dao in their own persons, and subtle methods of cultivation have likewise been transmitted from generation to generation down to the present. If one follows the names and headings of the scriptures (Jing) and inquires into the principles they contain, one finds that this is no empty talk. Those of superior capacity believe in the great Dao with pure sincerity, restrain selfish desires, and cultivate diligently, making the inner mind empty and still and the spirit (Shen) as clear and open as a deep valley. The Dao then gathers in the body.

The power of the Dao can gradually transform a person’s bodily form and spirit. When the form becomes permeable through the Dao and the spirit becomes one with the Dao, such a person is called a divine person (shenren). Divine nature is empty, still, and freely interfused, and its fundamental substance neither changes nor perishes. Because the bodily form is one with the Dao, it is not bound by birth and death. When Shen is hidden and unmanifest, form and Shen merge; when it appears, Shen again unites with Qi (vital energy). Thus the divine persons of legend can pass through water and fire without harm and face the sun and moon without casting a shadow; the body’s survival or perishing, its going forth and its return, are all in their own hands. Although an ordinary person’s body is formed of tangible substance and subject to decay, it can still be cultivated to a state of empty subtlety—how much more, then, can luminous wisdom continue to advance into what is deep and vast?

The Shengshen Jing says: “When the body and the spirits of the body become one, this constitutes the true body.” The Xisheng Jing (Scripture of Western Ascension) says: “Form and spirit join together, and therefore one can endure.” Yet the power of cultivating the empty, formless great Dao has its depths and its shallows: what is deep extends also to the bodily form, while what is shallow acts only upon the inner mind. Those whose form is likewise transformed are divine persons. Those upon whom it acts only within, though they gain wisdom and awakening, still cannot escape the decline and death of the body. Why is this so? Wisdom is an activity of the mind; used to excess, it wearies mind and Shen. When a little wisdom has just been gained, some rejoice in it and delight in much talk and argument. As a result, the Qi of the spirit scatters outward, the body receives no nourishment from numinous Qi, and one may depart from life early. The great Dao is therefore difficult to cultivate to completion. What the scriptures call “liberation by means of the corpse” (shijie—in Daoist legend, the manner in which a cultivator casts off the ordinary form and departs in transcendence) refers precisely to this kind of case.

Therefore, those who succeed in cultivating the Dao conceal their radiance and do not display their sharp edge, so as to bring cultivation to fullness. They gather the spirit, preserve primordial Qi, and harbor no mind that deliberately seeks the Dao, so that spirit unites with the Dao. Only this is called attaining the Dao. The scripture says: “One who is the same as the Dao—the Dao, in turn, obtains that person.” It also asks why the ancients valued the Dao: because those who seek the Dao do not seek in vain, and even those who have faults can thereby gain release. When a mountain holds jade, its grasses and trees do not readily wither; when a person harbors the great Dao, the bodily form can likewise remain firm for a long time.

Long imbued with the Dao, a person’s essential nature gradually changes and comes to unite with Shen. One cultivates the bodily form until it enters a realm of subtle fineness, and at last merges in hidden union with the Dao. At that point, a single body may disperse and transform so as to respond to the myriad dharmas, and the myriad dharmas may also be gathered back into a single body. Wisdom illumines without bound, and form passes beyond all limits. Both what has form and empty nothingness are turned into wondrous function, and the work of creative transformation is contained within. Its manifestations and responsive transformations follow no fixed mode. Only a person of the Dao and of De (Virtue/Power) can reach this realm.

The Xisheng Jing says: “One shares the mind of Heaven, yet without discriminating knowledge and views; one shares the body of the Dao, yet without a fixed form.” Only when this realm is reached can the Dao of Heaven be said to flourish. What is spoken of here is the person who has realized the ultimate of the great Dao. The scripture further says: “If Shen does not leave the body, one can endure as long as the Dao.” When the body unites with the Dao, there is no time at which it cannot continue; when the mind unites with the Dao, there is nothing that cannot be penetrated; when the ear unites with the Dao, there is no sound that goes unheard; when the eye unites with the Dao, there is no form or color that goes unseen. That the six faculties (the eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—the capacities of perception and cognition) are able to reach through has its reason precisely here.

People of recent times are, for the most part, not far-reaching in their understanding. They have only heard of the teaching that cultivation of the Dao consists in abandoning the bodily form, and have not grasped the principle that the wondrous realm is accomplished upon one’s very own form. Unwilling even briefly to examine their own shortcomings, they instead imitate others and find fault with others. They are like the insect of summer, which does not believe that frost and ice exist, or like a parrot befuddled by fermented wine, which supposes that heaven and earth do not exist. Their ignorance is difficult to dispel.

If one is to cultivate the Dao (the Way), attain it, and become truly realized, one must first correct deviant and improper conduct, cut off external affairs, and not allow them to disturb the mind. Then sit upright in stillness, turn the attention inward, and maintain clear awareness. As soon as a thought is seen to arise, eliminate it at once; the moment a thought stirs, restrain it immediately and settle the mind. Even thoughts that do not spring from any definite craving, but are only wandering and disordered fancies, must be cleared away one by one. Persist day and night, without slackening for an instant.

In practice, eliminate only the mind’s delusive stirrings; do not eliminate lucid awareness. Let the mind return to emptiness and stillness, yet do not let it grow dull and sunken. Attach it to nothing, yet let it always abide securely. This method is subtle, and its benefit reaches far. Unless one has long had an affinity with the Dao and a faith that does not waver, it is hard truly to trust it and take it to heart.

Even after reading the relevant Jing (scriptures), one must still discern what in them is true and what is false. Why? Sounds and sights throw the mind and Shen (spirit) into confusion, and heterodox teachings beguile the ears and eyes. Clinging to self and to others, continued over time, becomes habit, and the root of the illness runs deep. The mind is then cut off from the Dao, and the principle within is hard to grasp. If one sincerely turns toward the Great Dao and gives rise to deep faith and aspiration, one must first receive and uphold three precepts, cultivate according to them, and remain constant from beginning to end; only then can the true Dao be gained. The three precepts are: first, simplifying conditions, that is, reducing cares and external entanglements; second, desirelessness, that is, not craving; third, quieting the mind, that is, letting the mind become still. Diligently cultivate these three without slackening or turning back, and even if one does not deliberately seek the Dao, the Dao will come of itself. A scripture says: “If one can make the mind empty and still and free of contrived action, and does not intentionally pursue the Dao, the Dao will return of its own accord.” From this it is clear that a concise method of cultivation is indeed worthy of belief and worthy of being treasured.

Yet the mind of an ordinary person has always been restless and contentious, and the habit is of long standing. To still the mind in accordance with the precepts is truly difficult. Sometimes one wishes to quiet the mind and cannot; sometimes it grows briefly still and then scatters again. Thoughts tug back and forth until sweat breaks out over the whole body. Only after long tempering, as the nature of the mind gradually softens, can it be regulated to proficiency. Do not abandon the work of a lifetime of cultivation merely because, for a time, the mind cannot be gathered.

Once a measure of quiet has been gained, whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, and even amid complicated affairs and noisy surroundings, one should deliberately settle the mind. Whether occupied or unoccupied, constantly remain unmoved by stray thoughts; whether in quiet or in clamor, keep the will undivided. If the thoughts are bound too tightly, excessive strain will bring illness; Qi (vital energy) surging upward and disorder of the spirit are the signs of this. When the mind is already quiet, one must also know how to relax. Gathering and releasing should both be moderate, adjusted at every moment: restrain the thoughts without clinging, loosen them without indulgence; remain amid noise without aversion, and handle affairs without agitation. This is true concentration.

Do not, because the mind is untroubled while dealing with affairs, deliberately seek more affairs; nor, because the mind does not waver amid noise, purposely go where it is noisy. When there is nothing to do, one may rest in quiet concentration; when there are affairs, respond by according with them. Just as water and a mirror reflect whatever appears, when things are encountered the fitting response naturally shows itself. Only by skillfully using expedient means can one enter the state of concentration. When wisdom manifests, and whether sooner or later, cannot be forced by anyone. Do not, within concentration, urgently seek wisdom. The moment wisdom is sought, the power of concentration is injured; when that power is injured, the root of wisdom is injured as well. When wisdom is not deliberately sought, it instead arises of itself—and this is true wisdom. To possess wisdom yet not display it, with true knowing deep within and a simple, unpolished appearance without, lets concentration and wisdom strengthen each other until both are complete.

If, within concentration, all kinds of thoughts arise, they may call forth many responses, and various deviant spirits may appear in their wake. Perfected beings, elders, or strange and uncanny visions may all present themselves. When this happens, simply abide in the concentrated mind, so that it opens clear and unobscured, and do not fall into illusory realms. Former karma is then extinguished, new karma is no longer made, one is neither entangled nor obstructed, and one leaves the bonds of the dusty world. Cultivating in this way for a long time, one will naturally attain the Dao.

Those who attain the Dao (the Way) pass through five stages in the mind, and the body likewise undergoes seven transformations.

What is called “the mind has five phases” means this: first, distracting thoughts are many and stillness is scarce; second, distracting thoughts and stillness each occupy half; third, stillness is abundant and distracting thoughts are few; fourth, when nothing is happening the mind is still, yet when events stir it, thoughts arise again; fifth, the mind accords with the Dao, and even when it encounters external things it is no longer disturbed. Only when the mind reaches this state does one begin to gain peace and joy; karmic offenses and afflictions are also eliminated, and one is no longer troubled by them.

What is called “the body has seven signs” means that bodily cultivation manifests seven indications in succession. First, one’s actions accord with the proper time, and one’s countenance is calm and joyful. Second, old illnesses gradually disappear, and body and mind feel light and at ease. Third, the losses of premature death or injury are made good, primordial Qi (vital energy) is restored, and life is prolonged. Fourth, the lifespan extends to several thousand years; such a person is called an immortal. Fifth, the physical form is refined and transformed into Qi; such a person is called a Perfected Person. Sixth, Qi is refined until it becomes Shen (spirit); such a person is called a Spirit Person. Seventh, Shen is refined until it unites with the Dao; such a person is called a Supreme Person. As the level of cultivation rises, the ability to discern things grows ever clearer; only when one reaches the supreme Dao and practice is complete is wisdom fully accomplished.

Even if one studies quieting the mind for a long time, without passing through the five stages of the mind and the seven signs of the body one remains a person of short lifespan whose form will in the end decay. If one claims already to have awakened and already to have attained the Dao, careful examination according to principle shows that this is not in fact so; it may be said to be a mistake.

End of the Zuowang lun (Treatise on Sitting in Forgetfulness).

(Note: In the original text, the passage beginning “cut short, and is called a Perfected Person…” is clearly disordered. The above has been arranged according to context, from “Fourth, the lifespan is extended for several thousand years, and one is called an immortal” through “Seventh, Shen is refined and united with the Dao, and one is called a Supreme Person.”)