《古书隐楼藏书》Vol. 20

If anyone deceives people by using the master’s name while intending to rely on the monastery and take offerings from patrons (those who donate and support) for personal use, that is privately hoarding communal property (the monastery’s shared assets). Heaven watches; it will not treat this lightly. Therefore this notice is posted publicly.

Regulations for Officers — Changchun Zhenren (Qiu Chujiu)

It is often said that human life between heaven and earth is like a white colt flashing past a crack in the wall—gone in an instant. What comes cannot be blocked; what goes cannot be held. By the time one is around forty-eight and the body declines, the four great elements (earth, water, fire, wind) separate; even the body no longer remains—life was never truly one’s own to keep. When you examine the principle, nothing surpasses realizing the supreme Dao; when you examine practice, nothing surpasses clearly knowing the original mind. Mind is the Dao; the Dao is mind. Outside mind there is no Dao; outside the Dao there is no mind—each person must silently grasp this for themselves. Becoming ordinary or becoming sage all depends on oneself; awakening to truth and awakening to the Dao do not lie outside one’s own cultivation. First you must understand in principle, then go on to deepen practice. Carrying water and chopping wood are nothing other than this Dao; reciting scriptures and performing repentance rites also come down to this one point. I ask everyone with discerning eyes to look together—do not miss it face to face. From now on, when wandering cloud-and-water companions (traveling Daoists from all directions) meet or gather like mist and cliffs, if you can meet a teacher and receive the essential teaching, and steadily comprehend with constancy, you will know the family style of leaving the world; if you resolve to cultivate, that is the solid work of ascending to immortality. Do not fall short in merit and conduct; awaken to what is originally so. All constitutional rules of the Mystic Gate, pure regulations, and the various officer posts are listed below.

1. Chief Supervisor (dujian): Oversees the overall discipline of the Mystic Gate and inspects all officers.

1. Chief Manager (duguan): Maintains Daoist ritual standards, supervises fasting rites, and urges observance of precepts.

These two offices are the eyes of heaven and humanity, and the model set by immortals and sages. In the heart one keeps to virtue and uses kindness to benefit the multitude. Before one’s parents have conceived and raised one, one must awaken to one’s original face; within the classic teachings of the sages, one must let the light of one’s nature shine forth. First harmonize the pulse of central harmony; then contemplate the subtle true mechanism within the aperture. In the furnace of creation, subdue the dragon and tame the tiger; within the cauldron of heaven and earth, draw from Kan and fill in Li—that is, in internal alchemy (Neidan), gather yin and yang and balance fire and water. With the essentials of ascending the hall and entering the inner chamber, guide people from within; through the work of illuminating the mind and seeing one’s nature, grasp the principle beyond outward form. Lead people toward blessing and good conduct, and instruct the worthy; in movement and stillness alike, be solemn and reverent in bearing. At the slightest fault, impose doubled punishment before the assembly.

The Left Hall Steward is responsible for overseeing attendants. The Right Hall Steward assists in managing tea service affairs.

These two offices are truly the discipline of the community and the “bamboo trap” by which later students enter the gate—that is, the tool for getting a foothold. They turn the wheel of the Dharma and support the pattern of the profound; going in and out on incense rounds, they always hold reverence; whether ascending or descending, in movement or stillness, they must keep purity and harmony. They correct faults of frivolity, impatience, or loss of decorum, and publicly call out slack or rule-breaking conduct. Speech should be dignified; demeanor gentle. Whoever violates the rules of the profound gate is punished with kneeling before incense and prostration penalties.

Those on the Dragon and Tiger single shifts must sincerely discern the Way and resolve to cultivate the self: set aside desire to contemplate the mind, and still discursive thought to exhaust the nature. Regulate the spirit and enter stillness, keeping the subtle work constantly in the dantian (energy center); step lightly and walk with restraint, keeping the precepts constantly in the “red grotto”—that is, the heart’s inner chamber. They must observe the statutes of the profound gate and not violate the pure regulations; violators kneel before incense.

The Sun shift likewise requires regulating the spirit and entering stillness, keeping the subtle work in the dantian; stepping lightly, keeping precepts in the red grotto. They must observe the profound statutes and not violate the pure rules; violators kneel before incense.

Those on the Sun and Moon single shifts, when reciting scriptures or performing repentance rites, must with a mind of caution and awe visualize the countenance of the divine lords, and with fasting purity, solemn bearing, and centered rectitude serve the Supreme Lord clearly; the assembly chants praise in one voice and with one heart takes refuge. If the morning presentation loses proper form, or recitation is careless and neglected, they share incense penalties with the whole assembly.

Those who serve as stewards of incense, lamps, and the hall—the officials in charge of incense, lamps, and offerings in the main hall—must tend incense and lamps, set out offerings, keep heart sincere and body clean, and never allow anything impure to touch the spirit altar where the divine are enshrined. Work must be diligent and devout, bearing respectful toward all, and they must take part in ritual assemblies with the rest of the community. Any lapse, mistake, or incomplete offering incurs kneeling before incense: kneeling in the hall until a stick of incense has burned through.

The pantry master and head cook—the kitchen officers who manage the community’s food—touch everyone’s livelihood and are the foundation of the monastery, the temple where the community cultivates together. They must provide fine vegetarian fare, light and clean, without slackness or neglect; balance the six flavors—sour, bitter, sweet, pungent, salty, and bland—and see that all three daily meals are complete. Guard against sour or spoiled dishes and against missing or broken vessels. Thus heaven’s truth—the divine above—may be moved to accept what is offered, and the community may be nourished. Carelessness or poor execution incurs the incense penalty.

The tea steward and water steward—the officers who manage tea and water—must prepare pure, clean spring water and brew tea clear as jade dew, for heaven-ward fasting offerings and for the community’s nourishment. Carelessness or poor execution incurs the incense penalty.

The tea steward and water steward must prepare pure, clean spring water and brew jade-dew tea for fasting offerings to heaven and the saints, for honoring guests, and for welcoming the divine. Tea must not be mixed with anything raw or cold; whether for oneself or others, avoid all filth and turbidity. Neglect or slackness incurs the incense penalty.

The hearth keeper and the officer of silence: in the morning they must rise before “opening silence” ends the night’s quiet and daytime activity begins; at night they may sleep only after “closing silence,” when the community rests and noise ceases. Fire and candles in the kitchen need extra care; steps and courtyards must be swept clean. Violators kneel before incense.

The storekeeper manages funds and grain and handles all income and expenditure. Even the smallest donation is the community’s shared merit; every grain of fasting rice is bought with effort earned through many causes. There must be no deceit or muddle—only then is the heart clear before heaven. Greed, embezzlement, or misuse of communal property leads in the end to the dark hells. Records must be clear and storage orderly. Errors, loss, or concealment may be stated openly by the community. Lesser faults incur fasting-duty penalties; serious ones mean expulsion.

The purchaser must act openly and uprightly and must not do wrong where no one sees. For any fasting provisions under their charge, errors, loss, or concealment may be stated openly by the community. Lesser faults incur fasting-duty penalties; serious ones mean expulsion.

The purchasing steward must conduct all affairs with integrity and openness, and must not deceive or cheat in secret. All provisions prepared for ritual meals and offerings, as well as vegetables, lamp oil, candles, and the like, must be received into store and recorded in the ledger; purchases must be paid at fair prices, with no profit skimmed off, lest the heart of the Way be corrupted. Anyone who hoards goods privately or commits fraud will be punished severely.

The fundraising steward, who is responsible for soliciting donations and encouraging good deeds, should guide the worthy and lead people to accumulate merit through virtuous acts; when seeking support from noble patrons and gentlemen, merit should be dedicated to the sacred realm and the spirit altar. One must aim to benefit things and benefit people, and must not favor private gain over public good. Anyone who deceives, misappropriates funds, or shows favoritism will be punished doubly, and must additionally provide a ritual meal for the whole community.

The guest reception steward is the public face of the permanent temple community. First of all one must be humble, yielding, and courteous, and must also maintain dignified propriety in bearing. In welcoming and seeing off guests, one must not violate the clear regulations; in conversation and response, one must conform to the established ritual norms. Receive guests with an open mind, and straighten oneself in deportment to honor the wise. Anyone who is arrogant, negligent, or disrespectful will be punished severely.

“Supplying the community” means providing ritual meals for the assembly.

The guest reception steward is the public face of the permanent community. First of all one must be humble, yielding, and courteous, and must also maintain dignified propriety in bearing. In welcoming and seeing off guests, one must not violate the clear regulations; in conversation and response, one must conform to the established ritual norms. Receive guests with an open mind, and straighten oneself in deportment to honor the wise. Anyone who is arrogant, negligent, or disrespectful will be punished severely.

The secretary—the steward in charge of documents—is among the most outstanding people in the monastic community. The forms and wording of ritual procedures must be memorized by heart; subtle meaning lies hidden within the phrases. Memorial petitions and ritual documents submitted upward must be written in regular script, clear and correct, with sincere intent, so as to move and connect with the Supreme Lord; replies and letters must likewise be respectful in wording, to answer worthies of high standing. Amid bustle, find stillness, quietly nourishing body and mind; amid busyness, steal moments to delve deeply into the subtle Way. One must strive to seek sagehood and attain truth, and must not again sink into ordinary worldly tastes. If there are errors in characters or meaning, fellow practitioners should correct them face to face; if one is stubborn, negligent, or deliberately goes against the rules, the heavier penalty is to provide ritual meals for the community, and the lighter is kneeling until one stick of incense has burned through—a standard monastic punishment.

The Superintendent oversees all matters great and small in the abbey’s permanent establishment—affairs, property, and daily business—and is the model for the monastic community and leader of the assembly. Virtue and benevolence are kept in the heart and shown in conduct; integrity stands firm like pine in frost, and the mind is clear like the moon on water. In walking, standing, sitting, and lying down—the four dignified deportments—one constantly practices vigilance in solitude; in every kind of cultivation one especially trains in forbearance. Use the mind that would blame others to blame yourself, and the thought with which you would excuse yourself to excuse others; be generous toward the community and pure in personal conduct. Spread the authentic Way to the world and clarify mysterious teaching in all directions, so that your name carries weight in your time and your virtue reaches near and far, without failing your office. Any hint of pretense or affectation brings doubled penal fasting (supplying ritual meals for the community as monastic discipline).

The Vice Superintendent is likewise a pillar of the monastic community and a guide for the assembly. One must be complete in virtue and conduct, in deportment fit to teach others, and in scale of character fit to serve as a pattern. Toward the community, humility comes first; toward guests, ritual courtesy weighs heaviest. Revere the sacred as if present in majesty; regard officers and commanders as if they stood in the court hall. The names of the community’s members are entered in the jade register (the immortal rolls and ordination rosters); the characters of one’s predecessors belong to the divine capital. Expound the teaching of the Supreme Lord and lecture on the scriptures of the Three Caverns (Dongzhen, Dongxuan, Dongshen—the three great divisions of the Daoist canon), so that the neighborhood looks up to your virtue and the multitude receives your blessing. Any slackness or laxity brings doubled penal supply of ritual meals.

The Master of Stillness is one whose Dao (the Way), De (Virtue/Power), and humaneness and righteousness are fully complete. He sits in quiet cultivation, cherishes essence (Jing), and nurtures original Qi (vital energy); he takes purity and stillness as root and settled wisdom as aim. He leaves the dusty world behind and lives the life of one outside the ordinary sphere. Morning and evening he pays homage to the true sages, prays for the long life of the sacred, and with single mind seeks to transcend the mundane and enter sagehood—devoted only to quieting the heart and gathering the spirit. He refines the three treasures—Jing, Qi, and Shen (spirit)—into the Golden Elixir (Neidan, internal alchemy), and guards the pure unified true nature as the great medicine. He opens the mystical aperture (the key gate in internal practice), inverts Yin-Yang in cultivation, fires the cauldron in the “nine vessels,” and gathers all myriad transformations within one “pot” (a figure for the body or Dantian, the energy center). When three thousand meritorious deeds are complete, one may be enrolled among the immortals; when eight hundred acts of merit are fulfilled, one can escape the tribulations of the dusty world. Thus one can save oneself and save others, ascend to the empyrean, walk hand in hand with heavenly truth, and stand shoulder to shoulder with immortals and sages. If one mixes in private bias or calculations of self versus others, one is penalized to provide a feast for the community.

The Inspector (xunzhao) is the superintendent in charge of oversight in the monastic community (the permanent residence of a Daoist temple, run like a monastic assembly). He governs all major and minor officers of the hall, spreads teaching on heaven’s behalf, and expounds the patriarch’s doctrine in the patriarch’s place. He promotes worthy persons of the Way so they may cultivate truth and nurture their nature; he inspects Daoist priests (yushi) who violate rules and precepts and deals with them according to the law. If he fails in his inspection, he is punished by the assembly.

The Provisions Officer (shougong) is responsible for preparing the community’s ritual food and daily grain—the foundation of the temple’s permanent establishment (its endowed property and daily needs). Delicacies need not be provided, but plain vegetables and simple fare must not be lacking. He should always keep the spirit of Shakyamuni offering his body to feed the tiger—self-sacrifice for others—and also follow Mozi in tempering himself and benefiting the world: not shirking hardship, not giving way to regret. If he is slack and loses the Way, yet covers faults and is stubborn in attitude, he is punished with incense (a monastic penalty).

The Garden Head (yuantou) must be diligent and must not neglect or leave gaps. Vegetables for the four seasons must be supplied in their time, and provisions for the whole year should be ample. If what should be used is in short supply, or if anything is stolen or sold off privately, the penalty is severe.

In every temple, civil and martial officers each have their own De (Virtue); they must not compete with one another, lest the wind of the Dao be spoiled. Civil officers should harmonize discipline, proclaim the true law, guide the confused, and open the hearts of the faithful; martial officers should suppress violence and protect the good, giving body and soul to guard the Dao, never resting in cold or heat, day or night. Such people may be called vessels of the Taishang (the supreme lord of the Great Dao, often Taishang Laojun), worthy descendants of the Zushi (patriarchs and masters of the lineage). They ought to support one another above and below, inner and outer in harmony, together sweeping away worldly dust and desire, jointly realizing the wondrous fruit. When every officer serves with full heart and strength, even if they have not yet seen the Dao, they are already close to it. If civil officers pride themselves on outshining others and treat martial officers as fools; if martial officers boast of courage and merit and say scholars are useless—that is not the way of the wise. If each relies on personal skill and grows arrogant, they should know their fault and repent.

The points above must be borne in mind by all; each should examine his own heart. If there is shirking or leaning on others, the community will judge fairly. The two sessions of gongke (morning and evening routine liturgy) must be kept up; the five grades of Huangjing (the Dao scripture recited in temples) must not be neglected. Worthy seekers from the ten directions who lodge in the temple deserve respectful welcome; one must not care only for oneself. If the face is bright but the heart dark, if the mouth assents while the mind refuses; if Yin outweighs Yang (much hidden, little open); if one comes for public duty but leaves for private gain—the shizhu (patrons) of the ten directions will see us as greedy, stingy mediocrities, and the hufa zhenguan (protecting spirits of the Dao) will mete out clear retribution. Alas! Better that others wrong me than that I wrong others. Take this notice to heart.

Established on [date]. Respectfully announced by the abbot of this temple.

Regulations notice.

Reverently it is said: The Great Dao originally precedes both home and emperor; though the ten thousand things differ in form, their root is one. After returning to non-action and simplicity, the Three Teachings (Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism) share a common source. To live in the dusty world yet rise above it is not easy; to dwell amid desire yet remain free of desire is truly hard. One often sees the foolish sink in the bitter sea, day by day drifting toward filth and baseness; may the clear-minded be all the more vigilant and self-restrained, and not fall into delusion. The sole gate of entry opened by the Supreme Venerable (Taishang Laojun) takes forbearance as foremost. The patriarch’s teaching for the hall of the alms bowl (the place where the community lives and cultivates together by rule) puts standards and discipline first. Heaven does not tolerate disrespectful immortals; how could the human realm tolerate Daoist priests (yushi) who break the rules? This is a place for cultivating the mind and refining nature (xiuxin lianxing), not for drowning in pleasure. If one only contends over self and others and argues right and wrong, with such a heart how can one leave the world? Now you dwell together in a blessed land and have raised a sacred hall, gathering good friends from a thousand li and many worthy companions on the Way. You must warn one another and together repent past faults. Do not give rise to a single stray thought or a trace of evil intent. Keep precepts as stern as frost and ice; sharpen the mind in cultivation constantly. All pure regulations are set forth as follows:

First: Whoever commits adultery, theft, or sexual misconduct, corrupting the laws of the Supreme Venerable or ruining the ancestral style of the lineage, shall be punished by burning at the stake (the extreme penalty prescribed in the precepts).

First: Whoever abducts or deceives others shall be punished by branding the eyebrows and burning the ordination certificate (revoking Daoist registration).

First: Whoever disturbs the pure regulations and does not obey the precepts shall be beaten with the staff and expelled.

First: Whoever gambles for money shall be beaten with the staff and additionally punished by bearing the regulations board in public penance (ding qinggui).

First: Whoever talks of furnace alchemy and refining cinnabar and mercury (waidan-style external elixir talk) to mislead and deceive people shall be beaten with the staff and driven out.

First: Whoever drinks wine, eats meat, or otherwise disrupts the permanent community (changzhu—the resident assembly and common property of the monastery) shall be beaten with the staff and driven out.

First: Whoever harms parents or reviles the community shall be beaten with the staff and driven out.

First: Whoever does not pay respect to teachers and elders or does not know the lineage of this gate shall be expelled.

Anyone serving in the permanent resident community of a monastery (public affairs and communal property) who shortchanges the assembly, seeks private gain, or conceals and deceives the community shall be penalized with da zhai—providing funds to prepare a vegetarian feast for all.

Anyone who relies on official power to bully fellow Daoists shall be judged by the full assembly, beaten with the staff, and expelled.

Anyone who speaks recklessly, jokes inappropriately, or acts against established rules shall, for lighter offenses, receive gui xiang (kneeling until a stick of incense burns out); for serious offenses, be beaten and qian dan (struck from the monastery register and removed).

Anyone who wears secular dress or a small cap while the assembly meets in the hall for official business shall receive gui xiang.

Anyone who solicits donations privately without notifying the assembly, or who does not turn proceeds over to the communal property, shall be qian dan.

Anyone who envies the worthy, misleads junior practitioners, or boasts arrogantly shall be expelled.

Anyone who, when ascending the hall and altar, chatters and makes noise, turns their back on the deity to call attendants, looks askance, smokes, spits, or whose gaze and bearing fail ritual propriety, or who bows without reverence, shall receive gui xiang.

Anyone who fails to maintain morning and evening incense, lamps, and clean offering tables at the various halls and shrines shall receive gui xiang.

Anyone who should join the circumambulation and veneration of the Celestial Worthies (Tianzun) during morning and evening gongke (liturgical duties) but does not appear shall receive gui xiang; those with official duties are exempt.

Anyone who fails to attend communal homage on shuowang (the first and fifteenth days of the lunar month) and on sacred feast days shall receive gui xiang; those with official duties are exempt.

Anyone who speaks improperly in the refectory, is improperly dressed, or clatters bowls and chopsticks or drops chopsticks shall receive gui xiang.

Anyone who enters the refectory wearing a ritual sash pouch or pocket pouch, smoking, or otherwise violating monastic rules shall receive gui xiang.

Anyone who uses communal food to entertain guests privately without going through the guest hall shall receive gui xiang.

Anyone who drops communal property shall receive gui xiang.

Anyone who lies naked or half-dressed in communal areas, without undergarments or with trouser legs untied, shall receive gui xiang.

When preparing offerings in the kitchen, anyone who cooks with polluted water or unclean firewood, or who laughs or behaves irreverently before the stove, is punished by kneeling with incense—kneeling on the ground while holding incense in reflection.

Anyone who lights incense from the stove fire, enters the hall in undergarments, or wears hat, belt, or headcloth improperly or with a disrespectful manner is punished by kneeling with incense.

Anyone who goes out without first reporting or without obtaining an exit permit is punished by kneeling with incense.

Anyone who eats privately within the monastery (conglin, the permanent residence of a Daoist temple) without contributing to the community is punished by preparing a vegetarian meal for the assembly (da zhai).

During collective outdoor labor (chu po), anyone who does not keep pace with the group is punished by kneeling with incense; those on official business are exempt.

Anyone who goes out on official or private business and returns only after the lamps have been lit is punished by kneeling with incense; those on official business are exempt.

Anyone who still does not rise after the morning signal (kai jing) is punished by kneeling with incense.

During the night quiet period (zhi jing), anyone who does not extinguish the lamps or tidy the bedding is punished by kneeling with incense.

Anyone who privately opens and reads the Canon (jing, the collected Daoist scriptures) without announcing it to the assembly is punished by preparing a meal for the assembly.

Anyone who talks while others sleep at night and disturbs the community is punished by kneeling with incense.

Anyone who discards rice or grain in the kitchen or damages vessels and utensils is punished by kneeling with incense.

Anyone who fails to assist when the community has major official affairs is punished by incense penalty (fa xiang).

Anyone serving as night patrol (xun zhao) who knowingly conceals another’s breach of the monastic rules and does not report it, once discovered, receives the same punishment as the offender: preparing a meal for the assembly.

Wu-day prohibition (wu jin): only the spring Wuyin day and autumn Wushen day are not taboo; all other Wu days are forbidden. On prohibited days, if a judge, Daoist, or layperson kindles the morning incense or submits memorials and petitions (shang zhang, jin biao) to the Heavenly Bureau (tian cao, the celestial administrative office), they incur the penalty of bodily destruction. Those who know the rule and deliberately violate it bring calamity upon nine generations of kin and suffer the wind-knife punishment, with no remission for myriad kalpas; those who have not received the register of ordination (lu) have their offense reduced by three degrees. This chapter of the Red Script Heaven Law (Chi Wen Tian Lü) matches the provisions of the Green Maiden Heaven Law (Qing Nü Tian Lü).

The thirty-six articles above are a public notice to the entire monastic community: each person should act in accordance with the rules and together uphold the standards of the Daoist community. When three people walk together, among them there is surely someone who can serve as my teacher; when all dwell in one hall, how could there be no one to rely on and no occasion for mutual help? All long-term residents of the monastery should each be doubly vigilant—do not err, do not violate the pure regulations. Having pledged to follow these prohibitions and ritual norms, do not give rise to lax or indulgent thoughts. Reflect that the food and drink offered by devotees from the ten directions is not easily “received” in good conscience; cherish every inch of time, for it passes quickly. Practice with constant care, and you will surely gain the aid and protection of the immortals. This notice is hereby posted.

Duty Roster Posting (notice on division of responsibilities)

A great hall cannot stand on a single timber; many materials must work together to complete it. A monastic community (congregation living and cultivating together in a temple) is not established by one person alone—it requires everyone to share duties and assist one another. Appointments must match ability, so that high and low have proper order; once one receives support from the community, one must take on tasks—whatever the rank of duty, none may be neglected. We have received the grace of the court and do not weave or plow; in our hearts we often feel ashamed to eat without earning it, and therefore we must be frugal and not let the daylight go to waste. Master Ma (Ma Danyang, one of the Quanzhen patriarchs) still kept up scripture recitation even while hauling bricks and tiles—there was reason in that; the Pang family’s carrying firewood and water (in the sense of Pang Yun’s “moving water and carrying firewood”—everyday labor as cultivation) was not done in vain. Thus in setting rules one begins with oneself; in rotating management and assigning posts, one looks to each of you. The offices are listed below:

Chief supervisor, chief steward, abbot, associate abbot, secretary, guest master, storekeeper, refectory master, purchaser, clerk, meal head, hall attendant, kitchen fire tender, water tender, tea tender, year officer, mountain patrol, field estate manager, garden head, and □ head (one character missing in the original). These are mostly general affairs of the temple: supervision, overall administration, documents, receiving guests, treasury, vegetarian kitchen, procurement, meals, hall service, fires, water supply, tea service, annual accounts, mountain lands, and gardens.

Western Rank (the line of offices in the monastery emphasizing ritual and hall duties)

Meditation master, high priest (officiant of liturgy), chief lecturer (leading communal scripture recitation), ritual monitor (overseeing fasting and offering etiquette), bell master (striking the qing to set the tempo), declaimer of petitions (reading memorials and petitions aloud), scripture teacher, hall master, incense and lamp tender, hall custodian, patrol for lamps, attendant, door opener/closer, miscellaneous duties, personal attendant, and acolyte.

Established on [year] [month] [day]. Respectfully announced by the abbot of this monastery.

Admonitions of Changchun Zhenren (Changchun Zhenren is Qiu Chuji): teachings of Changchun Zhenren.

You who are disciples of this tradition in later generations should understand: having entered the orthodox gate of the Xuánmén (the mysterious teaching, Daoism), you must have planted good roots in past lives. You should secure the blessings of this life and cultivate so that in lives to come you do not fall. If you truly have a sincere heart turned toward the Way, you should constantly uphold the laws and precepts laid down by Taishang (Supreme Venerable Lord Laozi). Sadly, some only want to pass this life under the shelter of the teaching, yet they do not know that within the Xuánkē (the statutes and precepts of the Daoist tradition) there are prohibitions and commandments. Every grain of rice, every coin of cash has its origin—it is the fat and sweat of the people, the blood and toil of farmers. If you do not exert yourself in cultivation, how can you receive such support? How can you accept offerings without merit?

You are foolish and muddled: you will not reflect for yourselves, you will not cultivate, yet you say this teaching has no efficacy and turn your hearts toward wàidào (paths outside the orthodox teaching). Then come adultery, theft, and debauchery, harming others to benefit yourselves; or meat, wine, and gambling, ruining the teaching and destroying the lineage; or burning mugwort and calcining mercury (burning cinnabar and quicksilver to peddle false external alchemy), deceiving the multitude; or trusting heterodox byways and slandering the orthodox teaching. Such worthless behavior—one shame after another—is this what those in the Daoist gate ought to do?

Leaving aside whether you later students can escape karmic retribution: even gods who err are stripped of their divine rank; earth spirits (dìqí) who err are demoted; immortals who err fall back into the dust of the world; ghosts and malign spirits who err have their forms extinguished; rulers who err lose their states; officials who err suffer punishment; scholars who err are struck from the registers of fame; common people who err have their share of fortune taken away. Every fault and evil act has its due return. How much more for you who heap up wrongdoing—can you be without retribution?

Therefore you later students of this teaching should ask yourselves: what did you leave home for? You entered the Daoist gate because you saw through the anguish of lúnhuí (endless turning through birth and death)—how then can you turn and create faults, adding sin upon sin?

The Daoist path is divided into three vehicles (upper, middle, and lower grades of practice). One should follow one’s own lineage and school, advance step by step according to one’s capacity, set a firm resolve and hold to it, and temper oneself through arduous cultivation—this is the proper road for one who has left home to devote themselves to the Way.

Those of the upper vehicle cultivate truth and nurture their nature, resolve to labor at penetrating profound principles, awaken to the wondrous Dao of emptiness (xu wu: still and empty, yet holding all things), and take as their model the upright Qi (vital energy) of Heaven and Earth. They clear away worldly grievances and faults, widely practice benevolence and righteousness, and accumulate much hidden merit (deeds of good done without seeking recognition). When the three thousand merits are complete and the eight hundred practices fulfilled, they can rise beyond the three realms (desire, form, and formlessness) and take their place among the immortals. Some ride cranes to pay homage at the Golden Palace (the celestial court); some mount rainbow phoenixes to the Jasper Pool (where the Queen Mother of the West dwells). A thousand true immortals attend them with respect; myriad sages protect and support them. They become one with Heaven and Earth and shine with the sun and moon. Are they not true heroes among those who have left the world!

Those of the middle vehicle sincerely expound the teaching, perform repentance and bow before the scriptures, chant the liturgical codes (xuan ke) of the Most High (Taishang Laojun), and invoke the names of the Heavenly Worthies (Daoist supreme deities). They pray earnestly before the gods and keep pure fasts in the temples. With body and mind quiet, they spread the Great Way; with a single sincere thought they constantly uphold the correct law. When the time of passing comes, good people will gather round them: they may be reborn in an imperial house, into an official family, become a minister at the highest rank of the court, or ascend the throne as ruler. Then the people look up to them and the four seas submit—among humans none is more honored. Is that not exalted!

Those of the lower vehicle build temples and shrines, print scriptures and make sacred images, repair bridges and roads, abstain from killing and release captive animals, offer tea and medicine freely, and relieve the poor. Without stinginess, they are reborn as human beings in wealthy and noble families, their wishes fulfilled, enjoying life without end. Is that not pleasant!

The three vehicles are set out line by line in plain terms. If one still does not awaken, and does not cast off wine, sex, wealth, and anger (drink, lust, greed, and quick temper), one might as well return to lay life, call bitterness sweet, do as one pleases, and follow every whim—is that not also a kind of ease?

Why cling for so long to the gate of mystery—the path of Daoist cultivation—yet remain deluded and unawakened, piling up boundless karmic guilt from which retribution cannot be escaped? Those with a sincere will can strive hard; those without karmic roots from past lives should withdraw at once, or their guilt will only double. Out of deep compassion I write this admonition. If anyone who reads it can turn the heart and change course, and anyone who hears it can shift their mind, renew a firm resolve, bitterly amend past faults, and press forward with courage—then the listener may gain insight and the reader may awaken. Insight means drawing the heart’s light inward and looking back at oneself; awakening means turning inward in self-examination. If you do not wake up in time, you will forever lose the true suchness—your originally real nature; once you fall into the dark hidden path, you will long sink in the sea of suffering, even reborn as other kinds of beings—then what use is regret? The clear and discerning should think carefully: miss the chance in this life, and the Great Dao will be hard to meet again.

From the Preface to the Record of Returning to the Correct Path (Jiuzheng Lu)

My teacher and I were both favored by Master Jian of Qianju (Teacher Jian, who styled himself Qianju); we both studied under him. At first we interacted only through poetry and literary accomplishment, and I had not yet seen my teacher’s true character. He did not disdain me and repeatedly admonished me with moral teaching. At first I could not understand his discourses; I pondered them sleeplessly, forgetting even to eat, until I gradually gained some insight. When I privately compared his words with the recorded sayings of the sages, they matched without the slightest discrepancy, and I came to enjoy listening to him all the more.

The teacher once said: “The root of human life is nothing more than this. Lianxi (Zhou Dunyi) taught people to seek the joy of Confucius and Yan Hui—the state in which Confucius and Yan Hui found contentment in poverty—and he meant precisely this.”

After that, those who came to study under him grew in number day by day. He opened up the inner meaning of learning, pointed out methods for cultivating the self and governing others, explained the subtlety of substance and function and of quiescence and responsiveness (how the fundamental reality and its manifestations connect, and how inner stillness and responding to affairs interpenetrate), and the far-reaching, enduring purpose that knows no end; he privately expounded these deeper meanings to us. My fellow disciples and I, whether on spring mornings or moonlit nights, in wind, rain, or gloom, for decades never broke off our pursuit, rejoicing in our hearts that this nearly lost tradition had not been lost. Regrettably, many fellow disciples were scattered in all directions. After a few years, the teacher unexpectedly left us and passed away.

His writings include Origins of Sage Learning, Convenient Guidance for the Young on Heaven and Earth, Records of Expansive Vision, and eight pieces of Questioning in Recorded Sayings. These works elucidate the profound meaning of the sages and worthies; such works have been rarely seen since the Lian-Luo-Guan-Min lineage (Zhou Dunyi, the Cheng brothers, Zhang Zai, and Zhu Xi in the Neo-Confucian tradition). Our friend Huang Zuochen was delighted at first sight and wished to spread them widely. But the collected works were too voluminous to be printed all at once. He especially valued the two volumes Seeking Correction and Letters to Lin Fenqian, had them sent to press, and I therefore took up the brush to write this preface. The teacher’s learning throughout his life was exceedingly broad; in conversation with others he could go on day and night without wearying, with inexhaustible relish—something these two books could never fully capture in the first place.

Mr. Longshan often said: To live between Heaven and Earth, one cannot do without three words—form, qi, and spirit (ling). The physical body is bound to decay in the end; when the form is exhausted, qi too is extinguished. The “I” that truly concerns oneself relies on nothing but this spirit (ling). Spirit (ling) is the Great Void (taixu)—what Daoists call the primordial source of utmost emptiness and stillness, without form or image. The Great Void in itself has no form, yet through the myriad things it manifests as form; it penetrates the three powers of Heaven, Earth, and humanity, embraces all things in the four directions, spans past and present, and fills the entire cosmos.

Given his moral character, literary skill, and talent for ordering the world and benefiting the people, had his ambitions been fulfilled and he held high office, he would surely have achieved much; placed among the refined ranks of officialdom, he would certainly have clarified the Way. But fate and the times worked against him: until his last days he remained merely a qinjin (licentiate, xiucai), and lived only fifty-two years. To take his words alone as a model for fellow travelers—how could that ever exhaust who he was!

His immortality does not depend on whether life went smoothly or hard, nor on whether his years were long or short. Many in the world hold high rank, thick emoluments, and long life; prominent in their day, yet before their bones are cold their names are already lost. A thousand years later, who still knows this or that grandee, this or that long-lived man? Fortune has no fixed pattern, longevity and early death cannot be foretold—these things truly cannot add or subtract from Mr. Longshan’s stature.

Whatever wealth or rank, poverty or low station, long life or early death, all depend on this one point. Whoever can keep clear and unwithered awareness (xingxing) here is a complete person; whoever cannot is hardly human at all. Sages and heroes past and present have done nothing more than bring this one person to full completion—not adding anything beyond the human. This is the main theme of his teaching. Even ten thousand words only unfold this one aim. Those who read these two books well may thus grasp Mr. Longshan in broad outline.

His name was Shichen, style Kuixin, sobriquet Yue’an. He was a licentiate of Liuhe County (in the area of present-day Liuhe, Nanjing, Jiangsu) and lived on Long Mountain west of the city; students who followed him therefore called him Mr. Longshan. Written in the eleventh month of the dingchou year of the Kangxi reign (1697), with respect, by fellow student and younger brother Yuan Xian, preface.

Mr. Yuan Wuruo was a man of heroic spirit from Daming (a region in what is now southern Hebei). In the third month of spring this year, he came to visit Tangyi and stayed at the Zhunti Jingshe, a quiet hermitage dedicated to Zhunti. My friend Li Shujing came to know him and their friendship grew deep. One day Shujing said to me: “There is a Mr. Yuan, an outstanding scholar from the north—why not go and meet him?” I asked what he was like, and Shujing said: “He is modest, open, and resolute, and always sets his heart on not letting his original mind (benxin) be obscured by desire.” I said gladly: “That is someone who truly pursues learning.” So I went with Shujing to call on him and laid out my lifelong shallow views for his correction. He approved of what I offered; after that we talked every evening. Mr. Yuan said: “For a man to pass once through this world, he must have such great learning.” Unfortunately my affairs were then trivial and scattered, and I had no time to question him fully. I asked again and again for his confirmation, and he said with more pleasure: “When I return home and find a little peace, I will take up this matter.” More than ten days passed; I went back to the mountains for the Dragon Boat Festival, and Mr. Yuan was busy with matters as a guest, so we were apart. I was longing to see him when he suddenly came to take leave—he would return home the next day. I lingered a long while, ashamed that I had nothing to give him, and sorry that our hearts had not yet been fully spoken and that the fundamental teaching of cultivating nature and preserving life (xingming zhi ji) had not been fully explained, fearing we might fail the bond of sharing one purpose across a thousand li. So I have boldly set down in rough form a few things I have seen in daily life and ask those who have the Way to correct me. Written in the fifth month of the wuwu year of Kangxi (1678), by Lu Shichen of Yue’an Hermitage in Gutang, your younger brother from Liufeng. Jiuzheng Lu (Record of Seeking Correction), by Lu Shichen of Yue’an Hermitage, Gutang.

The path of learning has no other route: it is simply to recover the heart-mind that has been lost. These two lines are what Mencius pointed out as the essential secret of learning passed down through the sages. In our practice we need not seek far away; we need only grasp the key right here. If we cannot work on the heart-mind itself and only chase and probe outward things, relying on brute force of will and acting from cleverness and knowledge, we will never form a true seed (the genuine foundation spoken of in internal alchemy). That is why Mencius gathered all learning back into the heart-mind, speaking of “preserving the heart-mind” and of “seeking the lost heart-mind”—preserving the heart-mind is precisely so that it is not lost.

“Returning to the heart” does not mean abandoning worldly affairs. The work of preserving this heart is precisely to be done amid handling everyday business. If one casts aside worldly affairs, that is heterodox learning (doctrine that strays from the right path)—not only untrustworthy, but likely to meet widespread opposition. How could we who pursue learning willingly fall into such a state?

What is meant by returning to the heart is taking the heart as master. All things and all conduct do not depart from this heart. It is like a string threading through coins: the whole string is held in the hand—hence the saying “threading all through with one” (using one root to run through everything).

Since the learning of the sages ceased to be pursued and the Great Dao was no longer clearly understood, people have taken affairs themselves as the heart. Leaving aside those who are far off, even those who are somewhat better are often bound by fixed patterns and routines; having done one or two good deeds or acts of kindness, they think they have reached the end. Yet they do not know that good deeds and kind acts are indeed the practice of sages—but why they are good, why they are kind, one must return again and again to one’s own heart to ponder, to see from where they arise and from where they issue forth, before one can know where the original heart (the mind’s inherent face) lies.

Formerly Master Xiangshan (Lu Jiuyuan) discussed the original heart with Yang Cihú (Yang Jian, courtesy name Jingzhong); Cihú did not yet understand. One day, as Cihú was judging a lawsuit over a fan, Xiangshan said to him: “Just now, as you decided the fan dispute—you knew what was right as right and what was wrong as wrong; that is Jingzhong’s original heart.” On hearing this, Cihú at once deeply awakened. Thus it is clear: in learning, if one does not recognize the original heart, one has not truly learned well in the end. What is meant by acting without understanding, or being habituated without reflecting—that is precisely where the fault lies.

In our study and practice today, we must first experientially recognize this mind and know it clearly—only then can we truly begin. People nowadays all claim to have a mind, yet they do not really know where the mind is; they take the restless flux of thoughts coming and going within as the mind. They fail to see that all of this is disturbance and responsive ideas that arise with circumstances. If you ask them to set that aside and recognize a true mind (the substance of mind, not the thoughts themselves), they are at a loss. In the world, every name has its corresponding reality; since it is called “mind,” there must be what properly counts as mind—how can disturbance, responsive feeling, and ideas be taken as mind? You must seek and investigate through direct experience and recognize the mind before you can speak of progress.

All things under heaven have form and trace; only the mind cannot be sought through form and trace. It is without sound or smell, empty and open—where is it to be found, and from where does one begin? You must awaken to the reason within it and nurture the first stirrings (the budding signs of mind-nature) before you can see that there is such a great matter in human life.

In daily life, whatever planning and thinking we do is all “mind”—but that is the functioning of mind, not the true substance of mind. Strictly speaking, only this bit of luminous clarity (awakened awareness that is clear and undimmed) is the true mind. This luminosity is still yet constantly illuminating, illuminating yet constantly still; it does not rest in form-appearance (visible shapes and colors) nor in sound-dust (sound and other sense objects). Where are you to recognize it? Words and writing are of no use here, nor are guessing and thinking; you should silently apprehend it for yourself, and in time you will naturally have a moment of seeing it.

This method is as follows: when you have free time, first straighten your collar and sit upright, neither leaning nor slanting. Turn both eyes inward and hold them there; keep intention single and undivided, and do not let it drift away. At this point you will feel the mind clear and bright, lucid and alert—above, empty with nothing there, yet as if something is always present that you cannot forget. This is the true mind (the mind that is originally clear and bright); you need not look elsewhere for where the mind is. The three words the Confucians of old called qiu fangxin (“bringing back the mind that has strayed”) mean that what you seek is precisely the mind: the moment you set out to seek it, the mind is already recovered. These words are penetrating and direct; they can serve as the essential key for taking up the practice through the ages and must not be missed.

When sitting in meditation you gather spirit inward and look inward with the eyes; in the middle you will inevitably find thoughts rising and falling without cease. You need not deliberately sweep them away. They are the ordinary delusions of daily life and cannot all be removed at once; one goes and another comes, dying on this side and being born on that, without end. Once you see the true mind, the various delusive thoughts naturally quiet down. It is like the true master sitting in the hall: overbearing servants and fierce maids no longer dare to deceive at will. If you truly mean to seek this mind, how could you fail to see it?

When sitting in meditation, fix your attention here: watch how the previous thought has already passed and the next has not yet come. The interval between past and future is called wu nian (the gap in which no thought has yet arisen). Here, recognize it at a glance and do not let go—this is where the true mind resides. To seek is to seek this; to nurture is to nurture this; study and reflection also take this as their field of effort.

Between the moment when the previous thought has passed and the next has not yet arisen, there is nothing to see and nothing to hear—no sound, no taste. This is mind (xin), this is nature (xing), this is fate (ming), and this is Heaven (tian). What is called “the joy of Confucius and Yan Hui”—the easeful delight they realized—is this subtle thread that for ages has rarely been transmitted openly. Only one must not take it for something else.

In seated meditation, one should not take blank emptiness and vague non-attachment as the correct state, but rather lucid wakefulness—clearly knowing that one is right in the midst of this emptiness—as the correct state. Thus some earlier thinkers took “what is neither seen nor heard” (the realm before seeing and hearing arise, where others cannot observe you) as the substance (ti) and “being watchful and fearful in solitude” (careful awe, not slackening) as the practice (gongfu). Wang Yangming (Ming-dynasty master of the School of Mind) said one may also take watchful fear as the substance and neither-seen-nor-heard as the practice. These words are extremely subtle; through them one can grasp the core of the sage’s learning.

At first, holding fast to this mind is hardest and demands full attention. Relax slightly and the mind runs off—hence “hold it and it stays; let go and it vanishes.” Once you understand, you must summon fierce resolve, see through the prior and subsequent thoughts, and lift this single thought up, never forgetting it. Earlier Confucians likened it aptly: like a dragon guarding its pearl, like a hen brooding an egg, like leading an infant through a crowded market and glancing back at every step; or like a cat stalking a mouse, eyes fixed, ears alert. If students truly practice in this way without break, there will come a time when mind-nature shines through—regardless of natural endowment.

When you first begin spiritual practice, even if you try with all your might to guard carefully, thoughts still rise easily and fade easily. What matters most then is being able to pick up where you left off. The moment a thought returns, immediately lift it up with intent, hold it, set your jaw, stand your ground, and do not let the slightest bit slip away. Thought follows thought without gap, intention continues intention without break—always rousing yourself, always holding fast—only then is there real progress.

At the start of holding and nurturing the mind (caocun), you can keep watch in stillness but lose it the moment you move. You need a rehearsal method. First sit settled, turn inward to observe the mind, and lift and fix this bit of luminous awareness (lingming)—the mind’s clear, undimmed knowing. Then get up and walk, and still only lift and fix it thus. When you raise your eyes to look around or gaze at things, still only lift and fix it thus. The same for listening. Ears, eyes, and limbs function as usual, yet this one point in the mind never relaxes. After rehearsing for some days, you will know that seeing and hearing do not obstruct preserving the mind; preserving the mind in fact helps seeing and hearing.

You may also struggle because you cannot think: as soon as you reflect, the mind runs off. Rehearse for this too. Place an essay before you, first lift and fix the mind, then read. At first, with spirit just turned inward, looking at the page feels all wrong—leave that be; only keep lifting and fixing the mind and read again and again. The key: better not grasp the text than lose this one thread of preservation. After some days you naturally grow skilled. At first you can read only a little; gradually you can read more. At first you only catch the gist; gradually you penetrate the meaning. Even when thought layers upon thought, the luminous awareness does not cloud. This is the method for training how the mind works.

When practice has gone on long, understanding in the mind gradually opens. Then verify it in solitary sitting. Above, no knowing of heaven; below, no knowing of earth; outward, no seeing of things; inward, no seeing of self—only vast emptiness, bright clarity, fused with the Way.

When you have practiced gongfu for a long time, understanding in the heart gradually opens; this must be tested in solitary quiet sitting. Then above you do not know there is heaven, below you do not know there is earth; outside you see no things, inside you see no self. Vast and boundless, bright and harmonious—what sort of scene, what sort of state is this? This is the nature of the mind (xingti, one’s original nature), the time of heart-fasting and sitting-and-forgetting (xinzai, zuowang). Heart-fasting and sitting-and-forgetting come from the Zhuangzi: inwardly fasting the heart, forgetting self and outer things, so the mind returns to empty stillness.

That scene is indeed fine, yet one must not cling to it or be attached. If you cling to it, you take the scene for the true substance—what is called delighting in stillness and disliking activity—and that is still wrong. Know that in stillness the scene of no heaven, no earth, no self, no others is not what matters; what matters is only that stretch of luminous clarity (lingming—the awakened, undimmed awareness in the heart). If you can long remain awake in the mind and long sustain contemplation, so that in idleness you do not fall into dead silence and in affairs you are not merely swept by circumstances; stillness and responsiveness as one, movement and stillness not two—only then can it be said you have attained it.

The mind embraces both stillness and movement and also penetrates inner and outer. Mencius’s two words “gathering righteousness” (jiyi) are in truth the root for all ages of completing oneself and completing things. If we truly can practice neither forgetting nor forcing—neither neglecting nor artificially boosting—and thereby gather righteousness and nourish Qi (the expansive, upright Qi), then the principle of the unmoved heart lies here.

When the mind has been nourished for long, one inevitably becomes fixed on turning inward. Yet one does not know that this move inward was originally the meaning of “retreat and store in the deep concealment” (tui cang yu mi)—from what the Book of Changes says about gathering back and hiding in what is secret. If you rigidly fix on its having a definite place, you again become cramped and fail to see the vastness of the heaven of nature (xingtian). Only by recognizing that heaven of nature is vast can you see the full measure of the body of the Dao (daoti). Hence Lu Xiangshan (Lu Jiuyuan, Southern Song mind-teacher) said: “The cosmos is my mind, my mind is the cosmos.” How vast, how far-reaching. You must bring this level of insight forth before you know your own capacity: this bit of luminous clarity in a person originally bears the prospect of setting heaven and earth in their places and nurturing the myriad things—then you know a human being is not so small.

Ordinary people cling only to what lies before their eyes. They do not know how high heaven rises or how deep earth runs, and so they cannot grasp that heaven, earth, and the myriad things are in truth one and the same “I.” The ancients said: “The Dao extends beyond the visible heaven and earth.” They also said: “When one quietly observes the myriad things, each finds its proper place.” What breadth of mind, what scope of vision! This is not empty boasting—the substance of the Dao (Daoti) is truly so, and one should attend to it and reflect on it without delay.

To see how vast the heart’s capacity (xinliang—the range the heart can hold) is, first consider how vast heaven and earth are. Starting from one’s own body, reach upward to the vault of heaven and downward to the depths of earth; east to where the sun rises, west to where it sets—and likewise north and south. That is still within heaven and earth, within the courses of sun, moon, and stars; there are still limits, directions, and forms, and still something beyond. What lies beyond sun, moon, and stars may seem unknowable, yet it can be understood. Extend from a single principle outward until there is no end and no direction or form, and the saying “so great that nothing lies outside” (qi da wu wai) becomes clear. People today, hearing this, often find it strange. Yet unless one understands this principle, the truth of boundless Great Void (Taixu) will never appear, and the saying that when one speaks of the greatest, nothing under heaven can fully bear it (yu da mo zai) will remain hidden and unspoken.

In the Zhongyong (Doctrine of the Mean), when it speaks of “greatness,” it says nothing under heaven can fully bear it; when it speaks of “lasting,” it says it is so far-reaching that it has no boundary. That teaching was always meant to span heaven and earth and to run through past and present. Later people’s vision grew narrow and their hearts small, until they no longer knew there was learning this vast and enduring. Yet heaven and earth have always been vast, past and present have always been long— and the heart-mind I am given is one with the cosmos, without limit; how could it increase or decrease? The trouble is only that people do not turn and reflect on it.

Heaven gives us a body of a hundred years and, at the same time, a heart-mind that penetrates past and present and never ceases. Those who plan only for the body cannot keep this heart-mind; when the hundred years are gone, everything is spent. Those who plan for this heart-mind do not for that reason neglect the body, yet they can let their spirit endure between heaven and earth for ten thousand ages. Hence the saying: whoever follows the greater part is the great person; whoever follows the lesser part is the petty person. The great person is simply one who can nourish and preserve this heart-mind.

When we nourish this heart-mind long enough, the bodily form gradually accords with it, until above and below connect with heaven and earth without barrier or obstruction; then we see that among the ten thousand things there is nothing that is not the radiance of our own nature. That state cannot be guessed at or argued into being; when practice has piled up over time, it clears and opens of itself. Master Shao said, “Only when there is no self do the ten thousand things all become self”—that is the deepest truth and the real secret.

The Book of Changes says: “Trace a thing back to its beginning, then turn and observe its end, and you will understand the principle of life and death.” What, then, is that principle? Confucius answered Jilu (Zilu, whose given name was Zhongyou): “If you do not yet understand life, how can you understand death?” What, then, is life? What is death? While people live in the world, they depend entirely on this one faculty of conscious awareness (lingzhi). Without it, they are no different from wood or stone. This is what the ancients called “a corpse that still has breath.” From this we see that human survival rests wholly on this conscious awareness. With it, one can observe heaven and earth, examine the myriad things, fill the space above and below, and penetrate past and present. Without it, even liver and gall, hair and flesh, bones and nails are no longer one’s own. How crucial, then, is the heart-mind (xin) for a person! Clearly, a person lives because the heart-mind gives life; a person dies because the heart-mind dies first. Only when the spirit (ling) leaves the body does the physical form perish. The sages and worthies cultivated this heart-mind so that it stayed constantly clear and unmoved. Though the body died, what serves as the root of life did not die. Hence the saying: “If one hears the Dao in the morning, one may die content in the evening.”

If we wish to penetrate this layer, there is also a path of awakening. Confucius said, “In haste, one must hold to this; in hardship, one must hold to this” (zaocì bì yú shì, diānpèi bì yú shì)—whether rushed and flustered or driven into exile and distress, one must not leave this behind. He also said, “There are those who give up their lives to fulfill humanity (ren)” (yǒu shāshēn yǐ chéng rén)—they would rather relinquish life to complete ren. Once “hardship” and “giving up life” are mentioned, one may die by blade and saw or by fire and water, and none of this can be known in advance. It is worth putting oneself imaginatively in such a situation: what would count as fulfilling ren, and what would count as truly “holding to this”? The method is to hold this mind steady and unmoved, strip away the immediate circumstances one by one, and then let the mind look in all directions—then one knows: though the body dies in hardship, “I as I” remains as before. Looking up, heaven is still as it was; looking down, earth is still as it was; looking far, the myriad things are still as they were. What is lost is only the ears, eyes, hands, feet, and the skin and hair of the body. Even without eyes, that which “sees” is still there; without ears, that which “hears” is still there; without hands, feet, or body, the mind’s thinking and functioning are still there. This is what is meant by “fulfilling ren.” Ren is the human being—it refers to the true person (one whose original nature is not lost).

Once this subtle point is seen through, one understands the meaning of “Utmost sincerity (zhicheng) never ceases; only by not ceasing does it endure” (zhìchéng wú xī, bù xī zé jiǔ). When sages and worthies are in the world, they order and nurture heaven and earth (jīnglún tiāndì); when they die, they circulate within the great void (tàixū)—hence it is said that one can know the state and disposition of ghosts and spirits.

Master Shao (Shao Yong) said, “When not a single thought arises, ghosts and spirits do not know.” Ghosts and spirits have no form and no sound; they rely solely on this bit of numinous knowing and awareness. Human beings and ghosts and spirits dwell together; what they rely on is also only this bit of numinous knowing. If a person did not have this body, he would be the same as ghosts and spirits. The subtlety of ghosts and spirits lies entirely in being able to resonate with people: raise a thought or stir an intention, and nothing is unknown; only where thoughts do not arise is there nothing that can be known. In learning, if the noble person cannot conceal and hold the mind in secrecy (cángmì)—gathering it inward and not letting thoughts race outward—to this degree, in the end it remains shallow.

If one can attain resonance in study at the moment when no thought arises: whenever a thought stirs or an intention moves, nothing goes unnoticed; only where thoughts do not arise is there nothing to be known. The noble person’s learning, if it cannot hide and store the work deep at this layer, remains shallow after all.

Study that applies effort where no thought has yet arisen is called learning of the prior-to-heaven (xiantian zhi xue)—cultivation before thoughts appear. When the Way is open, one can bring order to the world; when blocked and poor, one can still perfect oneself alone. While alive one takes the human way as the thread through the world; after death the spirit can endure through myriad kalpas (vast ages) with clarity. My late friend Zhang Xingfu once said: “Threading day and night, passing through birth and death, traversing chaos (the undivided state before heaven and earth)—all depends on this one heart.” What I speak of here is the genuine learning of sages; it is not overstated. Though I may not have reached it, inwardly I privately aspire.

Our bodies in heaven and earth are originally extremely small. If we only follow the small self (desires of eyes, ears, mouth, and belly), busy all our lives, how are we different from dogs and horses? Without this strand of learning, would we not waste a lifetime? Hence the difference between humans and beasts was always slight. Therefore sages through the ages were never careless. Yu treasured every inch of time; King Wen of Zhou toiled until the sun slanted west—for good reason. The Yijing says: “By ease and simplicity one obtains the principle of the world, and the person can establish their place between heaven and earth.” We come into the world once, already far from the sages. If we cannot wake ourselves and turn back, we finally sink and are buried—then regret comes too late.

Push this principle to the end and it is vast beyond naming; the entry is nothing but preserving the heart in an easy, simple way—and that is entirely here. As for preserving the heart, the several methods I spoke of earlier are already in place. As for self-cultination, ordering the family, and daily human relations: inwardly do not deceive yourself, outwardly do not deceive others; act in the moment and hold the middle way—then natural wonderful use appears.

The dozen or so passages above are only my shallow personal views. Though poorly ordered, what matters is the principle of cultivating oneself and the methods of regulating the mind—enough to serve as a footing for entering the Way.

When Wu Ruo came to Liuhe as a guest, he set aside the rank of noble scion and magnate and stooped to visit a poor scholar in a wretched lane. We clasped hands and spoke from the heart, gladly pledging ourselves to the Way. Master Yuan is truly a man of learning! I am ashamed that we were raised in the wilds, low in looks and shallow in sight, while Master Yuan’s literary and scholarly attainments make him a champion of Yan and Ji—how could we deserve his regard? Even so, when the road is the same we ought to counsel one another; I take the liberty of offering Master Yuan a final word of advice.

To live between Heaven and Earth, planning cannot be omitted. Confucius’s three kinds of planning have passed from antiquity to the present, yet they are still not complete. I hold that there is planning for one lifetime and planning for ten thousand generations.

Planning for one lifetime means concentrating on letters and arts, honing talent and insight, and managing one’s lot in this single life. From the foolish and base to high ministers and generals, the tasks differ, but the aim is the same: security in this life. Such matters end with oneself; after death, however long the years, they no longer belong to you—hence “planning for one lifetime.”

Planning for ten thousand generations means diligently cultivating virtue, tempering character, probing the principle of Heaven and humanity, and earnestly seeking the principle within one’s nature. This is what is called the nobility of Heaven and what is truly precious—one’s nature lies here. Whether one advances in office or dwells in poverty at leisure, it neither increases nor decreases. That the Way of Yao and Shun survives to this day—is that not planning for ten thousand generations? Moreover, to hear the Way in the morning and die at night without regret makes short life and long life the same. Beyond that lies a realm that ten thousand generations cannot exhaust. Ah—how vast!

Though we are far from the ancients, innate moral knowing is in everyone; ten thousand years are as a single day. Why cannot a true man begin with himself and open a new path?

Master Yuan is a noted scholar of the north, richly endowed by nature like uncarved jade or unsmelted gold. At a glance one sees the great vessel fit to govern the age—how could he treat the sages’ enterprise as secondary? I look up to his moral bearing and my spirit turns toward him; I only fear he may not yet be single-minded enough in bearing the Great Way, and so I urge him again. It is not that Master Yuan must wait for these words to act; parting moves the heart, mutual understanding runs deep, and many look to him with hope. Shi Chen bows again and keeps this in remembrance.

Letter to Mr. Lin Fenqian. Composed by Lu Shichen of Guyue Hermitage in Gutang.

Heaven and earth are vast; past and present stretch without end. How could the people born into the world ever be counted? Some rise to kings and lords, others sink to servitude; some amass wealth until the cords that tie their coins rot away, others are so poor they use rope for a belt; some live to extreme old age, some die in childhood or in plague. Clever and dull mingle together; worthy and unworthy are mixed in among them. Seen only in the light of what one notices in a single lifetime, all of this seems real enough. Yet before long the years turn, and not long after, mountains and rivers change. Ask again after those who once hurried to and fro in pursuit of gain—they have all vanished without trace. One change, and city walls lie in ruins; another change, and fields by the sea become the sea itself. Push this reasoning to the limit and it almost sounds absurd to say: the turn of the age cannot be held fast, and even heaven and earth grow old. In the blink of an eye, one great cycle of 129,600 years has passed, and even the great earth cannot endure forever. From this perspective, everything within the cosmos is no more than illusory appearance. If it is illusory, can anything in it be truly real?

From antiquity, emperors and sages have treated every honor, rank, and wealth of the human world like spring blossoms flashing before the eyes or clouds drifting across the great void—leaving not the slightest aftertaste, meeting them only lightly. They alone sought the endowment heaven gave them and strove to live it out. That alone is what is most real and solid, utterly free of illusion.

Alas! Above is heaven, below is earth; before us stretch a thousand ages, behind us ten thousand years; east, west, south, and north extend to the farthest reaches of the eight directions and the eight extremities, without end. I am fortunate to be born in the midst of this, ranked with heaven and earth as one of the three powers (sancai: heaven, earth, and humanity), more spiritually endowed than the myriad things—surely there must be something extraordinary in this. How can we be like grass, trees, birds, and beasts, all ending in decay? Yet the whole world refuses to think, no one wakes up; people willingly drift in vagueness, waste a lifetime, and in the end leave the body in an empty coffin while the soul returns to the yellow springs beneath the earth.

Yet what Heaven has bestowed upon me, I scarcely know at all. Alas! Alas! The ways I have failed sovereign Heaven and sovereign Earth are indeed many—not to mention how much more I have failed myself in this life.

What Heaven gives to human beings is exceedingly vast and exceedingly long-lasting. This “vast” is not ordinary largeness: it is vast with no outer limit. This “long” is not ordinary duration: it is long with no end. Vast with no outer limit, east, west, south, north, and above and below are all included. Long with no end, antiquity and the future are joined as one. Once above and below and the four directions are gathered in, everything within the six directions and beyond them belongs within it. Once antiquity and the future are united, what lies before one great cycle and after one great cycle is threaded through it as well. What thing is not mine? What moment is not mine? When there is not one thing and not one moment that is not mine, is this not what is most real and most solid? How can it still be called illusory?

What Heaven commands in me and what I receive from Heaven—what is it? It is the heart-mind. What is the heart-mind? It is spirit (shen). What is spirit? It is awareness (jue). This awareness has no form and no image; it can only be attained by silent realization in stillness. I have turned the light inward and sought the root-nature of this awareness. That root-nature does not give rise to a single thought; the boundary between past and future is cut off, and there is only clear, wakeful knowing—as when someone deep in sleep is just awakened and has not yet formed a thought, or as when in seated meditation one suddenly hears a sound and has not yet distinguished what sound it is or what object made it. Earlier Confucian masters said, “A mute eating bitter melon knows it in the heart but cannot say it”—that points to this; they also compared it to the taste of salt in water, which cannot be said to be absent yet cannot be spoken of as a separate thing that “is there”; and again to a cat stalking a mouse, eyes fixed and ears alert. Ah—this is the utmost point. That by which Heaven is Heaven and that by which I am I are wholly contained here.

Every person is born with a spark of inner awareness that can illuminate heaven and earth. Lose it, and one sinks to the level of beasts and ghosts; guard it, and one may stand among sages and noble persons. How could one fail to cherish and handle this with care!

Mencius said: “What separates human beings from beasts is only a tiny margin.” Zengzi (Zeng Shen, a disciple of Confucius) and Zisi (Kong Ji, grandson of Confucius) both taught vigilance in solitude (shendu: being strict with oneself even when alone). That “solitude” is precisely this “tiny margin” (jixi). What is jixi? It is this alert, wakeful capacity for self-awareness.

All people under heaven share the same heart-mind; originally there is no difference. Yet some end up separated by tenfold, a hundredfold, even ten thousandfold—there is no other reason than awareness versus oblivion. When aware, one understands; when unaware, one is muddled. Understanding leads one to see good and act on it; muddledness leads one toward evil and to rest content in it. Doing good makes a noble person; doing evil makes a petty person. Petty persons at the extreme fall in with rulers like You and Li (the tyrannical Zhou kings You and Li); noble persons at the extreme are praised as Yao and Shun (the ancient sage-kings). Such extreme unevenness is what the situation inevitably produces.

What makes a human being human is solely this “awareness.” Awareness is wakefulness; lack of awareness is dream—this is the boundary between waking and dreaming. Awareness is life; lack of awareness is death—this is the boundary between life and death. Awareness is humanity; lack of awareness is beastliness—this is the boundary between human and animal. These three boundaries all hinge on this single awareness. The meaning of awareness is truly vast!

Take waking and sleeping: while asleep, one is blank and without perception. Without perception, there is no heaven and earth, sun and moon, no mountains, rivers, and the myriad things, no walled cities, palaces, or crowded human habitation. More than that, there are no parents, spouse, house, or utensils; even the bed curtains, bedding, and clothes pressed against the body count for nothing; hands and feet seem absent, the inner organs seem absent.

When a person is deep in sleep, they are dazed and nearly without perception, dull and not lucid; they do not even know that “I” exists, let alone anything else. When they wake, in the haze between sleep and full waking, they first distinguish that there is an “I”; a moment later, they recognize that there is this body. They listen with the ear and sound enters it; they open their eyes and light fills their sight. They dress, rise, step outside, look down and look far, and feel that heaven, earth, and the myriad things are all set in order within their awareness—all because awareness (the lucid faculty of knowing) presents them thus. Where there is awareness, there are heaven, earth, and the myriad things; where there is no awareness, it is as if heaven, earth, and the myriad things were not. It is not that they truly do not exist, but that though they are there, I do not know them, so saying “they are not” is also defensible. Confucius said: “If I heard the Dao in the morning, I could die in the evening without regret.” Here, “Dao” is precisely this awareness. Since one is aware, why should death matter? Because one moment of awareness is lasting awareness: though the body dies, original nature lives on; though outer things depart, spirit remains. Heaven, earth, past and present—all are realms within this single awareness. Heaven is my heaven, earth is my earth, people are my people, things are my things—because of this awareness. Awareness itself has no sound or scent; it cannot be seen or heard—this is Wuji (the limitless, formless origin). Wuji has no end; it has no fixed direction or shape. Expanded, it fills space above and below and in the four directions; extended, it endures through ten thousand ages. Mountains and rivers may change, yet this awareness does not decay; heaven and earth may both reach their limit, yet this awareness has no end. It is as vast as the Great Void and as enduring as Primordial Unity—without end or beginning, without above or below, without inside or outside. All the myriad things and endless transformations within Yuan, Hui, Yun, and Shi (the four cosmic measures of the universe’s vast span) arise and pass, come and go, entirely within this boundless whole—so what is there left to fret over regarding life and death?

Humans are one kind of being among things: they receive Heaven’s Qi (vital energy), take on Earth’s form, and are shaped within Yin-Yang (the two complementary vital forces); whether they live or die, gain or lose, is settled by zaohua—the way Heaven and Earth ceaselessly give birth to and transform the ten thousand things. Jue (awakened awareness), by contrast, is not a “thing”: it does not come into being together with birth, nor does it vanish together with death. That is why the greatest sages and worthies, even after death when the body has dispersed and breath has stopped, can still remain spiritually luminous through endless jie (aeons of cosmic time)—undiminished. This Dao (the Way), in a person, is called de xing (virtuous nature); in Heaven, the Mandate of Heaven (tianming); and in the ceaseless coming-and-going of transformative zaohua, it is called guishen (ghosts and spirits—the spiritual side of change). Heaven, guishen, and the human being are originally one whole. Yet this is hard to put into plain words.

It is easy to indulge human desire and hard to follow tianli (Heaven’s principle). Tianli and human desire cannot fully coexist, yet both arise mixed from the fangcun (the “square inch”—the heart-mind). Only when desire is stripped away can tianli remain; only when selfish partiality is exhausted does inborn nature (tianxing) show itself. None of this lies outside a single jue—and that jue must be carried through to the end. “Upon hearing the Dao in the morning, one may die content in the evening”—is that not precisely hearing this teaching?

Long ago Zilu (Ji Lu, Confucius’s disciple) asked how to serve ghosts and spirits and what death is. Confucius answered: “You are not yet able to serve people—how could you serve ghosts? You do not yet understand life—how could you understand death?” The study of life and death in fact begins already in the Confucian tradition; Confucius only “drew the bow without releasing the arrow,” so it can seem as if he never spoke plainly. Hence one may say: in pursuing learning we should level the heart, settle the Qi, and seek calmly and without haste until we reach the one place where truth stands. Where truth truly is, how could we forcibly deny it? Thus “among Heaven and Earth, the human is most precious”—that cannot be denied; “though the realm is vast, cultivating the person is the root”—that too cannot be denied. Yet though the body matters, the heart-mind cannot be absent; though the heart-mind matters, if it is not ling (spiritually responsive) and not jue (awake), what right has it to be called a heart-mind? That likewise cannot be denied. Once there is ling and jue, one must keep it thought by thought, never dim moment by moment, joining movement and stillness and constant change into one while oneself remains unchanged. Daoju dinghuo (sword, saw, cauldron, and boiling cauldron—the tools of capital punishment) may destroy the body, yet cannot shake this heart-mind. In dire urgency one must hold to it; in hardship and exile one must still hold to it. Someone who can do this—can we still say that person truly dies?

Once one awakens, every thought is like this, and at every moment one is never dim or confused. Stillness and movement, constancy and change are all contained within it, yet the underlying substance itself does not change. Even when faced with knives, saws, cauldrons, and boiling—the ancient instruments of the harshest punishment—the body may be killed, but the mind cannot be shaken. In sudden crisis one must be like this; in hardship and exile one must be like this. For such a person, can one still say that death remains?

What we call death is only the transformation of the physical form, the dispersing of vital breath (qi), and the rotting and decay of flesh, bone, and limbs. As for that which in daily life is bright and lucid, not clinging to the body and not depending on breath—where does it go? Master Su (Su Shi) said: “It does not begin to exist only because one is alive, nor does it cease because one dies.” This is solid principle and real fact. Follow it through in inquiry and you will know for yourself; test it in your own experience and you will see for yourself. This teaching cannot be denied.

The disciples of the sages speak of nothing other than this undeniable real truth and real fact. It is the great root and great source of the human being—not something for reckoning life and death. Whoever attains this matter naturally has no birth and death; it is so vast that nothing lies outside it, so enduring that it has no boundary, and it fills the cosmos. What Heaven gives me and what I receive from Heaven is precisely this. Therefore the sages still the mind’s churning and observe change, knowing that this nature is supremely great and supremely long-lasting. They reflect that heaven and earth are endless, yet recognize that this single life is limited: how vast the six directions of the universe, how small this body; how long the years, how brief this life; how many living beings, how minute this person. If one would measure oneself against the Creator who engenders the myriad things, nothing is more essential than holding fast to this. Hence one guards it carefully and does not let it slip away, trembling with caution as if standing beside a deep abyss or treading on thin ice.

What Boyi and Shuqi sought was this; what Confucius and Yan Hui rejoiced in was this; what sages through the ages worried over, stayed alert to, and dared not neglect was neglect of this very thing. What is it? Awakening. Awakened, one is authentic; authentic, one is sincere.

The Doctrine of the Mean (a Confucian classic) says: “Supreme sincerity—utter sincerity without any falsity—never ceases.” When it does not cease, it can endure; when it endures, it shows its effect; when effect appears, it reaches far; when it reaches far, it becomes broad and deep; when it is broad and deep, it becomes lofty and bright. It also says: “Because it is broad and deep, it can sustain all things; because it is lofty and bright, it can cover all things; because it is far-reaching and long-lasting, it can accomplish all things.” Broad and deep matches Earth; lofty and bright matches Heaven; far-reaching and long without end. To be like this is to become manifest without trying to show oneself, to transform without deliberate action, and to achieve through Wuwei (non-action). The virtue of Heaven and the kingly way—the path of governing the world by virtue—are perhaps fully contained in this.

Even so, this grandeur is not something one can see only after “taking office when the time is right” or only after merit is great and fame shines. In antiquity someone might chant and sing within a single room and then go far away; from the first they did not envy kings and great men for rank, wealth, or glory, yet never lost their plain walking in what is properly theirs. What they kept was truly here, not there. Could gain and loss outside one’s allotted place really be enough to pull their joy and grief? What they sought was only what is called “awareness”—inward recognition.

The awareness I speak of is what others cannot see. Yet though others cannot see it, Heaven is this, Earth is this; everything contained and covered within Heaven and Earth is nothing but this.

If you turn from the outside back inward: Heaven is heaven, but what is it that makes heaven heaven? Earth is earth, but what makes earth earth? People are people, things are things, but what makes people people and things things? Know that this cannot be apart from this awareness of mine; apart from this awareness, you cannot see that it is there. The junzi of old knew that nowhere is not illusion, yet this alone is real; nowhere is not empty, yet this alone is solid. Because this real is there, illusion is no longer mere illusion; because this solid is there, emptiness is no longer mere emptiness.

Alas, heaven and earth are truly vast, and antiquity and the present truly distant. If not for this bit of numinous clarity—the originally clear awareness in the heart—the cosmos could not appear at all; how could a person fail to preserve this true nature and hold fast to this awareness? That heaven and earth are so great and antiquity and the present so far apart is nothing other than this “awareness”: when awareness is narrow, what is seen is small; when awareness is broad, what is seen is great.

In former times Yangmingzi (Wang Yangming), while walking in the mountains, was asked by someone who pointed at flowering trees in a cliff valley: “The Master often says that in the world there is nothing outside Innate Knowing (liangzhi)—does this flowering tree count as Innate Knowing too?” Yangmingzi replied: “Before you reached the cliff valley, this knowing and the flowering tree were both dim and unclear; once you came before them, everything at once became clear and manifest. If this is not Innate Knowing, what is it?” Seen this way, where in the world is there anything outside awareness?

People often say “so large there is no outside, so long-lasting there is no boundary.” What sort of scene is “great with no outside”? What sort of form is “long with no limit”? Consider this “great with no outside”: what people can conceive and measure extends at most only to within heaven and earth. Stopping at within heaven and earth, there is still greatness beyond that boundary. Look again at the three hundred sixty-five degrees of the celestial cycle (the degrees by which ancient astronomy divided the motion of the heavens): sun, moon, and stars all attach to it—how much space do they occupy? Therefore one cannot simply call this the utmost greatness. Only by opening the field of vision and seeing beyond the turning of sun and moon does one know that empty space cannot be exhausted.

Only when you broaden your vision beyond the cycle of sun and moon do you see that emptiness has no end. Extrapolating from there, it may be one heaven-and-earth, ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, or ten thousand times ten thousand; even if you stop there, there is still more beyond. Push further to ten thousand times ten thousand, a hundred thousand times ten thousand, a million times ten thousand, ten million times ten thousand, or ten thousand times ten thousand times ten thousand heavens-and-earths, and you still cannot finish or count them all. Hence it is said “great without outside”—vast beyond any outer boundary.

As for “long without limit,” that is duration without end: what humans can conceive reaches at most one span within primordial chaos. Chaos here means the great process from before heaven and earth were opened until the universe runs from birth to dissolution. If you stay only inside chaos, that is merely a bounded kind of longevity; yet even such a heaven-and-earth cannot be exhausted, so here it is still said “great without outside.” What humans can measure also reaches only inside chaos—that is longevity with a boundary. Consider again one yuan-yi-hui in traditional cosmic reckoning—the great cycle built by stacking yuan and hui—adding years, months, days, and hours layer upon layer, it still comes to an end in the end, so it cannot be called the longest duration.

Only when you think far ahead to the eternity in which hai and zi endlessly alternate do you know that past and present cannot be measured. Hai is the last of the twelve earthly branches, zi the first; their mutual replacement marks one cycle ending and another beginning. Extrapolating, there may be one, ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, or ten thousand times ten thousand phases of chaos; even stopping there, there is still a boundary. Push further to ten thousand times ten thousand, a hundred thousand times ten thousand, and so on through myriad repetitions, and you still cannot exhaust it. Hence “long without limit”—that is the extreme of duration.

This is what may be called true lastingness and true vastness. Yet without jue (awareness and awakening), whence would such duration and magnitude come? Thus, when vastness no longer has an outer limit, it is the boundlessness of awareness’s vastness; when duration has no end, it is the endlessness of awareness’s duration. Hence it is said to be inexhaustible, without fixed direction or form.

The Book of Changes says: Qian initiates the myriad things; Kun completes their formation. Qian governs through simplicity and ease; Kun brings capacity to fruition through unadorned directness. What is easy is readily understood; what is simple is readily followed. When understanding comes easily, people draw near; when following comes easily, affairs succeed. Nearness enables lastingness; success enables vastness. To be lasting is the virtue of the worthy; to be vast is the achievement of the worthy. From this perspective, all that can be great and lasting lies entirely within ease and simplicity. Ease and simplicity are nothing other than awareness. In the world, what is more lasting and vast than awareness, and what is easier and simpler than awareness? Therefore it is said: what makes a human a human is solely this awareness.

This awareness is the “pure unity” (jing-yi) aim of the court of Yu and Shun, the transmission of “one thread running through all” in Confucius’s school; it is also what Zhou Dunyi upheld as stillness, what Cheng Yi upheld as reverent attentiveness (jing), what Zhu Xi spoke of as rectifying the mind and making intentions sincere, Shao Yong’s “rolling the pill” (nurturing the heart until it turns freely and round), Lu Jiuyuan’s “extending the vast,” Chen Xianzhang’s “nurturing the first sprout” (nurturing in stillness the initial thread of the heart-substance), and Wang Yangming’s innate knowing (liangzhi)—all one and the same thing. The Hetu diagrams it; the Luoshu inscribes it; what the Six Classics and the Four Books record is nothing but it.

Uphold this awareness in every step, and there is no fear of stumbling; uphold it in every sound and cough, and one does not invite reproach for lack of quiet dignity; uphold it in daily eating, drinking, and rising and resting, and ordinary conduct leaves less room for regret. To serve the ruler with this is loyalty; toward friends, trust; toward parents, teachers, spouses, and siblings, filial piety, respect, proper distinction, and proper order. Apply it in the household, and the household can be ordered and complete.

When applied to a single state, the state can be well governed; when applied to the world, the world can know peace. In this way one does not disgrace one's ancestors and can preserve one's descendants. Alas! Once one Awakens to this point, what one once took for illusory is in fact not illusion—oneself is entirely real; what one once took for empty is in fact not emptiness—oneself is entirely substantial. Otherwise, one only muddles through and echoes others, wasting a lifetime like grass and trees, like birds and beasts—either wholly without perception, or with only the faintest glimmer of it—until one rots away, while that greatest and most enduring thing heaven has given one never appears at all. How pitiful! The cosmos is boundless, yet this life of mine amounts to so little! On what grounds do we stand with heaven and earth as the Three Powers (Heaven, Earth, and Humanity), on what grounds do we call ourselves the most intelligent of all beings? Dull and trivial, petty and drifting, unaware of pain or pleasure, heedless of life or death—merely eating and drinking, exhausting our days until old age arrives in a blink and the final limit (the end of life) is upon us, with not a moment to delay! Fame as tiny as a snail's horn, gain as fine as a fly's head—ultimately smoke and ash; where are those former schemes to show off and compete, to measure advantage and disadvantage? To live as a human being in vain—what is there to prize in that? Therefore it is said: what makes a human being human is nothing but Awakening. With Awakening one is vast; without it one is small; with Awakening one is enduring; without it one is brief. Will you choose the vast or the small? The enduring or the brief? Awakening is humanity; lack of Awakening is beastliness; Awakening is life; lack of Awakening is death. Will you be human or beast? Live or die? Awakening is truth; lack of Awakening is illusion; Awakening is substance; lack of Awakening is emptiness. Truth or illusion? Substance or emptiness? This need not wait for the clever to understand.

Alas! Scholars of the world have sometimes had the will to study, yet they drown in literary ornament, are bound by commentaries on the classics, cling to what they have seen and heard, and are further entangled in one explanation after another. Those lower still only crave fame and fortune and dream of wealth and rank; their conduct is base and shameless—things even the dull and ignorant in the marketplace disdain to mention. Alas, how could it have come to this! This great Dao has long gone unheeded. People rest content in the shallow and narrow, fixated on what lies before their eyes; hearts are thin and harsh, and meanness has become the custom. When someone steps forward to speak of this Dao, others either dismiss it as pedantic or reject it as empty fantasy. Call me pedantic—I will bear it; call me deluded—I will accept that too. What grieves me most is that this Dao cannot win people’s trust.

In antiquity, when Yao and Shun held the throne, this Dao was clear throughout the world, like the sun at noon—its light reached everywhere. In the flourishing ages of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, rulers were wise and ministers worthy; families were harmonious and states well ordered. For a time, custom and human hearts returned to simplicity; rites and music were distinct and complete; nurturing through benevolence (ren) and correcting through righteousness (yi) penetrated skin and bone and entered the marrow, lifting the whole world into the realm of “benevolence widely shared and long life for the people” (the age when virtue spreads and people live in peace and longevity). This is what Confucius meant by “making bright virtue shine throughout the world” (ming ming de yu tianxia). This Dao is ancient and vast, and it runs through inner and outer alike: at root it is Heavenly Virtue (tiande); when applied in affairs it is the kingly way (wangdao). What is the kingly way? Cultivating the person, regulating the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the world. What is Heavenly Virtue? What Heaven has given me, what I have received from Heaven. Only when one truly realizes it in oneself does one call it “virtue” (de). This virtue is Heaven itself: above it nothing is higher, below nothing is lower; before it no beginning, after it no end.

Push east to the limit, and the far east still has no end; push west to the limit, and the far west is the same. Push to the extreme south or north, and it is always thus. This is not idle invention: Heaven is like this, De is like this, and the Dao is like this—the claim cannot be dismissed.

People often fail to examine what they hear. At the mere mention of Xingming (nature and life), they treat it as the exclusive property of Chan (Buddhist Zen). Alas! “What Heaven mandates is called nature” is the opening line of the first chapter of the Zhongyong—which village farmer or herd boy has not read or heard it? Yet today those two characters are taken as a sectarian monopoly—a confusion that runs very deep.

Long ago, when Master Cheng (Cheng Yi, Northern Song Neo-Confucian) heard someone lecture on the Zhongyong, he smiled and said, “I fear the very first sentence is already wrong.” Looking back now, being wrong is still tolerable; what I fear is that many today cannot even remember the first line. Alas—the blindness is profound!

The lucidity of the human mind is the same through the ages as on a single day. When a sage appears in the Eastern Sea, sages appear in the western, southern, and northern seas as well—this mind and this principle are everywhere the same. Would Xiangshanzi (Lu Xiangshan) deceive me?

So this unworthy one has said that even beggars possess the Dao-nature (the inherent body of the Dao). In the lanes I have overheard their plain, homely remarks; sometimes they come close to the Dao and accord with reason, worth listening to—which shows the inner lucidity of their hearts has never been lost.

Nor is this true of humans alone: birds, beasts, and insects share it too. Watch them drink and peck at ease, come and go as they please, and you see that in creating the ten thousand things, Heaven has given each its nature and allotted each its life—exactly so.

Yet scholars of the world read morning and evening, busy only with fine phrases and glittering prose, and never ask about this at all.

Tell him to “retreat and store in secrecy” (converge spirit and mind and hide them in what is deep and subtle), and he says it is far too abstruse. Tell him “without fixed direction, without bodily form,” and he says it is far too arcane. Tell him “so vast that nothing can contain it, so fine that nothing can split it” (describing the Dao’s vastness and subtlety), and he calls it wild and empty. Tell him of compass and plumb line (standards and measure for conduct), and he says that is the cramped pedantry of Confucian scholars. Tell him of sages, numinous beings, and noble persons, and he says that is madness and folly. When the young hear this, they say questions of life and death are for the old to discuss; we are in our prime and ought to be getting things done—what an ill omen to talk of such things. When the old hear it, they say if it were a few years earlier they still had strength to act, but now they are decayed and need not bring it up. Those short of money mostly chase wealth first; the well-off, tangled in affairs, say they will wait until things ease a little. In peaceful times they put today off till tomorrow; when busy and chaotic, they say it is not that they do not want to, only that there is no time. Alas! Everyone talks this way—so what would it take to be right? I, unworthy Chen, privately think it all comes down to giving up on oneself and writing oneself out of the account. The Dao is so vast, so enduring, and originally complete in everyone; everyone can attain it—why give up on yourself and willingly sink into rot, ending in the same destination as beasts and the ghostly realm? I do not know what kind of heart that is. I, Chen, am dull and unworthy, ever farther from the sages and extremely distant from antiquity; my natural endowment is already mediocre and my habits all the heavier. I dare not hope to become a sage, nor even dare to hope to become a worthy. Yet the Dao is truly lofty and good; even if reaching it is as hard as climbing to heaven, I still wish to strive every day without slackening. For though this Dao is not easy to arrive at, there truly is a path by which one can learn and reach it—and that lies solely in preserving the heart-mind (keeping the mind guarded so it is not lost). How preserve? Guard it, and it is there. How guard? Only by seeking it can you guard it. How seek? Only when you become aware of it will you seek. Hence it is said: to learn is to awaken.

In pursuing learning and cultivating the heart-mind, we must constantly guard this heart as a dragon guards its pearl or a hen broods her egg—never slackening for a moment. It is like carrying an infant through a busy market: with each step, turn back to look and tend. What lies before the eyes and beside the ears—do not let it grow into serious fault; as thoughts arise and fall, do not let them lose their innate purity. Then you are nearly there. Thus it is said: learning is awakening.

Awakening means that in stillness one silently apprehends and truly gains something: not clinging to any single thought, not falling into any delusion, the mind lucid and clear, knowing plainly in one’s own heart—this is awakening (jue). Yet people have long been unable to awaken; those who hurry in a daze and act in confusion are everywhere. Alas, they cast aside this most precious bond between Heaven and humanity, and in the end fret only over family and children to no avail; then regret comes too late and resentment does no good.

Therefore one should prepare before trouble comes and plan early. Even if one exhausts strength and stumbles in the chase, there is barely time enough—how could there be leisure for other pursuits? To set this aside and seek something else is like caring for one finger and losing shoulder and back (as Mencius said—a small gain at great cost). And this matter is not vain: one day’s practice brings one day’s results; a lifetime’s practice brings a lifetime’s results. In all honesty, even if full achievement is not guaranteed, it still surpasses not doing it; moreover, hardship first and harvest afterward is the natural order. Thus in human life nothing comes before learning, and nothing is more urgent than setting the will.

Once Confucius set his will to learn, he did not stop until old age, staff in hand, walking at ease before his gate. Mencius wished all his life to learn from Confucius. Today when we look up to them as Mount Tai is high and the great sea is wide—lofty and vast—we truly feel at a loss where to begin.

Yet when a person attains this measure of awakening, it becomes the path for climbing upward and the boat for crossing the waters. Confucian scholars of old said that the learner should establish the mind for Heaven and Earth, secure life for the people, carry on the interrupted learning of past sages, and open peace for ten thousand generations. When I read these words before, I thought a true stalwart’s aspiration ought to be just this; reflecting now, is it not indeed so? If one can truly set this aspiration and pursue this learning, taking the sages and worthies as one’s own charge, what one gains will grow daily finer and daily deeper. This single thread of luminous awareness (lingming—the innate clarity of the human mind) fills Heaven and Earth; it is utterly vast and utterly enduring, and that is no empty phrase. One need only fix the mind here, examine it point by point, and one will naturally see where the intention lies.

The editorial preface to Plum Blossom Q&A likewise says: in studying this learning, take the sages and worthies as your charge, and what you gain grows daily more profound; this luminous awareness fills Heaven and Earth, to the greatest extent and for the longest time—it is not idle talk. Pray only to hold steady in this, look it over in detail, and you will know for yourself where the intention lies.

Plum Blossom Q&A: Editorial Preface—that is, the preface written for the compiled book Plum Blossom Q&A.

The Dao is simply one—why must it be split into three (Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism)? The “one” spoken of here is Confucian learning, what every person needs. Yet even “Dao” is only a name reluctantly applied; where is there truly a fixed “one”? For those of highest wisdom, clearing away the barrier of words and singling out the supreme principle—such speech may be allowed. But for those still at the stage of preliminary learning, who must seek teachers and find places to study, what are they to rely on? Hence Confucius began teaching at the Xingtan (Almond Platform, the legendary site of his lectures), and in reading the Yi wore through the thongs binding his bamboo slips three times (san jue wei bian). Our Sage’s tireless teaching and unwearying learning can be seen from this.

Today Mr. Xue Xinxian of Wumen (Suzhou) is a leading disciple of Gu Shuyin Lou (the “Hidden Books Tower,” the line associated with Qing scholar Min Yide), deep in virtue and broad in learning, having received the heart-to-heart transmission (du de xin chuan) in full. He showed me the compilation Meihua Wenda (Plum Blossom Questions and Answers) and asked me to write a preface. After reading it, the blockage in my mind suddenly cleared, as if I matched the book’s intent. I have never been quick of wit; to speak such grand words I truly dare not—yet having been mistaken for a close friend, I cannot at once firmly refuse.

Reading closely and reflecting in quiet, I know that Mr. Xue’s cultivation was already deep, while his discourse grows ever more subtle: from “one” he extends to the myriad affairs, and the myriad affairs return again to “one”; he tempers and harmonizes principle without resting in guesswork and debate, all returning to the essential point, even applying everything to the utmost. This not only probes the subtlety of Confucian learning but also reveals the core of Buddhist and Daoist teachings. From this one may see that the work of study holds difficulty within what seems easy.

Since the Tang and Song, those skilled at expounding Neo-Confucian “Learning of Principle” (lixue) have invariably rejected Buddhism and Daoism, while those who honor Buddhism and Daoism have invariably looked down on lixue—to find one who could unify both sides seemed utterly impossible. This fault came from not applying the work to one’s own body and mind, but only erecting barriers in vain. The deeper the barrier, the farther from xingming (nature and life); to seek what is called the way of “nourishing the person” (run shen) could no longer be discussed in the same breath.

What is written in this compilation of questions and answers outwardly presents the principles of ordering the state and pacifying the realm; inwardly it exhausts the work of restraining the self and returning to ritual propriety (ke ji fu li), up to the highest virtue by which the Dao is consolidated—vast yet able to transform and nurture, with nothing missing in the finest detail. It may serve as a model for learning and as the right aim for cultivating the person and regulating the household.

I have always enjoyed reading the Hidden Tower Collection of Ancient Books (Gushu Yinlou Cangshu). The works gathered in the Hidden Tower number several dozen in all; their subject matter for the most part stays within the orthodox path of rectifying the mind and making the will sincere. Among them, the one that speaks in the plainest language and conduct, and that presses closest upon body and mind, is the single scroll Legacy Sayings (Yiyan), arranged by Chen Yunbo of Qiantang (present-day Hangzhou). Yunbo also traveled north to visit; his prose is vigorous and free, like a vast expanse of cloud-waves suddenly rising and falling with no track to follow—or again like the yun’ao (an ancient instrument used in Daoist ritual) sounding in ensemble, each subtle turn discoverable in its place, turning and turning until one forgets the boundary between self and things, as if the spirit wandered the Three Isles (Penglai, Fangzhang, and Yingzhou), scenery coming one upon another without pause. As for the compilation Heart Lamp of the Golden Canopy (Jingai Xindeng), it has already reached the utmost limit. Of what he wrote with his own hand, some works recount writings of old, some disclose insights he alone has newly gained—almost as if ten thousand treasures were displayed in a crystal palace; to obtain even one of them is already to surpass the common things of heaven and earth. If reading his books is like this, how much more so for those who receive his instruction at ear and hand, who share his words and laughter face to face—the subtlety they grasp cannot be put into words. Formerly Guan Yinzi composed the five thousand words of the Daodejing (Classic of the Way and Its Power); though Laozi did not wield the brush himself, he truly received Laozi’s heart-transmission. What Master Xue has now done is very much the same situation. As for benefiting later students and doing service to the explication of principle, all is poured into one root—why need there be further modest refusal? I therefore ask Master Xue to examine this and say whether it is fitting. Respectfully offered as a preface. In the spring of the gengzi year of the Daoguang reign (1840), written in the Hall of Evergreen Bamboo of Compassion. Your junior in learning from ancient Yunnan, Li Wenyuan, bows and submits this preface.

Self-Preface

In human study, what matters most is to establish aspiration. Without aspiration, nothing can be accomplished; once aspiration is fixed, then undertakings can be completed and character can be cultivated. The crux of learning, moreover, lies in reading books and understanding principle.

For anyone who pursues learning, nothing matters more than setting a firm resolve. Without a settled purpose, nothing can be accomplished; once the purpose is fixed, undertakings can succeed and character can be cultivated. The crux of study lies in reading until one grasps principle. Zhu Xi said: what we call reading is simply to take in this principle. There is principle in managing a household and principle in holding office; the fields differ, yet in the end it is one and the same principle. He also said: in reading one must keep the mind close to the text, reading word by word and line by line until each point has a clear place, and only then can one speak of real inquiry. Thus without reading, learning cannot advance. The myriad words of the sages of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism are nothing other than an exposition of this principle. Yet in reading one must first read the Confucian classics; only then is principle understood with genuine clarity and learning given a solid root—hence the Four Books and the Five Classics are books everyone must read. Those without such resolve are another matter; but if one has the resolve, how can one fail to read? What is meant by understanding principle is not a moment’s clarity in the mind alone; it must be shown in conduct before the reality of principle is seen. Hu Jingzhai (Hu Juren) said: once one has understood the meaning of a text in reading, one must cause the book’s principle to arise from one’s own person—this is precisely what Master Cheng (Cheng Yi) meant by “the learner must study in this way, and then he will be roughly free of error.” Among scholars today, some devote themselves solely to literary composition and official success, others chase abstruse refinement and emptiness, while setting ethics and the cultivation of body and mind aside—so in the end they rarely enter the realm of the sages. They do not see that what is most lofty and subtle must be begun from what is most plain and close at hand. Once someone asked Master Xiangshan (Lu Jiuyuan) where he applied his effort; he replied: on human feelings and the affairs of daily life. Huang Mianzhai (Huang Gan) also said: whenever a thought arises in me, I must examine it finely—is it in accord with the Way or at odds with it? Is it pure and without flaw, or does a hair’s breadth of deviation remain?

Every thought must accord with principle, and every principle must be pursued to its utmost—only then can it be called true gongfu (sustained inner work). If one merely clings to stillness, favors what is dark and empty, treats the fundamental task of restraining stray thoughts as something ordinary, and does not exert oneself in practice, one’s footing is unsteady and one has abandoned the root for the branches—how then can one expect real progress in virtue and accomplishment?

The Ming scholar Hu Jingzhai (Hu Juren) said that students who grasp caocun (holding fast to the original mind) and shengcha (reflective self-examination) will see their virtue advance. Thus in learning nothing matters more than setting the will; once the will is fixed, books can be taken in, principle can be clarified, virtue can be cultivated, and the work can be completed. Sages and immortals—and Buddhas as well—share this single path of principle; there is no second way. This was what Master Xiao Gen, our late teacher, often urged upon fellow practitioners with earnest care, treating it as the weightiest matter.

The Master was a descendant of the earlier worthy Min Muzhai and a cousin of the censor Zhiting; in his youth he served as an official in southern Yunnan. His filial conduct at home and upright governance in office are on record in the histories and need not be rehearsed here. As for the refined purity of Neo-Confucian learning and the subtle purport of the Daoist teaching, he inherited the orthodox line of Zhong, Lü, Wang, and Qiu (Zhongli Quan, Lü Dongbin, Wang Chongyang, and Qiu Chuji) and received transmission from Master Taixu—thus Confucian in learning yet also steeped in the Way. After leaving office he retired to Ancient Plum Blossom Island, the Qinghe grotto-heaven; in leisure he traveled among the river towns and the regions of Jiangsu, Zhejiang, Fujian, and the north, taking the Suzhou area as a favored place to wander and fish. His Collected Works of the Hidden Tower on Ancient Books sets forth true principle and the most secret aims of the teaching.

What he compiled, Ancient Books Hidden Tower Collection, presents truths that are genuine and profound, writing directly from the source of the mind-nature; not a single passage fails to flow naturally from the vast sea of the mind-nature. The book strips away metaphorical language about lead and mercury and transmits alone the secret essentials the master left behind, so that the supreme teaching of the Most High (Taishang) shines again in the world. This is the master’s painstaking effort to deliver beings, and great fortune for later seekers of the Way.

The master once said: Most of what I write consists of talks given on the spot to remedy bias and harm. As for the transmission of mind-method in Confucianism, though the master did not write a dedicated book on it, seen from the intent of his words, nothing fails to take illuminating virtue as root, cultivating the person as application, watchfulness in solitude as entry, and fully realizing nature and reaching mandate as final destination; and he grounds the work of extending knowledge and investigating things in everyday speech and conduct, to verify the principle in the Doctrine of the Mean that “in serving things one is not divided in two.” He took no-thought as aim and the four words empty, still, constant, sincere as the thread running through all, especially developing what Confucianism had not fully said, to show the reality of xing (nature) and ming (life). So though the path of the gate differs from the Confucian, it is in truth the golden needle (key pointer) for delivering the world, and the essence of both Confucian and immortal traditions. Traced to what he stressed, it is nothing beyond the work of holding to one and no desire, until natural clarity and harmony are reached.

Thus the master’s discourse on the Way did not depart from the aim of the Confucian school, and greatly benefits later generations. How arduous his intent, how vast his achievement.

Yang Gui is dull by nature and never studied properly; how could he grasp the depth of the master’s learning? Only by fortune I stood at his gate nearly thirty years and privately heard a little of the traces by which one enters the Way (not the Way itself) and of his influence. Ashamed to be useless as rushes or rotten timber, I failed to bear the burden of transmission and deeply betrayed the master’s grace with no way to repay it. Now I gather in meaning what was passed mouth to ear and heart to heart into one book, titled Plum Blossom Q&A Compendium—yet I cannot escape the suspicion of flattering the times and stealing a hollow name, and must face ridicule from those who know.

In my pursuit of learning, I seek only conviction in my own mind—not to make others believe in me. In cultivating practice, I hope only for genuine understanding in myself—not to make others know of me. I now wish to present this writing to enlightened gentlemen, to request their guidance and thereby lead later students: those who wish to read the Master’s book may first take it as a key to unlock the door.

Recorded on the day before the winter solstice in the mid-winter of the Jihai year of the Daoguang reign (1839), by Xue Yanggui of the Longmen lineage (a branch of Quanzhen Daoism), styled Dongyun, from the Dongyun studio.

Collected Plum Blossom Q&A from the Yannuo Si Studio

Narrated by Xue Yanggui (styled Xinxing) of Wuzhong (the Suzhou region); printed by Yu Yangcheng (styled Cengyun) of Guangling (Yangzhou); first collated by Lei Tan (styled Yunchu) of Xishu (Sichuan); with a commendatory inscription by Xie Laiyi (styled Haiyin) of Shanghai.

On the fifteenth day of the eighth month in autumn of the Xinsi year, the guests Tao Jiruo and Han Dongran, together with the monk Huiche, the Daoist priest Xu Donglei, five or six adult men, and six or seven boys, viewed osmanthus at the Bamboo Shadow and Plum Blossom Pavilion. At the time, paulownia leaves tapped the window and osmanthus fragrance filled the curtain. Some played the zither and gave long whistles; some composed poetry by the water. They burned incense, brewed tea, sat in quiet meditation, and conversed from the heart—joyful and harmonious, the whole hall reverent and at peace.

Jiruo sighed and said: “Everyone can become a sage like Yao or Shun; where there is will, there is a way—I believe that. Yet why are those who cultivate the Dao as numerous as hairs on an ox, while those who attain the Dao are as rare as a qilin’s horn? Surely most never find the right gate. Heterodox paths need not be discussed—but what, after all, is the orthodox teaching of the Great Dao?”

Dongran said: From antiquity to the present, the Dao has never been twofold; the sage and the ordinary person do not have two different hearts. Teachings may be labeled Confucian, Buddhist, and Daoist, yet in earnest practice they are one. What is called “the Dao” is this “One.” This Dao is the true pivot of heaven, earth, and nature—given to the ten thousand things and shown in every affair. People often leave what is close and chase what is far—either making it abstruse and lofty or treating it as worn commonplace. Even when one or two sincere seekers appear, without authentic transmission they slide into the bizarre. Even if they meet a true teacher, craving and laxity can still bind them—how then can accomplishment be hoped for? For now, say nothing of others; each should turn inward and ask: Can you press forward boldly and become one with the Dao? Yanzi (Yan Hui) said: “What kind of man was Shun? What kind of man am I?” One who means to act should be like this. Break the cauldrons and sever retreat; give three years of fierce effort—then see what comes. As for the root aim: the lower path can be handed on in words; the higher reach must be awakened in the heart. I hold that to begin cultivation one must first see the principle clearly. The gewu zhizhi (investigating things to extend knowledge) of the Great Learning, and the qiongli (exhausting principle) and zhujing (maintaining reverence) of the early Confucians, are in truth the keys to the gate.

The encomium says: Bamboo shadow and plum blossom; Yugyi (the sun spirit)—here, pure, clear light. The ancients’ hidden essentials lie in qiongli and zhujing. The true command of the great Dao—this is the orthodox teaching. Restrain yourself and return to ritual; take Confucius and Mencius as your teachers.

Someone says: When things arrive and you must respond, use principle to judge them. Then how is inner cultivation to be done? What is to serve as the zongchi—the overarching principle that holds all practice together? Study without a central aim is like crossing a river without oars. You must first know that central aim; only then can you pursue learning.

Dongran said: “Inner cultivation and outward conduct follow the same principle. The ancients said: ‘Let the heart-mind rest within your own bodily frame (not scattering outward), and let no thought stray beyond the gate of total retention (the portal that gathers and holds the mind).’ Learners must first awaken to their original heart-mind; only then do they have a true master (the fundamental anchor of study). Once that master is clear, everything is settled here. Thus books of the School of Principle (Lixue)—learning grounded in heart-mind, nature, and moral pattern—amount to nothing beyond clarifying the two words heart-mind (xin) and nature (xing), using them as the gateway into De (Virtue/Power). The Great Learning opens with ‘in illuming illustrious virtue (ming ming de)’: when you can illumine your own Ming De (Bright Virtue), your learning has a master.”

The encomium runs: To illumine Ming De is the measuring line of learning. Bright Virtue is originally yours; you should exert yourself to illumine it. Be as zhong ri qian qian—diligent without slack all day long—until you reach the utmost; when there is nothing left to illumine, once you grasp it, you grasp it forever.

Someone asked: “Regarding the two characters ‘Ming De,’ Master Zhu (Zhu Xi) glosses them: ‘Ming De is what one receives from Heaven—empty, spiritual, and never dimmed; it is stocked with all patterns and can respond to the myriad affairs.’ Is he speaking of the human heart-mind, or of nature?”

Dongran said: “Heart-mind and nature were never two to begin with. As that which governs, it is called heart-mind; as that in which ceaseless generating principle dwells, it is called nature. The heart-mind must be illumined before nature can appear; there must be awakening before one can speak further of heart-mind—and nature is right there. Illumine the heart-mind and you see nature; awaken to nature and you know the heart-mind; exhaust the heart-mind and you know nature. Still, one must first know how to preserve the heart-mind and nourish nature. Long preservation and nourishment allow one to grasp its principle; the crux of reflection lies in grasping its aim. Study from here, and you will broadly avoid going astray.”

The encomium states: Guard the original mind and nourish the original nature; investigate principle to its subtle depths. Constantly reflect and examine, restrain selfish desires, and release attachment between things and the self. When the mind is still and clear, one becomes aware of luminous awareness on one’s own. When that awareness has nothing left to gain or seek, that is utmost sincerity.

Someone asked: The Confucian Four Books, the Six Classics, and the recorded sayings of earlier Confucian masters all speak of nothing but the principles of nature (xingli). The inner canon of Buddhism likewise speaks of nothing but the teaching centered on nature (xingzong). Why, then, does Daoism insist on dual cultivation of nature and life (xingming shuangxiu)? Patriarch Lu (Lü Dongbin) said: “To cultivate only life (ming) and not nature (xing) is the gravest illness on the path of practice; if one cultivates nature in isolation and does not refine the inner elixir (Neidan), then even after ten thousand kalpas the yin spirit can hardly become a sage.” He also said: “Without life, nature cannot be established; without nature, life cannot endure.” Clearly, nature and life cannot be separated. If that is so, why does Buddhism speak only of the nature-centered teaching, and Confucianism only of the principles of nature?

Dongran said: “Xing and Ming were never separate to begin with. What Buddhism calls xing is the original true nature. This ‘true’ is the root source of xing and ming—the original face before one’s parents gave birth to you, what the Explanation of the Diagram of the Supreme Ultimate calls the truth of Wuji (the limitless). What people usually mean by xing today is temperament-nature: the nature that comes after birth, from receiving qi and condensing into a physical form. Thus wood has wood’s nature, metal metal’s, and water, fire, and earth each have their own. Though humans are the most spiritually refined among the ten thousand things, what they receive still does not go beyond the Five Phases. This is what Zhu Xi meant by ‘qi takes shape to form the body.’ What Lü Dongbin called the ‘myriad-kalpa yin spirit’ refers to temperament-nature—the shen that afterward takes on cognitive function.

Confucian teaching speaks of xing and li: this li is within xing; nothing lacks it, no moment is without it. It is the pivot of the birth-and-transformation of the ten thousand things, and the reason things ought to be as they are. Li is xing, xing is li—this is the subtlety of li. Li is one; qi is two. Qi divides into yin and yang, yet li remains one. When li is clear, xing is within it. The bit of central equilibrium (zhongzheng) sent down from Heaven—when it falls upon a person, the person by nature has the capacity to generate life; what becomes firm-yielding and the virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness is called xing. What each person receives as the utmost pure and singular endowment, with nothing second to it, is called li. The so-called original true nature comes from the truth of Wuji. Therefore one can exhaust li in Heaven and fully realize one’s xing, and ming is within that. Cultivating xing is cultivating ming. The ancients said: ‘For every part of xing you cultivate, you preserve that much of ming.’ As for talk of minggong (the work of cultivating life—the Daoist art of refining life), it is merely the refined discourse of the Daoist school.”

The encomium says: Within xing lie the constant ways of human relations; ming can participate in creation and transformation. Use the cultivation of xing to cultivate ming—why worry over waxing and waning? Guard and hold yourself with vigilance; there is no need to seek an imperial carriage.

The encomium says: Within original nature there inherently exist the constant ways of human relations; life participates in the creative transformation of Heaven and Earth. Cultivate life with original nature—why worry about metabolism or the alternation of birth and death? One should be cautious and reverent and hold fast to oneself; there is no need to seek outwardly for imperial escort and guidance. Fate cannot be foreknown, and original nature cannot be borrowed or feigned.

Some say: When ordinary people are born, all receive qi and thereby achieve form—what is called “qi forming the body.” The nature possessed in the body all belongs to temperament nature (the nature that comes with qi, blood, and form); how then can original true nature be discerned? Moreover, the original face before one’s parents had begotten one is nothing other than this “○” (symbolizing the formless, imageless original state). Only when there is not yet a body is it thus. After birth, once one has received qi and formed a body, how can one again obtain this “○” nature? Unless this body declines, perishes, and returns to utter nothingness can one again obtain this “○.”

Dongran said: When ordinary people are born, can they regain such “○” nature merely by upholding the five constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness)? Only when this body is extinguished and returns to utter nothingness can one again obtain this “○.”

Dongran said: Human birth is endowed with the nature of the Five Constants—each person receives only one of these constant endowments in predominance, which is why the world has distinctions of strong and weak, hard and soft, wise and foolish, worthy and unworthy. The five natures of Water, Fire, Wood, Metal, and Earth are all contained within true nature (the original nature of human beings). The original substance of true nature is pure Jing (essence)—empty, penetrating, luminous, and still. As for temperament (the acquired disposition that forms once Qi condenses into a body), it is simply how things are after Qi has formed the physical body. After parents give birth to a person, the bodily form does not in itself obstruct emptiness and clarity; this is what is called “the empty and numinous is never obscured” (the mind-substance is empty, numinous, and never dimmed). Form belongs to form; the empty and numinous belongs to the empty and numinous. The empty and numinous is the numinous awareness of Shen (spirit) in the heart—without visible trace, yet felt as clarity within emptiness. This is what the Yijing (Book of Changes) means by “still and unmoving in itself, yet responsive and penetrating when touched.” When it comes to bodily form, there is something concrete present. Thus the substance of the empty and numinous was already so before one’s parents were born (the text marks this original state with ○), and remains so after birth—the bodily form cannot obstruct the empty and numinous. The so-called temperament arises because, once a person forms a body through Qi, every movement, stillness, word, and deed, every response to the myriad changes, is nothing but the operation of knowledge. Once one falls into discriminating knowledge, the luminosity of the nature is obscured, like a bright mirror covered with dust or a clear spring muddied. Handling affairs as they come is invariably the work of the acquired consciousness (the postnatal mind of discrimination and calculation)—this is true nature mixed and turned into temperament, hence the name “temperament-nature.” If a person can keep the heart free of attachment and let no thought arise, the nature-substance becomes clear and bright, still yet always luminous, responsive yet always still. This nature-substance, the Daoists call “perfect roundness and illumination,” the Buddhists call “perfect enlightenment,” the Confucians call “Bright Virtue,” also called “supreme goodness.” After the body declines and perishes, the body dies but the heart does not die; the form perishes but Shen does not perish. What is meant by “returning to complete nothingness” refers to the bodily form; the heart-nature was originally empty and without substance. If the heart stops on anything or clings to anything, how can it restore the original substance of emptiness, clarity, and stillness? What is called cultivation is simply this: whether in stillness or in activity, constantly keeping oneself aware of this perfect roundness, integrity, and stillness.