《内修十论》

The Ten Essays on Internal Cultivation discusses methods of inner cultivation. It begins with the first topic, “On Sitting in Meditation,” which explores the practice of seated meditation.

Sitting cross-legged for long periods tires the body. It is neither reasonable nor healthy, and may even lead to illness. Not clinging inwardly to external things while remaining calm and unmoving is the true foundation of entering meditation. With this as a basis for cultivating meditative stability, the mind and breath gradually come into harmony; over time, the mind grows clearer and more refreshed. Taking this as a guideline for practice makes it possible to distinguish deviant thoughts from upright ones.

If every thought is stilled as soon as it arises, and awareness is cut off entirely, one enters “meditation through forgetting”—a state of meditative absorption in which discriminating consciousness is forgotten. But if thoughts are simply allowed to arise without restraint, there is no difference from the ordinary person. If one merely suppresses thoughts of good and evil without giving the mind a place to rest, letting the spirit drift aimlessly while waiting for it to settle of its own accord, one only wastes one’s time. To carry on with all kinds of affairs while merely claiming that the mind is untouched by external things may sound appealing, but it is a grave mistake in practice. Those who truly cultivate the Way should especially guard against this.

Now one should still delusive thoughts without extinguishing awareness, and remain quiet without clinging to emptiness. Persevering in this way, one will naturally attain genuine insight. When doubts arise in dealing with a matter, one may think it through for a time, so that the matter is handled properly and the doubt is resolved. This, too, is the right foundation for the arising of wisdom. Once the doubt is understood, one should stop thinking and not continue calculating. Excessive deliberation uses cleverness to damage one’s nature, wounding the root as if harming the roots of a tree. Even if it makes one seem clever and quick-witted for a time, in the long run it harms one’s cultivation of the Way.

All restless, delusive, and deviant thoughts should be cast aside as soon as they are noticed. On hearing slander or praise, or of good or bad deeds, one should immediately let them go and not allow the mind to take them in. If one holds them in the mind, the mind becomes filled; once filled, it has no place for the Dao to dwell. Whatever one hears or sees, one should remain aware of it without allowing it to linger in the mind—that is, one should not let people, affairs, or things from the outside enter inwardly. When the mind takes in nothing external, this is called “emptying the mind”; when it is not turned by external things, this is called “settling the mind.” When the mind is settled and empty, the Dao will naturally come to dwell there.

To treat “sitting” as cultivation in itself is to cling to an empty shell. The living can sit or lie down; the dead can only lie down, never sit. What cultivation could a body of flesh and blood possibly achieve?

“One, two, three, four, five; two people guard one earth” refers to the spirit in the two eyes not scattering outward, but resting at the center on Wuji Earth, the Daoist term for the central position and Spleen-Earth. It remains stable and unmoving, like Mount Tai: this is what “sitting” means here. The passage is not about training the physical body, but about establishing an inner spiritual foundation. Sit only as long as the body remains comfortable. Conditions today differ from those in ancient times, so methods of cultivation may arise from the mind; following nature is in accord with the Dao. While sitting, one should reflect quietly, investigate principles, and realize the true lineage. Suppressing every thought until one thinks of nothing and sinks into empty blankness is a grave taboo in cultivation. If a deluded thought arises and an illusion appears before one’s eyes, this is called “entering a demonic state.”

The mind is like a bright mirror; the countless changing images do not cloud its clarity. Thoughts may come one after another: let them come and go while the inner mind remains unmoved. This is the practice of sitting. It is like an actor playing a role onstage, showing joy, anger, grief, thought, sorrow, fear, and alarm, while inwardly remaining untouched by the character. When the mind and spirit are settled, quiet, and free of striving, wisdom arises naturally. The saying, “When the mind is absent, one looks but does not see, listens but does not hear, and eats without knowing the taste,” here refers to turning one’s attention inward and not letting the mind be drawn away by external things. When the mind is sincere, it becomes clear and perceptive.

Use your own mind to cleanse your mind. Turn inward and illuminate yourself, removing the dust and grime within. Still scattered thoughts and let the mind return to emptiness and quietude. Hold fast to “the One” by keeping the spirit focused, and the whole network of things will fall into order; this is better than reading ten thousand alchemical scriptures. This is sitting in Wuwei, following nature.

Two: On Emptiness of Mind

The scripture says: If a person can keep the mind empty and still, without deliberately seeking the Great Dao, the Dao will instead return of its own accord. When the mind is free of attachment, outward conduct is also free of contrivance. If things are not divided into pure and defiled, slander and praise have nowhere to arise; if one does not cling to the distinction between wisdom and folly, gain and loss can hardly disturb the mind. When circumstances call for the middle course, hold to what is constant and act accordingly; when they require flexibility, adapt as the moment demands. To be free of all manner of entanglement is wisdom.

If you disregard timing and actual circumstances and force yourself to act through sheer effort of mind, then even if you believe yourself free of attachment, you are not truly cultivating the Dao. Why? The mind is like the eyes: if even a speck of dust gets into an eye, it cannot rest; even a small matter can stir the mind and throw it into turmoil. Once the mind is disturbed, it is difficult to enter a state of meditative stillness—a state of calm and focused awareness. The key to cultivating the Dao is to remove the mind’s afflictions as quickly as possible. If their roots remain, it is difficult to attain stillness. This is like a fertile field choked with thorns: the seedlings cannot grow well until they are cleared. Desires and thoughts are thorns in the mind; unless they are cut away, stillness and wisdom cannot arise.

Without something to rest upon, the mind is difficult to settle; even if it settles for a while, it will become scattered again. As thoughts arise and pass away, make an effort to keep the mind undisturbed. With long and patient care, the mind gradually matures and naturally becomes at ease. Whether day or night, while walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, while attending to affairs or meeting others, take care to settle your mind. If it still cannot be made calm, nurture it carefully and do not let it be disturbed. Once you have gained even a little ease, you can find joy in it. Continue to nurture the mind gradually, and it will grow ever quieter and more profound.

Oxen and horses are domestic animals, yet if left unchecked they can still become unruly and refuse to be guided. Even wild birds such as eagles, when tamed and kept for amusement, must be cared for on the hand over a long period before they gradually become docile. The mind is the same: if left to run wild, it will only become more coarse and scattered. How then could it discern the subtle principles?

The mind’s essence is originally empty, still, and clear, without distinctions. This is what is meant by the “Tathāgata mind” (the pure original mind realized by the Buddha) and “one nature” (the nature shared by all things). When the mind senses things in the outside world and a thought arises, feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness (sensation, imagining, acts of will, and discernment) come into being. This is the human mind. One thought reflects myriad scenes, and all manner of thoughts arise from the mind.

The empty mind is originally still, vacant, and luminous, without distinctions. It does not move of itself; only consciousness is active within it. Having many thoughts does not make the empty mind increase, and having no thoughts does not make it diminish. It neither increases nor decreases, and remains the same throughout. All changes remain rooted in what is fundamental, while the fundamental itself does not change. Thus, the arising of countless thoughts is natural.

To decide that one’s mind has become disturbed is already to create a distinction within it. The moment a thought stirs, one falls into delusion; once distinctions arise, the mind is no longer pure. A mind crowded with thoughts is merely an obstacle to a single thought. If no second layer of disturbance arises, the mind can still remain sincere and pure in a single thought. Countless thoughts rise and fall in succession; however many come, that many depart. If a thousand thoughts arise, a thousand thoughts pass away; if ten thousand arise, ten thousand pass away. The mind is like a clear mirror: countless thoughts arise from a single thought and dissolve within a single thought. This one thought in the empty mind remains sincere. Let thoughts come and go without making further distinctions, and the mind will remain sincere and pure in a single thought.

Laozi taught “embracing the origin and keeping to the One” (holding fast to what is fundamental and remaining focused without dispersion). Śākyamuni taught that all phenomena return to one nature, complete and luminous. Confucius spoke of a sincere thought that connects everything through the One, while the Great Shun spoke of concentrating wholly on the One so that all phenomena become accessible. If one can let a single thought return to no-thought, one can attain wondrous, perfect awakening and access to all phenomena. When a single thought returns to emptiness, emptiness reveals wondrous spiritual powers.

Someone asked: “A person who cultivates the Great Dao lives among the myriad things, yet the heart is not stained by external things. They engage in all kinds of activity, yet the spirit remains undisturbed. Whatever they do, they follow things as they naturally unfold; at all times, their heart remains serene. But you now seek stability only by withdrawing from activity, and seek stillness by turning away from activity. You labor to suppress yourself, and only then distinguish movement from stillness. By single-mindedly clinging to the preservation of a particular state, you create grasping and rejection. You have failed to notice either of these two faults. To call this outward attachment the key to cultivating the Dao is a grave mistake!”

The reply was: “When all things are gathered under one name, that name is ‘great’; when all things are joined through and through, that is the Dao. To dwell among the myriad things without being stained by them, and to act without becoming confused—this is indeed vast, and indeed mysterious. Yet there is something unclear in your understanding. You see only the splendor of brocade that gleams like shells, and do not consider that it began as plain, undyed silk. You hear only the crane’s loud cry as it rises toward the heavens, and do not know that it must first be nourished by food in the valley. The great trees that shade the sun grow from the tiniest sprouts; the spirit’s gathering, which ultimately reaches the state of a sage, also comes through long practice. You know how to speak of the sage’s Virtue, but you do not know how that Virtue was cultivated.”

In people’s experience and perception, the nature that can discern all things is called the “Dao-heart”—the innate clarity of awareness. The Tathāgata’s mind is originally pure and unstained. When we observe things outside ourselves and are affected by them, a thought arises in consciousness; this is called the “human heart.” The Dao-heart is originally clear, and the human heart is originally still. But the human heart delights in external things and is easily drawn along by them. Greed and scattered thoughts then arise. This is called “three hearts and two minds”: thoughts are in turmoil and cannot remain focused.

When the mind is stained by desires, it is called “stained.” When thoughts are upright and sincere, without arising from greed, the mind is called “unstained.” To make thoughts calm and settled, quiet desires, and restore the original Dao-heart is the way of “returning to the void and wondrous existence.” Only by remaining undisturbed by desires can one perceive the subtlety of the Dao. This is also the Dao-heart: empty, still, and luminous, never falling into dullness. It is the light of wisdom and spiritual clarity that people possess from birth, called simply the “light of wisdom.”

The light of wisdom can respond to all things; this is called “the spiritual light shining alone.” A lamp gives off heat and illumination, but it cannot respond to things. The lamp is its substance, and the light is the function it displays. If the lamp is destroyed, its light alone cannot destroy it. But the spiritual light cannot be damaged by external things, because its substance and function are both light: it is independent and without equal. It is not extinguished when it enters water, nor burned when it enters fire. A blade cannot cut it, thunder cannot alter it, and fierce winds cannot scatter it.

When the mind is obscured by external things, it loses its clarity of awareness. Once attachment to outward appearances is broken and scattered thoughts are cleared away, the mind can return to emptiness and stillness and reveal itself anew. This is the perfect radiance of one’s original nature. By clearing away the mind’s impurities, quieting scattered thoughts, and bringing the mind to emptiness and stillness, one can reveal the true nature of life that everyone possesses from birth. With sincere faith and a wholehearted mind, spiritual clarity emerges naturally, ultimately reaching a state of wondrous awareness, spiritual illumination, and complete, unobstructed understanding.

Four. On Simple Matters (Chapter Four: A Discussion of Brief Points)

For those who cultivate the Dao, it is best to simplify everyday affairs. Know what matters, distinguish what is weighty from what is trivial, and understand what should be let go and what should be kept. Whatever is unimportant or insignificant should be cast aside. Wine and meat in one’s diet, fine silk in one’s clothing, status and titles, and gold and jade among one’s possessions are all extra cravings beyond ordinary desires; they are no medicine that benefits life. Yet people chase after them and ultimately bring about their own decline. How deeply deluded they are!

The mind is originally empty, still, and pure: free and unobstructed, standing alone without a counterpart. This is “simplicity.” To cling neither to feeling, perception, formation, and consciousness—the five aggregates described in Buddhism—nor to the six faculties of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind; neither to the six objects of sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and mental phenomena, nor even to the realms of visual consciousness and mental consciousness: this, too, is “simplicity.”

The Diamond Sutra says that all sages differ according to the Dharma of Wuwei (non-action). The principle of wondrous emptiness and the Dharma of Wuwei described in the Heart Sutra of Guanyin are the essential teaching of Buddhism. Use “emptiness” to verify the mind and observe with freedom. Then you can realize that all phenomena are empty, attain great freedom, and enter the state of Wuwei in which nothing remains undone. This is the “Bodhisattva of Great Freedom.”

Observing the myriad forms gives rise to all kinds of thoughts; responding to all things brings about all kinds of changes. Thoughts appear as they come and vanish as they leave, while the mind remains without attachment. This is “simplicity.” Living among people is like riding the wind and walking the waves: dwelling in the world without being burdened by it, and living amid desire without being bound by desire. Move among ordinary people without showing off your brilliance; turn away from external things and look back within, with a mind like a clear mirror. This, too, is “simplicity.”

Five: On True Observation

True observation is the capacity of the wise to perceive in advance and of the capable to observe with discernment. Every meal and every period of sleep is a source of gain or loss; every action and every spoken word…

True observation is the ability of a wise person to recognize things in advance and discern how they work. Eating and sleeping may seem ordinary, yet each can be a source of gain or loss. Every action and every word may bring trouble or good fortune. Rather than struggle over details, it is better to seem clumsy while holding fast to what is fundamental. Seeing the root and anticipating the outcome do not come from impatience or the urge to win.

Gathering the mind and reducing one’s affairs is called “diminishing activity”—reducing contrived effort. Only after the mind is quiet and body and mind are at ease is one ready to observe what is subtle and mysterious. Yet those who cultivate the Dao still depend on clothing and food to live. Some things in daily life cannot be abandoned, and some possessions cannot be cast aside. One should therefore open one’s heart to accept them and meet them with a clear mind, rather than regard them as hindrances and grow irritated. If daily affairs make you irritable, your mind has already been disturbed. How, then, could you be said to be at peace?

Daily affairs, clothing, and food are like a boat for crossing the sea. If you mean to cross, you need a boat; why give up clothing and food before you have made the crossing? The pursuit of worldly things is ultimately illusory and not worth excessive effort. Yet one cannot immediately free oneself from these illusions by cutting them off altogether. Even when something is still desired, do not become preoccupied with gain and loss. Whether occupied or unoccupied, keep the mind steady and calm. You may seek the necessities of life alongside others without being greedy; you may acquire the same things without hoarding them. Because you are not greedy, you have no anxiety; because you do not accumulate, you feel no pain when things are lost. In outward conduct, remain close to ordinary people; inwardly, keep a different standard for what to accept and reject. This is the fundamental principle for cultivating one’s words and actions, and one should do one’s utmost to put it into practice.

【Commentary】“Seeing what is before you but not what comes after, seeing the surface but not what lies within” means seeing only what is immediate and outward, without discerning consequences or the underlying situation. “Observing everything—observation means awareness” means that the key to observing all things is to be aware. The eyes themselves are merely bodily organs; true insight also requires the mind.

The eyes can see what is in front, but not what is behind; they can see outward appearances, but not what is within. The eyes can examine all things, yet the mind is what truly “sees.” The eyes are merely transparent organs; vision comes from the mind. When the mind is not focused, even open eyes cannot see. “True observation” here means inward awareness.

Thoroughly realizing the principle of wondrous existence within true emptiness is called “observation.” The “Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara” in the Heart Sutra and the lines in the Dao De Jing, “Ever free of desire, observe its mystery; ever having desire, observe its manifestations,” both concern this kind of contemplation. Observing the world with wisdom means seeing things outwardly while also discerning what lies within; this may be called “comprehensive observation.” The Buddha contemplates sentient beings with unsurpassed wisdom and sees that they all possess Buddha-nature. Ordinary seeing perceives only outward forms and cannot penetrate mind and nature; this is called “observing forms.”

True observation means knowing one’s original mind and nature, and realizing “who is observing.” What the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara contemplates is the mind of the Tathagata; both the observing mind and the object observed are within the mind of the Tathagata. To observe the mind with the mind is to use ○ to observe ○. So how should one contemplate? Since there is no feeling, perception, volition, or consciousness, and no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, or mind, what is there to observe? One should turn the light back upon the mind and listen inwardly to one’s own nature; that which hears and perceives is awareness itself. Investigate for yourself, understand for yourself, awaken for yourself: this is the mind observing without thoughts arising within or attachments being stirred by external things. The observer is at ease, abiding in suchness; this is ○. Seeing that the Five Aggregates are all empty is ○.

When no thoughts or forms arise, and no discriminating phenomena emerge in the mind, one attains Wuwei, freedom and ease: this is the natural, empty-and-still Great Dao, ○. If the thought of contemplation arises, it instead creates obstacles to observing. With obstacles present, how can one contemplate? When observation is obscured, the mind grows dull. To let go of the thought of contemplation is to remove dust and quiet scattered thoughts, allowing the mind to return to empty stillness, ○. Everything is clear and understood, yet the mind clings to nothing. To see clearly and naturally, without deliberately observing, is true observation.

Six. On the Traces of Form and Evil (discussing outward forms and the traces of evil conduct)

As mentioned earlier, one should reduce external entanglements and simplify one’s affairs. Yet some forms of suffering and illness are difficult to dispel, so one should contemplate them according to the teachings. If attachment to the physical body is strong, understand that clinging to it arises from thoughts in the mind. When thoughts do not arise, there is no attachment to the body. Know that both the body and thoughts about it may be seen as empty through contemplation. When the mind no longer clings to the body, and even the thought of letting go of that attachment is released, the mind returns to stillness and emptiness. Only the wise can contemplate skillfully and understand this principle. They accept what is allotted by Heaven and recognize their circumstances; therefore, poverty and illness do not distress them.

A scripture says, “Heaven and Earth cannot alter his integrity, and Yin-Yang cannot undo the calamities that befall him.” From this we can see: if one’s allotted fate is already so, what is there to resent?

This is like a warrior who encounters bandits, draws his sword, and charges at them; the bandits scatter and flee. Having won distinction through his deeds, he may enjoy honor and a stipend for the rest of his life. Now poverty and illness disrupt the body and mind like bandits on the attack. To set one’s thoughts straight at once is to meet the enemy as a warrior; for vexations to disperse is to defeat the bandits; and for the mind to become clear and at ease is to gain honor and a stipend.

Whenever hardship presses upon the mind, if one does not meet it with this kind of contemplation, worry and vexation will arise. This is like encountering bandits but failing to distinguish oneself: instead, one casts aside one’s armor and helmet, abandons the army, and flees, incurring punishment. To turn away from ease and head toward suffering is truly regrettable.

If poverty and illness afflict you together, contemplate this: these hardships come from having this body. A scripture says, “When I no longer have a body, what calamity could befall me?”

The Wuji (the boundless, undifferentiated source) is empty and utterly still. When stillness reaches its utmost, the Taiji (the source from which the myriad things arise) comes into being. Wuji symbolizes true emptiness, while Taiji is the primordial, undivided Qi that existed before Heaven and Earth separated. The Two Modes refer to the Qi that circulates and changes after Heaven and Earth differentiate; the Supreme Pivot refers to the stage when Qi interacts and gives rise to the myriad things and human society.

Beginning with primordial, undivided Qi, all that comes into being is collectively called “form”—existence with shape and appearance. Form transforms out of emptiness. It is like a sheet of paper that is blank until an artist puts brush to it and makes a painting: the painting appears upon the paper, yet the paper has not left the painting. Wuji gives rise to Taiji, but Wuji and Taiji are not separate from each other. A single stroke can depict the myriad things, and a single act of transformation can bring forth Heaven, Earth, and all things. The myriad things arise from emptiness, just as a painting on paper is made by the artist’s brush. Thus, emptiness is form, and form is emptiness: if the myriad things were separated from the emptiness at their source, they would be like water without a source or a tree without roots. Emptiness and form are one; emptiness can give rise to existence, and existence will eventually return to emptiness.

The people living on Earth today will all turn to dust a hundred years from now. All kinds of illusory appearances arise from emptiness; forms undergo change and ultimately return to emptiness. Awareness is originally empty and still, neither arising nor ceasing. The Yellow Emperor said that although the forms of Heaven and Earth change, principle and Qi have no absolute beginning or end. Though a person is alive, the body will ultimately become ashes. Once the principle and Qi that sustain life depart from the body, life immediately dissipates. All things in Heaven and Earth are forms that arise through transformation from true emptiness and are in constant flux; no form or substance remains unchanged forever.

People consume Earth’s resources every day, and life upon it is impermanent. When resources are exhausted, life can scarcely continue. Whatever can be seen or touched is not eternally real. The human body is only a temporary form, subject to constant change. One generation passes and another follows; people continue without end, while emperors and subjects succeed one another. Emperors, generals, talented scholars, and beautiful women are like images on a screen: when an era passes, its images disappear with it.

Fame, wealth, status, wine, sensual pleasures, money, and passion, as well as deep love for one’s parents, spouse, and children, cannot be incorporated into true life—the original state symbolized in the scripture by “○.” Whether one lets go of attachment or not, the truth remains the same: these things cannot be brought into life, nor taken away after death. Why sacrifice one’s true Mandate of Brightness—the authentic life—for greed? All conditioned phenomena, formed through causes and conditions and subject to change and dissolution, are like dreams, illusions, and bubbles. They are fleeting as dew and swift as lightning; contemplate them in this way.

Great Stability—the state of profound inner calm—is the highest form of transcendence from the worldly and the foundation for approaching the Dao (the Way). It is the state reached when quiet cultivation bears fruit and the work of abiding in one’s own mind is complete. At this point, the body is motionless like a withered tree, and the mind is calm like cold ashes. One neither clings nor resists; stillness has reached its utmost. There is no deliberate striving for calm, yet one remains calm at all times. This is why it is called “Great Stability.”

The Zhuangzi says, “When the mind is vast and settled, the light of Heaven appears.” Here, “space” refers to the mind, and “the light of Heaven” refers to wisdom. The mind is the space in which the Dao resides. When the mind is empty and still to the utmost, the Dao settles within it, and wisdom arises in turn. This wisdom comes from a person’s nature; it is not obtained by seeking outside oneself. That is why it is called “the light of Heaven.”

Greed and attachment disturb the mind and spirit, leaving a person dull and confused. When one’s nature is obscured, wisdom cannot appear. Once wisdom has arisen, cherish and guard it; do not weaken your meditative stability by pursuing ever more knowledge. The difficulty lies not in whether wisdom can arise, but in whether one can refrain from using it once it has. Since ancient times, many have been able to forget their bodies, but few have been able to forget their reputations. To possess wisdom without flaunting it or seeking fame is to forget one’s reputation. This is difficult to do; few in the world can attain it.

Only by holding high position without arrogance, being wealthy without extravagance, and avoiding worldly faults can one preserve wealth and status over time. If the mind remains settled and unmoving, and one has wisdom but does not use it recklessly, one can deeply realize the True and Constant—the enduring, unchanging reality of the Dao.

The Zhuangzi says, “Knowing is not difficult; what is difficult is not speaking. To know and not speak is to follow one’s nature; to know and hasten to speak is to act from human contrivance. Those of old who attained the Dao followed their nature and did not fall into contrivance.” It also says that the practitioners of old cultivated wisdom through quietude. After wisdom arose, they did not boast of it or act recklessly on its basis. This is called using wisdom to cultivate quietude. Wisdom and quietude nourish one another, and a person’s nature then reveals harmony and order. Quietude and wisdom are Stability and Wisdom; harmony and order are the Dao and De (Virtue/Power). When wisdom is present in the mind but not used recklessly, and one abides in ease and quietude, the Dao and De naturally take shape over time.

One who reaches this state is not startled even by thunder shaking the mountains, nor afraid when blades clash before their eyes. Fame and profit are seen as fleeting, and life and death as no more than a swelling that bursts and disappears; one no longer clings to them. When attention is undivided, the spirit gathers. The mind becomes empty, still, and mysterious, beyond the reach of words and thought.

The human heart-mind is originally empty, still, and clear in its awareness. It pervades everything, is unmoving from the beginning, and has nothing opposed to it. Yet the consciousness and thoughts arising from the Dao’s own body, when confronted with the world’s countless things and its many desires, keep chasing after them, unwilling to let go.

If we see through life as a dream and illusion, we will understand that the pleasures brought by wine, sensuality, wealth, and worldly concerns vanish in an instant. To sacrifice the life of true spiritual awareness for this physical body, seeking only fleeting, illusory pleasure, is ultimately to endure lasting suffering. People think it is the physical body that enjoys pleasure, but in truth it is awareness itself—the inner knowing—that feels it. They do not realize that these desires obscure the heart-mind’s original, subtle radiance.

When the mind grows still and thought becomes clear, wisdom appears. We may then awaken suddenly to the truth that there is no lasting, real happiness in the world: joy at its height often turns to sorrow. Only the Dao’s own body—the Dao in its original state—rests at ease and remains forever luminous. Those who understand true happiness will relinquish false pleasures, seek the principles of the Dao, and grasp its true teaching: all things are naturally empty and still in their fundamental nature. Everything before us will pass away, and the physical body, too, will eventually disappear.

If we do not understand the truth of the Dao, how can the mind be at peace? Once we see through society and human life as a dream and illusion, we will understand that what neither arises nor perishes is true emptiness. Whatever else may be said, only by awakening fully for ourselves can we comprehend the myriad teachings. From ancient times to the present, people have relied on their will and intelligence to pursue fame and success. Emperors, generals and ministers, gifted men and beautiful women—all have enjoyed a moment of prominence among the people. In the end, they all turn to dust. Whether one’s circumstances are prosperous or difficult, the ending is the same. Why not follow what is natural, rest at ease, and realize the eternal, true Dao?

Eight: On Attaining the Dao

The Dao (the Way) is a mysterious and wondrous presence: subtle and numinous, yet possessing its own nature; empty, yet without any fixed form. Whether one turns toward it or follows it, it cannot be measured. It cannot be found as one might pursue a shadow or an echo. People cannot explain why it is as it is, yet it truly is. The most perfected sages of antiquity already understood the Dao, and its subtle methods have been passed down to the present day.

The Dao has profound power. It can gradually transform a person’s body and spirit, allowing the body to become attuned to the Dao and, in the end, to unite with Shen (spirit). Such a person is called a “spirit-being.” The nature of Shen is empty and integrated; its underlying self neither changes nor perishes. Because the body is attuned to the Dao, it is no longer confined by life and death. When hidden, the body is indistinguishable from Shen; when revealed, Shen joins with Qi (vital energy). Such a person can cross water and fire without harm and stand before the sun and moon without casting a shadow. Life and death, survival and extinction, are under their own control, and there is no barrier to coming or going. If the human body, though formed of material substance, can attain a subtle and empty state, how much further can luminous wisdom penetrate into the vastness?

The Shengshen Jing (Scripture on Generating the Spirit) says, “When body and Shen unite as one, this is the true body.” The Xisheng Jing (Scripture on the Western Ascension) also says, “Body and Shen unite, and thus one can endure.” Yet the power of the Dao of emptiness varies in depth: deep cultivation can extend to the body, while shallower cultivation acts only on the mind. Those whose cultivation reaches the body are spirit-beings. Those whose cultivation acts only on the mind may gain wisdom and awakening, but their bodies still cannot escape decline and death. Why? Wisdom is an activity of the mind, and excessive use wears the mind down. Having gained a little cleverness, people may become pleased with themselves, talk too much, and excel at argument. Their Shen and Qi are depleted in turn, and their bodies receive no nourishment from numinous energy; they may ultimately die young. Thus, it is difficult to attain the Dao in its fullness. A scripture says, “Excessive use of corpse liberation wears out the mind.” This refers to such a condition. “Corpse liberation” is a Daoist term for a practitioner’s departure from the body through transformation.

Therefore, those who truly possess De (Virtue/Power) restrain their radiance and conceal their sharpness, thereby preserving the fruits of their cultivation. They gather their spirit and cherish their Qi. In studying the Dao, they do not cling to deliberate striving, but unite Shen with the Dao; this is called attaining the Dao. A scripture says, “One who is the same as the Dao will also have the Dao return to them.”

Where there is jade in a mountain, its plants and trees are less likely to wither. When a person carries the Dao within, the body can endure and remain stable. Through long cultivation and nourishment, a person’s nature changes and gradually becomes like Shen. When the refinement of the body reaches its subtlest point, it merges with the Dao. The vision of wisdom has no boundaries, and the body surpasses the limits of finitude. All forms and emptiness are brought into its operation, and achievement is realized beyond the transformations of nature. Only Dao and De can appear at any time and place, responding through boundless transformations.

The Dao (the Way) has nothing to gain and nothing to lose; people simply do not understand its true principle. The substance of the Dao is the innate awareness bestowed upon human beings by the Great Dao of emptiness. Laozi regarded this awareness as the highest mystery among all things in Heaven and Earth. Confucius saw it as the subtle, numinous principle of De (Virtue/Power). Shakyamuni called it the supreme awakened mind inherent in all living beings. Whether Buddhas or ordinary beings, all contain the wisdom of Buddhahood.

Those constrained by their inborn disposition and obscured by material desires are called living beings. Buddha-nature is originally clear and pure, untouched by the pull of the myriad things in the world. Those who suddenly awaken to life, understand that all things are illusory and impermanent, and cease to chase after and crave them are called the awakened. Those who are deluded may seem to have lost something, but in truth have lost nothing; the awakened may seem to have gained something, but in truth there is nothing to gain.

This mysterious awareness is an innate capacity that comes with being human. Everyone has it; it is not created through additional cultivation. Originally, it is like a precious pearl of the Golden Elixir, obscured by dust and desire after falling into the world. By means of one’s own clear wisdom, removing the grime and desires allows it to appear again. It is like restoring sight to an afflicted eye by removing what blocks it: the treatment does not add to the light the eye already possessed.

The substance of the Dao is like gold within ore: when the ore is refined away, pure gold appears, and the gold that emerges does not turn back into ore. Wood burned to ash does not turn back into wood. Human nature is complete and clear, enduring and natural; this is called supreme bliss, the great awakening that never perishes. Human beings are seeds of the spirits and Buddhas, and those who cultivate can bring forth the fruit. Attaining the true fruit is called attaining the Dao. Laozi said, “The highest De has no attainment.”

To cultivate the Dao and attain realization, first correct improper conduct and cut off worldly entanglements so they do not disturb the mind. Then turn inward and observe, remaining clear and attentive. As soon as you notice a thought arise, dispel it. Let thoughts arise and pass away, allowing the mind to become still.

Next, even when no desires are present, dispel one by one the scattered thoughts that wander in every direction. Practice diligently day and night, without a moment’s slackening. Remove only thoughts that disturb the mind, not clear awareness; let the mind return to emptiness and stillness without fixing it rigidly in place. Do not attach yourself to any particular method, yet let the mind remain settled. This method is subtle, and its benefits far-reaching. Those without a prior affinity for the Dao and unwavering faith will find it difficult to accomplish.

If you wholeheartedly aspire to the Great Dao and your faith is firm, first undertake the Three Precepts and practice in accordance with them. Maintain reverence without wavering, and you will be able to attain the true Dao. The Three Precepts are: first, simplify your entanglements, reducing external ties that bind the mind and spirit; second, eliminate desires, letting go of cravings and wanting; third, still the mind. Practice these three precepts diligently, without slackening or turning back, and the Dao will come of itself, even if you do not deliberately seek it. A Jing (scripture) says, “If people can remain constantly pure and still, all things in Heaven and Earth will return to them.” This shows why one should trust in this concise method of cultivation.

Yet the ordinary mind is restless, caught up in strife and competition, and its habits have accumulated over a long time. Following the precepts to calm the mind is indeed difficult. Sometimes you try to quiet the mind but cannot; sometimes it grows still for a while, only to lose its calm again soon afterward. Thoughts coming and going contend with one another, even causing the whole body to sweat. Only through long perseverance can the mind gradually be brought into harmony. Do not abandon the work of cultivating the Dao over countless lifetimes just because you cannot gather your mind at first.

Once you have managed to settle the mind somewhat, keep it settled whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, and even amid busy affairs and noisy surroundings. Whether occupied or free, keep the mind free of entanglement; whether in quiet or in commotion, keep your intention unified. If you bind the mind too tightly, the movement of Qi (vital energy) may become disordered, bringing signs such as madness or confusion. Once the mind is no longer restless, give the mind and spirit more room and adjust the balance of tension and ease until it is just right, continually making these adjustments for yourself.

Once the mind is no longer disturbed by external things, you must also learn to regulate yourself, finding the right balance between restraint and relaxation and regularly adjusting body and mind. Restrain yourself without becoming attached to restraint; relax without becoming indulgent. Feel no aversion amid noise, and no agitation while attending to affairs. This is true stability of mind and spirit.

Do not seek out more tasks simply because you can handle them without becoming agitated. Nor should you deliberately enter noisy surroundings just because you can remain calm there. Regard the quiet of having nothing to do as your natural state, and meeting the demands of a situation as a response shaped by the situation itself. Let the mind be like water or a mirror, reflecting the form of whatever it encounters. Use all kinds of methods skillfully, with the sole aim of entering meditative stillness. When wisdom arises, and how quickly, cannot be determined by human effort. Do not eagerly pursue wisdom while entering stillness: the pursuit damages your nature, and a damaged nature cannot give rise to wisdom. When you do not deliberately seek wisdom, it appears of its own accord; this is true wisdom. Even when you possess wisdom, do not display it readily. Genuine wisdom within may appear, outwardly, like dullness. Continually deepen both stillness and wisdom; they support and complement each other, their subtle workings without end.

If stray thoughts remain in the mind while you enter stillness, they can attract all kinds of malevolent spirits, which manifest in response to your thoughts. Let the mind in stillness be open and clear above, with nothing to obscure it; below, let it be vast and unobstructed, with no roots to bind it. Let past sins gradually dissolve, and cease creating new karma. Free yourself from every entanglement and obstruction, and leave behind the snares of the world. With such sustained practice, you will naturally attain the Dao.

The mind and body of one who has attained the Dao pass through what are called the “five periods and seven stages”: five stages of mental experience and seven bodily transformations.

The five stages of the mind are these. First, thoughts are active much of the time, and quiet is rare. Second, activity and stillness are roughly balanced. Third, stillness is more frequent than activity. Fourth, the mind is quiet when nothing is happening, but becomes unsettled when events arise. Fifth, the mind accords with the Dao and remains unmoved even when it encounters things. Only upon reaching this stage is one truly at ease: the stains of sin have been wiped away, and all distress has ceased.

The seven bodily transformations are these. First, one’s conduct accords with the times, and one’s expression becomes gentle and joyful. Second, old illnesses generally recede, leaving body and mind refreshed. Third, the body, weakened prematurely, is restored and life returns to its original source. Fourth, one’s lifespan extends to several thousand years; such a person is called an “Immortal.” Fifth, the bodily form is refined into Qi, and one is called a “Realized Person.” Sixth, Qi is refined into spirit, and one is called a “Spirit Person.” Seventh, spirit is refined until it unites with the Dao, and one is called a “Perfected Person.”

Fifth, refining the form to transform Qi is called becoming a “True Person”; sixth, refining Qi to form Shen is called becoming a “Spirit Person”; seventh, refining Shen to unite with the Dao is called becoming a “Perfect Person.” If someone practices seated meditation and settles the mind for a long time but never experiences the “Five Stages and Seven Signs”—the phases of bodily and mental change during cultivation—then their spiritual nature remains confined by a polluted physical form. When the body declines and returns to emptiness, they may claim to have awakened and attained the Dao, but in truth they have not.

The eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind respond to what is seen, heard, felt, and thought with liking or aversion, and retain memories that differ from one person to another. All manner of things may be remembered; childhood events can still come clearly to mind. Whether we remember or forget happens naturally. Stillness and concentration are capacities inherent in life; there is no need to manufacture them through deliberate thought. Our nature is inherently lucid, so wisdom emerges on its own and delusion fades away.

What Laozi calls “naturalness” is the Dao, and what he calls “Wuwei” is the method, for human nature is originally clear and still. Do not cling or deliberately settle on any view. Let things unfold naturally, and the mind will not insist on either forgetting or remembering. Meet the many thoughts that arise with Wuwei and pay them no heed. It is like a host who does not welcome a guest: the guest will leave of their own accord. If the host is restless and upset, the guest cannot settle in either.

Insisting on not forgetting keeps the mind from resting; releasing attachment to thoughts frees awareness. Even when the mind wanders among idle thoughts, or lets them run unchecked—seeming utterly confused and agitated—it may eventually settle into stillness on its own. The world is originally free of troubles; we often bring distress upon ourselves. If the mind does not become confused, where could confusion arise? Deliberately seeking stillness is itself a form of disturbance. When we neither deliberately seek movement nor deliberately seek stillness, thoughts can flow freely as they normally do: freedom is the method, and naturalness is the Dao.

Without recognizing your original mind and understanding your original nature, it is difficult to enter Wuwei. There is no need to grasp at the awareness that arises from seeing, hearing, and knowing. Let each thought come and go naturally, and deluded thoughts will dissipate on their own.

When one remains calm and still, primordial Qi is not easily depleted. When distracting thoughts are reduced, the inner light of wisdom appears. Without anger, body and mind can be harmonious and at ease; without distress, the heart is cool and peaceful. Without deliberately seeking gain, one will not flatter others to win their favor; without clinging to things, one will not be bound by fixed views. To desire nothing is to be rich and noble; to act without compromise is to have nothing to fear, and to stand untroubled even before a ruler. As the desire for food and drink fades, the body’s numinous spring wells up of its own accord; when the breath is settled, the true breath—the deep, steady breath within—continues without end.

If one is stirred by external things and acts recklessly, the body will decline and awareness will scatter. If thoughts are in turmoil, it is like a dream falling apart, or a corpse lying rigid. When the breath is exhausted, the body will at last return to the grave; when thoughts are exhausted, the spirit too will move toward death. Only when thoughts come to rest can the spirit truly become active. When the murky stagnation in the hun and po souls has dispersed, the hun and Shen can grow strong. Even broad learning and extensive knowledge cannot exhaust the finest principles; following change does not mean departing from the constant foundation. The subtlest principles lie hidden in the indistinct and elusive, while vast forms converge within the distant and boundless void. The Dao’s transformations are like the transformations of all things; even ghosts and spirits cannot fathom their movements, stillness, concealment, or appearance.

To neither drink nor eat nor sleep is called the perfected person’s “sitting in oblivion,” a state of cultivation in which, through quiet sitting, one forgets distracting thoughts and external things.

By forgetting all thoughts and concerns in the heart, one passes beyond the Realm of Desire, governed by desire. By forgetting one’s ties to external things, one passes beyond the Realm of Form, where distinctions of shape and matter remain. By no longer clinging to “emptiness,” one passes beyond the Formless Realm, where coarse material forms are absent but distinctions of spiritual states remain. Beyond these Three Realms lies a state whose movements and stillness cannot be fathomed. The spirit dwells in the homeland of immortals and sages, while one’s nature abides in a realm of pure emptiness.

Zhang Sanfeng said: “These are the Ten Discourses of Patriarch Wang Chongyang, and they already contain the Great Dao of Non-Being. Immortals and perfected beings often come to wander in the Grotto-Heaven of Kongqing; some leave behind alchemical instructions and Daoist teachings before departing. This, too, expresses the intention to guide people and awaken them. Patriarch Wang Chongyang’s Ten Discourses likewise follow this purpose. Those who cultivate the Dao in the mountains and receive these teachings need not seek jade herbs or gather immortal flowers elsewhere. These principles themselves are medicines of long life and elixirs of immortality. I therefore copy them down with reverence, to leave for those in later generations who cherish the Great Dao.”

The saying by Lü Zu cited in the explanation means: “My nature is originally natural and has always been governed by myself, not arranged by Heaven’s will. In the stillness of the deep night, even a person as steadfast as iron should examine himself.”

Master Lü said: Human nature exists naturally within us, and cultivation depends on oneself; it is not entirely determined by Heaven’s mandate. In the stillness of late night, even someone with a heart as firm as iron or stone will reflect inwardly: the way to long life and immortality depends on one’s own practice. A hundred years of life are like a dream beneath the locust tree—a brief and illusory existence. Those who awaken rouse themselves, as if hearing the morning bell.

The Dao is transmitted by sages, but practice depends on oneself. De must be accumulated through one’s own efforts, while lifespan is shaped in part by Heaven’s mandate. Clouds and mist spread across the vast sea, as though the way had been lost. Yet those who awaken do not take a single step away from their present, original mind; they can thus experience the Western Heaven, here a realm of awakening.

Joy, anger, sorrow, and thought are regulated by one’s own mind. The roots of the divine, the sage, the immortal, and the Buddha are all planted in the field of one’s own heart. The tender shoots of Daoist cultivation grow within. Search outward, and even traveling 108,000 li will not bring you to them. Turn your gaze inward, preserve your original Qi, and gather your spirit into one; then you can recognize that your nature is complete and luminous, and discover that it is within you.

To seek the Dao outside the mind is to pursue something external. Fixating on a particular method also leads away from one’s original mind. The body and mind can give rise to myriad functions. The Dao is originally empty, still, and formless, so why must it depend on concrete methods?

The mind is like gold within ore, and methods of cultivation are like the fire used to refine it. Once the gold is refined, the fire, the ore, and even the name “gold” are no longer needed. Nothing in the world has a fixed, unchanging nature; “gold” is merely the name given to it. True gold is inherently untainted. It appears impure only because it is mixed with ore. If the mind has the fire of wisdom, it can remove impurities and reveal one’s nature. Deliberately contrived methods are like counterfeit fire; the true fire comes from the source of one’s own wisdom. Even without smelting, impurities can disperse; without being refined, one’s nature is already gold.

“Refinement” is merely a convenient term. Cling to methods, and you lose your original mind; abandon them entirely, and you may fail to understand the essential meaning of practice. Only by neither grasping at methods nor deliberately casting them aside can you preserve what is genuine within yourself.

Sunlight represents the capacity inherent within; clouds and mist represent obstructions that come from outside. The mind is originally clear and still, while things in the external world can become distractions. When moonlight shines, the clouds and mist disperse; when the mind becomes clear, external distractions likewise fall away. There is no need to force anything. Follow what is natural, and the true self will appear.

—Conclusion of Ten Essays on Internal Cultivation