《体真山人真诀语录》Vol. 2

There is nothing left to cling to. When even “nonbeing” no longer remains, this is a state of clarity, stillness, and constancy. In stillness, there is not even a “stillness” to pursue—how could desire arise? When desire does not arise, that is true purity and stillness. Meeting external things with a constant mind, one can preserve one’s original nature; responding to things without losing stillness, the mind remains clear and still. Does this not mean letting go even of “forgetting the self,” “forgetting things,” and “forgetting forgetfulness” itself?

The phrase “gathering the medicine at the appointed season” means that the practice has matured and become skillful, and that it coincides with the right moment. “Season” refers to the Living Zi Hour, the moment when Yang Qi first arises in Neidan practice; “appointed” refers to the tally, a metaphor for the measure that accords with the moment. These two words are crucial. When Yang Qi has just begun to stir, the mind may register it, but must not move in the slightest; the mind and spirit remain settled outwardly. This is what it means to accord with the season. In general, the Great Dao of the Former Heaven lies in a state that is indistinct, elusive, and unfathomable. Only by grasping its most subtle and numinous state can one reach what lies before the Former Heaven itself. If clear and discriminating awareness arises in the mind, one has fallen into the Later Heaven and missed the essential point of “meeting amid indistinctness, with change arising in the deep and obscure.” So one must not insist on seeing everything clearly; at times, one must instead remain naturally indistinct.

I asked, “What does it mean to build the foundation?” The master said, “When the mind is empty, the foundation is complete.” Refining the self—that is, cultivating the mind and nature and disciplining body and mind—begins with external practice, bringing the mind and spirit into accord with the breath. There comes a time when foundation building is complete, but refining the self has no end. One must continue refining the self until the shedding of the embryo, the stage in Neidan practice when body and spirit are transformed. Only then is this practice no longer needed. From beginning to end, the practice of refining the self is indispensable.

Overall, the writings of the Southern Five Patriarchs surpass those of the Northern Seven Perfected Ones. Among the Northern Seven, Ma Danyang’s writings are the best; even his teacher, Wang Chongyang, does not match him.

Since the Tang and Song dynasties, there have been no more than a dozen houses with good alchemical books, and they can be counted plainly one by one. The writings of the Two Patriarchs, Zhong and Lü; Bai Yuchan; the Perfected Zhang Xujing; Liu Haichan; Ma Danyang; Zhang Sanfeng; Lu Qianxu and Li Hanxu; and Zheng Heyang are all good. Zhang Ziyang, Wei Boyang, and Xu Jingyang should also be included. Altogether, there are only a few such houses.

The Guideline to Nature and Life (a Daoist text on cultivating nature and life) says: “Before a person is born of their parents, they possess a spark of numinous awareness. It remains hidden because they have taken on a physical body. The body veils the light that was there from the beginning. Let go of attachment to the body, and clarity and brightness will return.” The master said: “People cannot become completely clear because they are unable to let go of their attachments.”

The Elder Yu Chan (a Daoist figure) said: “Just a phrase or two is enough to reach the mysterious. Why read ten thousand volumes of Elixir texts? If a person is no longer burdened by the body, the Great Luo Heaven (the highest heaven in Daoism) is right before their eyes.” The master said: “People cannot reach the Great Luo Heaven because they are unable to forget the body.” This poem is indeed excellent: its words are direct and forthright, and they can lead a person straight to the heart of the matter. It is a pity that you find it ordinary and so readily overlook it.

Someone wrote to the teacher at great length about the origins of the Taiji circle, filling several thousand characters. The more the disciple pressed for an answer, the less willing the teacher was to respond. The writer even quoted, “Rotten wood cannot be carved, and a wall of mud cannot be plastered”—meaning that rotten wood cannot be carved and a wall of filthy earth cannot be coated—and enclosed three fen’ worth of postage stamps, insisting that the teacher write back. The teacher had already drafted a reply and showed it to me. It said, “Sweep these words away, and that is my answer to you.”

The teacher also said, “Lü Weng (Lü Dongbin) once said, ‘A true classic originally has not a single word.’ He Yang Weng said, ‘All scriptures written on paper are dregs.’ In his commentary on the Wuzhen pian, Chen Shangyang wrote, ‘The many methods for dealing with worldly affairs taught by the Nine Schools and the Hundred Traditions can all be written down and passed on. Only the practice of the Golden Elixir cannot be taught through pen and paper.’ The Cantong qi says, ‘Three and Five together with One are the essence of Heaven and Earth. They can be passed on orally as a formula, but are difficult to write down and transmit.’ A book also says, ‘Heaven and Earth are vast and boundless; the Great Mystery of the Dao has no form. Its emptiness and stillness cannot be seen; it is vast and open, beyond one’s grasp.’ It further says, ‘Primordial Jing cannot be seen.’ Laozi, too, said, ‘Look for it and you cannot see it; listen for it and you cannot hear it; try to grasp it and you cannot catch it.’ Since ancient times, those who attained the Dao have all said that the true transmission of cultivation cannot be conveyed in writing, yet you insist that I write it down. Think it over: have I offended you, or have you offended me?”

The teacher went on, “As for commentaries on the Taiji diagram, the Ming-dynasty edition of the Xingli daquan already includes the views of more than a dozen authors. When they discuss returning to the root, most of them are like people probing a bronze statue with acupuncture needles: they pore over the wording and cling to its surface meaning. What good is it to read them a thousand times?”

The teacher also said, “The commentaries on the Taiji diagram, whether long or short, are mostly copied from the Tongjian. What is the point of all that? The ancients sought a teacher because they wanted to find someone who had truly attained the Dao. Why bring all that material out yourself? People seeking the Dao today are always eager to say how much they have read and how deep their learning is. That is still a long way from truly seeking the Dao.”

The teacher said, “I receive many letters every day, and there is no one to write replies for me. So usually I have to receive two or three before I answer one. When things reach this point, I really cannot avoid replying. You see, he even enclosed three fen’ worth of stamps. What am I supposed to do with those? It is not as if I am refusing to reply because I am short three fen’ worth of postage.”

The teacher sighed and said, “People seeking the Dao are always like this nowadays.” I was deeply moved at the time. Some people follow a teacher for twenty or thirty years and may still never hear a single teaching. The practice of the Dao depends on wholehearted dedication and steadfast observance. Most people, both in the past and today, treat seeking the Dao like child’s play. No wonder the teacher is dissatisfied.

I get up at eight in the morning, wash my face, and drink rice porridge. At nine I lie down on the rattan couch and practice cultivation for about two and a half hours, getting up at eleven thirty. If there is a letter, I read it; if not, I revise Essentials of the Mysterious Golden Elixir. I eat lunch at twelve thirty, then receive visitors from one until four. After four, I lie on the bed and practice cultivation, getting up at seven. If I cannot practice at four, I put it off until four thirty. At five, I must practice; I will not go easy on you either.

When practicing, as soon as the mind has a clear directing will, one has already fallen into the acquired state—that is, a state of conscious awareness and discrimination. The moment one becomes attached to the results of practice, one has likewise fallen into the acquired state. I have also said: “In dealing with worldly affairs, the greatest danger is not being shrewd enough; in learning the Dao, the greatest danger is not being muddled enough. In dealing with worldly affairs, the greatest danger is having no directing will; in learning the Dao, the greatest danger is having a directing will in the mind.” Here, “muddled” means that in cultivation one does not cling, discriminate, or exert control through conscious awareness.

I have also said: “If you think cultivation has nothing at all to do with the physical body, you have grasped only its surface. To penetrate its practical reality, you must reach a point where the mind, knowing, and conscious awareness play no part at all. Only then is it truly ‘the innate prior to the innate.’” This principle can be understood only through the experience of actual practice; it is profound and difficult to grasp. Sadly, people are unwilling to believe it, so there are few who truly understand.

Someone asked how one should withdraw from the world. The master said: “It depends on what is in a person’s heart, not on the surroundings they live in. The ancients said, ‘The Great Dao is most deeply hidden in the marketplace.’ This means that those who cultivate the Great Dao can live in seclusion amid the bustle of the city. Why insist on withdrawing from the world? If I want to practice, I can practice right here.” The master added: “Though the world outside is in turmoil, here I am at ease and undisturbed. I eat and sleep without keeping things on my mind. Where else would I go? It may not be so peaceful outside.”

Someone asked, “When can one return to the body of a child?” (“Returning to the body of a child” refers to restoring a childlike physical state, a concept in Daoist Neidan cultivation.)

A disciple asked, “When will I be able to restore my body to the state of a young child?” The master replied, “That will have to wait until the affairs of your household are properly settled. Then go to Huaijing. It is hard to succeed in cultivation while living at home, because the mind is always preoccupied. For instance, when I am practicing, my little granddaughter climbs onto the table. I see her and worry she might fall, so I have to ask someone to carry her away. There are many concerns like this—too many to mention. Once I leave home, I can focus on my practice. They can take care of things at home, and I no longer have to let them distract me. As the saying goes, ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’”

I asked again, “Master, you are now seventy-eight. If your family affairs cannot be settled for some time, and you do not restore your body to the state of a young child until you are in your eighties or nineties, will cultivation become more difficult?” The master replied, “That is not so. What matters is your daily practice, not your age. The older you are, the deeper your skill and the calmer your mind; restoring the body to the state of a young child then becomes easier. The ancients often began cultivating this stage of practice only in their later years, for precisely this reason.”

I asked the teacher, “When you practice at home, which two people serve as your protectors?”

The teacher said, “One is surnamed Zhong, and the other Wang. The one surnamed Zhong is called Zhong Zhicheng. He is from Guangdong and quite tall. He has followed me for more than ten years. In Shanghai, I have relied entirely on his help. He has practiced with me three times, and now he is coming again.” As he spoke, the teacher took a letter from his desk drawer and showed it to me. It was from Zhong Zhicheng, telling the teacher in advance that he planned to come to Shanghai after the Double Ninth Festival to seek his instruction.

I asked the teacher, “Have you passed on all the secrets to him?”

The teacher said, “There is still one final step. That is why he is coming here to practice again.”

I then asked, “What about the man surnamed Wang?”

The teacher said, “In pursuit of the Dao, he went all the way to Siam, in the region of present-day Thailand—farther than I went in my younger days. He encountered heterodox paths and suffered serious losses several times. Later, he met me. I said only a few words, and he was convinced. Knowing that he had endured much hardship, I let him practice. He followed me for three months, and after practicing he saw remarkable results. This February, he came to Shanghai again to practice. He stayed at an inn and visited me every day or two. He practiced very well.

“He said that his grandfather had loved Daoist arts all his life but had never met a true teacher, and died with that regret. As a result, the family had many Daoist books. After passing the military examination and earning the degree of juren, he was appointed to a minor post in the capital. I said to my father, ‘Our family already has considerable property. As long as nothing unexpected happens, our assets are enough to support us for the rest of our lives, even if I never work again. I am content and truly have no wish to become an official. I often think that my grandfather spent his life seeking the Dao but never fulfilled his wish. I, too, love Daoist arts, so I want to carry on his purpose and visit the four famous mountains and the great cities of every province to seek out accomplished people. If I am fortunate enough to meet one, learn what he can teach, and help others, that would be a great merit.’

“My father said, ‘That is a fine idea. If you can find the true Dao, you will have fulfilled your grandfather’s wish as well. I will let you go in search of it. Just send me word if you find it.’

“Because of this, I traveled throughout China and eventually went abroad to Siam.”

The teacher continued, “Very few people are willing to work hard and follow me in cultivation. Cai Fuyang, whom you met a few days ago, has also helped me greatly. In Shanghai, I have depended entirely on Cai and Zhong; without them, it would have been difficult for me to establish myself. Think about it: how could I live here so comfortably?

“Cai Fuyang has been especially generous in helping me print books. That alone has brought him to my aid to the tune of five or six hundred yuan. During the Xinhai Revolution, when I came from Hankou to Shanghai, Mr. Cai took care of everything, from moving my belongings to finding a place to live. Without him, I could not have made the move to Shanghai so smoothly, since I knew the city so poorly.

“I have Wang and Zhong to help me. If one more person of considerable means were to help, I could leave my hometown. I am already quite content.”

The poem by Ju Shi Xinglin says: “All things are born and so must die; the original spirit (the human being’s fundamental spirit) dies and is reborn. Gather the spirit back into Qi, and the way of alchemy will naturally be fulfilled.” The master said: “The alchemical method is not complicated. A few lines like these have already stated its essentials. Whether one can attain the Dao is determined by one’s fate. If one can attain the Dao in this life, all the opportunities one encounters arise from karmic conditions. Without those conditions, one might seek all one’s life and never meet a suitable person.”

I said: “That may be so, but people who possess the Dao often do not display their abilities. If one has never had the insight to recognize people, how can one tell who they are? That is why a true master is so hard to find.” The master nodded in agreement, then said: “Now that you understand cultivation cannot focus only on the external form, you will be able to judge for yourselves when you meet a master in the future, and will no longer be deceived by teachers who lack a true transmission. Know that, since ancient times, most people who attained the Dao received teachings from more than one teacher. For example, Pure Yang Elder Lü Dongbin received teachings from three masters: Shi Hufu, Ma Ziran, and Zhongli Zhengyang. When he met Elder Zhongli, he received only a single oral formula; Elder Zhongli did not give him the complete transmission.”

The master added: “Anyone who clings only to the physical body in their practice follows a heterodox path.” He mentioned that Ke Huaijing was his age and was now seventy-eight; Ke Zaishu was already over eighty, and Sun Yuanbo was over ninety, nearing one hundred. When the master first met Sun Yuanbo, Sun was already seventy-six or seventy-seven. They met again eight years later, when Sun was over eighty. Among Sun’s disciples was a man surnamed Li, who was now also over sixty.

By the time Teacher Wu visited us for the second time, his body had returned to a childlike state. He said, “I have finished what I needed to do for myself. But I thought you had not yet fully learned the formulas, so I came to see you again. I happened to be passing through this time, and next I’m going to Jiujiang in Jiangxi.”

As we parted, we begged him to take us with him into seclusion. Teacher Wu said, “You have not yet finished your family affairs, and I don’t need you to come with me. You can each find a place to live in seclusion.” We asked where we should go. He replied, “You can live anywhere—in a town, a village, or a market. The only thing that matters is that outsiders don’t know we are cultivating the Dao.” With that, he bade us farewell.

The teacher added, “Teacher Wu is very strict. You needn’t show him the slightest courtesy.”

A young man came here a few days ago. He is seventeen and deeply devoted to the Dao. He had copied the titles of Daoist books I studied in the past onto a sheet of paper and searched for them everywhere. The day before yesterday, he came here and said, “Teacher, I’ve found a complete copy of Fanghu Waishi.” I said, “You can’t buy this book here. I’m afraid you may have found a fake. Bring it over and let me have a look.” He showed it to me, and it was indeed genuine. Unfortunately, it was printed from metal type, and only the “Short Preface to Wuzhen” was missing; everything else was complete. It was probably a collector who brought it out to be printed. You could buy a copy and have a look, too.

The teacher showed everyone the copy of Nan Hua Fu Mo he had bought earlier. It was much smaller than the copy Meng Jun had found, and the printing was far inferior. I said, “Meng Jun says there’s still a collector in Beijing who has brought out a copy of Nan Hua Fu Mo to be printed.” The teacher said, “I’ll ask you to write Meng Jun a letter and buy this book. When you send it to me, tell me how much it cost, and I’ll repay him. Many people want this book. One of my students has also asked me to search for a copy on his behalf.”

Refining the self (cultivating body and mind, and nurturing one’s nature) and laying the foundation (preparing for the stages of cultivation that follow) do not simply mean maintaining calm and stillness or preventing Jing (essence) from being discharged. If calm and stillness are the Dao, why speak of “refining the self” rather than “refining the heart”? If retaining Jing is the Dao, why speak of “laying the foundation” rather than “refining the kidneys”? Refining the self and laying the foundation may seem like two separate practices, but in fact they are linked and form a single whole. From the perspective of the precelestial, when all is said and done, it is enough to keep the heart and breath together, each abiding with the other.

The difficulty lies in this first step of refining the self. All the work that follows is easy; only the beginning is hard. As the teacher spoke of this, his tone was deeply earnest. He wanted us to apply ourselves and make swift progress.

When I met Master Wu aboard a foreign ship, he looked radiant and truly unlike an ordinary person. He wore purple-patterned cotton socks and a long robe of blue cotton, with a sky-blue satin jacket over it. I thought his attire had a distinctly old-fashioned charm.

Later, Master Wu asked me and Ke Huaijing to each contribute five hundred yuan to help the famine victims. I said, “Teacher Wu, you once told us not to give you a single cent. Why are you now asking each of us for five hundred yuan?” Master Wu replied, “This money is for the famine victims. I won’t keep a cent of it for myself. My family has money shops, pawnshops, farmland, and houses; our property is worth several hundred thousand. I’m several times wealthier than you. Why would I need your money? If you don’t believe me, I’ll give you this jacket.” At that, Master Wu could not help laughing.

I said, “Teacher Wu, I’m giving five hundred yuan to help the famine victims. Why are you giving me this jacket? I believe what you say.” Master Wu replied, “I’m not making that up. I really do want to give it to you. This jacket doesn’t go with the purple-patterned cotton socks and blue cotton robe I’m wearing. I’d look ridiculous in it, so I don’t want it. Take it as a keepsake.” I said, “I have a jacket of my own. What would I need yours for? You should keep wearing it.”

Master Wu was easygoing and openhearted. He was usually serious and proper, but sometimes he joked around. This time, the five hundred yuan for famine relief unexpectedly led to an amusing offer of a jacket, and became a story for teacher and student to laugh about together.

Speaking of “renewing the people” and “being close to the people,” the Master said: “‘Renewing the people’ refers to work on one’s nature—cultivating the heart and mind. ‘Being close to the people’ refers to work on one’s life—cultivating the body and breath. This interpretation carries forward the ideas in the Book of Changes: ‘Clouds follow the dragon, and wind follows the tiger,’ and ‘What is rooted in Heaven draws near to what is above; what is rooted in Earth draws near to what is below.’ Zhu Xi did not understand their meaning, so he changed ‘being close to the people’ to ‘renewing the people.’ ‘Renewing the people’ is not wholly without sense, but Zhu Xi did not understand what ‘being close to the people’ meant and altered the classic text on his own, which was a mistake. How could he have known that without ‘being close to the people’ above as its basis, the ‘renewing the people’ spoken of below would have no foundation?”

The Master also said: “‘Renewing the people’ refers to passages in the Cantong qi, a Daoist alchemical classic, such as ‘Weeding and hoeing away old filth, so that what is subtle may flow freely.’ This means clearing away accumulated impurity and opening what is subtle and fine—in other words, breaking old habits and renewing one’s nature. This is work on one’s nature. ‘Being close to the people’ means bringing the mind and spirit into accord with the breath, and harmonizing spirit with breath. This is work on one’s life. In general, this is a matter of like things drawing near to one another. The Cantong qi and the Wuzhen pian, a Daoist Neidan classic, both carry forward the thought of the Book of Changes.

Cultivating the Dao means, in essence, reaching a state beyond knowing and awareness. When I practice now, I can enter a hazy, indistinct state, unaware and unknowing; when I am not practicing, I cannot. If I could remain in that hazy, unknowing state even when I was not practicing, I would return to the state of a child. Still, reaching the state I have attained today was no easy matter; it took hard work.”

Zhu Yuanyu’s Elucidating the Hidden in the Cantong qi is already a very profound work and is worth reading. The Commentary on the Stele of One Hundred Characters in The Outer History of Fanghu is excellent, as is the Commentary on the Yinfu Jing; both are worth studying. To clarify the difference between the precelestial and postcelestial, the Explication and Commentary on the Qingyin Jing is especially good and should be read carefully. Then read the Essentials of the Mysterious Way, and you will gain some insight.

What matters most is to study the boundary between the precelestial and postcelestial until it is clear and you have no doubts. Then, in actual practice, whatever circumstances arise, you will be less likely to cling to outward appearances. When reading, you should also sense the subtle indications—the signs and changes of the Dao—in the emptiness beyond the body. Do not force yourself to guess and grope based only on the postcelestial body and sensory experience; this will save you considerable effort. The more deeply you study the indications in emptiness, the more profound and meaningful they become.

Read the “book without images”—texts that speak of the principles of the formless Dao—repeatedly every day. With sustained reading, gradually let the mind grow quiet, empty, and clear; keep your inner world bright and untroubled, free of attachments, with scattered thoughts all dissolved and no taint from external things. If you can remain empty, clear, and still throughout the day, without giving rise to a single thought, you will be close to the state being described. When that time comes, speak with me about profound principles, and you will naturally understand.

When the ancients said that a person could hear a single sentence and understand completely, they did not mean that this happened out of nowhere. It came after long accumulation, when a teacher’s timely guidance suddenly brought everything into focus. This is cultivation and understanding proceeding together, which is why progress is so swift.

When I have nothing else to do, I simply read the Yijing. After one reading, I find grounds for refuting Zhu Xi; after another, I discover something new. Thus, the Jindan Xuanyao, which has not yet been printed, is more than two thousand characters longer than the edition already in print. It will have to be published one day.

I have said that to refute Zhu Xi’s claim that Daoism is a heterodox path, we must cite the Yijing as evidence. The Yijing is a classic compiled by four sages. Only by using it as our authority can we respond to Zhu Xi with force; otherwise, the argument will still miss the point. That is why I study the Yijing every day.

Without hard work, one cannot truly master the art. Attaining the Dao is difficult, but it is something people can accomplish. Laozi said, “A nine-story tower is built from baskets of earth; a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step; a tree that takes several people to encircle grows from a tiny shoot.” This is the very principle at issue.

In the end, learning the Dao comes down to one word: “transformation”—cultivation that brings about change within oneself.

A good book on the Golden Elixir path need not say much. The Rujing contains only a few hundred characters, yet it fully explains the beginning and the end of the Dao. Its opening four lines are especially concise and already state the essentials.

I asked, “Where are the immortals?” The Master replied, “An immortal is a point of numinous Qi—primordial energy imbued with spiritual power—within the boundless void. In stillness, it is luminous and clear, pervading everywhere without limit. In movement, its spiritual wonder reaches everywhere and has no end.”

I asked again, “When the Earth is destroyed, will the Dharma-body—the body formed through cultivation—of an immortal also be destroyed?” The Master replied, “That depends on the depth of your cultivation. If you can reach the utmost in ‘returning to the void,’ the state of returning to original stillness and reality, and unite with the Dao in truth, you will transcend the scope of Heaven and Earth’s transformations. You will not be subject to change or destruction, but stand apart, enduring on your own. What, then, could be destroyed? If you practice only stillness, you will fall into dead emptiness, clinging to a vacant and lifeless state. So, to make the mind empty and clear, you must also find support in external things.”

The Master added, “Generally speaking, cultivation of nature—refining the mind and nourishing one’s original nature—is not worth much.”

There are several fine sayings in Buddhism, such as: “True emptiness does not hinder wondrous existence, and wondrous existence does not hinder true emptiness.” This means that emptiness and existence do not exclude one another.

In the former Qing era, one could not say anything against Zhu Xi; anyone who criticized him would be punished. When Chen Shangyang annotated the Cantong qi, he too did not dare openly to criticize Zhu Xi, and could offer only a few evasive remarks. This shows that things were broadly the same throughout the Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. In the Republic of China, freedom of speech meant that anything could be said, as long as the reasoning held up. So I have pointed out what I consider Zhu Xi’s heterodox views, to prevent them from causing endless harm.

The Master added, “All who have attained the Dao must refute Zhu Xi. Zheng Heyang refuted him very forcefully.”

Although I have many disciples, most can only talk about principles and are unwilling to put in the real effort. Only one man and one woman have made good progress in their practice and can withstand attacks from wind, cold, dampness, and the like. Apart from them, none of the others is confident of coping with a serious illness. I asked, “Who are these two?” The master said, “One is Zhong Zhicheng; the other is the daughter of an official in Beijing. I once stayed at her family’s home for more than a year, and she practiced very well.”

When breathing is present, one uses “martial fire,” a more active and forceful method of cultivation. When breathing ceases and one enters meditation, one uses “civil fire,” a gentler, quieter method. To go further from meditation into a state of forgetting is “stopping the fire”—that is, ceasing the practice. Journey to the West is written with such complexity that even after reading it forty times, I still have not grasped its essential secrets. It is truly difficult to understand, so one might as well read The Profound Essentials of the Golden Elixir.

Since ancient times, works that establish a school of their own and offer an original viewpoint have been exceedingly rare. Let me give a few examples: the Scripture of the Hidden Talisman, the Dao De Jing, the Nanhua Jing, the Chongxu Jing, Baopuzi, Journey to the West, and Entering the Medicine Mirror. Although the Cantong qi is excellent, in the final analysis it follows the ideas of the Book of Changes, so it does not count as a work that establishes a school of its own. The Scripture of the Hidden Talisman, the Dao De Jing, the Nanhua Jing, the Chongxu Jing, Baopuzi, Journey to the West, and Entering the Medicine Mirror are among the few that do. Although the Cantong qi is excellent, in the final analysis it follows the ideas of the Book of Changes, so it does not count as a work that establishes a school of its own.

In writing The Profound Essentials, I focus specifically on the transformations and movements within emptiness. I do not use concrete images to explain them, which makes the work very different from those of the various perfected ones from the Tang and Song dynasties onward. It can be said to open up a new approach. I wrote it this way in the hope of establishing a school of my own.

The Gui Zhi of Nature and Life, as well as Ke Huaijing’s Collection on Nurturing Nature and my Essentials of Nature and Life, all include illustrations. Readers should not focus on the images alone. Ke once said to me, “When I first wrote my book, I had read few texts on the Golden Elixir and had little learning to draw on, so I had no choice but to include illustrations. You have read widely and know a great deal. I urge you to write a book without illustrations.” I replied, “A book without illustrations is hard to write, and my writing is not as good as yours.” Ke answered, “Fine writing is not the point. Just make yourself clear.”

You who practice stillness should also write a book without illustrations. I said, “A book without illustrations is hard to write, and my writing is not as good as yours.” Ke answered, “Fine writing is not the point. Just make yourself clear.”

Your practice of stillness lacks a foundation, so your progress has stalled. Begin practicing at once: sit in a chair like a dullard, without moving or stirring, as if dead, and place your mind and spirit outside yourself. When stray thoughts arise, notice them and dispel them. Make sure no thoughts arise in your mind; remain hazy and unfocused. It is best if you can fall asleep. I asked, “What should I do when I can’t get rid of all the stray thoughts?” The teacher replied sternly, “Only the most sincere person under Heaven can bring about transformation. Without sincerity of heart, nothing can be accomplished.” I gained some insight from this.

Placing the mind and spirit outside yourself while practicing stillness was a method the ancients used to help the elderly cultivate themselves. Their Jing and Qi had declined, and their spirits had grown dull, so they used this method to nourish the spirit. Young people who study the Dao do not ordinarily need this stage of practice, though it can still be beneficial to try. It is also said that by keeping up this stillness practice over a long period, one can live beyond a hundred. The value of the Dao is truly beyond measure.

In Journey to the West, Tang Sanzang, Sun Wukong, and Zhu Bajie are traveling together. Tang Sanzang asks Sun Wukong to explain the Heart Sutra, but Sun Wukong remains silent for a long time. Zhu Bajie accuses him of dodging the question: “You claim you can explain the Heart Sutra. If Master asks you to speak, why don’t you say a word? You clearly don’t understand it, yet you pretend to have awakened and deceive Master. Speak up!” Sun Wukong still says nothing.

The narrator believes Sun Wukong has already explained it. The ancients said, “The Great Dao lies beyond words.” Buddhism, too, teaches that to explain without using words is to explain truly; those who understand can grasp this wordless expression. The teacher says that this scene in Journey to the West is full of meaning, though readers often overlook it. The mysteries of the Great Way of the Golden Elixir—the Daoist path of Neidan (internal alchemy)—cannot be captured in writing and are difficult to express aloud. Yuchan Weng said, “The mystery of the moment lies in transmission from heart to heart.” Confucius, too, said, “I would rather not speak.” Both point to truths conveyed from heart to heart that cannot be fully expressed in words.

The story then turns to the Bottomless Cave at Trapped Hollow Mountain. The teacher explains that it symbolizes straying into heterodox paths—methods that depart from orthodox cultivation. Those who cultivate only their own nature will fall into a deep, bottomless pit and may spend their whole lives unable to escape. Sun Wukong says he has faced many dangers but never seen a cave so dark and bottomless, so he asks Zhu Bajie to go in first and scout the way. Zhu Bajie shakes his head and says that his body is too heavy; if he lost his footing in such a cave, it might take him two or three years to reach the bottom. The teacher says these scenes are enough to serve as a warning: once someone slips into a heterodox path, they may remain trapped in darkness for the rest of their life, with little chance of seeing the light.

The Bottomless Cave also contains 384 rooms. The teacher sees this as drawing on the 384 lines of the Book of Changes, the total number of hexagram lines. The cave can also illustrate primordial Wuji, the original state before Heaven and Earth were differentiated. Its symbolism is similar to that of Kongtong Mountain and can be understood in terms of both the pre-heavenly and post-heavenly states. Thus, Journey to the West is profound in meaning and endlessly transformative; its full significance cannot be grasped at a glance.

In youth, it is difficult to settle the mind and practice cultivation because Qi and blood are vigorous and the mind’s energy is keen, like the rugged strength of Mount Kongtong. At this stage, discussions of the precelestial and postcelestial principles can both make sense. And because change is so varied and inexhaustible, Journey to the West is not easy to understand.

Young people find cultivation difficult because their Qi and blood are forceful and their minds keen. They tend to act with abundant energy and strong ambition. One should recognize how sharp one’s own edge is; that is why it is hard to quiet the mind and apply oneself. The sharp edge needs to be rounded off. In spare moments, quietly study the Cantong qi, the Daode jing, and the Yinfu jing. Once the mind has grown calm and even, it will not be difficult to begin cultivating.

Books that focus on principles rather than concrete images can be helpful when read thoroughly. Books that contain descriptions of concrete images, however, should never be read.

To transform the arising and passing, flowing state into stillness is a step toward transcending the secular world. In immediate experience, both the breath moving in and out and thoughts arising and falling away are phenomena of change and flow; they need to be transformed.

The text then quotes Sengcan’s Inscription on Faith in Mind: “When the one mind does not arise, the myriad things are without fault.” This means that when thoughts do not arise, nothing in the world is at fault. It also quotes Guan Yin Zi: “When not a single breath remains, the Dao will come into accord.” This means that when breathing ceases, one can accord with the Dao. The teacher says that whether one speaks of the mind or of breathing, in the end the interval between one thought and the next must be severed, returning to stillness so that nothing arises again. This is the foundation of cultivating nature and cultivating life alike. “Not a single breath remains” means that breathing no longer manifests: ordinary breathing has stopped, and one has entered samadhi in peace. In this state, the precelestial Original Spirit (the innate activity of spirit) and Original Qi (precelestial vital energy) will naturally manifest; hence the phrase “the Dao will come into accord.” When body and mind both return to stillness, the transformations of creation can no longer sway me.

The text then quotes Lü Zu: “After the Neidan is complete, …”

Lü Zu said: “Once the Neidan (internal alchemy) is complete, the Waidan (external alchemy) will also coalesce. When the inner and outer elixirs join, they help prolong life and form a mass of purple-gold flowers, which flies beyond heaven and earth.”

The master said: “A practitioner who has brought the work of refining the self to maturity has no worldly thoughts in the heart. They can see visions without being moved by them, remaining quiet and settled. This is called ‘the nature becoming settled’; it means the Neidan is complete. This is possible because each day I bring in a measure of precelestial Qi and use it to subdue the postcelestial mind’s restless impulses. Over time, deluded thoughts vanish and one returns to the source. The mind becomes steady and unmoving, while the central palace—the place where the movement of Qi is said to reside at the center of body and mind—becomes empty and still. It is like the bright moon hanging high in the middle of the sky. This is what it means to have mastered the practice.

“Only after this can one refine the ‘Nine Returns.’ ‘Nine’ is a yang number; it refers to the true yang Qi that appears in settled stillness. It comes from emptiness and is called ‘Golden Flower,’ also known as the ‘outer medicine.’ It is called Waidan because it comes from outside the body, rather than being inherent in the physical body. The Cantong qi (a Daoist alchemical classic) says: ‘When gold returns to its original nature, it may be called the Return Elixir.’ Here, ‘gold’ means precelestial Qi, also called ‘wondrous presence,’ while ‘original nature’ means the nature of true emptiness. Alchemical texts use ‘true lead’ and ‘true mercury’ as metaphors for it, and also ‘infant’ and ‘maiden.’ Ultimately, this means joining the Qi of wondrous presence with one’s own nature of true emptiness.

“The union of inner and outer, and the merging of emptiness and presence, is also called ‘the knife-tip measure’ and is named the ‘Return Elixir.’ ‘Purple-Gold Pellet’ is another name for the Return Elixir. Though there are many names, once you understand the teaching, it seems plain and easy to grasp. Clinging to names and forms only makes it seem more complicated and harder to understand. That is why you must study and investigate it with a master.”

Someone asked about Wang Yuyang’s poem quoted in Recorded Sayings on the Unity of Immortals and Buddhas: “Once one awakens to true emptiness, all is complete in the immortal way. How does one awaken, and how does one become complete?” The master said, “You are still a long way from this stage of cultivation. For now, it is enough to reach the state described as ‘In the deep and dim, a hazy awareness arises; in the hazy awareness, a sphere takes shape.’” (This describes a state in which the body and mind grow still and quiet, and the breath gathers and becomes concentrated.)

The next day, someone asked again. The master said, “To realize true emptiness inwardly—that is, a state of inner stillness without thoughts—is for no thought to arise. The Perfected Person Ziyang said, ‘In the deep of night, the moon shines bright; heaven and earth are one round mirror.’ This describes the first appearance of one’s original nature, the manifestation of suchness. Reaching this point is enough.” (“Suchness” refers to the true nature that is real and unchanging.)

On the third day, someone asked again. The master said, “To realize true emptiness inwardly is for no thought to arise. The Perfected Person Ziyang said, ‘In the deep of night, the moon shines bright; heaven and earth are one round mirror.’ This is the first appearance of one’s original nature, the wondrous nature of suchness. One must also attain true emptiness outwardly: the breath seems to stop, and all is utterly still. Once true emptiness is realized both inwardly and outwardly, the two merge into one. Internal cultivation brings about the ‘seven returns,’ while external cultivation brings about the ‘nine restorations’ (terms in Daoist internal alchemy for different stages of the process of refinement and cultivation). The Perfected Person Ziyang’s words, ‘The inner medicine returns to become one with the outer medicine; what is connected within must also be connected without,’ explain this principle. In short, cultivate until the inner and outer are both empty and still, and merge into one; then you will naturally awaken to true emptiness.”

I was worried that after the master withdrew into seclusion, he would leave us behind, so I asked him. The master said, “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you in the lurch. After I go into seclusion, I’ll write to you. You need only write to me two or three times a year; there’s no need to write more often. That way, I’ll have a general idea of where you live, and in the future I can ask my son to look after you.”

I asked the teacher, “Of the eight members of the Dao Discussion Society, apart from you and Mr. Ke Huaijing, who received instruction from Teacher Wu, were the other six also taught by you and Senior Brother Ke?”

The teacher said, “Of course. Teacher Wu instructed Senior Brother Ke and me to pass on what we had learned to them.”

I asked again, “Did they all attain the Dao later on?”

The teacher sighed. “It is painful to speak of. Apart from Ke Zaishu, the others have all passed away.” I was greatly surprised and asked what had happened.

The teacher said, “In those days, the eight of us formed the Dao Discussion Society. We rented a room in a teahouse for our meetings and discussed the principles every day, thoroughly enjoying ourselves. Although there were eight of us in name, only five were truly committed to cultivation: myself, the brothers Ke Huaijing, a Mr. Zeng, and Zhou Jichang. The others merely liked the Dao and talked about it now and then.”

I asked about Ji Yunlan. The teacher said, “He was one of the eight as well. Later he developed asthma and eventually passed away.”

I then asked about the man surnamed Zeng. The teacher said, “His cultivation, like Zhou Jichang’s, was very good. Later, Mr. Zeng accepted a friend’s invitation to drink at a guild hall. Before he had finished his drink, a fire broke out at his home. When he heard, he hurried back. But the street was already packed with people. Some had gathered to watch the fire, while others took advantage of the chaos to loot. Worried about his family, Mr. Zeng tried desperately to push through and see what was happening. There were thousands of people. Once he had entered the crowd, he had exhausted his strength and could not get out. He stood there with both feet on the ground, squeezed from every side, until the crowd crushed him.”

Later, he died after coughing up blood. I asked, “Zhou Jichang was also very accomplished in his practice. Why did he die as well?” The master said, “He mishandled things himself. He got into a lawsuit with someone over reasons I don’t know. He lost the case and was held in a detention center for several months. He was troubled and couldn’t continue practicing. Later, he too died of a condition that caused him to cough up blood.” (The commentator points out that what Zeng and Zhou went through were both “demonic obstacles” on the path of cultivation: hardships that impede practice.)

In the end, only Ke Zaishu among the eight was willing to work hard. The only ones who truly persisted in cultivation were Ke and his brothers, and me. I couldn’t help sighing when I heard this. The master continued, “There were many Daoist friends in Hankou at the time. Although the Discussion Society was organized by eight people, some never joined but still came every day to the gathering place in the teahouse to discuss the Dao. You’ve read Ke Huaijing’s Essays on Cultivating the Nature (a work on cultivating the mind and body), haven’t you? It mentions many Daoist friends. Huaijing was good at writing poetry. Whenever he met a fellow cultivator, he would give them a poem. He gave me one too. Did you see it?” I said, “Yes.”

The master said, “In short, it won’t do to avoid hard work in your daily practice. If you lay a deep foundation through regular cultivation, even coughing up blood need not lead to serious consequences. So the Guidelines for Cultivating Nature and Life (a Daoist text on cultivating nature and life) says, ‘Entering the Dao is easy; holding to the Dao is hard.’ It is absolutely right.” He added, “Cultivation must not be interrupted. If you can practice for two or three shichen each day, you need not fear even the most serious illness. If I had not kept up my practice like this, I would have died several times over by now. That is why the Perfected Ziyang said, ‘Only then did I know that my life and nature are not determined by Heaven.’”

The master added, “Sun Yuanbo came along later. He passed the provincial examination in the jiǎzǐ year.”

When Teacher Wu Weichu first met us, he spoke a few words about Journey to the West. After that, he no longer discussed alchemical texts—Daoist works on alchemical cultivation. On the very first day, he told us, “I have come here to teach you oral formulas, not to give you books; to teach you how to practice, not to teach you how to discuss Daoist texts.”

Sometimes Ke Huaijing and I would ask him about the alchemical texts. Teacher Wu would reply, “Go and practice first. Once you have made some progress, come back and ask. See what you can work out.” He generally disliked talking at length. He would pass on a few oral formulas, then tell us to focus on actual practice. When we had reached a certain level, we could ask him again, and he would then explain the finer points in detail. If our practice was not yet far enough along and we asked about deeper formulas, he would say, “You haven’t reached that level yet. When you do, I’ll explain them to you.” We had no other recourse, so we devoted ourselves entirely to practice.

The master said, “What I told you before mostly concerned the doctrines of certain heterodox paths. Later, when I met Teacher Wu, everything was completely different. Teacher Wu was truly learned. On the second or third day after he arrived in Hankou, all the fellow Dao practitioners came to pay their respects, but not one of them could answer his questions. They looked at one another, stunned into silence. He was nothing like the people we had met before.

“I asked how Grand Master Wu taught the Dao. His teaching, too, differed from what you find in Daoist books. He asked only about the precelestial state—the original condition, untouched by later influences—and said nothing about the postcelestial physical body, formed of bodily shape and the senses. Naturally, we did not know how to answer.

“For example, one of eight people came to pay his respects. After the man bowed, Teacher Wu asked, ‘Do you also enjoy cultivating the Dao?’ The man replied, ‘Yes.’ Teacher Wu asked, ‘How many years have you studied?’ The man said, ‘Many years.’ Teacher Wu then asked, ‘After studying for so many years, have you ever seen with your own eyes what the Dao is?’ The man replied, ‘No.’ Teacher Wu asked again, ‘You have read so many alchemical texts about Neidan, and you must have read the word “Dao” hundreds or thousands of times. Why do you still say you have never seen it?’ The man turned to look at us and was at a loss for words.

“The master said: With just these few questions, you can understand in your heart that the alchemical texts do not contain a ready-made ‘Dao’ for people to see. All the different explanations in the books use symbolic language to point toward the Dao. They are like a bamboo fish trap or a rabbit snare: tools that help people grasp it. You must not mistake the tools for the Dao itself.

“Another person came to pay his respects. After he bowed, Teacher Wu asked, ‘Do you also enjoy cultivating the Dao?’ The man replied, ‘Yes.’ Teacher Wu said, ‘Since you have loved the Dao for many years, do you know whether the Great Dao belongs to the precelestial or the postcelestial?’ The man replied, ‘The precelestial.’ Teacher Wu continued, ‘Then why does it become postcelestial?’ The man answered, ‘Because the body has been broken.’ Teacher Wu asked, ‘If so, where has your precelestial state gone?’ The man could not answer. Ke Huaijing then said, ‘It has dissolved.’”

Master Wu asked him, “Why does it become postcelestial after undergoing change?” He replied, “Its original substance has already been damaged.” Master Wu continued, “Then where has your prenatal nature gone?” He could not answer. Ke Huaijing added, “The prenatal nature has dissolved.” Master Wu asked, “Where has it dissolved to?” Ke Huaijing could not answer either. I said, “As soon as it changes, it scatters.” Master Wu asked again, “Where has it scattered to?” I, too, had no reply. We looked at one another, unsure what to say.

Master Wu said, “It is like losing something: to restore it to its original state, you must look where you lost it. If you lose a few silver dollars—the coins used in former times—on the street, you must search the street. If you lose them in a particular shop, you must search that shop. There is no need to look elsewhere; even if you do, you will only waste your effort.”

The teacher said, “In my Canons of the Three Teachings in Mutual Accord, a work that brings together Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, several passages record Master Wu’s words.”

A few days later, Master Wu gathered the eight of us and said, “My energy is limited, so I can personally transmit the teachings to only two people. The other six can wait for those two to pass them on; the effect will be the same as if I had taught them myself.” We all said, “Please choose the two, Master.” Master Wu said, “You know in your own hearts which two have read the most books on the Elixir and have grasped their principles most deeply.” So he transmitted the method to Ke Huaijing and me.

I asked what would become of the other six. The teacher said, “When they truly meet a teacher, they will no longer study the Dao.” He often said, “Once we have settled our family affairs, we will go into seclusion with you. The two of you are my teachers.” But how could we ever have waited for that day?

Chongxuzi said, “If you can fully understand the principles taught by countless sages throughout the ages, and make your breathing clear and distinct, you can bring the work of becoming an immortal to completion.” These words can do real harm, much like Mi Yuanzi’s claim that “when the outer yang rises, that is the living Zi hour within the body.” Seeing these statements, people deliberately manipulate their breathing and fall into acquired, contrived practices. They fixate on outward signs and recklessly circulate Fire and Qi, inevitably risking illness. (I believe the wording should instead be: “Only when the True Breath is clear and distinct can the work of becoming an immortal be brought to completion.” This accords with the mysterious pivot—that is, the deeper secrets of cultivation.)

I asked, “Baopuzi says that the pupils of those who attain the Dao become square. Is that really true?” My master replied, “It is.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “Because the divine spirit has manifested.” I then asked about the suozigu, a feature in which the joints are linked together like hooks and locks. My master said, “Joints linked together in this way are also an auspicious sign of a person of high attainment who has realized the Dao.”

Cai Fuyang helped me a great deal, but he would not devote himself to cultivation. He said, “Once I’ve finished the matters at hand, I’ll come study cultivation with you.” But this year has its affairs, and next year will have its own. I have no idea when he will finish with them. In my view, only death brings all affairs to an end; as long as one is alive, there is always something left to do. Hearing him say this at the time moved me deeply.

People often say, “If immortality can be attained through cultivation, why don’t we see immortals in the world? It’s all deception and not worth believing.” This view is completely mistaken. People hold to worldly opinions only because they have not fully understood the principles and remain confused in mind. An “immortal” is one who has undergone transformation. When a fish transforms into a dragon, it can soar into the heavens and never return to the water. Likewise, the tiny creatures that swarm by the hundreds and thousands in the water, once transformed into mosquitoes, fly into the air and never return to the water. Immortals are the same: once a person is reborn through transformation and becomes an immortal, they can ride dragons and phoenixes and roam in every direction, never returning to the turbid world to endure its defilements. Why should they have to display supernatural powers and perform feats of magic to convince those who do not believe?

When I met Master Wu, he first had me travel for a month to six distant regions, saying that this would spare me from returning to the defiled world and enduring its foulness. Why reveal supernatural powers or display magical abilities to win the trust of people who do not believe?

When I met Master Wu, he first had me sit quietly and practice for a month. Then he taught me to listen to my breathing with my ears. I did not realize that, as I practiced, I was gripping my attention too tightly again. Master Wu said, “Do not grip it so tightly. You must never try to control this by force. The moment you deliberately hold on, you become attached to outward appearances and fall into the acquired state of deliberate action.” So I relaxed, but then fell into utter emptiness. Master Wu said again, “You must not fall into emptiness either. Be faintly aware of the breath coming and going, without becoming attached to it. Let everything follow its natural course.” I practiced as he instructed, and gradually became more adept.

The master said, “Falling into emptiness simply means that your practice produces no results; becoming attached to appearances, however, will certainly bring problems in your practice. The right balance is to remain steady and even, neither forgetting nor deliberately nurturing. Then ordinary breathing will naturally grow finer and subtler, and the true breath—the deep, subtle inner breath spoken of in cultivation—will emerge. This is the true bellows, and the true furnace and cauldron, the foundations of body and mind in alchemical practice.” He added, “When mind and breath support one another outwardly, the furnace and cauldron are established in that very moment.”

The methods of cultivation are taught in three stages. The first is “refining the self and laying the foundation”—cultivating the mind and nature and building a firm base. I have already explained this to you in detail. The second stage concerns changes in the firing process, including the Small Celestial Circuit, a practice centered on the route along which inner Qi circulates; gathering the Great Medicine; passing through the barriers; and returning the body to its childlike state. The third stage is the final practice of nature, including the emergence of the spirit and returning to emptiness. Completing these practices counts as attaining the Dao.

When Mr. Meng first wrote to me, he said he had been practicing the Sun Qi Refining Method for ten years and went on at length about many mistaken claims associated with it. The teacher said, “Why are you writing all this? You’ve studied for ten years, yet you still lose Jing. What have you learned?” So I didn’t reply, but he kept writing again and again. I truly couldn’t understand how someone could be so muddled—pitiful, and exasperating too.

I said, “To be muddled to that extent is itself his strength. If it were me, I couldn’t even manage to be as muddled as he is.” The teacher laughed when he heard this.

Then the teacher said, “Old Meng is actually quite sincere; he’s just far too inflexible. He used to send many letters asking only about words and appearances, things that are merely superficial. His questions also never strayed from these five alchemical scriptures: Treatise on the Realized Immortals, Scripture of Wisdom and Life, Principles of the Celestial Immortals, The Union of Immortals and Buddhas, and The Compass of Nature and Life. If I didn’t answer, he would suspect that I didn’t understand the alchemical scriptures, so I had no choice but to explain them in detail and urge him not to cling to words or fixate on appearances. But he listened as if he hadn’t heard a thing, and kept asking the same questions over and over until I truly couldn’t take it anymore. In the end, I had to tell him plainly that if he brought up the same old questions again, I would not answer them at all. He wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. I really couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I had to be frank and blunt with him.”

The teacher added, “Fortunately, he’s the only one like this. If there were two or three more, I wouldn’t have any time left to practice.”

I’ve spoken before about the Sun Qi Refining Method, but that was only a metaphor. Put plainly, it means letting the mind and breath depend on one another, bringing the inner Shen and Qi into accord, and settling the mind in emptiness. When the mind is still and clear, its light shines downward, like sunlight spreading over all things. The alchemical scriptures call this “turning the light around and reflecting inward.”

The phrase “uniting the mind” means letting the mind and spirit accompany the breath, so that the outer spirit and Qi come together as one. At this point, the mind is clear and still, open and bright like empty space. Once the mind grows quiet, its light shines downward, as the sun illuminates all things. Alchemical texts call this “turning the light back and reflecting inward”: gathering the mind and spirit so that inner awareness does not drift upward and scatter, but settles inward and downward. When the mind’s light shines down, Kidney Water naturally transforms into Qi and rises. The acquired mind and the kidneys then join with one another. As the heart and kidneys unite, Kidney Water no longer leaks outward. This is why it is called “the solar method of refining Qi for men.”

What other “solar methods of refining Qi” could there be besides letting the mind and breath accompany one another? People who follow heterodox paths do not understand the principle, so they seize on this phrase and set up their own schools. Women belong to Kun, one of the Eight Trigrams, often used to represent the female. So this is also called “the lunar method of refining the form.” In the end, is it not simply the mind and breath accompanying one another?

I said, “I heard Lord Meng say that the solar method of refining Qi uses wooden, stone, and iron mallets to strike various points along the body’s meridians.” My teacher’s expression changed when he heard this. He said, “How tragic! That is why the ancient immortals said, ‘One should seek the Dao among ordinary people.’ They said this because they deeply detested such heterodox practices, which they considered contrary to human nature and unworthy of the true path. Think about it: if simply letting the mind and breath accompany one another can bring results in cultivating the Dao, why would anyone need to strike the body with wooden or iron mallets?”

My teacher continued, “In the past, I traveled from place to place seeking methods of the Dao and encountered all kinds of strange practices. Most were techniques meant to startle ordinary people and display wondrous powers. In the final analysis, they had nothing to do with cultivating the human body, mind and spirit, or nature and life.”

A “seed” is what all things depend on for nourishment and growth. Master Lü said, “Heaven and Earth cannot bring forth the myriad things; the Void can bring forth Heaven and Earth.” Though the Void has no form or trace, it contains the nature of all things and can therefore give rise to and nurture them. The “Void” spoken of here is the true seed.

The Void is not entirely empty. Within it, a Qi—the primordial energy that flows through and connects all things—moves without revealing any form or trace. This is why it is called the “true seed,” in contrast to an ordinary seed.

Zhang Sanfeng said, “Seek the true seed when lightning flashes; seek the original source when the wind gives its sign.” A flash of lightning and the arrival of a wind signal are both signs and occasions when “the One Yang stirs.” In Neidan (internal alchemy), “the stirring of the One Yang” refers to the first arising of Yang energy. Once practitioners perceive this sign, they must act accordingly without delay. This is what is called “the outer move.” The “original source” refers to the Void.

When you return home this time, make sure to practice diligently. Keep your eyes open while practicing; never close them. Whether you look into the distance or at something nearby, fix your gaze on one object or place. Do not listen with your ears; simply look with focused attention. Do not deliberately move closer, nor withdraw completely. Keep looking for a while. It is enough to be faintly aware that you are looking outward. This is called “mutual reliance”: allowing the mind-spirit and breathing to depend on one another. Do not fall into emptiness, and do not cling to any particular image. Maintain a hazy, indistinct state, letting stray thoughts grow quiet, as if floating within it, present and absent at once.

If, in a brief moment of hazy stillness, “external Yang” rises (meaning that the male sexual organ becomes naturally erect), then as soon as you notice it, immediately turn the mind-spirit and breathing toward the place you are looking at outside. Let the mind-spirit rely on the breath without delay. Even a slight hesitation can cause the primordial state to turn into the acquired state; if you then direct your attention toward the body, there is a risk of seminal emission. The “arising of Yang” described here is a sign of the primordial appearing within the acquired state. Your noticing it is also the primordial manifesting within the acquired state, so you should continue practicing mutual reliance.

Through mutual reliance, reach a state of hazy stillness and peaceful absorption. If you remain absorbed for a long time, you will feel that inside and outside have become one: neither still nor moving. You forget yourself and your body, and become unaware. This is called “reaching the utmost of emptiness and abiding in profound stillness.” Your whole body will feel numb. If you continue to quiet yourself, the inside and outside of the body may begin to pulse together. The scripture says that if you are ill, reaching this state will bring recovery; after the illness has passed, “Yang will arise” again at the level of the acquired body.

The master said: When you reach the utmost of emptiness and profound stillness, the body, inside and out, is in a primordial state, and you are like a living corpse. If primordial Qi (the original energy described in Daoism) arrives, your mind does not stir in the slightest, and Shen naturally goes outward to rely on the breath. There is not the slightest deliberate effort of mind or force. This is called “natural mastery,” and also “the primordial before the primordial.”

Then continue practicing mutual reliance outwardly, repeatedly entering a state of hazy stillness, peaceful absorption, and unity of inside and outside, until the mind becomes clear, the body feels numb, and then the whole body pulses. The scripture says that if you can enter this quiet, hazy state three or four times in a single day, you will have fewer illnesses throughout the year. This is the secret to nourishing and protecting the body.

As Confucius was about to leave, Laozi said to him, “When a noble person sees someone off, he offers words; when a petty person sees someone off, he offers gifts.” I, too, will follow this meaning and offer you both these words as a parting gift. This time, when Lord Tang and I went together to pay our respects to the teacher and receive his instruction, the same principle was at work.

The heart and breathing follow one another. This sounds so ordinary that many people find it dull and cast it aside. Little do they know that precisely within this lack of flavor lies the true flavor.

Someone asked, “How should the Yang Pass—the aperture that must be sealed in cultivation—be closed?” The teacher replied, “If you can enter the state of hazy obscurity at any time, with the mind quiet and awareness no longer attached to external things, there is no need to seek closure deliberately; it will close of itself.” The teacher sighed: “Those who have not received the oral instructions devote themselves to seeking them. Those who have received them, however, greedily read books and refuse to practice. What use is that? So you must apply yourselves diligently. You can put away all the alchemical texts on Neidan (internal alchemy) and stop spending your energy studying them. This is the truth.”

In winter, plants draw their life force back to their roots, then grow again the following year. They return to the roots once more when winter comes, and so they endure. People in the world often decline and perish because they cannot return to the root as plants do. The method I have taught you, “the heart and breath following one another,” is a way of returning to the root.

To return to the root is to let Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) return to their source, neither scattering outward nor stirring recklessly within—like plants shedding their leaves in the depths of winter as their life force gathers at the roots. If you can return to the root, then when “one Yang returns” and Yang energy begins to sprout anew, you can restore life to its foundation. Returning to the root is also entering profound stillness: in this deep concentration, body and mind are quiet, and even ordinary breathing seems to vanish. The alchemical classics call this state “containing the primal void and peril.” The later phrase “on the third day, Geng emerges” refers to the sign of the return of life.

Returning to the root is the first step in cultivation. Returning to infancy is the second; returning to the formless Ultimate is the third, the initial attainment of stability. After that, one returns to the state of a growing child and reaches a condition of knowing and perceiving nothing. Finally, one shatters empty space and sees the whole of oneself.

Cultivating the Dao is like eating sugarcane: the farther down you eat, the sweeter it tastes. “Yuer” is the second step. Returning again to Wuji—the undivided, boundless state of origin—is the third step, and means beginning to enter stillness. Next, one recovers a childlike state of body and mind, making no distinctions and clinging to no knowledge. Finally, one shatters the void and reveals the complete self.

Cultivating the Dao is also like climbing a height: with every foot upward, the view grows wider. The void is a treasure beyond all price; no one can offer enough to buy it. It is therefore priceless.

The essay “Preface to Laozi’s Profound Mirror” in Fanghu waishi is very good; Zhao’s preface is not well written. Someone asked me, “What do ‘Always without desire, observe its wonder; always with desire, observe its openings’ mean?” I did not answer. The teacher said that this means the mind and breath depend on one another: the mind-spirit and breathing work together and sustain each other. The mind-spirit is inherently Wuwei (non-action), while the movement of the breath cannot help but be active; being and nonbeing are always interdependent.

Someone else asked, “What do ‘Know the white, keep to the black; know the masculine, keep to the feminine’ mean?” The teacher then explained personally: these, too, are all about the mind and breath depending on one another. In the end, the ten thousand volumes of Elixir scriptures—that is, texts on Neidan (internal alchemy)—come down to just four words: “mind and breath depend on one another.” Thus it is said, “One phrase opens the way through ten thousand immortal scriptures.” The formula I received from Teacher Wu was precisely these four words: “mind and breath depend on one another.” There is nothing else beyond them. That is why it is said, “The Dao spoken aloud is bland, without flavor”: when spoken, the Dao sounds plain and flavorless.

If you cultivate the mutual dependence of mind and breath to its deepest level, you reach the realm of ascending to the heavens. People in the world do not believe because they understand but do not practice; when they practice, they are not diligent enough; and when they are diligent, they cannot persevere. How, then, could becoming an immortal and patriarch be anything but difficult? Though the formula consists of only four words, some people cannot put it into practice in a whole lifetime. It is truly not easy, so do not take it lightly. Bringing being forth from nonbeing and refining emotion until it accords with nature are both practices of the mind and breath depending on one another.

The two words “refining the self”—cultivating the mind and nature, and bringing oneself into balance—are easy to say but difficult to put into practice. Once the work of refining the self is truly complete, the stages that follow become much easier. The hardest part is refining the self. Do not underestimate this “self”; it is not easy to grasp. The gradual emergence of substantial being from emptiness, and the harmonizing of feelings and intentions with one’s nature, are all aspects of the practice in which mind and breath depend on one another.

Refining the self is easy to talk about but difficult to do. Once the work is truly complete, the stages that follow become much easier; the real difficulty lies in refining the self. The “self” means one’s own nature. Mr. Jiang believes that “having no thoughts” is what refining the self means. This is a serious misunderstanding. If having no thoughts were enough to count as refining the self, why seek out a teacher? Mr. Jiang remains confused about this even now, and I am quite displeased.

The Master said, “From beginning to end, Golden Elixir cultivation consists of just one thing: refining the self. When this work reaches its utmost, one can ‘leave the body as spirit’—that is, the practitioner’s spiritual awareness separates from the physical form.” Out of goodwill, I wrote to offer him the key to refining the self. He replied, “Refining the self is nothing more than having no thoughts. I already know this explanation; there is no need for you to say more.” Alas, this probably comes from having read the works of the Wu-Liu school—internal alchemy writings by Wu Chongxu and Liu Huayang—too thoroughly. If I offered to teach him the Great and Lesser Heavenly Circuits, terms for stages in the movement of Qi during internal alchemy practice, he would probably accept with great enthusiasm. He once also told me, “There is no such thing as the Great and Lesser Heavenly Circuits. These terms were invented by Wu Chongxu.” I replied, “The Xuan Yao discusses the Heavenly Circuit in seven or eight places.” I also asked, “The Master taught me refining the self last summer. Why teach it to me again this year?” The Master said, “Last summer’s instruction was not complete enough. This time I will carefully teach you how to regulate the firing process—the timing and progression of practice—until spontaneous erections cease. Then you will be confident in your practice.” The gratitude I felt at that moment was beyond words.

An infant’s spirit and breath naturally depend on one another. So simply by becoming still, one can enter a state of elusive obscurity: a quiet, subtle awareness that is difficult to put into words.

To explain the writings of the Wu-Liu school, I have spent an untold amount of ink and effort in discussion.

A good alchemical text begins by discussing how mind and breath depend on one another. It neither wanders into empty abstractions nor clings to names and forms.

Speaking of the lines “In the Li Palace, cultivate stillness by observing return; in the Water Palace, seek the mystery, again by observing,” the master said that the first line alone had prompted a great deal of writing and debate.

At the very beginning, most alchemical texts discuss how the mind’s thoughts and the breath depend on one another. This is neither empty speculation nor an attachment to names and forms.

The master then explained the lines “In the Li Palace, cultivate stillness by observing return; in the Water Palace, seek the mystery, again by observing.” The first line, he said, describes movement reaching its extreme and turning into stillness, entering a hazy, profound state of undifferentiated emptiness. This is “stillness.” The second describes stillness reaching its extreme and activity beginning again, revealing anew the root from which Heaven and Earth ceaselessly bring forth life. Yang energy in the outer world arises precisely from emptiness.

The master asked, “When people in Buddhist monasteries meditate, they aim to be like living corpses. We who cultivate the Dao must also become like living corpses. What is the difference between these two kinds of ‘living corpse’?” I did not answer. The master said, “They still breathe, whereas we do not. Breathing belongs to Yin; not breathing belongs to Yang. The two are quite different and must not be confused.” Here, “not breathing” is an expression used in the context of cultivation; it refers to the state of breath cessation described by practitioners.

So what use is there in having no thoughts alone? That is still a long way from the Dao. The Qingjing Jing (Scripture of Clarity and Stillness), a Daoist classic, says, “One who can realize this may transmit the sacred Dao.” This means that only after reaching a state without thoughts can one transmit the sacred Dao. But to take the absence of thoughts itself as the Dao is to be far from it.

Reduced to their essence, the ten thousand volumes of alchemical writings on Neidan (internal alchemy) come down to Laozi’s six characters: “Reach the utmost emptiness; maintain profound stillness.”

The Chan master Zhizhe of the Buddhist tradition said, “If you can sit quietly and turn the light inward, you will see the original master from before your birth.” The master said, “If you understand the five characters ‘sit quietly and turn the light inward,’ that is enough. You need not read the ten thousand volumes of alchemical writings.”

Refining the self—cultivating one’s mind and nature—is not the same as having no thoughts. They are two different things. If you seek only to have no thoughts, you will become fixated on the physical body. Then you will either cough up blood or leak Jing (essence); no one can escape this.

The “two things” mentioned here are the cultivation of the Dharma Body—that is, the development of the spirit and one’s nature—while also tending to the physical body. “Heaven and humanity respond together, establishing the foundation for the myriad transformations” means that the Way of Heaven and human cultivation echo one another, thereby laying the foundation for the transformations of all things. If one pursues thoughtlessness single-mindedly while neglecting the body, one may become fixated on the physical form and even suffer harm, such as coughing up blood or involuntary seminal emission.

The teacher’s daughter-in-law and granddaughter both contracted typhoid fever, and his daughter-in-law was especially gravely ill. Western doctors believed they could do nothing to save her, but she eventually recovered from the crisis. The teacher himself also fell ill, as Wind, Cold, Dampness, and other pathogenic influences attacked his body all at once. Western doctors feared that, given his age, he might not survive. The teacher said, “I’ll practice the work. A noble person must begin at the root.” He believed that mind and breath depend on one another, and that this was the root of healing. But as soon as he began, every joint in his body hurt as if drilled by an awl. Only after four days and nights did the Wind, Cold, Dampness, and other pathogenic influences gradually recede. The teacher said, “It is only when you fall ill that you learn how precious the cultivation of the Dao is.”

Zhen Qing recalled that during a great epidemic sometime in the Guangxu era, the teacher also became ill. He was so dizzy that he would collapse after walking three steps. Even then, however, he maintained the practice of mind and breath depending on one another. After three days and nights of practice, he coughed up a basinful of black blood and recovered. Including this latest episode, he had endured four or five such severe ordeals.

The teacher said that when illness reached this stage, even the level of cultivation attained by such figures as Wu and Liu when they wrote their books could not have saved them from death. Lu Qianxu, too, would not have survived such an illness while writing Fanghu Waishi. You think Fanghu Waishi is excellent, he said, but you do not realize that the level of practice shown in the book was not enough to keep its author from dying. I asked him why. He replied, “Your own practice is shallow, so when you read alchemical books, you cannot see how far their authors had advanced when they wrote them. I can tell as soon as I read them.”

The teacher added that Liu Wuyuan had already devoted himself to hard practice before writing his books, and his cultivation was far beyond Lu Qianxu’s. But he had read few alchemical books, so the range of material in his writing was limited. Even so, each of his essays often contains one or two strikingly original lines. They reveal the depth of his cultivation, a level ordinary people cannot attain. The teacher also said, “It would be better if Liu Wuyuan said nothing; once he opens his mouth, he astonishes people.” When Zhu Yuanyu wrote his books, he had already completed most of his cultivation; otherwise, he could not have brought so many alchemical books together with such command. A practitioner who cannot let go of worldly affairs will find it hard to succeed. And one who remains attached to home is always in danger.

We who live in this world are all like trees without roots, swaying in the wind, never knowing today what tomorrow may bring. How could we fail to stay alert?

When the mind-spirit and the breath depend on one another, even a trace of deliberate awareness brings in a trace of acquired consciousness, leaving us that much short of pure naturalness. When the mind-spirit and breath can remain naturally joined, united as one, stillness leads into a state of hazy indistinction.

We study the Dao (the Way) in order to free ourselves from the tangible physical body. So as soon as we begin cultivating, we must place the intent of the spirit in the emptiness beyond the body. This is the first step in separating the spirit from the physical body. Each measure of stability that the original spirit (the innate spirit present from the beginning) gains in emptiness strengthens our ability to free ourselves from the body; in other words, our bond with the body weakens by the same measure. With long practice and mature skill, the Dharma body (the body formed through cultivation) can remain stable outside the body for a long time, no longer relying on the physical body. It then separates from it completely. This is called “emerging from the womb.”

When the intent of the spirit is profoundly settled, the breath no longer moves in or out. The original spirit is stable beyond the body, completely detached from it and no longer attached to it: this is the pure innate state. True Yang (innate original Qi) continually gathers in the emptiness, and the Dharma body gradually grows stronger and more responsive. After long cultivation, it can leave the state of meditation and act independently, able to project the spirit outward. This is the mystery of the practice.

The Guidelines for Cultivating Nature and Life (Xingming Guizhi) says: “In cultivation, become a long-lived guest; in refining one’s nature, be like a living dead person.” The phrase “living dead person” means just that, but we must distinguish clearly: a dead person who still breathes belongs to pure Yin and the acquired state, and is not worth pursuing. A “living dead person” who does not breathe yet remains alive belongs to pure Yang and the innate state; only this can truly lead to ascent to the heavens.

What is written on paper or spoken aloud can express only “being,” not “nonbeing,” so none of it is the Dao (the Way). To experience the mystery of emptiness for yourself, you must do the work yourself.

During cultivation, some people see an external yang response—that is, an erection—and take it as a significant sign of success and a treasure. As a result, they are more likely to leak essence. When the practice is done well, the external yang does not become erect. This happens when one has failed to leave the embodied form in time. It is not an innate state: when the mind shifts, or one becomes attached to the body, it turns into an acquired state. Attachment to the acquired embodied form brings on an acquired external yang response, showing that the method of cultivation has gone awry.

The master also said: “When you are utterly still and empty, if the external yang stirs slightly now and then, leave the embodied form at once and let it rest in dependence on the outer realm. At that moment the breath does not move at all—how could an erection occur? If you wait until it is hard and erect, things have already gone wrong. So I begin applying the method before it becomes erect. The subtle use of this instant is also called ‘meeting amid the hazy and indistinct.’” The master also said: “Anyone whose cultivation brings on an erection is attached to the embodied form, like someone mistaking a thief for their own child.”

The “threefold layering” in “The heart of the zither, threefold, dances with the embryo immortal” refers to the “three reversions” described in the Scripture of the Hidden Talisman (Yinfu Jing): the three stages of cultivation—refining Jing (essence) into Qi (vital energy), refining Qi into Shen (spirit), and refining Shen until it returns to emptiness.

Ordinary people rush about from morning until night, often doing things that wear down their lives. By day they exhaust their spirit; at night they indulge their desires and deplete their Jing and Qi. When spirit, Jing, and Qi—the foundations of life in traditional health cultivation—are nearly exhausted, a person falls ill.

The Baopuzi says, “What is limited cannot supply what is consumed without end; the waters of rivers cannot fill a bottomless vessel.” If someone earns little and spends much, it is already hard to make ends meet. How much harder when there is no income at all, yet spending continues without pause?

The master said, “I teach the method of coordinating mind and breath, a practice that pairs the regulation of the mind with the regulation of the breath. It is used to gather innate Qi and replenish what has been damaged or depleted, much like earning money. Accumulate one part of Qi, and you gain one part of treasure; accumulate five parts of Qi, and you gain five parts of treasure. This is a method that yields great returns on a small investment, and it truly works. If you are willing to practice, you must apply yourself diligently.”

Zhuangzi said, “There is a great beauty between Heaven and Earth, yet it does not speak.” The “great beauty” spoken of here is the primordial Qi, the source shared by all things in Heaven and Earth.

Some versions of the Jing of the Mind Seal (Xinyin Jing) read, “Return the wind and blend; in a hundred days, the practice will take effect.” Others read, “Turn the light back and shine inward.” Although the wording differs, practitioners who understand cultivation see them as describing the same method: returning the wind and blending is turning the light back and shining inward, and turning the light back and shining inward is returning the wind and blending. Both expressions point to the same thing.

I asked my master how we know they refer to the same method. He said, “‘Wind’ refers to the breath. ‘Returning the wind and blending’ means bringing the mind and spirit into harmony with the breath, so that the breath responds to the mind and spirit. Put plainly, the mind and spirit and the breath follow one another, bringing Shen and Qi (the vital energy of life’s activity) together as one.

“‘Turning the light back and shining inward’ means that the heart’s fire, which normally rises upward, is now turned downward as the light of the heart. Here, ‘shining’ means seeing clearly what was just described: the union of mind and spirit with the breath. Put plainly, it likewise means that the mind and spirit and the breath depend on one another, bringing Shen and Qi into unity. When the light turns back and shines downward on the water of the kidneys, that water naturally rises. This is called ‘taking Kan to fill Li’: the water represented by the Kan trigram nourishes the heart’s fire represented by the Li trigram, and the practice is complete. These are all effects that arise naturally within the body. In more everyday terms, turning the light back and shining inward means that the mind and spirit depend on the breath. The myriad volumes on Elixir cultivation say one thing, over and over: ‘the mind and breath depend on one another.’”

Discussing principles and ranging over all sorts of topics can be fascinating and stir one’s interest. But what truly needs to be done, and done well, comes down to the phrase “the mind and breath depend on one another.”

Now, as for the “outer Mysterious Gate”: my master said that when the mind and spirit and the breath depend on one another externally, this is the outer Mysterious Gate. “Mysterious Gate” refers to an extremely subtle and profound opening. Ke Huaijing said, “The Mysterious Gate appears only after Shen and Qi have joined.” This is well put. Once Shen and Qi unite, the Mysterious Gate takes shape. In ordinary circumstances, if the mind and spirit cannot depend on the breath, Shen and Qi cannot unite, and the Mysterious Gate will naturally not appear.

After obtaining the formulas and essentials for studying the Dao, the most precious thing is to master the complete timing and measure of the practice: knowing the right moment, sequence, and degree at each stage. Teachers are reluctant to pass this on lightly because the timing and measure change as cultivation progresses. This is precisely what makes Daoist methods so precious. If you cannot grasp them through your own insight, you can go only as far as your teacher has taught you. Without further guidance, you cannot know what comes next on your own. For this reason, practitioners of old often followed a teacher and worked step by step under their direction.

There are many subtleties in the timing and measure of practice. Once your teacher has passed the complete method on to you, you can guide your own progress. When subtle changes arise, you can weigh how to respond in light of what you have learned, and in doing so come to understand the principles involved. Among my disciples, only one received the complete method of timing and measure: a relative of mine, surnamed Wang. No more than two or three received half of it. I am equally reluctant to pass it on to my other disciples.

Many cultivation methods seem clear when described, yet in practice people often have no idea where to begin. Thus terms and methods such as “living Zi and living Wu” (names for moments of opportunity in cultivation), the furnace and cauldron, the orbit of the heavens, and gathering and refining remain mere words on paper without genuine oral instructions to guide them.

The Cantong qi (the Daoist classic The Seal of the Unity of the Three) says, “Use the empty to govern the substantial; a vessel is useful because it is empty.” These words are subtle. They describe the most precious and difficult essentials in the oral instructions of the Great Dao: the complete secret of timing and heat. How difficult it is to speak of “complete” transmission! For more than twenty years, I have traveled in search of it, seeking the complete instructions on timing and heat. They truly are a treasure. Qianxuzi called them “a once-in-a-thousand-years encounter,” and he spoke the truth.

Other principles can still be understood through one’s own insight, but the matter of timing and heat is difficult to work out alone. Xue Zixian therefore said, “The sages taught the method of refining the medicine, but did not transmit the timing and heat; since ancient times, few have understood them. Do not treat the Great Dao as child’s play; you must investigate it carefully with the immortals.” He also said, “Turn the iron face of my mother who gave birth to me; make me and the other steady and at ease in suchness; make Yin and Yang turn upside down.” Each of these three phrases speaks of changes in timing and heat. Understanding their meaning is enough.

The essentials of cultivating oneself are summed up in the seven words the ancients used: “Close the openings, lower the curtains, and watch silently.” This means gathering in the senses, lowering the eyelids, and quietly observing inner changes. “Empty the heart and fill the belly” is a true and practical principle of Daoist cultivation. To fill the belly, one must first make the heart quiet and clear. When the heart is empty and still, the original Yang (the innate Yang energy) of Heaven and Earth will arrive of its own accord, and the belly will be filled.

Ordinary people are troubled by scattered thoughts, and their Jing and Qi are constantly depleted. It is easy to imagine, then, whether their hearts are empty and still and their bellies are full. The words “empty the heart” thus open the way to Daoist cultivation. Once you receive the oral instructions and begin practicing, from this very day you can keep your Jing and Qi from leaking away.

Although the use of the firing process is often said to be difficult to understand and put into practice, once its principles are clearly explained, it is actually the simplest thing.

Danyang said, “From beginning to end, Neidan cultivation comes down to four words: ‘mind and breath relying on each other’—that is, letting the mind and spirit follow the breath, and the breath follow the mind and spirit. The changes in the firing process at each stage are simply the different changes that occur as mind and breath rely on each other. In summary, follow what happens naturally.” Whether a book on the Elixir is written as poetry, song, exposition, or commentary, if it discusses the firing process, it is a genuine book on the Elixir. If it does not, it is a forgery. No matter how profound its language may seem, it is of no use. So I need only read two or three pages to judge whether it is genuine; if it is poetry, three to five poems are enough to tell.

The elder Sanfeng (Zhang Sanfeng) said, “To manifest spiritual powers, plant a lotus amid fierce fire; to display subtle skill, steer a boat through weak waters.” These words all conceal the secrets of the firing process. Liu Huayang said, “As soon as the root and impulse of sexual desire begin to stir, refine them with wind and fire, and the outer yang will naturally subside.” This, too, speaks of the firing process. The books on the Elixir from various schools all discuss it, and among them the Wuzhen pian is the finest: nearly every poem in it concerns the firing process.

I was ill some time ago and only just escaped death’s door. My spirit was also completely spent, so I truly could not receive you. It is fortunate that you have come today: I can explain the introductory methods of Daoist cultivation to you in detail.

In general, anyone who studies the Dao must first understand Fuxi’s Earlier Heaven Bagua (Eight Trigrams) and King Wen’s Later Heaven Bagua. The Book of Changes (Yijing) was composed jointly by four sages, and these two arrangements of the Eight Trigrams are the foundations of Confucianism and Daoism. Even the Scripture of the Hidden Talisman (Yinfu Jing), the Dao De Jing, the Great Learning, and the Doctrine of the Mean do not go beyond what these arrangements encompass. So anyone who studies the Dao without understanding these two arrangements will not be able to understand the texts on the Golden Elixir; they will attend only to the branches and neglect the roots.

Now I will explain their key points. In Fuxi’s Earlier Heaven Bagua, the Qian trigram is in the south and the Kun trigram in the north. This arrangement symbolizes the state of childlike innocence, before the body has been broken and before innate Qi has been depleted. When a person remains in the innate state from within to without, they can attain the Dao through cultivation based on this state, maintaining stillness and Wuwei (non-action). There is no need to undertake the work of restoration. This is what is meant by “those of highest De act through non-action.”

In King Wen’s Later Heaven Bagua, Qian and Kun are relegated to positions where they no longer take the lead, and Li and Kan take their place. This arrangement symbolizes that a person’s body has been broken and they have entered the postnatal state. Once the body has been broken, innate pure Yang Qi has been lost. At this point, seeking a path of cultivation only within the Later Heaven Bagua can never restore one to the source and return to the original state. Lu Qianxu said, “Once wine has been opened, no matter how tightly you close its seal and latch the door, you cannot keep it from spoiling.” This means that once the innate state has been lost, sealing and securing the postnatal state alone cannot restore it.

Therefore, anyone who wishes to return to the source and restore the original state must seek it through Fuxi’s Earlier Heaven Bagua—that is, by relying on the innate mechanism outside the body. In the Earlier Heaven Bagua, Qian and Kun serve as gateways, corresponding respectively to the “heart” and the “breath.” Below Qian and above Kun is…

Beneath Qian, which represents Heaven and the cauldron, and above Kun, which represents Earth and the furnace, is a “〇”—a place in the void called the “Yellow Path.” Qian is the cauldron, and Kun is the furnace. When thought and breath settle together in one place, the furnace and cauldron take shape. Both must be empty, so thought and breath must rest within the void. This is what Zhang Boduan, known by his sobriquet Ziyang, meant when he wrote, “Once the two are guided back to the Yellow Path.” When mind and breath return to the Yellow Path, the Golden Elixir forms of its own accord. This is the creative action that arises from Yin-Yang joining together: the work of life beyond the body, a natural, active process of the prenatal state.

Once Qian and Kun have returned to the Yellow Path, thought and breath support one another beyond the body, and the postnatal Li and Kan also join naturally. Li represents the heart, and Kan the abdomen. As mind and breath support one another beyond the body, the inner realm of the physical form returns to the Yellow Path: heart-fire descends naturally, as the light of the heart shines downward. Once this light shines below, kidney-water rises naturally. The joining of Kan and Li describes the principles of nature within the body; it is a postnatal process that unfolds naturally, without deliberate effort.

Ziyang wrote, “Within, the naturally true fire blazes bright and red in the furnace.” This is an effect that arises on its own and needs no deliberate control. All earthly fires burn upward; only the sun shines downward. All earthly waters flow downward; only the tide surges upward. Thus it is said, “Heaven responds to the stars; Earth responds to the tides.” From this we can see how different the reversal of prenatal transformation is from the natural course of postnatal transformation.

Cultivating the Dao means transforming one’s acquired state into one’s original state. Once the mind and breath come together, the mind enters a state of emptiness and stillness. As the mind settles, the two false Yang lines on either side of the Li trigram, which symbolize the heart’s Fire, naturally cease to blaze upward and instead shine downward. The Wood fluid in the middle of the Li trigram—that is, its true Yin—therefore does not dry up. The alchemical texts call this “leveling the Fire to nourish the Wood.”

The heart’s Fire shines downward on the two false Yin lines on either side of the Kan trigram, which symbolize the kidneys’ Water. Bathed in the heart’s Fire, the kidneys’ Water no longer flows downward and is lost, but transforms into Qi and rises. Once the water vapor has risen, only the central line remains within Kan. Is this not refining Water into Metal? Thus, when one can quiet the heart’s Fire and nourish the Wood fluid, one can naturally refine Water into Metal as well.

The Wood fluid in the Li trigram originally belongs to the Kun family, which symbolizes Earth and Yin. It is Yin Qi in its purest form. The true Metal in the Kan trigram originally belongs to the Qian family, which symbolizes Heaven and Yang. It is Yang Qi in its purest form. The saying, “What comes from Heaven tends upward; what comes from Earth tends downward,” refers to all things returning to what is of their own kind.

So, when a practitioner reaches the utmost emptiness and stillness and suddenly feels Yang Qi surge upward, is this not the Qian Metal within Kan turning upward? The alchemical texts call this “the tiger arising in the Water.” As Yang Qi surges upward, true fluid suddenly descends within the heart. Is this not the Wood fluid within Li descending? The alchemical texts call this “the dragon emerging from the Fire.” Hence the saying: “When sweet dew descends, Heaven and Earth unite; where the yellow sprouts grow, Kan and Li join.” This is also called “taking from Kan to fill Li”: it means taking the solid line from the Kan trigram to fill the empty line in the Li trigram. In this way, Qian and Kun each return to their proper place, and the Neidan is refined to completion.

What is explained here, however, is the principle of cultivation; the actual formula is not like this.

The master also said: The two Yin lines on the outside of the Kan trigram represent acquired Water—that is, Jing that is prone to leak away. Warmed and smelted by the heart’s Fire, the Water gradually transforms into Qi and rises. This, too, explains the principle of cultivation; the actual formula is not like this.

The master added: In the Kan trigram, which symbolizes Kidney Water and Yin essence, the two Yin lines on the outside refer to postnatal water—that is, Jing and Qi that are easily dissipated. When the heart’s Fire warms and steams it, the Water is acted on by the Fire and gradually transforms into Qi, rising upward. Each time this practice is completed, a portion of the Water is transformed. With sustained practice, when all the Water has been transformed, one reaches the state in which Yin is exhausted and Yang is pure; the external yang no longer rises. Since the Yin essence has been completely transformed, the root of sexual desire is also removed, and erections naturally cease. If the external yang still rises even slightly, that shows that some Yin essence remains untransformed. Only when the external yang no longer rises at all does this indicate that the Yin essence has been completely transformed.

The above explains the principle. Whether cultivation advances depends on “stillness.” Refining Jing into Qi, refining Qi into Shen, and refining Shen until it returns to emptiness and stillness all depend on entering deep stillness over a sustained period. A scripture says, “Deep stillness brings complete realization of the Dao.” It also says, “In stillness, one can see the Elixir take form.” And it says, “Through prolonged stillness, spiritual powers and wisdom can arise.”

The second layer of meaning in the character “Return” is explained as follows. Lu Qianxu says: “When cultivating stillness in the Palace of Li—the Li trigram of the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), which symbolizes the heart and fire—you must contemplate ‘Return.’ When seeking the mystery in the Water Palace, the place associated with the kidney waters, you must contemplate ‘Return’ as well. Contemplate Return, then contemplate it again and again; within the contemplation of Return, contemplate Return once more. Only then can you understand the two mysterious principles.”

The master says: This passage elucidates the chapter in which Laozi says, “Attain the utmost emptiness; hold fast to profound stillness.” You should understand that Laozi’s “contemplation of Return” describes a process from stillness to movement: the prenatal One Qi, the primordial vital energy, spontaneously turns from the height of activity toward stillness; when stillness reaches its limit, movement begins anew. “The two emerge from the same source but have different names; together they are called mystery” refers to the principles of “contemplating the subtle” and “contemplating the opening.”

The heart and breath depend on one another, gradually entering a state of meditative stillness. The breath seems to stop, like plants and trees drawing in their vitality in the depths of winter and returning it to their roots. This is called one “mystery,” also known as “contemplating the subtle.” When stillness reaches its limit, Yang Qi stirs. This is the natural cycle of Heaven and Earth. Thus, when practitioners sense Yang Qi beginning to arise in stillness and perceive the vitality of Heaven and Earth, they must undertake the work of gathering it. This is another “mystery,” also known as “contemplating the opening.” Together, these are called the “two mysteries.” Hence the saying: “Mystery upon mystery: the gate of all wonders.” From this we can see that both mysteries emerge from the “gate of all wonders”; this gate refers to emptiness.

This time, because my daughter-in-law and granddaughter were both gravely ill, I said, “Mystery upon mystery: the gate of all wonders.” From this we can see that both mysteries emerge from the “gate of all wonders”; this gate refers to emptiness.

This time, because my daughter-in-law and granddaughter were seriously ill, I became so anxious that four pathogenic influences—wind, cold, water, and dampness—invaded my body. I hurried to begin practicing. As soon as I fell asleep, I was beset by a succession of chaotic dreams, as if mountains were bearing down on me. I knew my illness was serious. Why? When people are close to death, their spirits are often confused. And when the spirit is confused, how can it settle and bring Qi to a standstill? In that state, the practice of making mind and breath depend on each other cannot work. When I reached this point, I was terrified.

Still, I forced myself to keep practicing. It took four full days and nights to dispel those chaotic dreams, and only then did I feel somewhat relieved. After that, I continued practicing day and night. Another seven days passed before I drove the wind and cold out of my body. Only then did I know I would not die. I still practice every day and do nothing else, intending to restore my depleted spirit over a hundred days. I know this from personal experience, and I can judge the matter clearly. It is only when gravely ill that one understands how precious the Daoist methods are. From now on, if you are going to read, study Zhang Sanfeng’s Essentials of the Mysterious. If you can grasp even half of it, I will explain the firing times—the handling of timing, measure, advance, and retreat in practice—and you will understand them more easily.

Wang Hunran was a disciple of Qiu Changchun. When the two met, they took to each other and spoke in perfect accord, talking continuously for more than ten days. One day, Qiu Changchun summoned him and asked, “Do you think the principles have been fully explained here? If you practice accordingly, will you have realized the Great Dao?” Hunranzi was stunned for a long time, then replied, “Master has already told me all the essentials of the Great Dao. If I practice as instructed, how could I still fail to realize the Dao?” Qiu Changchun said, “What I first discussed with you was only the dregs of the Dao. The key to the Dao lies in the firing times. Think carefully: do you already know the subtle changes in the firing times at every stage of practice?” Hunranzi bowed repeatedly in thanks and asked his master to continue instructing him. Qiu Changchun then analyzed the finer points for him once more, explaining their mysteries in full. The master said, “Since ancient times, this is how teachers have transmitted the teaching when they encounter a truly suitable disciple.”

In refining oneself—cultivating the mind and nature—the aim is to reach a state in which the body is as vast as empty space and the mind transcends all things, untouched by even the slightest dust of thought. Only when the six senses—the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—have settled can one go on to practice higher forms of cultivation.

Zhang Sanfeng said, “I am a clear, pure sea, unstained by a speck of dust. I am a luminous pearl, hanging in the sky and shining for ages. I am an iron bun, impossible to bite into. I am a touchstone that can test the quality of gold.” Whoever can attain the state described in these four sayings will overcome any obstacle they encounter and ultimately attain the Dao. These four sayings should serve as the standard for refining oneself; if you cannot live up to them, your cultivation has not yet reached the necessary level.

The master said that in ancient times, teachers instructed their disciples in just this way.

Zhen Qing says: When those who cultivate the Dao sense prenatal Qi—the primordial energy present before birth—they must preserve it carefully. They must never let an improvement in their spirits lead them into all sorts of useless activity that wastes their vitality. If you sense even a little prenatal Qi today, hold on to it and do not let it dissipate. Even talking at length can consume the prenatal Qi you have just sensed. What a pity to gain it, only to lose it again.

I once saw people who smoked opium. When their craving came on, they thought only of smoking and could attend to nothing else. After smoking three or five pipes, their spirits lifted and their mood brightened; they wanted to draw others into conversation, laughing loudly and joking without end. Those who cultivate the Dao can fall into the same pattern. When their practice reaches extreme emptiness and deep stillness—the mind utterly free of thoughts and the heart completely quiet—they sense the external True Yang, the prenatal Yang energy spoken of in cultivation, and their spirits naturally improve. But if they sense it day after day and keep accumulating it, their spirits grow stronger and stronger. Feeling they have no use for this energy, they then invent all sorts of unnecessary activities, seek out people for long conversations, or take up tasks on their own, unwilling to rest quietly. In this way, without realizing it, they transform the prenatal Qi they have sensed into acquired spirit and expend it. This point is therefore crucial and must be guarded against.

He also says: If the work of refining the self—cultivating one’s nature and dispelling stray thoughts—is deep from the outset, so that the mind is free of stray thoughts and the body seems to merge with the Great Void, these things will not happen later in cultivation. They happen because the work of refining the self is not yet mature. The emphasis in Daoist cultivation on having a companion to assist is precisely to address this.

Bai Ziqing’s compiled Jisuo Lianhuan Jing begins with “the Golden Elixir is mercury” and develops the teaching step by step, following its links to the furthest reaches of principle. Reading this scripture makes clear that the innate Great Dao is, in fact, simple and easy to understand. People in the world keep searching among incidental details, failing to realize that emptiness and undifferentiated chaos are the root.

The Dadong Jing says, “Sleep long beyond the Great Nonbeing.” This teaches one to remain settled in emptiness for a long time, nourishing one’s Dharma body—the body formed through cultivation—with the true Yang that dwells in the void. In Lü Dongbin’s Baizi Bei, it says, “In motion and stillness, know the ancestral root.” This means recognizing that the root lies in the void outside oneself, and never departing from this point, whether in motion or at rest. The Baizi Bei also says, “Understand the foundation of Kan and Li.” This too refers to the foundation in the outer void. Kan and Li are trigrams used in Daoist Neidan to explain Yin-Yang and their convergence.

Each day, simply settle your thoughts and breathing in the void outside yourself, and the true bellows and furnace and cauldron will form naturally. The bellows is a metaphor for harmonizing the breath, while the furnace and cauldron symbolize the foundations of cultivation. This is an exceedingly simple and easy practice.

The Guizhi says, “Whenever a thought stirs, it is all fire; where myriad concerns fall silent, spring is born.” The moment a thought arises, deviant fire begins to kindle; as thoughts follow one another without pause, that fire burns ever more fiercely. When all concerns subside, body and mind become calm and at ease, and Shen and Qi harmonize and blend, bringing a gentle ease like that of spring.

The Great Dao gathers in emptiness. Therefore, in practice, one should let the inner Shen and Qi unfold outward, allowing spirit and vital energy to merge with the void. Zhuangzi said, “Only the Dao gathers in emptiness,” and also, “Refined, and yet more refined, one reaches toward Heaven.” Here, “Heaven” also means emptiness. Zhuangzi further said, “Let things follow their natural transformations, and you will enter the boundless, distant realm of ‘Heaven and One.’” “Distant Heaven and One” likewise refers to emptiness. Other expressions, such as “the Gate of the Myriad Wonders” and “the Gate of the Mysterious Female,” also refer to the void.

The master said, “I’ll pass on two key phrases to you. Remember them and never forget: ‘Let Shen and Qi enter the void; return from the void to primordial chaos.’ As long as the Qi of chaos has not dissipated, you will not die.” The Qingjing Jing (Classic of Clarity and Stillness) says, “If people can constantly maintain clarity and stillness, all things in Heaven and Earth will return to them.” Here, “Heaven and Earth” means the small cosmos within the human body, not the great cosmos outside it.

He also quoted the Four Hundred-Character Inscription: “Chaos contains the void, and the void contains the Three Realms; yet if you seek its source, it is only the size of a grain of millet.” The master said that once you attain the state of chaos, you can contain all things; this may be called “settling a hundred matters at once.” Thus Lü Zu (Lü Dongbin) said, “Know that the true secret lies hidden in chaos.”

When Shen and Qi return to the root, they return to the void and merge with its deep, dark stillness. Heterodox practitioners do not understand this. They explain “returning to the root” as the breath sinking and settling below the navel, thereby becoming attached once again to the physical body.

Although Zhang Sanfeng’s Twenty-Four Songs of the Rootless Tree are well written, the Twelve Songs of Daoist Feeling, “Sweeping All Away,” express the point more directly. Heterodox practitioners do not understand this. They explain “returning to the root” as the breath sinking and settling below the navel, thereby becoming attached once again to the physical body.

Although Zhang Sanfeng’s twenty-four poems, Songs of the Rootless Tree, are excellent, they are less direct and forthright than the twelve Songs of Daoist Feeling: Sweep Everything Away, which frankly reveal the heart’s true meaning. Consider these lines: “Sweep everything away, and the Real comes into view.” Then: “Sweep everything away, and the One comes into view.” Finally: “Nature returns to life; life returns to Heaven; life returns to its root, to the state before primordial chaos.” These three lines hold profound meaning and surpass reading ten thousand volumes on the Elixir. The Songs of Daoist Feeling: Sweep Everything Away also say: “To see clearly, one must read the scripture without words.” And: “The body is not the Dao, nor is the Dao the mind. Do not mistake body and mind for the Real Person.” This means one should not cling to the visible, physical body or expect to attain awakening through it.

Lü Zu’s (Lü Dongbin’s) Song of Knocking the Yao is long and contains many figurative expressions. If you focus on one line while overlooking another, you will lose sight of the whole; instead, grasp the lines that point out its essential meaning. Where does that meaning lie? He says: “Above the Great Void, the adept cultivates the Real; bright and complete, there is not a single thing. There is not a single thing; only the Dao is manifest, and in the five directions the countenance of the Real Person emerges.” The seven words “bright and complete, there is not a single thing” express the meaning of realizing true emptiness, and go a step deeper than the earlier lines: “In the dim and obscure, a vague presence is born; in the vague and indistinct, a mass takes shape.” This is the subtle essential teaching passed down through Laozi’s lineage—the lineage of the “Keeper of the Pillar,” an ancient title for Laozi—and it is the supreme true Dao.

If, as Liao Chanhui says, “In front, align with the navel wheel; behind, with the kidneys; between them is a true Golden Cauldron,” then one has strayed into the demonic path. The closing lines of Song of Knocking the Yao say: “Day and night, they toil and cannot be called back; they contend for profit and fame, boiling like a cauldron.” Whenever I read these lines, I let out a long sigh.

When the master explained the timing and intensity of the fire, he said: “The Fuxi Diagram” (the diagram of Yin-Yang transformations in the Yijing) represents the fire timing spoken of in cultivation: it changes gradually from the Qian trigram to the Kun trigram, then gradually returns from Kun to Qian. This transformation unfolds step by step; it does not happen all at once. That is why the Yinfu Jing says, “The Way of Heaven and Earth unfolds by degrees.” Here, “by degrees” means gradually, over time. From the end of Great Heat to the start of Autumn, the weather grows cooler little by little. After the Winter Solstice and through midwinter, Yin energy gradually increases while Yang energy gradually recedes. All of this accords with the patterns of nature. If the weather turned cold abruptly as soon as Great Heat ended, that would be out of the ordinary. The Cantong Qi uses “severe drought in midwinter and frost and snow in the height of summer” to illustrate such an irregularity, a phrase that contains profound meaning. If our cultivation loses the subtlety of gradual change expressed by “unfolding by degrees,” it falls out of step with nature; and what falls out of step with nature also falls out of step with the Dao.

Everyone knows that charcoal burns more fiercely than firewood. Consider cooking meat: first boil it vigorously over charcoal; once the meat is cooked, switch to firewood and simmer it slowly to reduce the broth. Only then will the meat develop its flavor. The key is to get the timing and intensity of the fire just right. Elixir refining works the same way: charcoal symbolizes “martial fire” (a stronger intensity), while firewood symbolizes “civil fire” (a gentler intensity). The water and fire spoken of here refer to the heart and the breath (heart and breath). Martial fire is like fighting in the open; civil fire is like defending a city and gently nurturing what has been cultivated. When they are applied in the right order and measure, the precelestial Great Medicine (the precelestial Jing and Qi spoken of in Neidan cultivation) can be refined naturally and appropriately, like meat cooked through until its flavor is rich and mellow.

When breath and thought move together, this is called martial fire. When breathing activity ceases and one enters meditative absorption, this is called civil fire. When one reaches a state of forgetting both the inner and the outer, the fire should be stopped.

Li Daochun’s commentary on the Dao De Jing is more accomplished than the commentaries by Lu and Li. His cultivation was profound and his writing was skillful, so his work surpasses that of the other commentators.

At first I thought the writings of Venerable Master Feng had fully explained the outer techniques. But after reading them, I found that they did not discuss the firing times—the way to judge timing, advance and retreat, and proper measure during cultivation—so I removed that material. The passages I had compiled earlier have already been included in Essentials Compiled at Dongting. What use is a text that says nothing about the firing times?

In Lu Qianxu’s Dao De Jing, material on the firing times makes up about half, and images and metaphors about half. In Zhang Sanfeng’s Essay on the Profound Essentials, material on the firing times accounts for roughly sixty or seventy percent, and metaphors for about thirty percent. My own Profound Essentials speaks entirely of the firing times, without metaphors. I cite other people’s metaphors and explain them section by section, ultimately turning them all into accounts of the firing times. I have read many alchemical books, and whenever I found a subtle explanation of the firing times, I compiled it into the Profound Essentials. So I believe this book truly surpasses the works of the other schools by a great deal. Sadly, people cannot recognize its value: they take a gold ingot for a piece of copper. Only one man, surnamed Wang, has understood my book. Beyond him, I have found no kindred spirit who understands me.

For more than thirty years I have investigated the foundations of cultivation and penetrated the subtle workings within emptiness. I wanted to explain these principles without reservation to those capable of understanding them, so I spoke with particular earnestness. For instance, I say that even the slightest attachment to the physical body means “a hair’s breadth of error, and the Elixir will not form.” This is something the ancients never said. A discerning reader will naturally appreciate these words; someone attached to appearances, or someone who cultivates only through work on the physical body, may read them and simply move on.

At this point, the master could not help letting out a deep sigh. The firing times must be brought about through the heart-mind and breathing relying on and responding to one another. Even if I were to pass on every oral instruction to you now, you would not understand it. That is why the ancients, when transmitting oral instructions, waited until a student had reached a certain level in cultivation, then offered a single phrase of guidance. Only then could the student truly grasp it and keep it firmly in mind, benefiting both teacher and student. Spoken of on its own, an account of the firing times sounds flat and flavorless.

The various inventions made by outsiders belong to postnatal investigation of things—exploring principles through postnatal experience and external things—and have already achieved much. The work we do in cultivation belongs to innate investigation of things, which begins with one’s innate nature, and is even more beneficial. If the discussion of the firing process (huohou)—the timing and degree of advancing or withdrawing in cultivation—is made too explicit, it can sound dull and lifeless.

The Zhouyi (Book of Changes) is a foundational classic of the three teachings: Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism. After receiving the oral instructions, one must still study the Zhouyi hundreds of times in order to grasp fully all the subtleties of the firing process.

Even without reading alchemical texts, in ten months one can return to a state like that of a child. This is the simplest and easiest Way. People who have never studied books are, in fact, easier to teach in their practice: tell them what to do, and they simply do it.

“Mind and breath depend on one another”—the spirit of the mind and the breath mutually follow one another—is also only a figurative way of explaining the principle.

The Wuzhen pian (Awakening to Reality) says, “Even if you speak of cinnabar and mercury, without understanding the firing process, it is all empty talk.” The cinnabar and mercury here refer to the spirit of the mind and the breath.

In cultivation, keep the mind open and empty. Once the practice has become familiar, let the spirit of the mind and the breath depend on one another. As long as the mind is empty, Jing and Qi will not leak out. When the practice of keeping the mind empty has become well established, go a step further and let the spirit of the mind and the breath depend on one another; understanding will come naturally. When the spirit of the mind follows the breath in and out, how could stray thoughts arise?

Wu Chongxu said, “Before beginning formal practice, first spend a month in quiet cultivation.” Such important words must not be skimmed over when reading.

The ancients said, “The Zilaihuo ji (Record of Spontaneous Fire) has six hundred chapters, and every chapter is much the same.” (The original text continues here: “When it follows the breath in and out, how could stray thoughts arise?”) Wu Chongxu also said, “Before beginning formal practice, first spend a month in quiet cultivation.” Such important words must not be skimmed over when reading.

The ancients also said, “The Zilaihuo ji has six hundred chapters, and every chapter is much the same: all of them are about gathering true lead.” At its root, gathering true lead means letting the spirit of the mind and the breath depend on one another; there are simply different variations within the practice. Thus, cultivation ultimately cannot do without these four words: “mind and breath depend on one another.” When first meeting disciples, one must explain the alchemical texts so that they will be convinced. If one begins by saying there are no words, no orbit of Qi through the body, and no Zi-Wu—the traditional terms for times of day or the alternation of Yin and Yang—how could they believe it?

Zhang Sanfeng said, “Let both yourself and the other person remain calm and as they are, and let the changes of Yin-Yang run in reverse. To drive away all manner of demonic obstacles, everything depends on the Wisdom Sword”—a symbol of insight and the wisdom that cuts through deluded thoughts. These three sentences describe the practice of the first stage. They strike at the heart of the matter, especially the final sentence, which is the most important. Whenever any vision appears during practice, immediately draw your thoughts inward, so that your mind and spirit remain joined to your breathing.

He then says, “Dare to pluck the flowers blooming fresh beyond the wall.” This describes the practice of the second stage. When the work is done well, the course of cultivation is no longer directed by force of personal will.

The Book of Changes says, “Keep the back still, and the self is no longer apprehended.” This means stopping the mind’s outward pursuit and reaching a state in which one forgets one’s own body. “Walk in the courtyard, yet do not see the people there” means walking through a courtyard without seeing anyone in it. This serves as a metaphor for how, when the work is done well, the practitioner cannot direct everything by personal will. Here, it is also explained as forgetting other people. To forget both oneself and others is the meditative state reached through “stillness at Gen”—stilling deluded activity and settling the mind and spirit.

I wrote this book because one day, in conversation, Teacher Wu told us that if we could write a book, establish a distinctive body of thought, and pass it on to later generations for the benefit of all beings, it would be a great merit. So I worked diligently to complete Essential Principles of the Mysterious Golden Elixir, though it cost me thirty years of arduous effort.

If Meng comes this summer, you should take a week’s leave and come here with him. First, I cannot understand his language. Second, Meng once helped me when I was in danger, and that was because you had written to him. I am therefore very grateful to you, and I would also like you to hear these secret essentials. If you meet Tang later, you can pass this material on to him as well. In that way, I will have transmitted it to three people. If I pass it on to just one person, I will have taken the trouble to teach it without anyone else to compare notes and discuss it with; you, too, would find that inconvenient.

Li Daochun’s skill in cultivation was profound, and the final chapter of The Guide to the Nature and Life praises him as well. For this reason, my teacher told me to read Patriarch Li’s verses and poems. If you read The Essential Secrets of the Golden Elixir dozens, even hundreds, of times, understanding will naturally dawn. But if you give up before reading it ten times, how can you ever truly grasp it?

As the saying goes, “When the mountains end and the waters run dry, you fear there is no way forward; then, through the deep shade of willows and bright blossoms, another village appears.” This saying also holds a subtle meaning. When our cultivation reaches a state of undifferentiated emptiness, and the breath seems to stop, it is as though we have entered a brief state of suspended animation; we then seem to encounter just such a scene. My teacher said that I was sincere, so he taught me a method for beginning cultivation. In the past, when Meng Jun came to Shanghai, my teacher spoke with him only twice and did not teach him even the complete method for getting started.

Zhu Yuanyu’s commentary on the Cantong qi, titled Exploring the Hidden, brought its interpretation to the utmost subtlety. I said that one should wait to write books until after a cultivator has restored the condition of the body as it was in childhood. My teacher said that this was not necessarily so; understanding the timing and measure of the firing process was enough. He also said that Li Daochun’s commentary on the Daodejing, titled Gathering the Origins, was likewise unsurpassed in subtlety. The writings of Wang Yiqing, Lu Qianxu, Li Hanxu, and others could not compare with these two commentaries. Li Daochun’s annotations, then, may be called peerless in their subtlety.

Lai Qutang spoke of “the Changes inherent in Heaven and Earth” and said that “the principles of the Changes are not in the Four Sages but within my own body.” These words all concern the subtle points of the firing process, but unfortunately you do not understand them. As for the circular diagram of Lai Zhide on the Zhouyi…