《中和集》Vol. 6

Therefore, one who truly values the world places himself outside personal concern for the world. Only by being able to set aside anxiety for one’s own safety does one truly value oneself. If one governs the world in this spirit, the world may be entrusted to him. One who truly cherishes the world puts himself last; only by putting oneself last does one truly cherish oneself. If one governs the world in this spirit, the world may be entrusted to him.

This continues the idea of the previous chapter—“fill the belly, not the eyes”—emphasizing inner cultivation over outward craving, until one reaches a state of self-forgetfulness. It then turns to honor and disgrace: both receiving favor and suffering disgrace can stir fear and alarm, because honor and disgrace depend on each other and constantly turn into one another. If one anticipates calamity and guards against it beforehand, one can remain free of chronic anxiety through life. Applied to governing the world, the realm can long endure in stability. When the ruler of a state cares for the world as anxiously as he cares for his own person, the people will gladly uphold him and will not turn away from him.

The verse says: To suffer disgrace is not necessarily true disgrace; to stand in glory is not necessarily true glory. Even with constant vigilance, some oversight is hard to avoid, and life still feels like a long walk on the road. It is better to release body and mind entirely, without clinging to gain or loss—then one will not be shaken by honor and disgrace.

To look at it yet not see it—this is called “yi” (the elusive); the greatest form has no fixed shape. To listen yet not hear it—this is called “xi” (the rarefied); the greatest sound is heard as deep silence. To grasp at it yet not catch it—this is called “wei” (the infinitesimal); the Dao is hidden and nameless. These three cannot be pursued to their end, so we say they blend into one. Above, it shows no trace; below, it is not dark. Nothing is harder to discern than what is most hidden, and nothing stands out more than what is most subtle. It stretches on without break and cannot be named; though it seems to have order, it cannot be spoken. It returns again to nothingness and hides where there is no track. This is called “shape without shape”: within what cannot be seen, one directly experiences it; this is called “image without substance”: within direct experience, one again cannot see it. This is called huanghu (a dim, indistinct state—seemingly there yet not there, hard to fix). Face it—you see no beginning; follow it—you see no end. Hold fast to the Dao of old to govern all present being through wuwei (non-action); thereby know the origin of antiquity. This is called the guiding thread of the Dao: using the non-being to clarify being.

What the fourteen chapters above expound is the utmost of this hidden, subtle Dao of xi, yi, and wei. Blending them into one is returning to the root; showing no trace above and no darkness below is keeping the light contained and not flaunted; having no image and no shape is storing the function and not displaying it. The final sentence gathers the three chapters and leads into the mystery of the next.

The verse says:

This “head of the matter” is hard to portray—

Round on every side, no crack to find.

In dim, deep obscurity there seems an image;

such news— with whom can one speak?

“Those in ancient times who were adept at the Dao” kept to the formless image; they were subtly penetrating, clear and bright, yet unfathomably deep. Because they could not be measured, one can only sketch their manner: using what can be seen to apprehend what cannot be seen. How cautious they were—like crossing a river in winter’s cold.

In antiquity, those who truly understood cultivating the Way could hold to a state without form and without image. Subtle and mysterious, they penetrated the deepest depths; inwardly pure and bright, yet unfathomably deep—look as you might, nothing could be seen. Because they were hard to know, people could only sketch them with reluctant words: using what has shape to grasp what has no shape—the Dao.

In action they were cautious, as if wading a river in winter; alert as if mindful of neighbors’ eyes, always practicing careful self-restraint even in solitude; dignified as if ice were about to melt; plain and thick as uncarved wood, almost simple-minded; open-hearted as a valley; turbid and blended like muddy water, able to dwell in the world without showing sharp edges.

Who can let what is turbid settle slowly until it gradually clears? Stillness is the root of turbidity. Who can let a settled state, through long sustained stirring, little by little show signs of life? Quiescence is the hinge of movement. Those who keep the Dao do not chase fullness; emptiness is the root of fullness. Precisely because they do not seek to brim over, they can hide their light and strip away ornament, not forcing new achievements.

The fifteen chapters above continue the theme of the “Way’s thread” from the previous chapter: later students should nurture sincerity, hold themselves with reverence, always practice careful restraint in solitude, and not cling to outer appearances. Day by day they should embrace unity and humility inwardly, until all grasping thoughts cease and every illusion melts away. Even when disturbed, they do not thereby grow turbid; even when clarified, they do not cling to a state of “purity.” This is called “subtle, mysterious, and penetrating”—deeply hidden and hard to measure.

The verse says:

Subtle, mysterious, and penetrating—it turns with the pace of one’s steps. Close the eyes, embrace unity, and keep to stillness and emptiness as daily practice, until grasping ceases and illusions dissolve. Disturbed yet not turbid, clarified yet not attached to “purity”—this is called subtle, mysterious, and penetrating, deeply hidden and hard to measure.

Subtle, mysterious, and penetrating—it turns with the pace of one’s steps. Close the eyes, and not a single thing appears before you.

Better to turn back and recognize the true face of the Mysterious Sovereign—the Dao honored in highest reverence.

“Reach the utmost of emptiness and stillness, and steadfastly hold to clarity and stillness”—that is utter stillness without movement. “The ten thousand things all grow together; from this I observe how they return”—by observing return, one can grasp the pattern of change in the ten thousand things. When the ten thousand things flourish, each returns to its root; when movement reaches its limit, it turns again toward tranquility. Returning to the root is called “stillness,” which is also returning to the source; stillness is called “returning to destiny,” and the spark of life is still held within. Returning to one’s original destiny is called “constancy”; even through countless kalpas, one remains as still as ever. Knowing constancy is called “illumination,” and one can see through past and present. Not knowing constancy is delusion; acting on one’s own whim brings danger. Whoever knows constancy can embrace the ten thousand things; in embracing, one can hold to fairness, and nothing is blocked, even in the finest detail; in fairness, the ten thousand things each find their place and are well ordered; in good order, one accords with Heaven; in accord with Heaven, one reaches the Dao. How could the Dao ever end? The Dao abides without ceasing; even when the body dies, one does not fall into peril.

These sixteen sections continue the previous chapter on “the good student of the Way” and treat attaining emptiness and stillness, returning to original destiny, and returning to the root—matters of the utmost subtlety. If you can fully grasp them here, inquiry and practice may pause for the moment; if not, go on to the material that follows.

The verse says:

Penetrating emptiness and stillness, one knows the hidden root; stillness at its depth reveals the heart of Heaven’s Dao. Once the meaning is seen, the myriad things—numerous as the sands of the Ganges—all show their precious truth.

“Most High” (Taishang) means the supreme presence; “those below know there is such a one” means the people only know that a ruler exists. “Next, they cherish and praise him”—they draw close and extol him—already a sign of contrivance, not true spontaneity. “Next, they fear him”—they stand in awe of him; “next, they despise him”—they lose all restraint and even treat him with contempt. “Insufficient faith” means the ruler himself lacks sincerity; “there is no faith” means the people begin to doubt. “As if he valued words” means he is sparing with speech and does not promise lightly. When the work is done and merit achieved, he completes everything in silence, and the people say, “We did this of ourselves,” not knowing whose effort it was.

Chapter 17 of the Laozi says that the most skillful ruler seems to have nothing worth praising in the eyes of the people; even the dullest can grasp this point, and only then can one gradually draw near to the Dao. When a ruler is widely praised, governance is already less than fully natural; when the people fear the ruler, that is still secondary; when they hold the ruler in contempt, the ruler has strayed far from the Dao.

Once human beings lose their original simplicity, it is hard to return to what is genuinely authentic. Even repeated instruction may do little good: the more one speaks, the less people believe. It is better to keep silent and influence the people through wuwei (non-action), so that they discover things for themselves and naturally return to plainness; without relying on verbal teaching, the people will still trust.

From the standpoint of the art of governing, if the ruler cannot practice wuwei, then when the people draw close to him and praise him, he is still teaching with words; when they fear him, he is relying on punishments and prohibitions; when they despise him, the ruler has lost the people’s trust, and they no longer believe in him. When the ruler values his words and issues few commands, he is carrying out teaching without words. Wordless teaching can accomplish things through wuwei; punishments need not even be applied, and the people will obey of themselves. When the work is finished and society has returned to simplicity, reactions such as drawing close, praising, fearing, and despising all fade away. The people live and work in peace, even forgetting who made it so; hence they say, “We were always like this.”

Verse:

The highest Dao is not something lofty in itself, yet it is always present in everyday life. Pity those who cannot see the Great Dao, who insist that the Dao “went out through Hangu Pass.”

“When the Great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness appear”: After primal simplicity is scattered and lost, ideas of benevolence and righteousness arise.

“When cleverness emerges, great hypocrisy appears”: Here “emerges” (chu) is read with falling tone. “Cleverness” (zhihui) means shrewd contrivance and the various forms of mind stirred by external things; once these arise, pretense and falsity increase as well.

“When the six kin are not in harmony, there are filial children”: Rather than waiting until relatives are at odds and then displaying filial piety, it is better that kin always remain in harmony.

“When the state is in turmoil, there are loyal ministers”: Rather than waiting until the state is in chaos and then displaying loyal ministers, it is better that the state always stay settled and at peace.

Chapter 18 of the Laozi continues the thread of the previous chapter about the people drawing close to, praising, fearing, and despising the ruler: rather than waiting until the state is in disorder before loyal ministers stand out, it is better to govern through wuwei so that the people are naturally transformed.

Verse:

Clever contrivance makes people lose the root of the Dao; “wisdom” instead obscures their true nature. Only when the state falls into chaos do loyal ministers become visible.

Those who are clever may be blinded by surface brilliance and lose sight of the root; those who think themselves wise may also forfeit their original, innocent nature. To be free from disturbance and to keep constant clarity and stillness is to be truly at ease and content.

“Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom” (jue sheng qi zhi) means not exalting cleverness and artifice, and handling affairs through wuwei (non-action), so the people can receive greater benefit. “Abandon benevolence and discard righteousness” (jue ren qi yi) means not deliberately displaying ren and yi, and responding to things with a mind free of contrivance, so the people naturally return to filial and kindly ways. “Abandon skill and discard profit” (jue qiao qi li) means not chasing craft and private gain, and guarding oneself through freedom from desire, so thieves no longer appear and everyone can be content. These three sayings are only surface formulations and are not enough to make people truly believe; therefore the teaching must be brought back to what can actually be practiced. Here “make commands have their proper place” (ling you suo shu): “ling” is read in the departing tone, and “shu” is read like “zhu” (to attach, to belong). This is the sage’s earnest admonition to later generations: preserve plain authenticity and do not take on a calculating mind; reduce selfish desire, forget external things, and also forget clinging to the self.

The previous chapter unfolded the deeper meaning of the chapter before it, showing that sageliness and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, skill and profit should all be set aside and no longer displayed. When this is carried out, the people are transformed by it and return to simplicity. The sage feared that later students of the Way could not bear the weight of lofty demands, so the teaching was reduced to principles easy to practice: stay plain, and lessen private mind and desire. These principles are within everyone’s reach.

Verse:

Do not indulge the three minds (thoughts that scatter the spirit), and do not let a single thought run wild. Toward the realms contacted by the senses of eye and ear, and toward the knowing and awareness that arise from them, cease all clinging and calculation.

Those who pursue the highest learning need not worry; their hearts are naturally at peace. “Yes” (wei) and “well…” (a) differ only in tone of assent—they are not far apart—yet beautiful and ugly are worlds apart. What the world fears, one cannot fail to fear. Ordinary people worry that they have not yet reached their goal in studying the Way; the sage worries that errant thoughts and selfish desires in himself have not yet been fully cleared away.

The multitude are in high spirits, as at a lavish sacrificial feast or as when climbing a terrace to view the spring scenery—for desire knows no moment of satisfaction. I alone am detached and without desire, like an infant whose mind has not yet shown itself; I rest easy in following nature, as if with no fixed place to return. Here pa is read as bo, meaning unattachment and quietness.

Everyone else feels they have plenty; I alone seem to lack. Those who cling to external things are often anxious; those who forget crafty calculation are often content. My heart is truly like a fool’s—utterly without knowing. The worldly appear sharp and clear-sighted; I seem dim and unknowing. They distinguish every matter and calculate finely; I am leisurely and still, not fixated on distinctions between self and other. “Vague and dim, as if dark”—the mind is hazy and obscure, not bent on knowing and discriminating. “Drifting, as if nowhere to stop”—not clinging to anything, with no fixed reliance.

Everyone has something to rely on and seems capable; I alone seem dull and crude. I differ from the multitude; what I treasure is “eating the mother”—taking the Dao as root and savoring the nourishment of the Dao.

“Cutting off learning” (juexue) means letting go of attachment to external things and to accumulated knowledge, which is why it comes right after “abandon sageliness and discard wisdom” (jue sheng qi zhi). Ordinary people busy themselves with every kind of study, constantly adding to what they know, always afraid they have not gone deep enough—so they are often anxious. The sage, by contrast, relinquishes clinging to outward knowledge and devotes himself to tasting the Dao (the Way), like a child nourished by its mother: he need only hold to softness, stillness, and singleness of mind, and then he has no worry. That is what “when learning is cut off, there is no anxiety” (juexue wuyou) means.

The verse commentary says: the moment you even speak of “cutting off learning,” you are already off the mark; the more you seek widely and pile up views, the deeper you sink without knowing it. Even if you forget the myriad affairs of the human world, you may still fall into someone else’s second layer of stratagem—still pulled along by discrimination and deliberate thought.

“Kongde zhi rong” (the countenance of vast virtue) means that great virtue is boundlessly wide and holds nothing it cannot embrace. “Wei dao shi cong” (only the Dao is followed) means that when everything accords with the Dao, one is at ease within its pattern. “Dao zhi wei wu, wei huang wei hu” (the Dao as a thing is vague and elusive) means the Dao in itself is inherently subtle and hard to fathom. “Hu xi huang, qi zhong you xiang” (elusive yet within it there is image) says that in this undifferentiated heavenly Dao there seems to be a form; “huang xi hu, qi zhong you wu” (elusive yet within it there is substance) says there seems also to be a concrete thing; “yao xi ming, qi zhong you jing” (dark and deep, within it there is essence) says that in what is remote and obscure there is a fine, essential nature. “Qi jing shen zhen” (its essence is very real) means this subtle nature is pure and true; “qi zhong you xin” (within it there is trust/credibility) means there is vitality within it and signs one can rely on. “Zi jin ji gu, qi ming bu qu” (from the present back to antiquity, its name does not depart) means that from ancient times until now the name of the Dao never perishes; “yi yue zhong fu” (by it we observe the beginnings of the myriad things) means we use it to survey how all things arise. As for “how do I know the beginnings of the myriad things? By means of the Dao”—that is the point.

Chapter twenty-one continues the previous chapter’s “I alone am different from others” (wo du yi yu ren) and praises how vast virtue extends, hence the discussion of “the countenance of vast virtue” and how widely it can embrace. What exactly is the Dao? Does it truly contain image, substance, and subtle essence? If you assert that it exists, you have not yet genuinely entered study and realization; if you assert that it does not exist, you likewise have not genuinely entered study and realization. How then should one apprehend it? The author ends with a shout of “duo!”—meant to cut off the chase after words and speculative reasoning.

Since ancient times there has been a fundamental reality, yet no one has truly recognized it. Simply raise an eyebrow, and it is as if empty space itself reveals its original face.

If you go back and forth guessing and hesitating about this, take care: the present moment may be like a thunderclap in mid-air, suddenly appearing.

The Daodejing says: “Only by bending can one be preserved whole; what is not cut to measure outlasts; only by yielding can one extend; only by standing lower can one be filled; what is worn out is renewed; take little and you gain; know contentment and you are always rich; grasp too much and you grow confused; when affairs pile up, chaos follows. Therefore the sage holds to the One as the standard for the world. The One can gather the many. Not showing off, he is clear; not insisting he is right, he stands out; not boasting, he has merit; not putting himself above others, he endures. Because he does not contend, no one in the world can contend with him. What the ancients meant by ‘bending yet being preserved whole’—was that empty talk? These are truthful words: sincerely preserve your true nature and you can return to what is genuinely real.”

What comes before—bending yet preserved whole, yielding yet extending, standing low yet filled, worn yet renewed—continues the previous chapter’s theme of “profound De” (kongde, deep great Virtue). From “not showing off” onward, the text is all about guarding against self-satisfaction and urging humility. With humility one does not contend; without contending one preserves original true nature; guarding vital qi and embracing the root One, one can return to Wuji (the undifferentiated root). Hence: sincerely preserve true nature and return to what is genuinely real.

The verse says:

Do not always fix on others’ shortcomings, nor flaunt your own strengths.

Without clinging to long-and-short distinctions, nothing can obscure the nature that pervades all things.

“Few words accord with the natural” means that speech truly in harmony with the Way of nature is not abundant. “Hearing is not only on the tongue” means that genuine hearing and understanding do not depend solely on what the mouth says.

“A gale does not last the whole morning”; “a sudden downpour does not last the whole day.” This means that violent, reckless agitation cannot endure long. What makes them so? The patterns by which heaven and earth operate—everyone knows this. If heaven and earth themselves cannot keep gales and cloudbursts going for long, how much less can human beings? Therefore one should act in accord with principle and not be hasty or fierce.

One who devotes himself to the Dao aligns with the Dao; aligning with the Dao, he becomes one with the Dao. Aligning with De, he resonates with De; if he aligns with loss of the Way, he falls into that loss as well. Aligning with the Dao, the Dao gladly receives him; aligning with De, De gladly receives him; aligning with loss of the Way, loss of the Way also receives him. Where faith is insufficient, distrust is invited: if I doubt the outer world, the outer world will also make me an object of doubt.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Three, which takes “few words, naturalness” as a continuation of the previous chapter’s theme of non-contention. It says that one who does not parade himself or speak rashly can instead respond in tune with things. Gale and sudden rain are images for how reckless movement and rushing for results cannot last. One who devotes himself to the Dao follows the Dao and De, blends with the ten thousand things, and naturally communicates with them—and they respond in turn. If words and deeds do not accord with the Dao and one acts arbitrarily, it is hard to win others’ trust; one is instead looked down upon. The Xici commentary on the Changes says that words and conduct are what bring the noble person honor or disgrace—how can one fail to be careful?

The verse says: The Dao and the person are not two different things; it is only that people feel there is a gap. When one person becomes a Buddha, all living beings likewise possess the capacity for Buddhahood; the mind is the very root of the Tathāgata (the awakened one).

In “one who stands on tiptoes cannot stand long,” the word read qǐ (often glossed in commentaries) means standing on tiptoe. Here it stands for rushing ahead rashly and acting lightly. As said earlier, words and conduct bear on honor and disgrace, so one must be cautious.

Dao and human beings were originally undifferentiated; it is people themselves who treat them as separate. “When one person becomes a Buddha, it means that all sentient beings already possess the root of Buddhahood; the human mind is from the outset the realm of the Thus-come One.” Here “Thus-come One” (rulai) refers to the Buddha, and “realm of the Thus-come” (rulaidi) to the state that the Buddha realizes.

One who stands on tiptoe cannot stand firm; one who takes oversized strides cannot walk far. Haste and rash advance can hardly achieve lasting success in the end. Those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly, because they do not know how to restrain their own De; those who insist they alone are right do not win recognition, because they will not be humble; those who boast of themselves cannot complete their work, because they cannot restrain themselves; those who are arrogant and self-important cannot endure long, because they do not know how to be inclusive.

Under the principle of the Dao, such conduct is like leftover food and an ugly growth—things people find repulsive. Leftovers and excrescences are superfluous and unwelcome; therefore those who possess the Dao do not act this way. Those who have attained clarity act in the opposite manner.

The chapter after the twenty-fourth summarizes and confirms the meaning of the three preceding chapters. “Standing on tiptoe one cannot stand firm; striding one cannot walk far” describes conduct as violent and short-lived as a gale or cloudburst. Self-display, insisting one is right, self-praise, and arrogance all spring from selfishness; when selfishness weighs too heavily it injures the public mind—how could such a way last? Hence those who possess the Dao do not do these things. “Leftover food” and “excrescence” refer precisely to what is redundant and disliked.

Verse:

To stand on tiptoe is already to act wrongly; to walk in huge strides is already to act recklessly. Even if one forces the matter to completion, in the end it is still inferior to acting in an ordinary, natural way.

A thing undifferentiated: There is a being that is blended into one whole.

Born before Heaven and Earth: It existed already before Heaven and Earth appeared.

There is something that formed as a single whole, existing already before heaven and earth appeared. It is silent and far-reaching, clear and yet always still; it stands alone and never changes; it circulates everywhere and never ceases, and it can serve as the root from which the myriad things are nourished and born. I do not know its original name, so I call it “Dao.” Because the myriad things each have their names, I can only force a name upon it and call it “Great.” “Great” means without limit; “Great” is also called “passing away,” meaning without boundary; “passing away” is also called “far,” meaning without edge; “far” is also called “return,” meaning turning back and gathering in.

Thus Dao is great—so vast that it has no form; heaven is great and takes Dao as its model; earth is great and takes heaven as its model; the king is also great and takes earth as his model. Between heaven and earth there are four kinds of greatness: Dao is one of them, and the king is one of them. Human beings take earth as their model and thereby can carry the myriad things; earth takes heaven as its model and thereby can embrace the myriad things; heaven takes Dao as its model and thereby can pervade the myriad things; Dao, in turn, takes naturalness (ziran) as its model.

The earlier part of Chapter Twenty-five, continuing the previous chapter’s theme that “one who has Dao does not dwell in fame and rank,” goes on to explain the practice of abiding in Dao. From “There is something that formed as a single whole” onward, the passage sets out the key to recognizing the Great Dao in the opening chapter of the whole book; from “the four greats” onward, it unfolds the subtle and mysterious points within that teaching. Ordinary people know only that there are four great things between heaven and earth, and do not realize that this very thing contained within themselves is even more vast.

Though heaven and earth are vast, they too will ultimately decay; only this one thing remains constant through countless kalpas. The realm the sage reaches is unfathomably deep, and lies entirely in remaining unmoved like thusness.

Heaviness is the root of lightness; lightness arises from heaviness. Stillness is the master of agitation; stillness can govern movement. Therefore the noble person may travel all day yet never leaves the heavy wagon and baggage that carry supplies—he does not act rashly in affairs. Even when dwelling in a splendid palace, he can live at ease and remain free and unbound, responding to each matter while his inner mind stays still.

As one who rules all under heaven, how can the ruler treat the great affairs of the realm lightly? He would fail to bear the responsibility. Acting lightly loses the support of ministers; rushing ahead for glory brings disgrace.

The meaning of Chapter 26 is that what is heavy must not be treated lightly. Lightness loses the ministers; haste loses the throne—like standing on tiptoes without stability or taking huge strides without getting far. Violent wind and heavy rain cannot last; the noble person’s conduct should be steady so he can bear heavy responsibility. “Living at ease and remaining free and unbound” means not being tied by outer things and being able to master the external world. This chapter clarifies the meaning of emulating the Dao (the Way) and sums up the method of embodying the Dao, then leads into the next chapter’s theme of good conduct.

The eulogy says:

How can rushing ahead last long? Light action in the end cannot succeed. The heel is not yet steady, yet one keeps hurrying on the road.

Those skilled in action leave no tracks or footprints; those skilled in speech speak words that invite no blame; those skilled in planning need no tallies or counting tools; those skilled in closing need no bolts or bars yet leave doors that cannot be opened; those skilled in binding need no ropes yet leave bonds that cannot be undone. What is meant here is a state without obvious traces and without constraint.

Therefore the sage always excels at helping people and never abandons anyone; always excels at making use of things and never discards anything. This is called “inheriting the bright”—the principle of wisdom passed down without break. The good person is teacher to the one who is not good; the one who is not good is the mirror for the good: the good teach others toward goodness, while those who are not good warn and awaken others, urging them to turn from error toward good. If one does not value the teacher, one has no way to learn what is good; if one does not cherish the mirror, one has no way to correct one’s faults. To seem clever yet act as if dull means setting aside clever contrivance and living at ease in the world. This is the subtle core of the teaching.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Seven, which clarifies the earlier theme: when speech and conduct are careful, one leaves no trace and invites no blame. Plans in the heart can surpass reckoning with counters; the heart’s closing needs no external props to hold firm; the heart’s knots can also be released. When the heart of Dao is firm to this degree, one no longer clings to the distinction between good and not good. Forget the split between teacher and mirror; fold away cleverness and wit—all day one may look like a simpleton.

The verse says:

Step without relying on the feet; bind without relying on the hands.

Touch the tip of the nose—then the whole body is mouth.

If one can ponder this teaching closely, seven times seven was forty-nine all along.

To know what is strong and assertive, yet hold to what is soft and yielding, without puffing oneself up—become the valley of the world, and the myriad streams will flow back to their source. As the valley of the world, constant De will not slip away; person and Dao merge as one; return to the state of an infant, and primordial Qi is complete.

To know what is pure white, yet hold to what is dark and hidden, without flaunting one's cleverness—become the norm of the world, and the myriad methods will return to the One. As the norm of the world, constant De will not go astray, accurate as a plumb line; return to Wuji (the Limitless), and spirit is complete.

To know what is glory and honor, yet willingly abide in humiliation, without deeming oneself noble—become the valley of the world, and the ten thousand things return to emptiness and stillness. As the valley of the world, constant De is full, clear, quiet, and complete; return to authentic simplicity, and life and nature are complete. When simplicity disperses, it becomes the various implements, fit for use in concrete affairs. The sage dwells in the valley-like humility of the world; constant De is full, clear, quiet, and complete; return to authentic simplicity, and life and nature are complete. When simplicity disperses, it becomes the various implements; the sage employs them to govern the multitude and lead the community. Therefore the finest governance does not rely on forced cutting and shaping, but applies wordless teaching.

The “holding black,” “holding female,” and “holding disgrace” spoken of in the preceding twenty-eighth chapter mean not displaying one's cleverness—a thread that continues the prior chapter's “though clever, seem dull.” The infant, Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), and supreme simplicity are all the root of the ten thousand things under heaven. Only by holding to softness and yielding and embracing the Dao in singleness can one return to the root. Governing the state with this principle needs no reliance on harsh trimming and regulation; the people naturally grow sincere and simple, and the ten thousand things naturally remain unadorned.

Ode:

Within pure white, darkness is kept; within assertive strength, the yielding female is embraced. Cultivated without cease, even a man can be nourished into an infant's state.

If one wishes to take all under heaven for oneself and then govern it by subjective will, I believe this ultimately cannot succeed. Such an approach may suit repelling external enemies, but not invading others. All under heaven is a precious and sacred vessel; it cannot be forced by reckless action—once one acts rashly, calamity follows. Forcing action makes affairs fail; clinging stubbornly ends in loss.

The ten thousand things all have form, and each has its paired opposite: some go ahead, some follow; some breathe softly, some blow hard; some are strong, some weak; some bear up, some overturn. Where there is one side, there is its counterpart—do not simply turn with every change in external things. Therefore the sage removes excessive craving, does not exalt luxury, and does not cling to arrogant self-importance.

The previous chapter said that wuwei (non-action) brings few troubles, while youwei (deliberate action) brings turmoil. Clinging leads to loss; forcing leads to failure—these are warnings against reckless action. Strong and weak, bearing and overturning depend on each other, like a shadow following a body: as soon as there is achievement, ruin may follow. Thus the sage sets aside excessive desire, luxury, and arrogance, using these principles to admonish later generations.

Verse (expounding the meaning in poetry):

Going ahead and following, soft breath and hard blowing, strength and weakness, bearing and overturning—each stands opposite the other. Who truly governs the warning against reckless action is hard to say clearly.

Dressing and eating are ordinary matters—why deliberately breed doubt?

When assisting a ruler in governing the world, one should align with nature, remain quiet and non-active (wuwei), not rely on military force to dominate, but protect the people with compassion. All things may turn around; good and evil each receive their due recompense.

Where armies have camped, thorns and brambles often spring up; when martial intent rises in the heart, the pure ground of cultivation is also laid waste. After great wars, famine often follows. If a cultivator’s mind is like an army of demons charging, essence (jing) and qi will dissipate accordingly.

Therefore, one who is skilled in the Dao seeks only an appropriate outcome and then stops. “Guo” means achieving a result; “yi” means ceasing. With restraint, there is vitality. Not daring to be forceful is true strength. When something has reached its result, do not boast; do not display merit or swell with pride. Act only when truly unavoidable; after acting, do not insist on force. “Putting down the banner pole” means lowering the flagstaff once raised—a metaphor for reining in sharp edges after success and no longer insisting on dominance.

When things reach the peak of strength, they turn toward decline; relying on military might does not guarantee victory. Such conduct goes against the great Dao (Way); in the end one loses the true Dao.

The above thirtieth chapter continues the idea of “putting down the banner pole” from the previous chapter, further explaining that extravagance and arrogant ease should be removed. To assist a ruler with the Dao is not to exalt military power; good and evil each have their recompense. It admonishes those who govern state and family to hold to softness, maintain single-mindedness, and have the courage not to be forceful; even when action is unavoidable, not to overpower others by brute strength. Hence it is said that one skilled in affairs, having reached the aim, knows where to stop.

Verse

Do not let three kinds of idle thoughts run wild in the heart; keep the “commander of intent” (zhishuai) steady at all times. When suddenly a fierce clash arises, settle Mount Tian with a single arrow.

This passage warns that weapons are inauspicious tools: after large-scale war, famine often follows. People loathe war, and where armies have camped, thorns and brambles tend to grow. Therefore, those who possess the Dao do not treat warfare as a normal course, nor do they keep their hearts constantly filled with strife.

In ordinary life the noble person honors the left, valuing softness; in military affairs the right is honored, emphasizing hardness. Weapons are ominous things—tools for suppressing rebellion, not implements the noble person uses in daily life. The noble person should take governance as the norm; only when there is no alternative should force be employed, and even then calm restraint should prevail, with actions guided by compassion.

Even when one wins, one should not take pride in victory. To treat victory as a deed worth boasting of is to crave fame and shows delight in killing. Those who rejoice in slaughter invite misfortune and cannot truly prevail under Heaven, for the myriad things of Heaven and Earth will not tolerate such conduct.

In auspicious rites the left is honored, symbolizing growth; in mourning rites the right is honored, symbolizing killing. The lieutenant general stands on the left, taking softness as his cue; the commanding general stands on the right, taking hardness as his cue. This means that one who leads an army should approach war with the attitude of a funeral rite, because weapons are inauspicious. When many have been killed, one should weep in grief and hold compassion in the heart. Even after a victory, one should handle it with funeral ceremony, mourning the dead as one would mourn the loss of parents.

After Chapter Thirty-one, the author continues: not to flaunt military strength under Heaven—hence the next line that “weapons are inauspicious things.” The sage thus urgently admonishes rulers of later ages to govern the state through Wuwei (non-action) and tranquil stillness, so that teaching spreads of itself and family and country are at peace. Then, even if armor and weapons are at hand, there is no occasion to use them, and the strife of contention can be long removed.

The eulogy says: dwell silently in the deep, quiet, mysterious realm; clarify spirit and mind; nourish Great Harmony (the harmonizing, well-ordered vital Qi). Hold the samadhi sword reversed—samadhi here means the single-minded, clear state of concentration; the sword is a symbol of practice—adapt to change and subdue the demons of the five skandhas (the five skandhas are form, feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness; the demons of the five skandhas are obstacles arising from afflictions tied to those skandhas).

“Dao is constantly without name” means that the Dao is originally empty and natural, hard to fix with any label. “The uncarved block is small” means that though the plain, unworked substance of the Dao is utterly subtle…

The body of the Dao is habitually empty and without name, appearing as void and natural. Pu (the uncarved, authentic Dao) is small, yet so honored that none under heaven dares treat it as a subject. If lords and kings can hold and embrace yi (the One—the root authenticity spoken of in the Daoist tradition), the ten thousand things will naturally submit.

Heaven and earth unite because de (virtue/power) assists; sweet dew falls because harmonizing qi is at work. The people need no command yet settle naturally, each finding their place. “To begin establishing names” means instituting laws and institutions; once names are fixed, people must see what may be taken and what must be avoided, so they know restraint and when to stop. Knowing when to stop, one does not fall into danger; knowing sufficiency brings lasting contentment.

How the Dao stands in the world is like resting in the highest good; it is also like valleys and streams flowing into the river and sea—the sea holds all rivers because it keeps to the lower place.

Chapter 32 said that those who possess the Dao do not dwell in high rank; this chapter adds that the Dao is often nameless and that pu, though small, is honored—further clarifying where one who possesses the Dao should root body and life. Outwardly they take the humble place; inwardly they embrace the pure One; the ten thousand things are naturally transformed, heavenly principle naturally aligns, and wondrous change knows no end.

Ode

Only by grasping nameless pu can one freely release and gather again—then the whole great thousandfold world may be stored in the tip of a single hair.

To know others is wisdom that shows outward; to know oneself is inner clarity. To overcome others is bold contention; to overcome oneself is true strength, because one knows restraint and does not act rashly. Those who know sufficiency find joy even in poverty. Those who press forward with effort have aspiration; never slackening, they do not fall into danger; not losing what they hold as root, they endure long—the firmer the will, the firmer the root of life. Though the body dies, the authentic does not perish—this is longevity.

Chapter 33 says that knowing and overcoming others are outward skills; knowing and overcoming oneself are inner cultivation. This echoes the earlier chapters’ warning against exalting martial contention. Those who know sufficiency are happy even in poverty; those who earnestly practice will in time see proof; those who hold to the root do not face peril; those inwardly clear can step beyond the limit of birth and death. What does not die though the flesh dies is the abiding zhenyi (inner pure unity that does not change).

Those who see things but not their true nature, who understand others but not themselves, have not truly learned—and yet they imagine they have gained an advantage.

“[The Dao spreads everywhere]” (the Dao pervades widely): vast and lacking nothing. “[It may extend to left or right]” (however one views the Dao, it has no limit). “[The ten thousand things rely on it for life, yet it does not refuse them]” (the ten thousand things depend on the Dao to grow, yet the Dao does not decline): wherever it passes, change follows. “[It accomplishes its work yet does not possess it]” (it completes its work but does not claim it): what it leaves behind is a wondrous efficacy. “[It cherishes and nourishes the ten thousand things yet is not their master]” (the Dao loves and nurtures the ten thousand things yet is not their ruler): it does not fixate on where it came from. “[Always without desire]” (constantly without craving): still and unmoving. “[It may be named small]” (one may call it small): even a mustard seed can hold the boundless void. “[The ten thousand things return to it yet it is not their master]” (the ten thousand things turn toward the Dao, yet the Dao is not their sovereign): it lets the ten thousand things run their natural course. “[It may be named great]” (one may also call it great): the boundless void can also hold a mustard seed. “[Therefore the sage holds the position of master]” (here the sage stands in the leading role yet forgets himself): still and unmoving. “[Always without desire]”: a mustard seed can contain the boundless void. “[The ten thousand things return to him yet he is not their master]”: the ten thousand things turn to him, yet he lets them be natural. “[It may be named great]”: the boundless void can contain a mustard seed. “[Therefore the sage never at the end makes himself great]” (so the sage never finally considers himself great): even hidden within a mustard seed. “[Thus he can achieve his greatness]” (therefore he realizes immeasurable vastness).

The above is Chapter Thirty-four. “The Dao spreads everywhere” means the Dao is at once supremely vast and penetratingly subtle—nothing is excluded. From “The ten thousand things rely on it for life, yet it does not refuse them” onward, the text continues the idea of the previous chapter: “hold to the root and long you will not lose it.” Govern the state by the Dao and you hold the root; cultivate the person by the Dao and though the body dies the spirit does not perish—hence “however one views the Dao, it has no limit.”

The summary verse says:

The Dao is truly hard to fathom; even emptiness cannot measure it.

Boundless and undivided—where could a border be drawn?

“[Hold to the great image]” (grasp the fundamental image of the Dao; “image” is read in the falling tone): though invisible, “[and the world will come to you]” (all under heaven will submit). “[They come without harm]” (those who turn toward the Dao will not be injured).

The summary verse says:

The Dao is truly hard to fathom; even emptiness cannot measure it.

Boundless and undivided—where could a border be drawn?

Chapter Thirty-six says that to grasp the “Great Image” (the overall pattern of the Great Dao), one can see the subtle signs of change in things: as soon as something shows an impulse to expand, one knows it will contract; before events have happened, one already sees the first traces; before action has begun, one already knows the outcome. Unless one has the keenest, most finely tuned clarity in the world, who could do this?

Those who study the Dao should hold to what is formless and imageless, keep to utmost softness, and not compete with things outside themselves—then they can naturally know the early signs of change. If one relies on force and harshness, on stratagem and cleverness, trying to dominate outer things, that is not in accord with the Dao. It is like fish that live in water yet want to be unlike the other fish and leave the deep pool—how could that work? People too should not exalt stratagem. To exalt stratagem is to go against the constant Dao, like fish leaving the deep pool—they will die in the end.

“The sharp tools of the state must not be shown to the people” means that the decisive means of governing should not be displayed lightly. Confucius said, “With him one can take one’s stand, but one cannot with him handle discretionary power”—some may share in setting principles, but must not be entrusted with expedient adaptation; the two sayings mean the same. Even when sages use expedients—turning against the ordinary in order to align with the Dao—they cannot apply them lightly; how much less ordinary people? How can one fail to be on guard?

The verse says:

Eyes like shooting stars, movement like lightning;

It seems right before you, yet in an instant it is gone.

In the ten directions, whether paths are open or blocked, light reaches everywhere without fail.

Chapter Thirty-seven says: “The Dao is constantly wuwei (non-action), yet nothing is left undone.” The Dao is still and unmoving, yet it responds to and runs through all affairs under Heaven. “If lords and kings can hold to it,” the ten thousand things will transform of themselves; those in high place model conduct and can transform the people below through prevailing custom.

If, after that transformation, people again stir up desire and presumptuously act, I settle them with “nameless plainness”—the unadorned natural state without artificial contrivance. Here “act” (zuo) is read in the entering tone: to act with intent, to move rashly. When those above are without desire, the people naturally grow plain; when those above love stillness, the people naturally grow upright. To govern by non-desire and quiet stillness is to make even those who think themselves clever dare not act rashly, and the world settles of itself. To govern by following wuwei is to leave nothing poorly governed.

The constant nature of the Dao is wuwei; once one deliberately “does,” it is no longer the constant Dao. This follows the “subtle clarity” of the previous chapter: when those above keep still and without desire, the people can straighten themselves, and the world settles of itself.

Chapter 37 explains that the true, constant Great Dao is Wuwei (non-action) by nature; the moment one deliberately contrives, it is no longer the constant Way. This continues the previous chapter’s theme of “subtle illumination.” When Heaven and Earth are Wuwei, the ten thousand things grow of themselves; when the sage is Wuwei, the people are secure and at peace.

In terms of cultivation, one should not force or perform. In stillness, hold to a state without form and without image. If the mind stirs even slightly, notice it at once. Once noticed, settle it with the “nameless uncarved block” (wuming pu)—pu is originally without form, hence also “nameless”; here it means empty stillness and Wuwei. The Dao is Wuwei; pu is nameless. When there is no desire in the heart, stillness naturally returns. By repeatedly returning to stillness, all under heaven naturally aligns with the right Way.

Verse:

All deliberate contrivance is like illusion; clinging to Wuwei also sinks into empty stillness. Only by holding neither extreme can the heart of the Daoist teaching be made clear right in this moment.