《宗玄先生文集》

The Dao pervades all things and appears nowhere absent. Most of all, words of ultimate principle arising from profound contemplation can reveal the Great Dao. Such words are like the sun, moon, and stars shining in the heavens, and flowers and grasses growing on the earth: level and expansive, tranquil and rich, reaching beyond the eight directions and straight back to antiquity, wandering in the company of the transformations of creation. Those who have not attained this realm may write in splendid language, yet fail to accord with the way things are; when they discuss principle, they often become trapped in rigid opinions. Even if their style is bright and worthy of praise, those who truly seek the Great Dao will not agree with them. Master Zongxuan, Wu Yun, must have understood the way of words deeply.

The master’s name was Yun, and his courtesy name was Zhenjie. He was from Huayin. At fifteen, he devoted himself to seeking the Dao. Later, he lived in seclusion with like-minded companions on Mount Yidi in Nanyang. He studied the ancient books widely, stood apart from worldly concerns, and cultivated his fields beyond the clouds, unmoved by fame or profit. At the beginning of the Tianbao era, an imperial edict summoned him to the capital as a Daoist. He instructed the emperor in the mysteries of the Dao, in accord with the teachings of Laozi, and asked to be ordained as a Daoist. He later lived at Songyang Hill and took Master Feng as his teacher, disciplining body and mind and receiving the Zhengyi transmission of Daoist rites and cultivation practices.

In the beginning, Master Zhenbai Tao Hongjing of the Liang dynasty transmitted this Dao to Master Shengxuan Wang. Wang passed it on to Master Tixuan Pan, who in turn passed it to Master Feng. From Tao Hongjing to Wu Yun, the transmission had been handed down through five generations. All of them aspired to practice good deeds in secret and help living beings; they had also served as teachers to emperors.

In the thirteenth year of Tianbao, Wu Yun was summoned to the Hall of Great Clarity and soon afterward, by imperial command, took up residence in the Hanlin Academy. During Xuanzong’s reign, people throughout the realm eagerly turned toward Daoism. Wu Yun presented three chapters of the “Guiding Thread of the Mysterious Dao.” The emperor issued an edict praising and accepting them. Wu Yun’s ambition was to travel far and cultivate the Dao. He repeatedly submitted memorials asking to retire into seclusion, comparing himself to birds and beasts to express his wish to take pleasure in forests, mountains, and waters. Not long after he was permitted to leave the capital, war broke out in the region of the Three Rivers. Wearing his Daoist robes, he departed by boat, dwelling in turn at Mount Lu, visiting Kuaiji, traveling by boat along the Zhi River, and staying at Mount Tianzhu. In seclusion, he cultivated the Dao, gathered his spirit, and followed his nature. At times, he also spoke out to clarify the principles of nature.

Like the Garden Recluse, he sang of the purple mushrooms; like Tao Hongjing, he delighted in the white clouds. He was especially skilled at using metaphor and allusion in his writing. Read his “Poem on the Kings’ Rule from Antiquity,” “Song of the Great Elegance,” “Words on Walking in Emptiness,” and his varied reflections on roaming among the immortals: some recall an ideal age of antiquity and lament the decline of customs; others depict the myriad things in order to grasp the essential workings of Heaven and Earth. He examined the patterns of human nature and life, understood the changes in human affairs, and took the gathering of spirit and restraint of one’s sharpness as his guiding principles. His language was wondrous and elegant, his tones clear and resonant. Reading his work feels like hearing a voice ring through the clouds; it draws the reader toward the realms of immortals, where the Kunlun immortals and Song and Qiao, legendary adepts, seem vividly present. In recent times, among those who traveled beyond the world and mastered the “Six Principles” of the Book of Songs—the six modes of poetic expression—Wu Yun is surely an outstanding example.

For a general account of the Valley Spirit, the mysterious and inexhaustible stillness of the Dao, there is the “Guiding Thread of the Mysterious Dao.” For a discussion of why narrow-minded people with shallow understanding remain far from the Great Dao, there is “On Whether Immortality Can Be Learned.” To clarify the mind by stilling thought and washing away worldly concerns, there are the “Rhapsody on Cleansing the Mind” and the “Rhapsody on Dwelling in the Mountains.” On cultivating sincerity within and settling the spirit, there are “On the Heart and the Eyes” and the “Hymn on the Accord of Form and Spirit.” His other memorials, letters, encomia, and farewell pieces also address matters of principle, and their counsel is practical. His style is detached and subtle, yet remarkably expansive.

These works amount to four hundred and fifty pieces, enough to reveal the thought of a great perfected one. In the thirteenth year of the Dali era, Wu Yun burned incense at a Daoist temple in Xuancheng and, in a quiet chamber, returned to his true nature. His disciple Shao Jixuan led their fellow disciples in burying him at the western foot of Mount Tianzhu, in accordance with his final instructions. Shao Jixuan had deeply grasped the master’s Daoist methods. His mind was like a withered tree and still water; he could forget self-interest and transcend bodily form.

Wang Yan, a native of Taiyuan, had long admired Wu Yun’s bearing. Twenty-five years after the master’s death, while serving as an assistant censor, Wang Yan gathered the master’s writings, arranged them into thirty volumes, and presented them to the court, where they were stored in the imperial archives. Later, Shao Jixuan obtained this collection and gave it to me, asking me to write a preface that would explain its central meaning and help it endure. Other treatises that distinguish truth from worldly delusion were not included in this collection. As for accounts that reveal extraordinary powers, explain strange events, describe places where people practiced alchemical cultivation and transformed their bodies, and discuss Fulu—talismans and registers—these, it is said, have already been engraved on stone and metal. I have selected only these writings and offered a brief introduction, so that later students may understand that those who truly know the Great Dao also know how to speak in words that accord with principle.

Grateful for the teachings left by the Dark Sage—a reverential Daoist title for Laozi and other sages—I have come to understand that drawing close to oneself and holding fast to one’s nature matter more than pursuing fame. One may set aside words that need to be spoken and turn instead to silence; body and mind, too, should be restrained, without constantly reaching outward and striving ahead. I admire how a quail builds its nest in the woods, needing only a single branch. Since it is hard to go against what one’s nature delights in, I have settled in the mountains and made my home in a simple hut. Once I had taken up residence here, I found, as expected, that I was at ease. This has become a spiritually blessed place where I can roam freely.

Look here: mountains surround us, valleys stretch across the land, springs surge, and plants grow thick. Behind, the mountains rise high and wind on in a long, rugged range; before me, the peaks stand at varying heights, some towering, others low and sloping. The shadowed valleys remain cool even in summer, while sunlit cliffs are warm even in winter. I admire the steadfast character of pine and bamboo, and love the quiet fragrance of orchids and chrysanthemums. The mountain breeze sounds sweet, and idle clouds fill my view, clearing my mind and eyes. I let the cry of the sea crane keep me alert through the night, and watch the movements of gulls and parrots to sense the coming dawn. With no disturbance to trouble my thoughts, my mind is calm; with few desires, my spirit is at ease.

So I chant verses from the Book of Odes about recluses content in their homes, and recite passages from the Great Changes that praise what is beautiful. I leave behind the dangers of worldly contention and release myself from the calculations of gain and loss brought on by praise and blame. I have taken the level road beyond the dust of the world, and can indeed escape the anxiety of rushing to compete. Now I live in seclusion by the mountains, hidden among the forests. I no longer chase after fame, and leave no trace behind. To worldly eyes, this choice may seem unambitious; in truth, it is a lasting way to rise beyond the world. I take up the life others cast aside, and so, even in simple poverty, I always feel at ease.

I contemplate what has no form, drawing my gaze inward; I listen to what has no sound, returning to stillness. Harmony need not depend on fine wine, and why should joy require the music of zithers and flutes? I burn pure incense to regulate my breath and open Daoist scriptures to awaken myself from ignorance. I hope to clear away what obstructs me in a bright, open realm, and perhaps to commune with the true Dao and preserve the true nature of life. I have come to understand that the vast Great Void is not entirely without form, and that the subtle, mysterious workings of things are not nothing. The rites of worship in the heavens are simple, leaving me much time to gather herbs. I still tend my body through breathing practices, but my mind has cast off its concern for the future.

I know that the Dao does not rise or fall with the times, while all things are born and perish. Thus, by holding fast to the root of life, I can keep my vitality; by understanding the source of change, I am not trapped by change. In quiet solitude, apart from the world, who could keep me company? The farther I travel, the fewer friends I have; when I forget cunning and calculation, even birds and beasts can come near and grow tame. My interests do not accord with the customs of the age, yet my heart is often in the company of the ancients. I look up to the lofty, open-minded reclusion of Chaofu and Xu You, and chant the silent, simple teachings of Fuxi and Shennong. I take the mysterious thought of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi as my teachers, and the immortal way of Chisongzi and Wang Ziqiao as my companions. I have no wish to build great achievements or save all things; I seek only to cultivate myself and preserve my own integrity. My only cause for celebration is the joy I find within myself. How could I hide away my Jing, Qi, and Shen and willingly vanish from the world?

The earth nourishes all things, and its many forms are rich and diverse. Bamboo rises tall and straight, receiving the pure, upright Qi of Heaven and Earth. Humble and aligned with the Dao, it symbolizes steadfastness and integrity. Its leaves spread thickly, their green fronds crossing one another; its bright, slender stalks are as white as jade.

When the spring breeze is mild, all things come into view: flowers bloom in the garden, while dogwood and willows flourish beside the ferry. They draw attention with their fragrance and beauty. Bamboo, by contrast, does not rely on a strong scent to distinguish itself; it simply stays green through the coldest months. This alone does not make it exceptional. But when the chill bites, frost lies thick and bleak, the plain stretches desolate, and the woods seem lifeless, bamboo withstands the ice and frost and remains lush and green in the bitter cold. That is what makes it especially worthy of esteem.

The Book of Songs calls bamboo “like a bud,” and ancient texts record it among tribute goods. The Qi Garden and Yunmeng were both renowned for their bamboo. According to legend, after the Yellow Emperor established offices to oversee Yin-Yang, he sent Ling Lun to cut fine bamboo in Xie Valley. Ling Lun made bamboo pipes into the Six Pitch Standards, using them to harmonize musical notes, regulate the breath, and bring the winds of the eight directions into their proper order. Later, people made instruments such as the yu and yue from bamboo, giving music a long, lingering resonance. Bamboo’s sound is so harmonious and pleasing that it can even draw birds and beasts to gather. Its natural substance is so beautifully pure—how could ordinary trees compare?

Vast bamboo groves grow along the Wei River, and thickets cluster around Shanyang. The bamboo of Kuaiji is green as jade, while that of Mount Luofu gleams like gold. Clouds hang low above the groves, and cool breezes stir beneath them. Bamboo blocks the scorching sun and preserves the shade’s coolness. Wang Ziyou once recited poetry among the bamboo, and Ji Kang sought out secluded groves. People invited friends and honored guests to drink wine, play zithers, and sing among the bamboo, enjoying leisurely outings and expressing a wish to withdraw from worldly concerns and keep to a quiet, self-contained life.

Some bamboo groves border the Cang River and cling to red cliffs, where water mist deepens and mountain haze drifts. The Xiang Consorts—legendary wives of Shun—are said to have wept in sorrow because of bamboo; songs from Chu also include verses praising dew. Some bamboo rises high, its forms swelling like the surges of drum music; some spreads its drooping branches with a majestic air. Phoenixes fly through the groves, while peacocks and kingfishers perch among them. Bamboo grows not only throughout the broad human world but also adorns the immortal mountains of Penglai. It bears pearl-like fruits and blossoms with purple, downy flowers. Its powder is white as snow, and its stalks ring like bells when struck. Bamboo is cherished by immortals; it is not something everyone can obtain.

There are also tales of bamboo turning into pheasants in the state of Hao and transforming into dragons at Gebei. Some bamboo can be made into flutes for people to admire; other branches can give rise to insects. Bamboo shoots are seen as a sign of flourishing descendants, and the three-jointed bamboo has been linked to tales of miraculous infants. Bamboo can manifest in response to filial devotion and display uncanny growth beside a window. It keeps dust from gathering on tomb mounds and sacrificial altars, and can grow around stones to shelter them in its shade. These are bamboo’s wondrous transformations, strange and difficult to fathom; they cannot easily all be known.

There are many kinds of bamboo: the Jipeng bamboo, with its dense leaves; varieties colored like mist; the tall, straight Guzhui bamboo; and bamboo whose spreading branches seem to veil the sky like sheets of mica. Some are a bright, pale green; others bear exquisite patterns like brocade. How could one describe every variety that local gazetteers have not recorded and books on the geography of mountains and rivers have never mentioned?

All bamboo is tough and strong, with a deep green color. Its body is naturally round without ruler or compass, and its stalks grow straight without being bent into shape. Thus the Gao Emperor once wore a bamboo crown to symbolize his exalted status, while Emperor Xiaowen split bamboo to make tallies that marked official rank. The Marquis of Bowang, Zhang Qian, was once sent to lands beyond Daxia, and the Mu Emperor bestowed honors on his ministers beside the Dark Pool. From these examples, one could say much more about bamboo’s uses and significance; no single rhapsody could fully describe them.

A reclusive hermit was broad-minded, calm in bearing, and clear and peaceful in spirit. He kept far from the turmoil of the world and deeply observed the underlying principles behind the changes in all things. He dwelt in a state of Great Harmony, chanting of the simple customs of antiquity. He held close what the world did not value and cast aside what people competed to pursue. Making Dao and De his garden, he lived there freely for a long time.

A prince embittered by the world wished to resolve his doubts, so he went to the master’s dwelling to ask how entering office differed from withdrawing into seclusion. After bowing, he knelt and said:

“I have heard that a scholar living in the world should possess every kind of virtue and display the nine virtues. In stillness, he should be a standard for all things; in action, an example to the people. If one’s talent and virtue can be shown, one should not withdraw into seclusion; if one can proclaim the Way, one should not remain silent. Only then can the teachings of the ancient rulers Yao and Shun be revived, and the people live in peace, with benevolence and long life. Once Heaven and Earth are in harmony and the realm is settled, land and rank can be granted to those who have earned them.

“Thus Yi Yin left the house of Youxin carrying his cooking vessels, and Jiang Taigong laid down his fishing rod and came out by a country path. In the morning they were still sunk in hardship; by evening they had risen to high distinction, like a tall tree attracting a phoenix or a white egret leaping from a clear marsh. Why admire those who set themselves apart in lofty isolation, turning away from the middle and harmonious Way to follow Chaofu and Xu You, or imitate Boyi and Shuqi? That would only confine one’s talent within oneself and dissipate one’s vital harmony among the people of the fields. It is to abandon the broad, level road for a narrow, overgrown path; to drink from a cold spring and sit among dense grasses. At dusk one hears the wind moaning through the trees; at dawn the mountain birds’ cries grow tiresome. At first one is so exhausted that one can barely breathe; in the end one curls up in the cold, seeking shelter. Whether to enter office or withdraw into seclusion can indeed be judged by this. Whether a person’s reputation matches the reality is also worth examining. I hope to hear the master’s highest teaching, so that I may find my direction and be confused no longer.”

The master’s heart was as vast as the open sky. His spirit was settled in the ancient Great Way; he stood beyond fortune and misfortune, gain and loss, and did not manipulate power. He had wanted to say nothing, but in the end, having no choice, he replied:

“In the distant, uncultivated age of antiquity, all things lived without hardship or obstruction. The high places were like hills, the low places like plains, and each found its proper place. The wise and the foolish were each at ease, and there was no scope for cunning or deceit. How could anyone then distinguish between entering office and withdrawing into seclusion, between silence and speech?

“Later, times changed and the simple customs faded. Human nature altered, and what had been pure and honest became shallow. People rose and fell in different ways, and wisdom and ignorance came to be ranked. Strength and softness clashed; crookedness and straightness rubbed against each other. Some coveted bait and swallowed the hook; others charged ahead and struck the net. The rulers, distressed by the disorder of the age, wanted to rescue the people from the flood. Thus government through courtesy and deference gave way to conquest by force. Policies and teachings shifted with the times, and laws grew ever more numerous. To stop disorder and bring about good rule by means of laws is like summoning the wind and then expecting the branches to be still. So rites were established to inspire respect, and ritual and music were cultivated to guide people toward harmony. The sages labored in this way, yet in the end the situation still collapsed. What could they do?

“Thus there were reckless, incompetent rulers above and loyal, devoted ministers below. Men such as Guan Longfeng and Chang Hong sacrificed their lives for righteousness and reputation, yet ultimately went against the times and met untimely deaths. This only deepened the wicked ruler’s infamy and depleted the people’s kindness and well-being. Therefore, those of complete virtue concealed their talents and preserved their original nature. They understood that the rise and fall of the world followed its own course, and that no individual alone could determine the fate of a state. To try to rescue a crisis and prop up what is about to collapse is like lifting a weight of a thousand jun with one strand of hair, or blocking a great river with a clod of earth. So they held to withdrawal as the auspicious path, hidden from view like the star Shaowei.

“Hongya and Guang Chengzi first set this example, and Zizhou and Shanjuan carried it on. Yao went to the banks of the Fen River to visit a hermit; he heard that Xu You was washing his ears by the Ying River. These men regarded high renown as refuse and imperial rank as dust. They entrusted their hearts to the mountains and forests, unmoved by choices and gains or losses. They had no need to cut open their hearts and sever their desires, nor did they seek long life through breathing exercises and guiding the vital energy. They saw rivers as no more than irrigation ditches, and Mount Song and Mount Tai as little mounds of earth. Thus, the Son of Heaven could not make them his subjects, and the feudal lords could not befriend them. They had not merely withdrawn from the world by chance: they could carry this Way through all ages, their conduct unbound by worldly conventions. Through their own example, they steadied the shallow, decadent ways of a declining age and inspired people to admire simplicity and honesty.

“Some once used their plans to assist Yu of the Xia, or advised King Wen of Zhou. Lu Zhonglian persuaded the Qin army to withdraw; Duan Ganmu upheld the ruler of Wei. Xian Gao and Ni Kuan established merit through their actions, while the Four Elders of Mount Shang came out in due course to assist the court. At first these people lived among the world and showed their talents; in the end they rose beyond convention and stood apart from ordinary people. Their aspirations reached high as blue clouds, while they dwelt in stillness like white clouds. They were not constrained by the things of the world or the times. When necessary, they could also pacify the customs of the age and resolve its conflicts.

“Others valued modesty and yielding more than Mount Tai, and regarded wealth and rank as lighter than a feather. Boyi and Shuqi, sons of the ruler of Guzhu and elder brothers of Jizi, willingly gathered edible fern at the foot of Mount Shouyang. Laozi left office and withdrew, making the Great Way known; when Guan Yin left his post, he cultivated the true Way. The Keeper of the Pass concealed his name; Chang Ju and Jie Ni escaped the world by farming. The old man of Hanyin carried a water jar to irrigate his garden, forgetting all mechanical contrivances. The fisherman followed the current, rinsing the strings of his cap. Chen Zhongzi irrigated a garden to avoid the position of minister; Lao Laizi carried his belongings on his back as he declined high office.

“Zhuangzi once served as a minor official in the lacquer garden, then made that post a place to lodge for a time. Liezi lived in the gardens of Puyang in Zheng, obscure and detached. The madman of Chu concealed his tracks, while Yan Zun of Shu remained quiet and self-contained. The prime minister extended an invitation to Gai Gong, and Wang Sheng was treated with respect by the Commandant of Justice. Thus Emperor Wen and Emperor Jing of Han followed the teachings of Huang-Lao, making the state prosperous and punishments light. Yan Junping taught the people through divination, while Wentong damaged his reputation over a dispute about land. Yan He escaped a summons by digging through a wall; Baixiu withdrew to avoid the honors of the world. Pang Gong farmed with his wife, while Yan Guang shook off the emperor’s presence and departed. Rong Qiqi expressed his purpose through the three joys of human life; Liang Hong poured out his feelings in the Song of Five Grievances. Shang Ziping kept to his resolve, traveling far after his children were married; Xu Shuxuan upheld his integrity, leaving his spouse to journey away.

“Some heard the man of Su Gate’s long whistle and thought it sounded like phoenixes singing in harmony. Others saw Xia Tong singing aloud and admired his purity, like drifting clouds and falling snow. There were also Jiao Xian, Qu Xing, Guo Wen, and Dong Jing, whose nature accorded with the simple purity of the Primordial Beginning. They were silent and deep, in harmony with their original nature. Zizhen and Zhongwei lived quietly, desiring nothing; Tai Xiaowei and Guan Ning remained steadfast. Some took pleasure in playing the qin and reading books; others were detached and practiced Wuwei (non-action). In outward appearance they resembled ordinary people, but their spiritual realm was different. They held fast to an unchanging purity of heart and let go of every attachment beyond their natural freedom. At ease and content, they made this their Way; hardship and good fortune alike did not hinder their lives. They understood that simplicity is the highest principle, and that the Way of Heaven avoids fullness. A wild goose flies high through the open sky—how could a hunter catch it? Thus favor and honor could not burden them, and regret and disaster could not trouble them.

“They quietly accumulated virtue and accomplished subtle, mysterious deeds. Slander did not make them anxious, and praise did not make them glad. They nurtured their nature by following Wuwei, and handled affairs without acting recklessly, thereby keeping their hearts calm and detached. They observed the elusive, unspeakable Way and rested in the indistinct and mysterious. They took immortals such as Songzi and Juanzi as their companions, then suddenly rode the light and ascended. This is the Way of seclusion. Who could know where they make their dwelling?

“Thus, those who hold office at court find it difficult to leave once they enter service. Those who withdraw to the mountains and forests should not return once they have entered them. If someone pretends to be lofty to fish for a reputation, feigning seclusion in the green mountains while hoping for a summons at the valley entrance and waiting for gifts from the court, then he is not nourishing the true Way with mountain springs; he is using the valley as a hiding place for deceit. This only encourages the vulgar shallowness of a decadent age. Why should a person of pure conduct follow such a path? If someone uses seclusion as a way to gain high office by chance, how could he avoid wearing shame on his face for the rest of his life?

“The seed of good fortune can sometimes become the root of disaster, and prayers for prosperity may sow the seeds of decline. Lü Buwei saw in Zichu a ‘rare commodity,’ gave him his pregnant wife, and secretly explained the circumstances. Lü Gong recognized Liu Bang’s extraordinary appearance and married him to his daughter, seeking lasting honor. Their schemes succeeded, their plans were carried out, and they rose to the heights of public life. Yet disaster came soon after, followed by calamity upon calamity. The Huo clan served three emperors and thought itself the equal of Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou. Once it had been so powerful; then it fell swiftly, and its descendants suffered as well. Their rise and fall took place under different dynasties, but had the same root: one overturned cart had gone before, yet the cart behind it still overturned.

“The Qin dynasty buried scholars alive, and the Han dynasty suffered the disaster of the partisan prohibitions. Many gentlemen sought to establish a fine reputation and make their achievements known, only to leave trouble behind even after death. Look up at Heaven: its Way is lofty and far-reaching. Who can know whether he accords with the mandate of an emperor? Auspicious Qi rests upon the immortal mountain Penglai, while the dust of the world settles on splendid carriages. I will make friends with boundless nature and take the Dark Origin, Laozi, as my teacher. I will transcend life and death and endure with Heaven and Earth. Only this can quiet grief and distress, so I will follow this Way with still greater resolve.”

When the master had finished, the prince bowed his head in gratitude. “For a long time I have been lost in shallow, ordinary arguments. I am fortunate to have heard the master’s profound and subtle teaching. These words have washed away the dregs in my heart and dispelled layer upon layer of mist. I wish to purify my body and mind and follow you. I would be content even to sit at the very end of your disciples.”

Collected Works of Master Zongxuan, Upper Volume

Collected Works of Master Zongxuan, Middle Volume

“Rhapsody on Longing for a Return to Simplicity”

(Longing for the restoration of a simple and unadorned way of life)

The mysterious, honest spirit of the remote primordial age had already begun to fade by the time of Fuxi and Xuanyuan. Though unworked materials were broken apart and fashioned into all kinds of objects, simplicity had not yet vanished entirely in the days of Tang Yao and Yu Shun. Later, the ways of the world grew thinner and more corrupt with each passing day. By the time of the Yin and Zhou, the Way of honesty and fullness had almost disappeared.

Only Confucius, whose courtesy name was Zhongni, stepped forward. Seeing the world grow ever more shallow and frivolous, he was deeply troubled. He therefore arranged the Odes and the Documents and established rites and music, hoping to rescue a society in growing disorder and lead people back from decline to the right path. Laozi, known as Xuanyuan, traveled toward the shifting sands and left the Dao De Jing with Guanyin—said to be Yin Xi, the keeper of Hangu Pass. Its words were spare, yet its meaning profound; through it, Laozi hoped to guide those chasing vanity and competition back to their roots. But the course of the age has its own changes and turns. Even sages cannot prevent its decline.

After the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period had passed, the Seven Warring States fought one another. Under the tyrannical Qin, Confucian learning was persecuted and Daoist thought distorted. Once the Han had brought peace, the people lived in ease and harmony. During the reign of Emperor Xiaowen, the ruler valued Wuwei (non-action) in governing; punishments were scarcely used, people kept to the ordinary Way, and society was harmonious. Emperor Xiaowu loved military campaigns and also valued rites and institutions. Though he did not fully enact a teaching of simplicity and honesty, culture and institutions nevertheless developed. In the reigns of Yuandi and Chengdi, the emperors were young and weak, and governance and instruction gradually declined. The people were able to recover and prosper again only by the resurgence under Shizu.

But Emperor Xiaoming lacked virtue. Misled by strange dreams and omens, he began building shrines to foreign deities and putting his faith in fantastic, unreliable accounts. At first this trend was as slight as water spilling over the rim of a cup, but later it flooded everything. It remained inconspicuous through the Three Kingdoms period, then flourished greatly during the Five Barbarians period. The rites of the Central Plain fell into disuse as frontier customs took hold. Foreign ways seized their opportunity, and people’s hearts turned with them. People came to slight their rulers and parents, and to scorn customary laws and ethical bonds. Monks who shaved their heads and left home were honored, while those who wore official caps and held high office were looked down upon.

People devoted every effort to praying for blessings, and at the slightest doubt feared punishment. This belief arose among princes and kings, and those below followed in droves without needing any urging. They venerated metal images of the Buddha, such as those of Nie Feng, and built towering, splendid halls. One might cut down a thousand acres of bamboo and still not have enough slips to record all their absurd legends; one might exhaust the state treasury and still not satisfy their desire for devout offerings. So jeweled trees and jade terraces rose into the clouds, gleaming in the sunlight; bells rang out clear and pure; and the halls stood deep and splendid. Their many displays of luxury defy description.

These buildings surpassed Zhanghua Terrace, the lavish palace built by King Ling of Chu. They spread across the land, packed closely together; never since people began building palaces had there been such a spectacle. People prized copies of Buddhist scriptures, caring nothing about errors in the texts, while looking down on the books handed down by the former kings. They honored men of cruel punishments and base character, feasting and enjoying themselves in spacious, finely made temples. The people labored all day in humble dwellings, while the monastic community lived at ease for long stretches. From the state down to individual households, people sought illusory blessings and lost the wealth and livelihood they had in front of them.

Those who believed devoutly were promised good fortune and blessings. Those who tried to stop or oppose the practice were threatened with illness and guilt. In this way, even people of little discernment were led to help spread this fraud. The true Way was concealed, while falsehood gained ground. Deceivers gathered and made their living by it: without farming, they amassed wealth; without spinning, they obtained clothes. They lured people into making donations and seized their property, devouring it as greedily as whales and silkworms, growing more ferocious as dragons do with water or leopards with wings.

They all used some small act of kindness to feign compassion, while concealing profound evil within. Such harm was not merely a wild beast rampaging for a time; like a tenacious wood-boring worm, it would damage generations to come. It made petty men proud and arrogant, while those of understanding could only grieve in silence.

Alas, was this brought about by the Way of Heaven, or by human affairs? Heaven is distant and difficult to understand; human affairs are close at hand and can be examined. Though events are said to begin with Heaven’s will, this false and fantastic movement was indeed raised by human beings. It arose at a time when the Jie figures Liu and Shi, and the Qiang rulers of the Fu and Yao clans, came to power in succession. They relied on the strange scriptures and doctrines of the Hu, then spread them with the aid of Han writing. Dao’an organized and expounded them in the region of the Yellow and Luo Rivers; Huiyuan refined and propagated them in the Jiang and Xiang regions. Fotucheng stirred people’s hearts through magical arts, while Kumarajiva gathered disciples and expanded the movement’s influence.

These teachings have no basis in the histories of Ban Gu and Sima Qian; their principles are merely pilfered from the Laozi and the Zhuangzi. They call distant barbarian lands the center and disparage the land of Hua-Xia as a place of exile. Their aim is to swallow up Confucianism and Daoism, suppress imperial authority, seize the power to rule all things, and control the laws governing the transformations of Heaven and Earth. From ancient times to the present, no calamity has been so severe: it defies the Way of Heaven, harms all things, destroys the bonds of order, and overturns what is right.

From the Jin and Song dynasties through the Qi and Liang, every regime that took up this movement met with ruin, and every regime that abolished it prospered. Why, then, did some sink into it without turning back, only to end in regret and peril? Perhaps it was like a small creature forgetting the taste of pungency: after becoming accustomed to it, people mistook the harm for the right path. Hoping to improve the realm, they only deepened its disorder.

When the state’s fortune was spent and its allotted time came to an end, the ruler finally awakened and the ministers made their decision. Millions of people changed the prevailing ways in unspoken accord, and the spirits responded with their aid. The mountains and rivers became clear and peaceful, and the sun and moon shone more brightly. People naturally looked to the court to spread civilized instruction, while the common folk hoped for clear government. It was like a layer of ice grown thick and solid: only the warmth of spring could melt it.

At that time, the Most High Heavenly Worthy issued a command, summoned the myriad spirits, and sent the Calamity Officers to punish evil and investigate offenses, along with the gods of law enforcement to examine and administer punishments. The talismanic mandates of the Five Emperors converged, and the Three Officials marched together. They ordered the Heavenly Generals to lead the celestial troops, beat the heavenly drums, raise the heavenly banners, brandish golden clappers, and hurl fire bells. They set the Thunder Gods to unleash fierce thunder, moving through bright, open spaces and deep, shadowy places, seizing what cast no shadow and tracking what made no sound. They captured the demonic masters, destroyed the armies of evil, set the heavenly steps in order, and swept away ill omens like comets.

They were to sweep away a thousand years of demonic corruption and extend their beneficence in all directions. Then they would return to the human world, dedicating their merit to Shangqing, the celestial realm above described in Daoist teaching. Only then could human relationships follow the teachings, and the Way of the spirits remain pure for generations. Only then could customs corrupted by deviation and error be transformed into an age of harmony and peace. Once the honest spirit of antiquity had returned, I could eat my fill in the hills without worry, sing while striking the earth, and chant of the ages of the ancient sage kings Fuxi, Shennong, Huangdi, Yandi, Shaohao, Zhuanxu, and the House of Dading.

I once studied the Great Dao, hoping to cultivate myself through it, and examined the paths taken by the sages of antiquity. They relied on loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness, so that even after death they would leave behind a good name. The achievements of Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou reached up to Heaven, while the teachings of Confucius and Mozi brought aid to the world. Their reputations were lofty at first, enough to endure through the ages, yet in the end they fell into silence. What, then, could they ultimately accomplish? I had heard only of lofty adepts such as the immortals Chisongzi and Wang Ziqiao, who transcended the world and held fast to the true Dao over a long life. Perhaps they were born with such gifts, but they also attained them through cultivation. Why should I not examine the difficulties and seek out their principles, hoping at least to imitate the methods they left behind?

This means mastering the Great Beginning, the source before Heaven and Earth separated and before the myriad things came into being; grasping the foundation of emptiness, stillness, and harmony; transcending the workings of change; and freeing oneself from the constraints of Yin-Yang’s movements. I understand that what brings “me” into being is Shen, while what binds “me” is human affairs. When Shen accords with one’s nature, it can unite with the Great Dao; when a person follows desires and passions, they lose their original truth. Such people see with penetrating clarity and understand on their own; they stand apart in serene remoteness, unlike ordinary people. Thus they accumulate subtle merit that becomes manifest outwardly, ride upon and hold fast to a single Qi, and renew themselves day by day.

Long ago, inspired by those who cultivated the Dao in earlier times, I resolved in my prime to leave the world of convention. I cast aside the lowly pursuits of worldly life and set out for the freedom beyond it. I prized what people of my time rejected and scorned what they valued. Gazing down at the vast sea, my mind grew deep and tranquil; looking up at the crimson heavens, my aspirations rose high and strong. People of the world were captivated by fine foods and lavish adornments, but I could not see what there was to cherish in them. So I withdrew from the world and settled in mist-wreathed mountains, cleansing my body and clarifying my mind in the hope of seeing profound and mysterious visions and hearing the wondrous sound of utter silence.

The perfected person dwells on high yet can extend blessings far and wide. Wherever the vital breath of righteousness reaches, near or distant, people seek it. They contemplate the brilliance of the paired lights of sun and moon and assist the myriad spirits who stand in ordered abundance. They cause the Elixir Palace, the inner seat where Shen is refined, to shine with divine light, and rinse their mouths with the numinous fluid of the Jade Pool, an image of the saliva used in cultivation. They set the Five Luminaries—the sun, moon, and the five planets of Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth—in motion, making them race through the heavens. They tread the Seven Origins, the stellar primordial energies symbolized by the Big Dipper, moving freely in every direction. The bright essence of Yang gathers in radiant brilliance, while stagnant, turbid Yin energy melts away like ice. Through its use, the body grows more harmonized; the more firmly the mind holds to its practice, the more peaceful it becomes. All day I savor the mysterious meaning and recite numinous texts for my own delight. Though the road to Heaven’s Dao is long, I still hope that, through resonance, I may find a way to connect with it.

Later, rebels disrupted the order of the realm and gathered troops in Luoyang. Fearing that my nest would be burned, I took flight like a bird and made my way to the riverbank. Anxiety and turmoil kept me from focusing on quiet cultivation, and my path of practice was interrupted. My original intent, clear, empty, and tranquil, was ruined and disturbed by the intrusion of filth and noise. Gradually I let things slide and forgot to return; in the blink of an eye, nearly ten years had passed. Thinking of time’s unceasing flight and seeing my hair turn gray, I could not help but grieve and sigh.

Alas, pressing onward is as difficult as driving a cart up a hill; turning back is as easy as stepping down into a valley. Being entangled and submerged in worldly affairs comes from drawing too close to the common world. If I simply cater to what people like, I will surely be abandoned by the Way of the spirits. All things follow a course of reversal, so I will rise up and cast off my burdens. Grime can be washed away and murkiness made clear; if I cast aside the impulse to neglect my cultivation, the resolve to strive diligently will arise. I will replace richness and indulgence with plainness and restraint, and change restlessness and abandon into emptiness, stillness, and settled composure. A tree that takes many arms to encircle grows from a tiny shoot; a trace of frost beneath one’s feet will in time become solid ice. Who says that the obscure and imperceptible—the Dao’s subtle, formless nature—is nothing at all? I know well that even within the elusive and mysterious there is something real on which one can rely. And so, once again…

I brush the dust from my clothes and enter the depths of the ancient forest in pursuit of the life I have long yearned for. In recent times, I have received instruction from the scriptures of the immortals; from afar, I have been guided by perfected beings and ancestral masters. I have forgotten the schemes and deluded thoughts in my heart, and my breath has become calm and even. Again and again I have prevailed in the inner struggle, and my spirit has grown strong. I hope this Dao will endure, and I rejoice that I seek nothing falsely and act without pretense, so that I need no medicine to remain safe and well.

The work of creation and transformation is to condense nothingness into tangible existence; those who seek the Dao, in turn, return from ease and ordinariness to what is subtle and refined. Their realm can be as enduring as Heaven and Earth, and as bright as the sun and moon. I grieve that people sink into the world and pass away with the years, while I alone devote myself to long life. I understand that worldly affairs are brief and the Great Dao endures, and that fame lies far from the Dao, while the body and life are closely bound to cultivation. So I have forgotten scheming and concealed my tracks, beginning to refine and nourish the body and clarify the spirit. The Great Dao will not deceive me: my sincerity has reached the unfathomable mystery. Heaven will surely take note of me and preserve my original Qi.

When the turbid Yin energy within me disperses, my body will transcend the ordinary. When the harmonious, numinous Yang energy is preserved, I will transform into a feathered immortal and ascend. Nine radiant immortals descend, and the sights of the eight directions seem to draw near. Rainbow banners flutter as I ready my carriage, preparing to rise into the clouds. I grasp the pivot of creation and transformation and pass beyond the bounds of life and death. I leave behind the shadowed world in the four directions and draw near to the bright realm of the sun, moon, and stars. I travel through the vast, empty expanse of Heaven and Earth, and the universe itself seems small.

Dragons and luan birds, transformed through refinement, lead me upward to the Mysterious Capital, the land of immortals. Clear, resonant tones of jade spread through the utmost stillness, while golden light shines across the Great Void. Star officials follow behind, and cloud spirits clear the way ahead. I command the Eight Majestic Ones, the Six Leaders, and other divine generals to sweep away evil forces from the heavenly road. At my signal, the myriad demons submit, and I lead all the numinous beings on a shared excursion. Immortal realms in the ten directions unfold in profusion as I pass through layer upon layer of clouds, swiftly pressing onward. I enter the deep, ninefold Gate of Heaven and pause briefly at the Purple Tenuity Enclosure, the abode of the Heavenly Emperor. Leaning on the jeweled canopy, I summon the perfected beings; ascending to the Purple Court, I pay audience to the Heavenly Emperor. He offers me the immortal dew known as hangxie and entertains me with wondrous music. I look left to Yuyi, the spirit of the sun, and right to Jie Lin, the spirit of the moon. The immortal realm is vast and lofty, solemn and magnificent. I delight in its pleasures, roaming without end.

I sail across the broad River of Weak Water and gather the fragrant immortal herbs of the Qian Tree. Numinous energy drifts and spreads in a haze through the eight directions, while precious clouds rise from every side. I sing of these sights in the immortal realm, which seem enough to fill anyone with joy, yet my mind does not linger there. Instead, I mount my jade wheel and travel straight onward, gradually rising higher still. I ride the three primordial energies of Heaven and Earth to soar aloft; how could the people of the world ever catch up with me? I go to Jade Dawn to pay audience to the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning, then to the Golden Gate to visit the August Emperor of the Void. My fellow perfected immortals are too many to count. They all look back toward me and greet me with joy.

In this realm, I can gather myself into visible form or disperse and return to my source. I can see without relying on my eyes and hear without relying on my ears; my vision reaches without limit, and my hearing extends to the boundless. My movement is not driven by intention, and I need no wings to fly. I endure alongside the endless cycles of the eons, viewing the birth and death of all things as a fleeting instant. At times I ascend splendid towers; at others I feast in the palace chambers of Yuanhua. I tread the clear, distant reaches of the Great Void and play amid brilliant, radiant clouds. I gaze up at the towering Jade Ridge and down at the surging blue waters. Lush vermilion trees form a shadowy forest, and the divine wind brings clear, pleasing sounds. This supreme bliss seems to have no end; forever I will roam freely and at ease.

On the mountainside of Shuling, where Yun lives, there is a spring. No matter how much water it holds, its flow is always only as thick as a finger, unchanged through winter and summer. Ordinary stones are rarely found on the mountain, but mica is plentiful. The spring water is white, sweet, and clear. People believe the mica nourishes the water, and so call it “Cloud-Jade Spring.” Yun built a house beside the spring and channeled its water beneath the eaves. He uses it for drinking and rinsing his mouth, and it has never run short.

There was no rain this summer. By October, the rivers and lakes had shrunk, and the wells and mountain streams had all dried up. Yet this spring still flowed clear, its volume no different from usual. Amazed by its wondrous nature, Yun wrote this rhapsody.

The earth nurtures primordial Qi, which lies hidden and flows beneath the surface, eventually gathering into springs. Water stands first among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) and leads the generation of all things. Here, a spring emerges from the mountainside. It lies in a secluded, rugged place, little known to anyone, like a fine well whose water no one draws.

I went in search of this numinous spring, cutting through brambles and climbing the mountain. I found it in a remote, pristine place, with a deep source and a steady flow. Bitter cold cannot diminish it, nor can summer rains increase it. So I built a house here and drew water, drinking from the spring in peaceful contentment. Its water seems to mingle with the essence of dark jade, as though it held the sweet dew of the clouds and rosy mists. It can cure illness and prolong life, and anyone may draw as much as they wish.

The spring water falls from above, bright and white; gathered in a pool, it is clear as green jade. By day, ripples drift gently across its surface; at night, the soft patter of flowing water can be heard. When Yin-Yang fall out of balance, calamity follows. Rain and drought have come at the wrong times: summer’s heat has lasted into the ninth month without rain. The broad rivers have long since dried up, and even the gleaming waterfalls have ceased to flow. If such abundant waters as rivers and lakes have run dry, how much more so the small streams in mountain valleys.

This spring’s nature remains constant, without the slightest loss. Though it cannot benefit distant places, it can nourish the land nearby. Can fields long plagued by drought not receive at least a little of its flowing water for a time? Sweet-spring water, the auspicious nectar of legend, has no fixed source and dries up easily; the red elixir stream, a legendary immortal spring, appears only by chance and is hard to find. How could either compare with this spring, which is always there as a clear mirror, ready to be drawn whenever needed? The immortal nectar of sacred mountains and imperial terraces is said to appear in remote, uninhabited lands. This spring, too, reveals its wonders in a place at the edge of the world, and truly deserves to be called numinous and inexhaustible.

“Rhapsody on the Mysterious Gibbon,” with Preface

An earlier text says that when King Mu of Zhou campaigned in the south, noble men transformed into apes and cranes, while petty men became insects and fish. The transformations of spirits have no fixed form; such changes are not impossible.

When I once entered Mount Lu, I saw this extraordinary ape. I admired it: in the gloom of rainy weather, it made no sound; once the sky cleared, it let out a long cry. It trod neither fields nor rocks, moving at ease among the layers of trees. In spring it ate flowers and leaves; in autumn, fruit. It did not damage the crops. It lived in a secluded, distant place, yet retained the character of a noble man, unlike macaques and their kind.

Since troubles spread through the world, all things have fallen into decline: deer have been caught in nets, and the people burdened by harsh levies. Only this ape lives in peace and freedom, disturbed by nothing. Is it not because it dwells in a remote and secluded place, and has not displayed its abilities, that it has stayed clear of disaster?

Long ago, Confucius saw a hen pheasant on a mountain ridge and sighed, “The moment! The moment!” I was moved by this, and so I have written this fu.

Black gibbons live high in the steep mountains of the south. They move without setting foot on the ground and usually dwell in the woods. Often they roam freely, with no fixed destination, yet they are lively and joyful, as though they have pleasures of their own. When clouds and mist surround them, they fall silent together; when wind and rain have passed, they call to one another. Their cries can clear and ease the thoughts of recluses, and bring tears to the robes of disappointed travelers. If that is so, why insist on listening to pipes in a mountain valley, or grieve at the sound of Gongmenzi’s zither?

They climb trees a thousand fathoms tall and gaze down at perilous cliffs ten thousand fathoms deep. They chase drifting clouds and play beneath the slanting rays of the setting sun. They link arms as they drink from mountain streams, and call to one another in play. At times they gather and rest at leisure; at others they scatter and travel far. Like numinous cranes, their nature accords with that of the noble person. The steep, layered crags are difficult even for tigers and leopards to cross; among the tangled branches and dense shade, even gulls and parrots cannot see them. Thus, when Feng Meng took up his bow, the height of the mountains and the rugged paths made him stop; when Duke Deng broke his arrows, compassion moved him to cease killing.

They rarely suffer calamity, and do not profit by harming other creatures. Silkworms accumulate silk, only to be stripped of it and killed by people; gibbons crave wine and in the end perish because of it. People prize sable furs and regard white fox pelts as treasures; these animals, though skilled at hiding, still end up in traps. The musk deer’s fragrance brings the danger of death, while the macaque’s display of cleverness draws bows and arrows. Small kingfishers die for their beautiful feathers; great rhinoceroses and elephants are harmed for their horns, tusks, and hides. Who can escape the harm that comes from being useful to others and instead gain the benefit of being useless? Considered useless by worldly people, these creatures are able to remain free and at ease for a long time.

Among them there are no punishments or restraints, and members of the same kind live in close fellowship. They take food from the things around them and clothing from their own bodies. They pay no taxes and perform no labor service; they neither hurry about nor toil. As though human systems of government and instruction had not yet begun, they still keep to their life in the trees, simple and peaceful. Even a sage ruler such as Shun could scarcely attain this state. How, then, could it be brought about by a monkey keeper’s methods of taming monkeys? I know, of course, that humans are regarded as the most honored of all creatures. But how can we fathom the universal balance that Heaven and Earth’s transformations bestow upon all things?

On Whether Immortality Can Be Learned

The Book of Documents, in its “Great Plan” chapter, speaks of the five blessings people pray for, the first of which is longevity. I know, of course, that humans are regarded as the most honored of all creatures. But how can we fathom the universal balance that Heaven and Earth’s transformations bestow upon all things?

In the five blessings described in the Hongfan, the first is long life. Even when a person lives to a hundred, the august Heaven still regards this as the greatest blessing. How much more so for immortals, who transcend the mundane world and live without end? Such a great blessing as immortality has no equal. Yet people today often disregard it and are unwilling to pursue it. Why is this? I will try to explain the reasons.

People of below-average intelligence, down to ordinary folk, are little different from birds, beasts, insects, and worms. They are born and then die, knowing nothing of principles beyond their own understanding; when they hear of the Dao of immortality, they mock it among themselves. Those of above-average intelligence are constrained by the doctrines of social ethics (Confucian norms). They spend their days hemmed in by the Three Bonds and Five Constants, with no time to hear of the Dao of immortality. Even when they do hear of it, they only half believe. Of the tens of millions, perhaps only one can steadily cultivate body and mind, keep everyday desires from overwhelming them, and devote themselves wholeheartedly to cultivation. Practitioners act in secret, and those who attain the Dao do not reveal themselves, so few in the world understand the methods for cultivating immortality. This is truly regrettable.

Long ago, Sang Jiao asked Juanzi, “People have died since antiquity, yet it is also said that there are immortals in the world. How can this be explained?” Juanzi replied, “Both are true.” To say that both are true means that nothing is absent from the principles of the world. Since this is so, one may also attain immortality through study and cultivation.

Ji Kang said that immortals are simply born with an extraordinary endowment of Qi, naturally possessing an immortal nature; they do not attain it through years of study. This account may not fully explain how things come about. Some attain immortality without cultivation because they received an extraordinary endowment. Others must study and cultivate, succeeding only when their accumulated deeds and practice are complete. Still others cultivate but fail because they begin diligently, then grow slack and cannot persevere to the end. Each of these three cases has its own cause; they cannot all be treated alike.

People who live between Heaven and Earth are indeed different from other beings. When the heart-mind communicates, there is a response; when sincerity is stirred, it can bring about a resonance. Thus, Geng Gong raised his sword in prayer, and a spring welled up from level ground; Li Guang shot an arrow, and its point penetrated a crouching rock. When focused with utter sincerity, even blows from blades can make earth and stone respond, like an echo following a sound or a shadow following a form. How much more, then, when someone holds a sincere resolve over many years: would the Perfected Lord not secretly work on their behalf? Once this hidden aid is received, they can quickly set out on the path to deathlessness.

Who is the Perfected Lord? It is the Most High (Taishang), the supreme deity revered in Daoism. He is the highest sovereign of the spirits, dwelling at the foremost point of the unseen realm, exalted above the Purple Tenuity (the central region of Heaven), and secretly admonishing all beings. The Book of Odes says, “The Lord on High is watching over you.” The Book of Documents says, “Heaven observes, and observes with the utmost clarity.” Heaven rewards the good and punishes the wicked without the slightest error. How could the deluded see through the source of this? They go about their daily lives without knowing it, abandoning the root to pursue the branches.

Thus there are seven reasons people turn away from the Dao of immortality, and seven reasons they draw near to it.

People today have not understood the subtle gateway or grasped the traces of the hidden Dao. They simply echo what they hear, taking death and disappearance as real and life as a false illusion. They prize human nature alone and abandon the body, willingly heading toward death while imagining this to be the natural order. They do not know that Heaven and Earth contain the principles of the Changes: if Heaven and Earth were destroyed, people would have no way to behold the Changes. The body and breath are where nature is borne; when body and breath decay, nature has nowhere to remain. And if nature has nowhere to remain, what would that mean for me? This is the first way of turning away from the immortal path.

Another view holds that becoming an immortal must have an end, and that ultimately one still sinks into ruin. Those who hold this view are misled and lack clear insight, so they believe false claims. How could they know that things with form and substance first arise from emptiness and formlessness? Stillness and emptiness gather and give rise to spirit; the activity of spirit engenders Qi; Qi condenses and gradually becomes visible; as it accumulates layer upon layer, it forms the body. Once the body is established, spirit dwells within it, and a human being comes to be. Thus, if life is allowed to follow this flow and continually dissipate, the result is death; returning to the source makes it possible to become an immortal.

Therefore, attune yourself to the true Dao and refine and cultivate the body. When the body is clear, it can unite with Qi. Hold fast to the Great Dao and refine and cultivate Qi. When Qi is clear, it can unite with spirit. When body and mind unite seamlessly with the Dao, this is called attaining the Dao. The Great Dao has no bounds to begin with; how, then, could the immortal path have an end? People in the world are generally deluded and never awaken. This is the second way of turning away from the immortal path.

Some people force the claim that life and death are one and the same, and mistake their earlier understanding for an awakening to the true Dao. They think the body is destined to decay and vanish, while the hun and po souls can thereby obtain life anew. So they despise the body they have now and scheme to exchange it for a new one in the future. Little do they know that once a person enters the great furnace of Creation, to be forged by the forces of Yin and Yang, wandering souls migrate and transform, attaching themselves instead to other forms. The spirit may be reborn among other kinds of beings, and consciousness may forget its original body. This is like a crow turning into a fish and a fish turning into a crow: each goes where it belongs, and they cannot communicate with one another. If a change of form goes unnoticed, how much more so rebirth after death. This is truly pitiable, yet people do not grieve over it. This is the third way of departing from the Way of the Immortals.

Some people take high office and social standing as grounds for pride, and fame and achievement as a way to live forever. They lose themselves in beauty and music, crave fine clothes and rich food, and think that building up property is a plan for the long term, while leaving wealth to their descendants is a far-reaching provision. Little do they know that prosperity must decline, high position brings danger, what is gained will eventually be lost, and what is full will eventually be diminished. Clinging to these things, they believe this is how to secure lasting stability. They set stillness and emptiness aside. How could they be willing to cultivate and nourish one another through tranquility and wisdom, keep the mind balanced and centered, follow their nature, and reach the true Dao? This is the fourth way of departing from the Way of the Immortals.

Some people, held in the bonds of love and desire in the vigor of youth, begin to hope for long life only when their hair has turned gray. Though the wish to practice the Dao and study it arises at last, the foundations damaged in the body have yet to be restored. They refuse to remove habits accumulated over many years and merely pursue superficial refinements. Inwardly they admire the reputation of cultivating the Dao, but in practice they act contrary to what accords with the true Dao. They can neither have their names removed from the register of the dead nor be entered into the mysterious register of the Immortals. The years slip away, and life’s appointed limit arrives suddenly. When they are on the brink of decline and death, they instead blame the spirits. This is the fifth way of departing from the Way of the Immortals.

The second kind of person hears that the “Great Elixir” (a Daoist elixir said to transform one into an immortal) can bring about transcendence and immortality, and that taking medicines can prolong life. They rush to refine elixirs, painstakingly seeking herbs and other medicinal ingredients. Time and again, they exhaust their wealth trying to refine the “Eight Minerals” (mineral substances used in alchemy), yet taking the medicines never works. They do not understand that liquid gold—the elixir produced through alchemy—must be prepared under the guidance of a perfected person who knows the art, and that immortality medicines such as lingzhi mushrooms must also be nourished by the Dao’s Qi. They do not investigate the root, but busy themselves with minor details. In the end, having achieved nothing, they conclude that the ancients deceived them. This is the sixth way of becoming distant from the immortal Dao.

The third kind of person lives among those who cultivate the Dao, but their heart is sunk in worldly desires. Their actions violate the precepts, and when alone they do not practice. Outwardly, they win a reputation for quiet cultivation, while inwardly they harbor treacherous schemes. They may deceive other people, but they cannot deceive the spirits. This is the seventh way of becoming distant from the immortal Dao.

As for those whose nature inclines toward mystery and stillness, and who have few desires and appetites: they understand that wealth and status are not worth esteeming, but they do not deliberately put on airs or claim moral superiority. They do not covet illicit sexual pleasure, but neither do they suppress improper thoughts merely to appear chaste. They uphold the highest benevolence and are profoundly still within; they rise above worldly life and abide in the true realm beyond the world. Their hearts yearn for the Great Dao, and they take Wuwei (non-action) as their guiding principle. This is the first way of drawing near to the immortal Dao.

The second kind of person aspires to lofty, generous, and simple virtues, devoting themselves to cultivating De and putting it into practice. They know that wealth and status are only temporary lodgings, so they keep them from their thoughts. Knowing that pleasures of sight and sound harm the nature, they abandon them and do not pursue them. They root out covertly harmful acts and accumulate good deeds without seeking reward. They restrain anger and curb desire, and do not let slander or praise alter their resolve. They live in mountain forests and valleys, cultivating the pure and still methods of the Dao. This is the second way of drawing near to the immortal Dao.

The third kind of person holds an official position, yet their heart yearns for the Dao and De. They serve their superiors loyally and treat their subordinates according to what is right. They are frugal with themselves and generous toward others, treating people with benevolence, humility, and kindness, and extending their care and goodwill widely. Outwardly, they adapt to the bustle of worldly life, while inwardly they remain clear and pure. They act with care and discretion, quietly cultivating the Dao, cherishing life and disliking death. This is the third way of drawing near to the immortal Dao.

The fourth kind of person, though born into wealth and status, is free and untroubled, content with poverty and low station. They have the ability to govern the state and benefit the age, yet behave as though they possess nothing. They are learned in the past and present, yet their hearts are empty and clear, without conceit. They accept neither titles nor stipends, firmly making transcendence of worldly life their aim, and calmly making the preservation of life their priority. This is the fourth way of drawing near to the immortal Dao.

Next, there are people of keen intelligence and outstanding character who can rouse themselves and are not ensnared by clever schemes or selfish thoughts. They are bold and decisive when facing events, skilled at responding, and never fail to overcome what they set out to do; a single battle brings victory. Afterward, they can quiet their minds and settle themselves, nourish their spirit through calmness, and attain the true realm through single-minded devotion. This comes close to the fifth kind of approach to the immortal way.

Next, there are people who regret past wrongs, cleanse their hearts, and begin anew. Even if they made mistakes in youth, they hope to make amends in later life. They atone for faults through meritorious deeds, so that the faults are erased and their achievements preserved; they correct crooked conduct by following the right path, so that misguided thoughts fade while a right-minded heart remains. Even after enduring hardship, they do not abandon their integrity; the clamor of outside opinion cannot disturb their nature. By being sincere and single-minded, and attentive to the finest details, their earnestness gradually becomes manifest. This comes close to the sixth kind of approach to the immortal way.

Next, there are people of the utmost loyalty and filial devotion, and the utmost steadfastness and integrity. The Zhengao (Declarations of the Perfected), a Daoist text, says that such people need neither practice nor study: they naturally receive the protection of the Dao. Bi Gan was disemboweled, yet did not die; Hui Feng fell into the water, then came back to life. The world believed that people such as Boyi, Shuqi, Zeng Shen, and Xiao Ji had died, but the Dao allowed them to endure. People like these are counted among those of immortal character. They are called “hidden in radiance, transformed in secret”: their traces disappear and they undergo transformation unseen, so that though dead, they are not lost. These are cases of what happens naturally, and come close to the seventh kind of approach to the immortal way.

Abandon the seven distant and difficult paths, and choose the seven nearer, more practicable ones. This is called being pulled from a pit, leaving a place of immersion, smashing the vehicle that brings calamity, and mounting the carriage that leads to good fortune. Only then can one begin to cross the ford into the way of the immortals.

From this, one can come to know where the Original Mandate of life resides and understand where upright Qi comes from. One makes the mind empty, still, and settled, calm and harmonious, in order to nourish one’s nature; one breathes out old Qi and takes in fresh Qi to harmonize the spirit. Then one preserves stability through the way of lofty emptiness and supports and replenishes oneself with good medicines, bringing both inner and outer life into balance so that body and spirit transcend together. Even if one has not yet ascended, I believe one is already like a bird spreading its wings and soaring above the crimson clouds.

The Dao (the Way) is inherently Wuwei (non-action) and formless, yet it has genuine feeling and reliable efficacy. Thus, people can think of the Dao, and the Dao can respond to them. The Dao never fails people; it is people who fail the Dao. These words carry profound meaning.

People often suppose that the Dao’s fundamental nature is mysterious and empty, so they value “emptiness” and look down on “being.” They rely on their own physical form and innate endowment, so they cling to “being” and forget “emptiness.” But how could they know that “being” arises from “emptiness,” while “emptiness” is made manifest through “being”? Only when being and emptiness merge as one does the Dao reach its highest state.

Stillness and depth are the Great Dao’s “image without form”—its manifestation without any concrete shape. The Yin-Yang (yin and yang), the Two Modes, and the sun, moon, and stars are the Great Dao’s “image with form”—its visible, tangible manifestation. If ultimate emptiness alone were deemed mysterious, the Dao would not breathe forth primordial Qi, harmonize Yin-Yang, generate Heaven and Earth, or set the sun and moon in motion. Because “being” takes “emptiness” as the basis of its efficacy, and “emptiness” depends on “being” to make itself manifest, Heaven and Earth can keep turning through the ages, and true sages can endure without perishing. Thus, nurturing and bringing forth the myriad things is Heaven and Earth’s greatest virtue.

The cosmos is so vast and the myriad things so abundant precisely so that we may live. If people were to scatter like smoke and vanish like ashes, would that be any different from Heaven collapsing and Earth falling apart? Those who pursue only immediate fame and prominence are not what I value.

Death is a calamity shared by the human world and the Way of Heaven. Who can escape this calamity? Brush off your robes, leave the dust of the world behind, and draw near to the Great Dao alone. Is the Dao far away? To do this is already to be close to it.

The most profound and wondrous Dao (the Way) lies in a realm of utmost emptiness. It manifests through resonance, like sound held within metal or stone, which rings only when struck. Thus, open the heart and bring it into accord with the realm of emptiness; when the heart is empty, it becomes still. By means of utmost stillness, gather resonance; once resonance arises, one can communicate with the Dao. When this communication is complete, the universe settles, heavenly light appears, and body and nature sustain one another. The flow of life has no end.

People receive the Qi (vital energy) of Heaven and Earth and thereby form their bodies; the body follows the pattern of Heaven and Earth. The five viscera, six bowels, every joint, and all four limbs are places where divine beings dwell, each with its own ruler and guardian. Nurture and preserve them, and they remain; neglect them, and they perish. What remains can give life; what perishes leads to death. Therefore, remove the causes of death and take up the way of nourishing life.

If one recites the Golden Books of the Great Thearch and studies the Jade Chapters of Dongzhen (one of Daoism’s scriptural systems), gathers the Thearch One—the divine being preserved within the body—in the Palace of Crimson (the inner palace where the heart resides), arrays the Three Primal Energies—the energies or divine beings associated with Heaven, Earth, and humanity—in the Purple Chamber (a palace within the body), absorbs the essences of the Sun and Moon, and ascends to the numinous framework of the Seven Primal Energies, then, once one’s Daoist arts are complete and one’s cultivation fully accomplished, there is no need to take the Great-Return Elixir of Langya in order to ascend to immortality. In this way, a mortal can cultivate into an immortal, and an immortal can advance to become a perfected person. A perfected person is one with the Dao and is called a divine person.

Divine people can preserve their bodies or make themselves vanish; they can conceal themselves or appear. They transcend the bounds of creation and transformation, yet also enter realms vast and limitless. Without deliberate thought, they perceive the hidden mysteries; without wings, they fly freely. They wander in the halls of bright clouds and feast in chambers of feathered radiance. Their joy endures as long as Heaven and Earth, and their lifespan cannot be measured, like the Great Void.

These Daoist arts are written on golden tablets. How could their profound and subtle teachings be revealed carelessly? Those who are eager to learn should open the jade casket and seek out its secrets.

Confucians and Mohists value loyalty, filial piety, compassion, and love. Immortals, by contrast, prize blessings and good fortune that reach even kings and lords, extend to ancestors through memorial rites, and pass down to descendants. Which of these three is more important? Alas, the affairs of high antiquity can no longer be examined in detail. Since the time of Fuxi and Xuanyuan, have there ever been ages without figures such as Guangchengzi, Chisongzi, Lingwei, and An Qisheng? Accounts of the distant past are recorded in the classics, while people in recent times have seen and heard these things for themselves. Since such examples are clear, the way of immortals can indeed be cultivated and its truth plainly seen. Why not strive to pursue it? Among those who have sought the Dao throughout the ages, those who have truly attained it are clearly known. All who have resolve…

Human life depends on Shen (spirit), and Shen resides in the body. Within a person’s heart is, in truth, the spiritual chamber, the dwelling place of the spirit. When the heart is still, Shen and Qi (vital energy) can flourish, and the body is brought into harmony. When the heart is agitated, Shen and Qi grow weary, and the body is harmed as well. Only by making one’s foundations deep and firm and one’s state of mind utterly tranquil can one cultivate one’s nature.

Yet it is the heart that stirs Shen and Qi, and the eyes that unsettle the heart and spirit. Nothing more severely causes a person to lose their original nature and turn away from their roots. The author therefore uses the “heart” and the “eyes” to develop his argument, hoping in this way to dispel obstructions and clarify the spirit.

The heart said to the eyes: “I long for Wuwei (non-action) and stillness, yet you are always disturbing me. I wish to forget desire, withdraw from the world, follow my nature, and seek emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei. I would rest within Great Harmony, the state in which all things are in accord, and walk the open, unobstructed Way; transcend the bounds of life and death, enter the realm of the divine, ride the primordial chaos on a distant journey, and keep company with the boundless heavens and earth. Why, just as I am about to become still, must you keep looking? Just as I seek quiet, must you keep worrying and striving?

“You look upon the myriad forms and disturb my nature; you crave beauty and deplete my spirit. You make me lose my way in distant, empty silence, then rush about amid the world’s turmoil. You unsettle me with springtime pleasures and make me grieve in the desolate autumn wilderness. You leave me tangled in emotion as I long for my homeland, and stir my thoughts when I gaze toward Heaven’s Gate. I see the land of Chu and cannot stop yearning for it; I look down toward Qi and cannot bear to part from it. All these countless thoughts become feelings, and every one is caused by the eyes confusing the spirit.

“Even if the body craves splendid clothes, the mouth delights in rich flavors, the ears enjoy pleasing sounds, and the nose favors fragrant scents, what good does any of it do? The many things of the external world disturb me greatly, and you are to blame. What you pursue is not what I truly need.”

The eyes replied indignantly: “Have you not heard? A ruler governs all under Heaven by first setting himself in order; disorder is not caused by the people alone. In the time of Yao, customs were simple and honest, and people all followed the Son of Heaven’s laws. The master who governs the body—if he turns away from the right path, I abandon him; if he follows the right path, I accept him. From this come both good fortune and the gathering of regret.

“Therefore, those who govern all under Heaven should put things in order before disorder arises; those who keep to the Way should gather their thoughts before they scatter. When the five emotions surge and chase after one another, how can clear awareness be preserved? Why not rein in your thoughts and discern right from wrong? You grieve over what you cannot obtain, yet let external things toss you about: when you see them prosper, you rejoice; when you see them suffer disgrace, you mourn. You chase changes swift as the wind, racing like stars and lightning to satisfy your desires. In doing so, you disturb your original nature and go against Heaven’s heart and the balance of nature. Is that not losing the natural Way?”

The eyes continued: “That is why I am driven by you, rushing about after what you desire. Alas, alas! You become stained by all this dust, then blame me. Who, in truth, has caused the trouble?”

Hearing this, the heart fell silent in sorrow for a long time. It considered that external things really could bring harm, and wished to transcend the world’s disturbances together with the eyes. But who, truly, was the heart’s enemy? External things were all different; who could explain the principles behind them? If the heart and eyes could not return together to the mysterious realm, how could the heart avoid becoming mired in the world’s turmoil?

So the heart spoke to the eyes once more: “Look upon me, and return with me to Mysterious Unity, the state of union with the Great Dao. Now let us choose a secluded, tranquil place, feast on pure Qi, draw in the morning light, chew jade blossoms, and rinse our mouths with nectar. Then we may hope for spiritual transformation, grow wings, and soar freely beyond the clouds; ascend to the Three Pure Ones, the highest heavens in Daoism, and leave the farthest reaches of the world behind. We will make friends with immortals such as Chisongzi and Wang Ziqiao, and endure as long as Heaven and Earth. At that point, how could praise or blame affect us? What would there be to worry about in choosing or refusing?”

The heart then recited its aspirations, telling the eyes what was good and what was not good.

Some say, “It is close, but it has not yet reached the utmost.” If one can truly attain this, one can seek inner stillness without being disturbed by the turmoil of the outside world; though one’s words are worldly, one’s mind remains untouched by defilement. Only then can one return to one’s true nature and stand apart, free and independent.

“Xiyi” refers to the Dao in its state of being unseen and unheard. When the Dao’s body contracts, it has no inner boundary; when it unfolds, it has no outer boundary. It is vast without limit, so deep and mysterious that nothing can stand in relation to it. If one abandons this state and pursues something else, one gains what is small and loses what is great. One may focus only on dispelling the shadow of one’s breathing, yet still be unable to avoid gain and loss. Only when the mind is empty and still can insight arise; this is the state sustained by Dao and De. If a person cuts off clever schemes before thoughts have even arisen, the natural principles of Heaven will accord with the mind.

Thus Xuanyuan (Laozi) ground down his sharp edges to apprehend the mysterious, while Wenshuan (Confucius) set aside his preconceptions and let body and mind follow their natural course. The Yellow Emperor grasped the Great Dao through what has neither form nor image, while Guangchengzi united with the Dao in the deep and distant realm. Yan Hui attained great understanding through “sitting in forgetfulness”—sitting quietly and forgetting the body and distinctions—while Zhuang Sheng (Zhuangzi) followed the Way of Heaven and mastered its principles. By examining the De of sages throughout the ages, we can see that what they pursued was not clever contrivance. Their minds were calm as water, clear and bright. Though the world’s dust and bustle never ceased, the mirror of their inner awareness remained lucid. They did not leave the world to retreat to some lofty seclusion, yet their minds could still be at peace. Thus they dwelt in calm composure, responding as things called forth a response; without trying to display themselves, they shone naturally, and without trying to conceal themselves, they remained profoundly mysterious. Seeing through the distinction between beginning and end, they became one with all things.

By following the Great Dao without insisting on gain, one does not lose anything. This is truly to walk the level, open road and to preserve great good fortune for a long time. But if one abandons the middle way and pursues outward appearances, one gradually moves farther from the Dao and encounters obstacles at every turn. Why is this so? Only where water is deep will dragons dwell; only where forests are dense will wild beasts make their homes. The spirits dwell in emptiness and stillness; the Dao gathers in the mysterious void. If one does not strip away existing attachments, how can one accord with the Dao, which has neither form nor image? If one cannot forget the body and abide in stillness, cleanse the mind of flaws and dust, and let the mysterious aperture grow clear of itself and the hidden locks open on their own, how can one transcend entanglements?

Only then can one command the Eight Radiances, the scenes of the immortal realms described in Daoist tradition, ascend to the Nine Heavens, behold the splendor of the Golden Towers, and wander through the solitary Purple Court. One can dwell alongside the endless cycles of aeons and regard ten thousand ages as a single morning.

At this point, my heart was freed from its many worries. My doubts subsided, and I grew still and gradually clear minded. Even when using my mind and spirit, I was no longer impatient. So I gave thanks to my eyes: how fortunate that you enabled me to understand the right Dao, opened my heart with words of ultimate truth, awakened me from the great dream, and led me into “layered mystery” (the Daoist principle of mystery that transcends being and nonbeing and deepens layer by layer). You set me on the ladder of reality and brought me to the gate of mystery, letting me roam across vast and distant realms and wander through the boundless source.

I neither attach myself to the crowd nor remain isolated and alone. There is neither stillness nor harmony to speak of. Body and mind unite in supreme joy; embracing true essence, I endure. I abandon it, yet there is nothing to abandon; I investigate it, and it grows ever more profound. In this way, I reach the root of transformation and understand the intent of Heaven and Earth.

This carries me beyond the limits of blindness: my heart no longer clings to what it sees. Even when the dark and yellow colors of Heaven and Earth appear before me, I am not captivated by the scene. To see things with form is like seeing emptiness; to hear the Shao music (the fabled refined music of antiquity) is like hearing an echo in an empty valley. I respond to nature and keep desirelessness as my companion. I no longer chase after power. I hold to what can be maintained in the world after birth, stifling desire before it arises and dispelling disorder before it begins.

I no longer think Heaven and Earth vast, nor regard a fine hair as small. Amid silence, I still sense harmony; hidden within the obscure and undifferentiated, I still see understanding. I follow the cycles of change, drawing in my radiance and sheltering my spirit. Even if fierce winds churn the sea, sudden thunder splits the mountains, floods surge to the sky, and blazing fires consume the lakes, I remain at ease. As for acting or resting, speaking or keeping silent, why deliberate over them?

On How Form and Spirit Can Be Preserved, with Preface

I have often reflected on the essential meaning of the Great Dao and its mysterious workings. In the end, they all return to emptiness, and emptiness in turn returns to nature. What is called nature is that which happens of itself, without knowing how or why. Thus, nature gives rise to emptiness.

I often reflect on the essence of the Great Dao and its mysterious workings, and find that everything ultimately returns to “emptiness.” Emptiness, in turn, ultimately returns to nature. By nature, I mean that things are so of themselves, without anyone knowing why. Thus nature gives rise to emptiness, emptiness gives rise to the Great Dao, the Great Dao gives rise to the blended mist of Yin and Yang, this blended mist gives rise to Heaven and Earth, and Heaven and Earth give rise to the myriad things. All things come into being through the differentiation of a single chaotic Qi within that blended mist.

Heaven attains the One and becomes naturally clear; Earth attains the One and becomes naturally stable, and so can endure. Human beings, too, receive a breath of Qi. Why, then, can they not live as long as Heaven and Earth, but instead grow frail and die? It is because insatiable desires continually press upon and deplete the body and mind. The Scripture of Mysterious Harmony says, “If people put an end to twelve excessive desires and hold fast to the One of the Ancestral Source, the root of all things, they can live long.” The Scripture of Jade Capital Mountain also says, “Constantly visualize and absorb the primal essence; refine and nourish the body’s fluids to strengthen the form. Use embryonic breathing, breathing gently and slowly like a fetus, to quiet the body’s openings and pathways. In stillness, investigate the Three Conveniences, the three aids or essentials spoken of in cultivation. Let the Muddy Pellet, the upper Dantian within the head, reveal a radiant vision; ultimately become an Immortal of Golden Radiance.” In this way, one can share the longevity of Heaven and Earth and shine with the same brightness as the sun and moon. The gate to cultivation stands open, yet no one knows how to enter. Is this not lamentable?

Though I have little talent or learning, I have ventured to set down these reflections. I see ordinary, ineffectual people who have entered the Daoist tradition yet do not know how to keep to the Dao, take in Qi, regulate and nourish the body, or safeguard the spirit. Nor do they understand the means of protecting and sustaining the cultivation of the Golden Elixir. Some hold high office as ministers of state, assist in governing the realm, and are well versed in the Confucian classics; they enjoy generous salaries and elevated status, yet know nothing of ways to nourish the body, transform the form, return Jing and Qi, or replenish what has been depleted. As a result, they often allow their bodies to wither and fail to live out their natural years. This is truly regrettable.

I now venture to discuss the deeds of the sages of old, setting them out in five chapters. My learning is insufficient to produce a fine work, and my prose is not worthy of close study or debate. I can only explain the principles and their right and wrong in broad outline, in the hope that those who keep to the Dao will take as their model the Dao of emptiness and nature, and of what is true and authentic.

Those who cultivate in black robes should understand the state before Yin and Yang have separated into two. The subtlety of embryonic breathing—breath as fine and continuous as that of an unborn child—lies in its unbroken flow, seeming to be there yet difficult to detect. Once the Three Corpses, spirits said in Daoism to dwell in the human body, provoke wrongdoing, and drain away one’s lifespan, have been purged, the appointed days complete the process and one may ascend. This is the utmost mystery of the Dao.

Those who compound elixirs should refine lead to extract gold and turn stone into water, employing cultivation methods described by Neidan terms such as Yellow Sprout and River Chariot, as well as the Spirit Chamber—the furnace chamber used in elixir making, or the place within the body where cultivation takes place. Subdue mercury and refine it into a Golden Elixir; take a small dose, and you may live as long as Heaven and Earth. Those who understand will grasp the principle; those who are confused will be held fast by words and writing.

Later students should carefully discern and experience the subtle changes at work, leaving nothing to chance. Practitioners of every kind should cultivate together. Even when something stirs within the heart, there is no need to cling to the hope of a response. Those who have attained the Dao close the gateways of the senses, such as the ears and eyes; those who seek the Dao quiet their minds and reflect. Why worry that the proper times and tally signs might fail to correspond, preventing the Great Dao from emerging?

Guarding the Dao

The Dao is the state referred to by the term Wuwei (non-action). Later students should carefully discern and experience the subtle changes at work, leaving nothing to chance. Practitioners of every kind should cultivate together. Even when something stirs within the heart, there is no need to cling to the hope of a response. Those who have attained the Dao close the gateways of the senses, such as the ears and eyes; those who seek the Dao quiet their minds and reflect. Why worry that the proper times and tally signs might fail to correspond, preventing the Great Dao from emerging?

Guarding the Dao

The Dao is the fundamental principle of Wuwei (non-action), the profound and mysterious teaching, the source of nature, and the ancestor of emptiness. It is high and distant like the heavens that cover all, and vast and deep enough to contain the earth. Heaven and earth take it as their source; the myriad things take it as their foundation. Nothing else can be compared with the Dao, and no boundary can be conceived by which to measure it. It precedes the undivided chaos, yet its beginning cannot be seen; it is subtle within the smallest measure, yet its end cannot be seen. When a person has the Dao within, they do not feel it is in excess; when the Dao is between heaven and earth, nothing feels lacking. The Dao is vast without limit and deep beyond measure. Whoever can hold fast to it can grasp the fundamental principles of heaven and earth.

Thus Qibo, a legendary physician of high antiquity, said: “Those in ancient times who understood the Dao followed the changes of Yin-Yang, kept the body’s defensive Qi flowing in harmony, ate in moderation, maintained regular habits of rest and activity, and acted without clinging to deliberate action or becoming entangled in turmoil when handling affairs. In this way, they could overcome hardness with softness, govern Yang with Yin, control clarity with turbidity, and master strength with weakness. Even as their sinews, bones, and marrow fluids were depleted, they could still hold fast to the Great Dao.”

The Great Dao means that in cultivating the Dao, one often undergoes loss and gains relatively little; one experiences much loss and little gain. “Gain” means increasing the physical form; “attainment” means obtaining the hidden and mysterious Dao. Attaining this hidden Dao allows one to resonate and commune with the spirits. The Garden of Discourses, an ancient text, says: “Where mountains are high, clouds and rain gather; where waters are deep, fish and turtles come to dwell.” When a person holds fast to the Dao, blessings come of themselves.

“Taking in emptiness”

The art of primordial Qi has never been recorded in writing since ancient times. Its formulas were passed on only to people of like mind, after they had sworn an oath by mixing their blood. The Upper Clarity prohibitions and secret instructions, hidden books in jade caskets, the teachings of the various schools and masters, and texts conferring revelations and transmissions—even the secret intentions of Lord Lao and the inner and outer versions of the Yellow Court Scripture—refer to it only obliquely and never make its essential points clear. The five thousand words of the Dao De Jing only briefly touch on “the gate of the Mysterious Female,” calling it the root of Heaven and Earth. They seem to reveal a few clues, but the true foundation remains deeply concealed.

I have often investigated the methods of primordial Qi cultivation taught by different schools, and I have also seen people who practiced nourishing themselves by absorbing Qi. They often died within five or ten years. I was born with a love of Daoist arts and a commitment to cultivating primordial harmony, the harmonizing of primordial Qi. Whenever I met someone who practiced the Dao, I asked them to teach me. Their views differed widely. Some ate between the hours of the Rat and the Horse; some drank the “liquid of the Five Teeth,” a fluid described in Daoist cultivation; some exhaled stale Qi, inhaled fresh Qi, and lay on their backs with their legs extended. Others absorbed the essences of the sun and moon, sealed the body’s openings, or went further and gave up grain altogether. Practicing these methods only hastened death. Why? Because they focused on forcing treatment inward while preventing the outer Qi from reaching harmony, and so they died quickly.

The Baopuzi says: “Two halves rise and join into one ball, as large as a pellet and yellow as an orange. Within it is a fine flavor, sweet as honey. Hold fast to it and never let it go; if you obtain it, everything will be accomplished.” The effects of cultivating primordial Qi are like a measure holding its contents or water flowing along its course: once a dam breaks, the water runs away; once the passage is sealed, Qi can no longer remain. Simply avoid obstructing the breath’s natural coming and going, cultivate the spirit, keep body and mind calm and balanced, and nurture the Great Dao. To understand fetal breathing—the deep, quiet, sustained breathing that imitates a fetus—is to understand the art of primordial Qi, for the principles of fetal breathing and primordial Qi cultivation are connected.

The De Jing says: “One can make a galloping horse stop and plow; the practitioner, too, can become as an infant before it has fully grown.” Thus the Tortoise Shell Scripture says: “My life rests in my own hands, not in Heaven’s.” To say it does not rest in Heaven’s hands means to understand the principles of primordial Qi.

Human beings and Heaven and Earth each receive a share of primordial Qi. Heaven and Earth endure, while many people die young. Why? Because people use up their own primordial Qi. Qi is Shen (spirit). The human body is the vehicle Shen rides in, the house it lives in, and its master. When the master is still, Shen remains within; when the master is restless, Shen departs. Once Shen has departed, the body dies.

Before human life takes form, Heaven and Earth are clear and tranquil. Human beings receive life from a trace of dark, mysterious Qi in the Great Dao, and inherit the Qi of their parents. Born from nonbeing, they acquire bodily form. Life-giving Qi resides within this form, along with a numinous spirit and primordial Qi—the fundamental energy of life. These three work together. If they are properly nurtured, one may live as long as Heaven and Earth and shine alongside the sun and moon.

How is this possible? By cultivating body and mind, acting with care, and helping primordial Qi to grow and flourish; by nourishing the inner organs through fetal breathing, a slow, fine breath like that of a fetus; by preserving the spirit and concentrating the mind; by keeping the heart-mind empty and still, abiding in Wuwei (non-action), and returning to the source of the Great Dao. The Jing of the Western Ascension says, “One who knows how to hold fast to the One can achieve all things, and spirit and form will be joined.” The Baopuzi says, “If a person does not know how to nourish life, how can they truly accomplish anything? One who has never traveled by night—how could they know what it is like?” From this we can see that those who nurture their spirit and cultivate their body can live long, while those who abandon their spirit and sink into desire die young.

Do not act against the natural order, or you will destroy the precious foundation built up over a long time. The workings of Yin-Yang are reflected in human life: the body bears its form, while spirit and primordial Qi make life whole. As soon as thoughts arise, form and spirit are disturbed. Do not indulge desire, for indulgence inevitably depletes life; do not let the spirit be harmed, for harm to the spirit injures the body. Once injured, it is difficult to recover; when the body declines, the possibility of renewal is lost. If you can restrain your tastes and desires and abstain from reckless excess, the parts of the body will be harmonized and the changes of life will become settled.

If someone does not cultivate body and mind yet hopes to live a long life, they will likely fail. It is like casting a precious mirror from hard ice or crossing the waves in a stone boat: neither can be done. Ghosts and spirits cannot help, and Heaven and Earth cannot bring it about. A person has already received primordial Qi from the Great Dao and obtained spirit and the root of the One. If they will not preserve and nourish these, but instead rely on other means to prolong life, then even if they establish purification rites, cast images of the Buddha, recite scriptures, perform the Way, and pray to spirits to preserve the body, they will be no more successful than someone trying to stop boiling water while continuing to add fuel, or forcing scattered strands of silk into a thread. In the end, neither will work.

Both form and spirit should be continually nourished. If you constantly indulge the senses of sight, sound, smell, and taste to gratify desire, they will bewilder the will and disturb the heart-mind. These are the roots of bodily harm and of acting against the Great Dao; they cause form to decay and life to suffer.

When people are born, they receive a portion of Qi (vital energy), which forms the body, and they also inherit the forms of Heaven and Earth. Qi circulates within the body, and Shen (spirit) dwells there; only then can body and mind be at peace. The body is a vessel that carries the Dao (the Way). Those who understand how to cultivate body and mind and refine Jing (essence) and Qi may be called sages.

Sadly, although people possess Shen, they do not know how to guard it; although they possess Qi, they do not know how to gather and nourish it; and although they possess Jing, they do not know how to return it. As a result, they damage their own lives. How can they then blame Heaven and Earth for failing to protect them? The Yellow Book says that people take shape by gathering breath. By retaining embryonic breathing and regulating Jing and Qi, they can prolong life; the natural span of life is clear from the outset.

The Baopuzi says that people in ancient times lost their wives, while people today lose themselves. Why? Because they do not know how to return Jing and Qi or gather and nourish their primordial Qi, and so they wear away their lives.

The union of Yin-Yang is the law by which Heaven and Earth operate. Men cannot be without wives, nor women without husbands. The union of Yin and Yang in men and women accords with the Dao; but without restraint, people lose their sense of what is proper, damage their bodies, and may even lose their lives.

The Secret Instructions of Lord Lao, the Yellow Court Classic (a Daoist scripture on cultivating the body’s inner and outer aspects), the prohibitions and secret instructions of the Shangqing school, the Hidden Book in the Jade Casket, the Red Writ of the Yellow Emperor, the true instructions of Master Chonghe, and other texts all clearly explain the Dao of Yin-Yang. The Secret Instructions say:

“I dare not presume to take the host’s place; instead, I must return to the guest’s place. Never climb high and then throw yourself down. Gather your thoughts inward and contemplate within; close the body’s apertures. Keep your outer posture upright, let the lower abdomen hang naturally, and straighten your back.”

I dare not take the lead, but instead take the guest’s position. Be extremely cautious; do not climb high only to cast yourself down. Gather the mind and spirit, draw the attention inward, and close the body’s various gates. Hold the body upright, lower both arms, and let the back stretch out. After repeating this regulation several times, body and mind will gradually unite. Draw in vital essence and Qi, breathe out turbid Qi, and the practice will slowly become effective. The numinous root is no longer empty; continually use the Jade Rampart—a metaphor for the place in the body where vital essence is stored and guarded—to nourish the cultivation already achieved. How is this nourishment carried out? By opening and harmonizing the Gate of the Mysterious Female, the bodily aperture associated with the movement of vital essence. Let the breath flow through the hundred channels, filling the blood and brain. When both partners, male and female, can become immortals, this is the method involved. If you wish to live long and never grow old, you must understand the changes and signs that occur when the yin aperture opens.

The text also records the following words of the Valley Yin Woman, as related by the Solar Master: “I employ the Azure Dragon, symbolizing the East and Yang energy, and the White Tiger, symbolizing the West and Yin energy; my partner employs the Vermilion Bird, symbolizing the South and Yang energy, and the Soaring Serpent, symbolizing the North and Yin energy. Bind nine in the West and seven in the South; place three in the South, five in the North, and one in the center. Make vital essence turn back, gather dark Qi—here, ‘dark’ is a homophone for Qi—and nourish myself. Let the empty receive and the full discharge; harmonize my internal organs, and I will attain endless longevity.”

The Scripture of the Hidden Talisman says: “Grass covered over in winter will not freeze to death; exposed, it will be harmed. Fire arises from wood, and when calamity strikes, they overcome one another. Vital essence is nurtured within the body; when it is exhausted, a person dies.” A person’s Qi and spirit are easily muddied and hard to clarify, easily gathered together and hard to make flow. Understand this and cultivate accordingly, and you can indeed attain long life. Have you never seen a whale leave the water and be devoured by ants? A person who does not guard the spirit, too, will be consumed by worms and maggots. One who has attained the Dao is like a fish that never dries out when it swims continually in a marsh. If a person can keep Qi full and steady, that person will not die.

Everyone desires long life, yet does not know how to enrich vital essence and transform the body. Everyone fears death, yet does not know how to guard the spirit and nourish the primordial Qi. If one cultivates in this way, a son need not grieve over his father’s death, nor a younger brother mourn his elder brother. Though the wind, being formless, cannot be grasped, and what is unseen cannot be seized, a person’s allotted years can still unfold naturally.

Although the Great Medicine of the Golden Elixir is recorded in writing, some of its teachings are revealed openly while others remain concealed. Reading the words is not as good as hearing the oral instructions; hearing the oral instructions is not as good as seeing with one’s own eyes; and seeing is not as good as receiving a personal transmission from a master. Yet until one’s cultivation of the self accords with the true meaning, one must still follow the method known as “Zongxuan Yihei.”

The so-called medicine is formed by combining Metal and Earth with Qian and Kun, the trigrams of Heaven and Earth; using the Dragon and Tiger to bring about transformation within the marrow; pairing the hun and po souls as husband and wife; and comparing the Tortoise and Snake to two women. The spirit of Wu originally has four positions, but three dark ones still return to guard the two. Once the forms and images have taken shape, they transform like a dragon. The so-called “astonishing woman” thereby preserves the true Qi. In this way one obtains the Gold within Lead and also the Water within Stone. Practice in accordance with the seasonal order, bringing the movements of the sun and moon into harmony.

Those who possess De await the right moment to cultivate this Way. The North belongs to Water and also conceals Metal. When the Returning Elixir is complete, its radiance shines brilliantly: dark and yellow hues mingle, and a vivid red gleams dazzlingly, splendid and radiant. Even the light of the sun, moon, and five planets cannot compare with it. It can cause Yin Qi to arise and Yang Qi to grow, bringing about transformations without end. It enables one to roam through the blue heavens, race across the distant, mysterious realms, drift into Great Simplicity, return to emptiness and stillness, and recover one’s original nature, witnessing how creation gives rise to the myriad things. Take this “one knife-tip measure” of the elixir, and you may live as long as Heaven and Earth, fly alongside the immortals, and ascend together with your dwelling. This is called spiritual holiness: the state in which, after cultivating into a perfected person, one responds to and manifests the subtle workings of the Way.

Twenty-Four Poems on Roaming Among the Immortals

Open the books and read the accounts of the ancients; let your thoughts range freely and consider the feelings of people today. From ancient times to the present, worldly affairs have always ended in silence and extinction. Why, then, are people in this world forever rushing about?

Understand the mysteries of the Nine Immortals and rise beyond to the utmost purity. Gather the spirit of the heart and join with the secluded, profound Way of balanced harmony; through the transformations of cultivation, enter the Great Clarity, the Daoist realm of pure and empty immortals.

The heart is as vast as the cosmos, and the body as light as clouds and rosy mists. Auspicious winds stir the feathered canopy, while propitious clouds sweep past the rainbow banners.

Ride a dragon chariot to pay court at the Purple Tenuity, the abode of the Celestial Emperor, and let your name endure for generations to come. How could this compare with worldly people, who boast only of the fleeting splendor brought by official robes and carriages?

At dawn I climbed a towering ridge, a thousand fathoms high, and looked down upon the dwellings of the four quarters of the human world. Standing on the open plain, I gazed toward the towns and could make out, one by one, the distant and nearby villages between the mountains and rivers.

I looked upon the people of this dusty world, bustling and striving for fame and gain. The honors and humiliations of a lifetime, however long or short, will eventually pass; in the end, all worldly things are illusory.

From antiquity to the present, no worldly achievement has endured for long. How could any of it accompany you on the journey? I shall ride the clouds and sunlight, transcend the world, and ascend the great road to Heaven.

The luan and feng, auspicious birds of legend, perch in forests like carved jade; the great Peng and the parrot gather on the level plain. They each delight in different foods, and in the end their paths through the skies diverge.

I am ready to leave behind the clamor of the common world, set my resolve, and aspire to lofty realms; to loosen my attachment to human life and meet kindred companions beyond the clouds. Who says the road to Heaven is far away? When the heart is attuned, there is naturally no obstruction.

Pitying worldly people as they are changed by circumstance and gradually sink into decline, I sought the Way of the immortals and escaped that descent. In the Three Origins—the realms governed by the celestial, terrestrial, and aquatic officials—there are perfected beings who bestowed on me the innate qualities for cultivating the Way.

At dawn I deeply imbibed the vermilion radiance of the sun; at night I drank in the silvery essence of the moon. The apertures throughout my body gradually came into harmony and flowed freely, while my heart grew ever clearer and more refined.

I let my spirit rest securely and unite with the Way of emptiness, perceiving a realm that extends everywhere yet remains obscure and profound. Unawares, I accompanied the Jade Emperor to the heavenly palace, where I burned incense and paid homage at the Golden Palace, the sovereign’s celestial hall.

The Western Tortoise constellation had just finalized the register of names; the Eastern Blossom constellation had already checked them. The Three Officials imposed no punishment, and the Seven Ancestors were able to ascend to the cloud realms of the immortals.

The body’s mysterious state cuts off the burdens of the world; the heart and spirit, subtle and profound, unite with the wondrous transformations of the Mysterious. Once beyond Heaven and Earth, one remains as pure as an infant even after billions of years.

May I endure alongside the vast aeons, wandering at ease in the Jade Clarity realm, where the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning dwells.

The spirits have found their proper dwelling in the numinous palace of the heart, clear and tranquil. The immortal scriptures did not deceive me: the Three Officials imposed no punishment, and the Seven Ancestors ascended to the cloud realms of the immortals; the body’s mysteries cut off worldly burdens, and the heart and spirit united with the transformations of the Mysterious. Once beyond Heaven and Earth, one remains as pure as an infant for billions of years. May I endure alongside the vast aeons, wandering at ease in the Jade Clarity realm.

The spirits dwell in the numinous palace of the heart, radiant and bright, containing a clear and pure Qi. The immortal scriptures did not deceive me: the promised lightening of the body and ascent through flight have truly come to pass.

In the past I devoted myself wholeheartedly to the Way; now I have indeed received Heaven’s grace. Could this not be the result of accumulating hidden merit—good deeds done without seeking recognition—and the reason my daytime ascent has come to pass? Why go in search of a distant grotto? I shall journey to Vermilion Mound, the immortal realm of legend.

Through refining and cultivation, my body has grown ever purer; my heart is like a bright mirror, free of worldly thoughts. My state of mind is calm and serene, and Heaven and Earth appear at peace; all is luminous and transparent, as if the light of Heaven shines everywhere.

Clad in feathered robes, I ascend into the lofty heights, wreathed in mist and cloud. My face is clear and youthful as ice and snow. Hidden talismans and registers (Fulu) strike terror into hundreds and thousands of demons; the jade pendants at my waist ring out, delighting ten thousand celestial emperors. Thus the baleful forces of the world are dispelled forever.

The High Perfected—immortals of exalted rank—are indeed far beyond reach. Yet if my heart is in accord with the Great Dao, the Dao will not abandon me. Who says Mount Gushe, the fabled abode of immortals, lies far from the human world? Humans and immortals, too, can wander together in delight.

I drive out with them, floating lightly through the air toward the edge of the sky. Without deliberate rule, people naturally return to the process of transformation; when the spirit is settled, nothing in the myriad things is flawed. The baleful forces are dispelled forever.

Though the High Perfected are far away, the Dao will not abandon those who are in accord with it. Who says Mount Gushe is beyond reach? Humans and immortals can wander together in delight. I drive out with them, drifting to the edge of the sky. Without deliberate action, people naturally change and return to what is right; when the spirit is settled, nothing in the myriad things is flawed.

From this we can see that once the power of utmost refinement and purity resonates, it is enough to harmonize the four seasons.

The blue sea stretches without bounds, and three immortal mountains rise into the endless heights. Golden terraces stand in rows across the sky, where immortals roam and rest at ease. In the morning, one may drink the immortal dew condensed from rosy clouds; at dusk, one may eat spirit mushrooms bright as rainbows. Whistling and singing, one forgets private concerns. To soar aloft, what need is there for wings? One’s life may endure as long as the sun, moon, and stars—how could it be measured in hundreds of billions of years?

I am about to pass the palace of the Great Emperor and travel to Fusang, the legendary eastern tree where the sun rises. The immortal attendants have already come near to clear away the dense night mists for me. Hai Ruo, the sea god, stills the surging waves; Xihe, the charioteer of the sun, halts its swift course. Clouds in five colors gather into tiered pavilions, while the Eight Luminaries’ immortal carriage travels through the sky. The azure clouds are close enough to embrace, and I may yet glimpse the vermilion registers of the immortals. They keep me as their guest at a banquet in the Jade Hall and will not let me return at once.

I wish to cross the Dongyang realm, a domain of the immortals, and try to behold the southernmost reaches of the celestial world. The Red Emperor drives a fire dragon, while the Flame Official commands the vermilion crow. An immortal leads me up into the Crimson Palace, making me soar high beyond the sky. The sun spirit blazes in all its brilliance.

The immortals keep me as their guest at a banquet in the Jade Hall and will not let me hurry back. I wish to cross the Dongyang realm and behold the southernmost reaches of the celestial world. The Red Emperor drives a fire dragon, and the Flame Official commands the vermilion crow; they lead me up into the Crimson Palace and carry me to the farthest edge of the sky. The sun spirit shines in its full glory, and all four quarters are bright and clear. I bring you the gentle spring breeze, so that plants and trees may grow and not wither too soon.

Then I set out for the Golden Mother, the Queen Mother of the West, riding a flying carriage across the farthest reaches of the western regions. I then enter the white celestial realm and stop beside Mount Taimeng, a legendary immortal land. The radiance of Ruohua, the mythical Ruomu tree, sweeps across the flowing sunlight and keeps the day from fading. The sun turns back from the west and rises again to noon; nowhere in heaven or earth does darkness fall.

The transformations wrought by the Great Dao shift in response to what they encounter. Who can fathom the principles behind them?

At dawn I crossed the northern bank of the Weakwater, the legendary and uncanny river; at dusk I rested atop Zhong Mountain, the mythical mountain of immortals. Zhuanxu, the legendary ancient emperor, cleared the deep and hidden palace, while Yuqiang, a spirit of legend, swept the shadowy immortal realm clean.

The Torch Dragon, the legendary divine dragon who governs light, released its sacred radiance, illuminating the dark wilderness and filling the four directions with light. It guided the Three Qi, the primal energies that compose heaven, earth, and all things, into harmony, and drove away the Six Heavens, the six realms of ghosts and spirits in Daoist mythology, bringing them peace.

Jade towers shone upon one another, and every immortal amid the rosy clouds was strikingly beautiful. With a single leap, they crossed the Ford of Flowing Rosy Clouds, the celestial crossing where rosy clouds gather. The Thousandfold Clear Palace stood bright; Yuqiang swept the hidden realm clean. The Torch Dragon released its sacred radiance, and the dark wilderness at once grew bright. It guided the Three Qi into harmony and drove away the Six Heavens, bringing peace to the hidden realm. Jade towers reflected one another, and the immortals were strikingly beautiful. With a single leap, they crossed the Ford of Flowing Rosy Clouds; a thousand years seemed to pass in an instant.

Raising high the ornate canopy, I journeyed to the celestial pole, where the North Star resides. Riding the rosy clouds, I traveled through the wind. The High Origin, a revered celestial deity in Daoism, descended to the Jade Gate, and the Queen Mother of the West opened her resplendent immortal palace.

Heavenly beings and immortals gathered in great numbers for a splendid assembly in the green halls. Attendants stood in rows and performed songs of the clouds; the pure, subtle music of the immortals rang out through the heavens.

The purple nai fruit ripened after a thousand years, and spirit melons came to harvest after four kalpas, vast cycles of time and cosmic change. This joy far surpasses feasts and outings in the mortal world, and its delight lingers without end.

I readied my chariot, took leave of the Five Sacred Peaks, parted the clouds and mist, and sped toward the Nine Heavens. All around, the company flew through the Great Void, their feathered banners beckoning one another.

Look: Penghu, the legendary island mountain in the sea, is close at hand. Who could say that the immortal palace gate is far away? At ease and unhurried, I journeyed onward, rising skyward to pay my respects to the Celestial Worthy in the Three Heavens, the three celestial levels of Daoist cosmology.

Nine dragons coiled and wound their way, bearing me up the road through the clouds. Bending down to gaze into the distance, I thought of my homeland: dust and wind blurred the view, and all lay vast and indistinct.

Reluctant to part, I left the human world behind and drew ever closer to the Imperial Realm, the celestial abode of the Heavenly Emperor. Rising above the courses of the stars, I looked down upon the light of the sun and moon.

The cultivator had crossed beyond Taiwei, a celestial region of stars; the heavenly dwelling shone brilliantly. Amid the swirling dust and wind, I left the human world with lingering reluctance and gradually approached the Imperial Realm. I rose above the stars and gazed down upon the sun and moon. The cultivator passed beyond Taiwei, and the celestial dwelling gleamed with light.

I halted my chariot beside the Great Celestial Palace and straightened my robes before the Golden Gate of Heaven. I reverently served the Supreme Emperor, my bearing solemn and the jade pendants at my waist ringing as I met the perfected immortals.

The great immortal furnace gave forth wondrous music, and the spacious halls resounded with the music of Jun Heaven, the celestial realm of immortal music. The immortals sat at ease in their places, while rosy light filled the seats all around.

This joyful gathering has no end. Between a bow and a glance, millions upon millions of years have already passed.

The lofty, radiant gate of the wondrous Dao stands open; the clear, subtle mirror of true knowledge is unobstructed. Immortal forests like carved jade rise above the Nine Rosy Clouds, and golden towers stand within the Three Heavens.

A flying rainbow vaulted onto auspicious clouds, and immortal cranes soared into the numinous wind. The gathering at the Jade Capital, the celestial city where the Heavenly Emperor resides, was splendid: immortals assembled in great numbers to share in lasting joy.

I ascend to Zhiyang Plain and plan to rest for a while at Mingxia Wan. The immortal carriage rises lightly, its golden radiance flashing in every direction.

From the Void, all things come into being; even the lofty, mysterious realms are within reach. Jade Mountain towers in overlapping ranges, while the Lang Sea stretches so far that its end cannot be seen.

Though I can enjoy the scene before me only briefly, it surpasses a thousand other sights. And who could reckon the length of a long life?

I invite my immortal companion Ziyang to feast with me on the Jade Clear Terrace. Immortals part the clouds and stir their feathered robes as they ride cloud chariots through the air.

Spirit banners sway with the Seven Luminaries—the sun, moon, and five stars—while jade screens reflect ninefold radiance. Phoenixes dance and dragons sing; immortal music rises, and the rainbow-colored chariot lingers, reluctant to return.

We ascend to the Purple Pole, the heights of heaven, and feast on the ridges of Mount Xuandu. Immortal herbs release their strange fragrance, and the branches and leaves of jade trees ring with elegant music.

A clear breeze rises across the Great Desert, softly brushing our robes. Body and mind merge with Xiyi, the Dao realm beyond perception and words; thought grows still and settles into the deep, hollow distance.

Beyond the cosmos, I naturally grasp the intent of Heaven and Earth.

I invite my companions among the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing) to journey far beyond the Nine Heavens. We gaze at one another across a vast, desolate expanse, far apart.

Bright light is ever present in the boundless sky, with nothing to obstruct it beyond the eight directions. Luan birds and phoenixes spread their nimble wings and fly at ease.

All around is spacious, silent distance, with only the mysterious Void. The highest joy lies in a spirit that is calm and free.

I soar up to the Great Rosy Clouds, drifting through the distant emptiness. The Eight Mighty Divine Generals, guardians of the immortal chariot, lead the way, while the Five Elders, lords of the five directions, travel beside me.

The immortal realm shines with radiance, and gentle, auspicious breezes waft through it. Flute music and song resound across the sky, clear and far-reaching, soft and pleasing.

Everywhere I roam, I find delights that gladden the heart; wherever I look, I meet fellow immortals. There is no need to urge the journey onward: my body moves swiftly of its own accord, and in an instant I have traversed ten thousand heavens.

I look back to the source before the Great Beginning, merge with the Dao, and return to the One. True essence gathers in the hollow Void, so that even within emptiness there is reality.

Transformation and movement each have their own constant nature, yet coming together and parting have no fixed form. Without acting, one can fly as swiftly as lightning; when one conceals one’s radiance, one can still block out the sun.

Dwell in the mysterious realm, then forget mystery itself. With nothing to grasp, there is nothing to lose.

Ten Poems on Walking in the Void

All the immortals revere the sacred model. They put their chariots in order and go to pay homage to the Divine Ancestor, the sovereign of the gods. Golden radiance mingles and shines, as the immortals ascend in a winding procession into the heights.

The Seven Mysteries have already flown high, passing through the refinement of fire to enter the Vermilion Palace, the dwelling of perfected immortals. Blessings extend between Heaven and Earth; all under Heaven is at peace, and the kingly Way prevails.

The Eight Mighties sweep away wandering, dark and turbid influences, while the Ten Absolutes dance with auspicious winds. They enable me to ascend to the Sunlit Heights, and all this springs from the hidden merit I have accumulated through good deeds done unseen.

I roam at ease above the Great Rosy Clouds, where the realm of true illumination is open in every direction.

Guiding a light, swift chariot, I ascend to the Purple Clarity, that lofty and serene immortal realm, and ride the light across racing lightning. Though the wind’s sound reaches me across three tiers of Heaven, I can still see everything below as I look down.

The jade gates of the immortal palace stand high and open, bright and spacious; the jade-tree groves flourish in lush green. If one were not born with immortal bones, how could one fulfill a wish cherished for so long?

True companions in the Way gather in abundance. Bathed in immortal radiance, we feast and wander to our hearts’ content. When we are together, we forget the passage of time; a thousand years seem no more than an instant.

The Three Palaces shine with radiant light, together with Yuyi, the Sun Deity. The immortals arrive in a throng upon the terrace and reach upward to gather and eat the broth of Kongqing, an immortal food named for the mineral azurite.

My whole body takes on a golden hue. My immortal form endures as long as Heaven, and its radiance gleams like fine jade. My heart settles into the Great Void, clear and still. In the end, what is there left to ponder?

Within the mystery lies true joy. I remain tranquil and free of desire, returning at last to Wuwei (non-action). I keep company only with friends of the True and the Upright, roaming and playing with lightness and ease.

Receiving Heaven and Earth’s transforming nourishment, I gather pure Qi. Through refining and cultivating my body, I become a perfected immortal. I let go of distinctions, allowing my mind and spirit to accord with the Primordial Source, the Way at the root of all things; I return to the origin and follow nature.

The Divine One gathers in the Crimson Palace, the dwelling of immortals, as radiance streams from the realm of cinnabar and mystery. Wuying and the Peach Lord, deities of the Daoist tradition, chant the clear verses of longevity.

The Six Storehouses shine with brilliant rosy light, while violet clouds fill the body’s hundred passes. The terrace chariot crosses the vast emptiness, moving slowly forward as it rides the light of the immortals.

Without noticing how far the cloud road stretches, in a brief moment I have traveled through ten thousand heavens.

At Fusang, the sacred tree of the East often regarded as the place where the sun rises, the first light of dawn appears; the feathered canopy glows with the morning clouds. In the blink of an eye, I arrive at the Western Citadel, the immortal realm where the Queen Mother of the West dwells, and roam in the home of the Golden Mother.

The emerald-green ferry crossing of the immortals joins in crystal clarity with the deep and vast source stream, its radiance shining as lotus flowers bloom in profusion. The Azure Jade Palace glows brilliantly, while the assembled immortals of Jade Radiance gather in ordered ranks.

True Qi fills the Crimson Palace, and thoughts are naturally pure and free of evil. The immortals bend down in pity for the people of the human world, lamenting that the defilement of the mortal realm is truly sorrowful.

The Jade Terrace rises high, as though accumulated through ten thousand kalpas. Alone, I gaze up at the Great Luo Heaven, the highest celestial realm in Daoism. The Three Auspicious Clouds often gather in radiant splendor, freely circling and turning.

The immortals’ forms drift upon rosy clouds, rising and descending in such ethereal fashion. The luan and phoenix call out in elegant tones, perching and flying high in the Crimson Grove.

In Jade Void there is no distinction between day and night; its wondrous, numinous vistas shine with brilliant light. At the mere sight of the Capital of the Highest One, all other heavens seem small.

The Azure Radiance Grove gleams vividly, as numinous winds stir branches like fine jade. The Three Officials—of Heaven, Earth, and Water—and their realms know neither winter nor spring, but only the clear, harmonious flow of the One Qi.

Looking back, I see nearby lights glittering; lifting my gaze, I draw close to the Radiant Array of the celestial realm. Beyond the Six Heavens, bells ring and resound, striking fear into the myriad demons.

Blessings and felicity stretch on without end. Who could still say that a long life of immortality lasts too long?

It is lofty, bright, and pure, yet not extravagant; wherever it meets the myriad things, it makes them shine. The utmost joy depends neither on flute music nor singing; the jade-toned notes ring sweetly of their own accord.

At times I ascend the Terrace of Bright Truth and hold a banquet in the Hall of Feathered Radiance, where immortals gather. Deep clouds congeal into auspicious forms, and delicate, numinous incense drifts through the air.

Heavenly beings and immortals are truly at ease and untroubled, their joy and serenity beyond measure.

Then I travel upward from Taiwei, one of the celestial star palaces, to pay my respects to the Venerable Sovereign of Emptiness. I mount the Chariot of Eight Radiances and slowly enter the Gate of Heaven.

After ascending to the Jade Dawn Court, I look up reverently at the Purple Palace. I ask with respect: “At the end of the Longhan kalpa, how were Heaven and Earth brought into being?”

The other answers calmly, revealing subtle and wondrous principles. Fortunate to hear the most refined laws, I am at last able to behold the source of creation and transformation.

The two Qi of Yin and Yang spread forth and generate the myriad things; the workings of creation and transformation never cease. Once I grasp their beginning, I can take part in Heaven and Earth’s nurturing of the myriad things.

In stillness, I rise into the Great Void, where all I encounter is pure and pristine. My state of mind is clear and bright, containing the Qi of primordial harmony; breath and Qi flow in communion, and naturally draw kindred things together.

A red sacred tree coalesces into elixirs and treasures; purple clouds stream between emerald-green crossings. May these treasures protect the innocent infant, so that body, mind, and spirit may long transcend the constraints of bodily form.

Looking Back on Jianye

After the Han dynasty’s fortune lost its hold over the realm, the land split into the Three Kingdoms. Sun Quan, King of Wu, established his power around Jingzhou and Yue, and made his capital on the banks of the Yangtze.

Eastern Wu grew through the support of its ministers and people, drawing on the human and material resources of Qing, Huai, and the coastal regions. When Wei later tried to cross the river and advance, its forces reached the bank only to withdraw at once.

Was this merely because the Yangtze’s natural defenses stood in their way? What they truly feared was the presence of defenders on the opposite shore. Alas, Sun Hao, the Marquis Who Returned to His Fate, ruined the legacy of his ancestors through debauchery and tyranny. Clasping a jade disk, he entered Luoyang, bowed in submission to the Jin dynasty, and became its subject. Before long, Eastern Wu’s ancestral temples and altars of state had fallen. The thought of it all stirs grief and bitterness.

By the end of the Yongjia era, war had engulfed the Central Plains, and the armies of the northern peoples filled the land. Five princes of the Western Jin imperial clan crossed the river south, and an emperor rose to power in the south. The foundations of the Eastern Jin in Jiangdong were indeed laid with the aid of worthy and able men. Its territory was small, yet its system of governance was remarkably firm.

Xie An supported the Eastern Jin court, carrying the imperial tally as he led the campaign and crushed the usurping Qin. Why did Eastern Wu’s armies seem so weak? The crucial point was whether military campaigns were conducted according to proper principles.

The regime held the regions of Qi and Song in succession, then soon changed from the Liang dynasty to the Chen dynasty. The Southern Dynasties lasted through six houses, their prosperity and decline continually giving way to one another.

Governing a state depends on virtue, not on the strength of its terrain. Success and failure each have their causes. High altars have become desolate ruins, and grand palaces have been destroyed amid the weeds.

The majesty of the dynasties has long since vanished, yet the aura of their former might still seems to linger. Now the imperial house has united the realm, and the Dao’s transforming influence spreads without limit.

People often speak of peace throughout the realm, yet upheaval and disorder may suddenly strike. Looking across the plains of Liang and Song, one sees a vast haze of ominous portents.

The aura of former might still seems to linger. Now the imperial house has united the realm, and the Dao’s transforming influence spreads without limit.

People often speak of peace throughout the realm, yet upheaval and disorder may suddenly strike. Looking across the plains of Liang and Song, one sees a vast haze of ominous portents.

At home, I obtained a sword that reached to the sky and severed the evil dragon that crossed the sea. At dusk I wandered among rivers and mountains, my heart surging, yet with no one to whom I could confide.

Passing by Yangjiao — Inscribed for a Tomb Marker

Zhi Zhao set out from Jiangnan, where an ancient tomb marker stood beside the road. Yang Jiao buried Bo Tao, and the grave lay near that of General Jing.

The spirits of the two men were at odds, so they settled their dispute with weapons. The circumstances of the underworld and the human world are truly difficult to know; the reason for victory or defeat is impossible to discern.

After a long cry, he slit his throat and took his own life. Such loyalty and honor have never been heard of since ancient times. The two worthy men were so deeply devoted to each other—what could ties of blood and family mean beside that?

Thinking of how you were joined at the root from the beginning, I feel my emotions surge. I wander for a long while, halt my horse before the distant journey, and, without realizing it, become absorbed in the stillness of the empty woods.

Climbing Beigu Mountain to Gaze at the Sea

This mountain guards Jingkou and reaches far toward the shore of the vast sea. From its heights, what can be seen? Only the boundless expanse of water, changing from morning to evening.

Clouds and mist rise from Penglai Island; the sun shines upon the branches of Fusang. For ten thousand li, sea and sky merge into one. How could anyone still tell heaven from earth?

I long to ride a chariot wreathed in clouds and mist, drifting away to seek the immortal An Qisheng. I will wave farewell to the human world and depart from here for good.

Passing Tianmen Mountain and Thinking of a Friend

A strong wind rose just as we set sail; the boat sped lightly, as if it were flying. Its shadow flickered amid the misty waters, while the surging waves carried it onward along the river.

Two mountains stand opposite each other, enclosing the blue river. The waters suddenly open wide, as though a gate to heaven had swung open. In a moment, the light boat had sailed far away, leaving only the image of a solitary island floating in my thoughts.

On the return journey, the sun was already leaning west. My spirits were lifted, and my mind found comfort. Along the way I passed many wondrous scenes; when I see my friend, I will tell him about them in detail.

A single day apart feels like three years; my longing for him has only grown deeper.

A Gift Written Aboard the Boat When I Met Liu Bocun Returning to Shanshan

The shallow and worldly ways of the age have long since become common custom; true recluses are hard to find. I never expected that, where I least expected it, I would meet you aboard a small boat.

Seeing you with my own eyes was enough to sense your Dao-centered heart; we looked at each other and smiled, and so had no need for words. What is more, I have read your “Letter Severing Ties” and the essay in which you counsel recluses.

I saw how you hold a noble, upright spirit and regard worldly affairs as floating clouds. You will return to the depths of Qianshan to live in seclusion, while I will return to Mount Lu. Our bodies and hearts are in accord; who could lament that our aims differ? If one day you have the chance to visit, you are welcome to come riding on the clear wind.

Traveling by Boat at Night

The boatman knows the river route well. He raises the sail and sets out under cover of night. We cannot make out the shape of the sandbanks or the islets in the water; we hear only the wind and waves, stirring the heart with fear.

Dark clouds drift across the sky, the moon sinks, and the world grows dim without a trace of light. Am I not afraid of hardship and danger? What sustains me is a heart wholly devoted.

Who knows when I will make it through this long, long night? I stand waiting, for a long while, hoping only for the first light of dawn.

At dusk, on reaching Hukou, I saw Mount Lu and wrote a poem for several old friends

I reached Hukou by boat at night and gradually drew near the region of Mount Lu. Its peaks rose high, spanning the horizon; seen from afar, the mountain’s outline was faint, yet seemed especially majestic.

Morning sunlight greeted Stone Mirror Peak, while mist clung to Incense Burner Peak in a cool, pale hue. My journey’s stopover has, for now, come to an end. It seems that my wish to withdraw from the world has at last reached solid ground and found a place to settle.

For a long time, empty fame has weighed me down, making me leave behind a place of comfort. I only hope that what I seek in my heart does not depart from the Dao (the Way). At last, I have found the quiet state of mind I longed for.

My old friends live amid the mountain mists, and I can once more feast and rest in their company. The wild geese fly high into the distant sky, while Yu has put away his bird-catching nets and slingshots.

Troubled by the ceaseless spring rain

The divine dragon Yinglong has moved south, and the riverside has been lashed by rain day after day. Looking down, I see the lowlands already submerged; looking up, even the towering peaks have vanished into the rain and mist.

A chill wind brings a brief warmth, but beneath the waning moon the weather has turned bitterly cold. The crows have fallen silent, their pleasing cries stilled, and the flowers are gradually withering.

Countless streams pour into the rivers and lakes, adding to their waves without pause, day and night. I have not seen my friends for a long time; alone, I sit in quiet melancholy.

I try to console myself with a cup of wine. I take up my zither, but for whom can I play? I perform “Song of the Troubled Rain,” a melody composed amid the ceaseless downpour. When it ends, I cannot help but heave a long sigh.

The flowers are gradually withering. Countless streams pour into the rivers and lakes, adding to their waves without pause, day and night. I have not seen my friends for a long time; alone, I sit in quiet melancholy.

I try to console myself with a cup of wine. I take up my zither, but for whom can I play? I perform “Song of the Troubled Rain.” When it ends, I cannot help but heave a long sigh.

This sigh rises from the scene before me and the feelings it awakens. Who could understand its cause? I set down what weighs on my heart and send it to a kindred friend. Though I have said all I can, my feelings remain only partly expressed.

In reply to the poem written by Liu, Magistrate of Ye County, while he lived in seclusion on Mount Lu to escape the turmoil; also in reply to poems sent by the brothers Zheng, Record Keeper, and Master Gou

A wise and discerning person is truly hard to find. Having met you, I wish to follow your example. You were born with extraordinary gifts and the noble virtues Heaven bestowed upon you; you are naturally well suited to recognize and judge people’s talents.

At first, the region around the Yellow River and Luo River was in turmoil. I had hoped to put an end to the disorder and bring peace to the realm. But in the end, the times were against me. How could I personally don armor, take up arms, and rush to the battlefield?

From then on, I no longer spread my wings to soar. I removed my official cap and resigned from my minor post. I set out by carriage for the south, so that neither loyalty nor filial duty would be neglected.

Mount Lu (Luyue) lies beside the river, and withdrawing to live in its forests suits me perfectly. At the mountain gate, I wear a robe of many colors; as I leave the valley, I carry a red flowering branch.

In former times, the recluse was summoned for questioning in his native district; now he has once again climbed the ladder of office. Lord Zheng has laid aside his official cap and robes, while a flower-like radiance shines across the pines and streams.

The worthy recluse Gou, summoned to office though not necessarily taking it up, is truly wise: he has withdrawn from the world and tends his garden plots. I have not scorned worldly affairs; I only feel ashamed that I cannot meet you beyond words, where we might forget each other and transcend all outward forms.

We gather joyfully, facing cups of green wine, our thoughts drifting freely as though ascending crimson steps. When the age is at peace, I shall depart for a long while; now that the times are bright and clear, do not lose your way.

Noble one, do not return just yet; the fragrant grass is in full bloom.

Collected Works of Master Zongxuan, Volume Two

Fourteen Poems on the Past

The sages valued saving the people and illuminating the Great Way in order to rescue the age. Confucius traveled to teach, never sitting long enough to warm his mat; Mozi hurried from place to place, leaving little time for smoke to blacken his kitchen chimney.

They rallied their spirits, hoping to restore the crumbling moral order and give the world a path to follow. Yet rulers and ministers remained sunk in confusion, and the ways of society deteriorated day by day.

The foundations of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties quickly declined, and soon the Seven Warring States contended in battle. The people fell into suffering, and death seemed to hang over all under Heaven.

The First Emperor of Qin burned the Confucian classics, leaving almost no books behind. By the Han dynasty, after five generations had passed, Confucian learning was once again held in esteem.

From this we can see that the principles recorded in the classics rise and fall along with the age. To loosen and tighten in turn is simply Heaven’s intent; how could the teachings established for society remain unchanged forever?

The rise and fall of a state are changes in the course of the Way; adversity and success each have their own reasons. What is lamentable is that once the plain customs of antiquity have passed, they can never be restored.

The simplicity of the Three Sovereigns faded away, and the age of the Five Emperors began to honor the worthy. In the undertakings of emperors and the achievements of hegemonic rulers, empty display and artifice became ever more apparent.

Loyalty and deceit became intermingled—how could anyone distinguish them clearly? Some rose to the highest heavens by their talent and wisdom; others clung to their foolishness and sank into the abyss.

Whenever I think of the ancient people who lived in nests, I cannot help but weep with sorrow.

Later, people built houses in place of nests. It is said that the idea of building began in the age of the Three Sovereigns. Once people began leaving accounts of house construction, they became burdened by it. From the time palaces and halls first began to be built, rulers of each succeeding age kept enlarging them.

The Jade Terrace of Xia Jie was destroyed, and the Jade Chamber of Shang Tang collapsed. Yet later generations learned nothing from these disasters: Qin Shi Huang built the Epang Palace, and those who came after him strayed from the right path in turn, until the Han court planned the construction of Zhang Palace. Thousands upon thousands of people were worn down by forced labor for these projects. The palaces were vast and decorated with strange finery, as though meant to gather every rare treasure under heaven.

The rulers gave free rein to their desires, but in the end could not satisfy them; their lives had already reached their limit. Where is that luxury now? The palaces and halls of those days have long since become overgrown with brambles.

In quiet moments, when I read the histories of earlier dynasties, I grieve over the fates of the Shang and Qin. Those they harmed were often loyal and worthy people, while those they cherished were cruel and treacherous. The flatterers thought themselves wise, and the rulers failed to understand that calamity would ultimately destroy them. Jizi later served the Zhou, while Shusun Tong became a minister of the Han. Governing principles such as the “Great Plan,” along with systems of ritual and law, were later used by rulers to govern their states.

When I read poems such as “Gathering the Creeping Plants” and “The Green Flies,” I am moved again: from ancient times to the present, it has been sorrowful to see slanderers and villains sow discord among the loyal and the filial. The wicked gain power through deceit, and even close kin turn against one another. The Han crown prince Liu Ju was falsely accused by Jiang Chong, while the Jin crown prince Shensheng died through the machinations of Li Ji.

If even the natural bonds of kinship can be called into question, then the obligations that should govern relations between ruler and minister must not be abandoned. The bones of Zixu were thrown into a cauldron and boiled by King Fuchai of Wu, while King Goujian of Yue forced Wen Zhong to die by the sword. Qu Yuan threw himself into the Xiang River; his fate was indeed also bound up with his own circumstances. Why did he not follow Fan Li, leave in a small boat, and never return?

I have studied the methods of the true immortals: they are tranquil and still, able to quiet the many disturbances of life. How could Qin Shi Huang and Emperor Wu of Han truly have entered the gateway to the Way of the Immortals? Their minds were troubled by endless affairs of state, and their position made them look down upon all under heaven. They wanted to exist before Heaven and Earth, yet also to endure beyond them. They sought the highest rank and a long life, but the things of this world cannot grant both. So they gave themselves over to desire and excess, damaging the very roots of life.

Immortal medicines such as golden ointment could only prolong life for a time; the elixirs in jade cups instead further unsettled the spirit. They led expeditions into distant lands, waged war without end, and spread death and injury throughout the Central Plains. Heaven’s judgment cannot ultimately be deceived, and the principles of the spirits must not be forgotten. An Qisheng returned to Penglai, and the Queen Mother of the West returned to Kunlun; Qin Shi Huang and Emperor Wu of Han never obtained the arts of immortality. How tragic! In the end, what more is there to say?

Heaven’s intent is clear-sighted and impartial, and truly cannot be deceived; the laws of the spirits, too, cannot be obscured. An Qisheng returned to Penglai, and the Queen Mother of the West returned to Kunlun.

All manner of strange arts ultimately came to nothing. It is truly lamentable—what more can be said?

The ruler of Lu once advanced his own political views, but Confucius rejected them and would not follow him. Emperor Wen of Han sought outstanding talent, yet Jia Yi was spurned and sent into distant exile.

Qin Shi Huang once greatly esteemed Han Fei, but after meeting him failed to protect him. Emperor Wu of Han respected Sima Xiangru and summoned him to court, yet later forgot his abilities.

People have always valued those far away and slighted those close at hand; this has been true from ancient times to the present. From this we can see that gifted people throughout history have found it difficult to win the emulation and esteem of their contemporaries.

Before Li Yiji, a strategist of the early Han, met someone who understood him, he was destitute and downcast, dismissed as an arrogant scholar. Once he found favor with a ruler, his eloquence allowed him to maneuver freely among competing powers. He offered counsel and helped advance the Han enterprise, and, leaning on the carriage rail, persuaded the cities of Qi to surrender. Yet the very wisdom with which he built his achievements ultimately brought about his death.

How much better to remain content with poverty and low status, drinking freely and singing aloud, without troubling oneself over fame and rank.

Chao Cuo had far-reaching plans and offered his ruler sound advice. He curtailed the power of the feudal lords, and this measure continued to serve its purpose for a long time. But treacherous ministers, nursing old grievances, seized their chance to conspire against him. The ruler ultimately failed to discern right from wrong; Chao Cuo was executed, and his clan was wiped out as well.

Emperor Jing of Han was said to be discerning and wise, yet he still imposed punishments so recklessly. What is there to lament in the deaths of Bi Gan and Guan Longfeng, ancient loyal ministers killed for remonstrating?

Zhou Bo, the Marquis of Jiang, had rendered great service, received lavish rewards, and held a high office. But once he was handed over to the prison officials for questioning, how could his past glory compare with the humiliation he faced?

Su Qin wore the seals of chancellor of six states, but his formidable power became the source of disaster. Zhu Fuyan enjoyed meals served in five cauldrons, yet his life of privilege clearly foreshadowed calamity.

Li Si served Qin Shi Huang and Qin Er Shi, but later suffered one disaster after another, until calamity reached his household. Huo Guang and Lord Mengchang served three rulers, yet disaster also fell upon their descendants.

Heaven’s Way and human affairs alike shun the point of fullness and complacency; this principle has never changed. From this we can see that those who enjoy success and high rank do not necessarily need to ride in a red-wheeled carriage, the vehicle of the nobility.

Better to withdraw from view and dwell in a remote valley, playing the zither and singing beside a quiet wine vessel. The uncle and nephew Shu Guang and Shu Shou returned to the seashore, and Jiang Xu retired to his garden.

To leave the entanglements of worldly life with such ease is indeed worthy of admiration.

Those who have attained the Dao follow the course of changing fortune, whether favorable or adverse, and calmly accept what fate arranges; they are free of fault. I believe that Sima Qian, the Grand Historian, understood the principles of the Dao.

What is there to resent in being held back for so long? When I think of how precious life is, I cannot help but sigh. I lament Master Gong: he stood by the Way and never wavered.

He withdrew from public life too late, and his life ended early by the standards of his time. Like fragrant oil consumed as it burns, he left behind only the sorrowful lament of an old man of Chu.

Those who understand the Way know to act within their abilities; the truly wise value knowing the right moment. Jing Fang, the Han scholar of the Changes, could perceive what was subtle and explain the mysteries of Heaven’s Way, making profound principles clear.

Why hate the chief culprit yet fail to see that calamity will befall you yourself? Those who scheme against others are also secretly plotting against themselves. Who, then, would call your plans ingenious?

Xuanyuan, the Daoist honorific for Laozi, understood the principle of knowing when to stop. The noble-minded, too, valued preserving themselves. Maoxian, the courtesy name of Zhang Hua, was widely learned and understood every hidden principle.

In his youth, he wrote “Rhapsody on the Crane” and “Rhapsody on the Quail,” showing that he had grasped early the Way of cultivating his nature and guarding himself. In old age, however, he admired the luan and the swan, imagining himself soaring and calling out with them high in the nine heavens.

Knowing only how to advance and not how to yield ultimately brought his path to an end. At first, he could distinguish fortune from misfortune; later, he lost his way and finally met disaster.

From this we see that those skilled in withdrawing can hold fast to the right Way for a long time and endure alongside Heaven and Earth.

The teachings handed down by the sages are far-reaching and subtle; they were never established casually. Heaven’s Way brings calamity upon the stubborn and wicked, while the spirits protect the worthy and wise.

These words may sound like echoes, but how could they change what has already happened? Gun had descendants of exceptional wisdom, yet in the age of Yao and Shun there were still foolish criminals. Why did the bandit Zhi live so long, while Yan Hui died young? Duke Yin of Lu was initially modest and yielding, yet the seeds of disaster were quietly sown. King Mu of Chu committed great evils, so why did his fortune seem to flourish? Tian Heng murdered Duke Jian of Qi, yet the Tian clan held Qi for a long time.

Guan Zhong helped Duke Huan of Qi achieve hegemony, and Emperor Guangwu of Han, Liu Xiu, also resorted to expedient measures. When the Han court was in turmoil, Hanhe, a name recorded in the original text, freely pursued wicked schemes and deceitful stratagems.

Saizai and others, like the committed scholar Chen Fan, diligently held to their loyalty without faltering. They swore to pacify the realm and eradicate the wicked.

Yet their plans were never carried out, and before long they were executed. Such cases have been numerous since ancient times, too tangled and many to list one by one.

The Great Dao is profound, and its principles are subtle and difficult to understand. Who can explain them clearly for me? I would like to ask Heaven, but the world is vast and high above—how could I ever fathom it completely?

Enough. There is no need to say more. Perhaps by letting go of my concerns, I can find a little freedom.

Songs in Praise of Recluses

The Book of Changes says that a gentleman’s conduct may sometimes lead him to serve in office and sometimes to withdraw; sometimes to remain silent and sometimes to speak. Serving in office and speaking are ways to assist the government and bring order. Withdrawing and remaining silent are ways to keep to stillness and quiet restlessness. Thus, even silence may benefit the world. Is it merely a way to preserve oneself?

Confucius said, “One withdraws to seek one’s own purpose; one puts the Way into practice to carry out one’s convictions.” This means that many lines of thought may ultimately converge, and different roads may eventually lead to the same place.

People naturally like what they have in common and dislike what is different. Since I was young, I have secretly admired true recluses. I have looked up from afar to the worthies of earlier ages, whose deeds have delighted my heart. Though I cannot see the people of ancient times with my own eyes, the examples they left behind are still worthy of admiration. Surely those admirable recluses, whose lives were marked by such beauty, are the ones to affirm and emulate.

Admiration alone is not enough, so I take them as teachers and friends. Taking them as teachers and friends is not enough, so I sing their praises. In this way, I find some joy in my own true inclinations. This is why I wrote Songs in Praise of Recluses.

Long ago, Master Xuanyan, Huangfu Mi, a scholar of the Western Jin, wrote Biographies of Recluses about those he admired. Liang Boluan also wrote Eulogy to Recluses. I have now composed Songs in Praise of Recluses simply to express the aspirations of my own age.

The Primordial Beginning, when Heaven and Earth first opened, is too remote to investigate, and immortals such as Hongya left no trace that can be recorded. So I begin with Emperor Hunyuan, Laozi, and end with the Honored Recluse Tao, Tao Yuanming. I have selected outstanding figures among them to make their examples known, composing fifty poems in praise of their virtues.

Emperor Hunyuan

Xuanyuan is lord of the Nine Immortals, and his Dao and De stood supreme at the beginning of Heaven and Earth. He followed the changes of the world and assisted the Mandate of Heaven. Once his work was done, he returned to stillness and his original nature. He left writings to instruct later generations, then at last rode the radiance of the sun back into the Great Void. Confucius once praised him as unfathomable as a dragon—but who can know where he finally went?

Emperor Hunyuan

Xuanyuan is lord of the Nine Immortals, and his Dao and De stood supreme at the beginning of Heaven and Earth. He followed the changes of the world and assisted the Mandate of Heaven. Once his work was done, he returned to stillness and his original nature. He left writings to instruct later generations, then at last rode the radiance of the sun back into the Great Void.