《吕祖全书》Vol. 6

The purpose of “unity” (heyi) is the highest skill of fully realizing one’s own nature, and what one can accomplish in reaching one’s allotted destiny (ming). How can beginners achieve this? They can only constantly discern and hold to it within their own heart-mind (xin). The human heart-mind from the outset possesses the principle of Heaven (tianli); human mind is heavenly mind. Heaven has the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji, the cosmic origin); the human heart-mind also has the Supreme Ultimate. Heaven has centrality and harmony (zhonghe—impartial and balanced); the human heart-mind also has centrality and harmony. Zisi (Confucius’s grandson) said: “The Dao is not far from people; if people practice the Dao in a way that puts the Dao far from people, that cannot be called the Dao.”

Outside the heart-mind there is no Dao; outside the Dao there is no heart-mind. For people to cultivate the Dao is to cultivate the heart-mind; to cultivate the heart-mind is to cultivate the Dao. What difference is there in the Dao? What difference is there in the heart-mind? That every person has this one heart-mind means each person possesses a Heaven of their own; that all share this one heart-mind means all share this one Heaven and this one Dao. It is only that worldly people sink into desire, themselves obscuring heavenly principle and clouding their original mind, and cannot, in the subtle realm where sound and scent have vanished, seek a Heaven like “what Heaven bears” (shangtian zhi zai). At the very moment before a thought stirs in my heart-mind, it is already in unison with the deep, solemn qi of Heaven—not that apart from this heart-mind there is some other principle to unite with. If one leaves this heart-mind to seek union with Heaven, that is heterodox teaching that deceives the people, not the correct path. Long ago I said that “the art of turning base metal to gold might mislead people five hundred years hence”—precisely for the sake of this heart-mind, not daring to deceive oneself and thus deceive Heaven, I was therefore received and perfected by the holy master. Now, through spirit-writing (feilian, planchette-style descent of the brush), the teaching is unfolded—again employing this compassionate heart-mind to carry out Heaven’s way on its behalf. If the hearts of sentient beings match my heart, Heaven will surely protect them, and I too will discern it; the utmost Dao can then be attained.

Chapter 24, “Sustaining Flourishing Lies in De (Virtue/Power),” means that keeping prosperity depends on virtuous character.

Among winged creatures there are three hundred and sixty kinds, with the phoenix at their head; among furred creatures three hundred and sixty kinds, with the unicorn (lin) at their head; among the “bare-skinned” kind (creatures with little hair, nearly naked) three hundred and sixty kinds, with the human at their head.

Within the universe, the myriad things are not uniform. Birds and beasts differ from one another; the sharp-witted and the dull each have their place, and each kind has its leader among them. Among three hundred and sixty kinds of hair-covered creatures, the qilin is their chief; among three hundred and sixty kinds of bare-skinned creatures, the human is their chief. They simply follow the endowment they received, growing and multiplying on their own between heaven and earth. If you tried to compare them and force them to be the same, how could that work?

It is not only the various kinds of things that are so. Heaven and earth are vast, the sun and moon are bright—they ought to cover and carry everything, to shine on everything. Yet heaven is not complete in the southeast, and earth too is lacking in the northwest; in the northernmost yin region, the sun and moon do not reach. Therefore Zisi (Confucius’s grandson) said: “Though heaven and earth are vast, people still have things to regret.” Qu Yuan said: “Where does the sun not shine? Where does Zhulong (the legendary dragon that holds a torch in the dark) turn its light? Before Xihe (the deity who drives the sun) has raised the sun, what makes the flowers of the ruo tree shine?” With heaven and earth so great and the sun and moon so bright, there are still places that fall short—how much more so for human beings?

In former times the Real Person Wang, the True King (immortal Wang Fangping), took as his master the Yuanjun Magu (the female immortal Magu). The Yuanjun told him: “Since I began receiving guests, the blue sea has three times turned into mulberry fields, and the waters of Penglai have grown shallower again.” Thus the passing of time is only an instant—a galloping colt through a crack, a flash of lightning, are not enough to describe it. The axe handle in woodcutter Wang Zhi’s hands—in the blink of an eye a thousand years had gone by; a fisherman who reached the river mouth and wished to return could no longer find the crossing.

Within the six directions (the whole cosmos above and below, in every quarter), nothing is outside illusion; every sentient being is an illusory body. With an illusory body passing through illusory realms, strange transformations have been told without end since antiquity. Pursued to the utmost, heaven and earth too belong to illusion and will in the end decay and perish. Hence it is said that truth (cheng) is the end and beginning of things—heaven and earth are no more than one thing among things. Only heaven and earth endure long; people cannot match them.

Heaven and earth, however, never stay at a full peak. Consider the sun and moon: once the sun passes noon it slopes west; when the moon is full it begins to wane—fullness and lack turn in an endless cycle. Consider mountains and rivers: water that is too full spills over; earth piled too high collapses—spilling and collapsing shift with the things themselves. Consider the myriad beings: morning mushrooms, which live and die in a single morning, never see the next month’s new and full moon; summer cicadas, born in summer and gone by autumn, never know spring from autumn—even the smallest difference in endowment separates the sharp from the dull. In the first month of summer, flowers crowd the branches and grass and trees run riot, yet delicate, tender blades wither first—how are we to read that? In the first month of spring, spring thunder rolls; fruit and plants break their shells and sprout, peach and plum bloom in rivalry. When the warm winds of summer blow, pomegranate flowers blaze like fire and lotus scent grows heavy—but turn around and peach and plum have already faded. When the golden winds of autumn stir and white dew first beads, chrysanthemums open in late autumn and stir the recluse’s heart, while caltrop and lotus lose their fragrance. The pool lies clear and green—where are the lotuses of yesterday? Look closely at the four seasons: cold and heat take turns, flourishing and fading rise and fall without end.

Things in the world are inherently unequal—that is simply how things are. What can run cannot be forced to fly; what is dull cannot be made sharp and clever against its nature. That is how their nature is. The Supreme Lord of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Dijun—the Daoist honorific title for Zhuangzi) spoke of “equalizing things” (qi wu); he did not mean that all things are identical, but that, viewed from beginning to end as a whole, they all return to the root and restore their original mandate (guigen fuming)—only then do they seem unified. Therefore the perfected person (zhiren), looking far at the myriad things and near at himself, knows that fullness and emptiness, decline and growth, naturally take turns: where one side is abundant, another falls short; there is no principle of everlasting peak prosperity. Hence one should act according to one’s station and not grasp outward. When at the height of flourishing, one must all the more keep watch against overturn and ruin. Thus to hold high rank without arrogance is how one long preserves honor; to dwell in abundance without extravagance is how one long preserves wealth. When the sages ordered the sequence of the Changes (Yijing), they placed the hexagram Modesty (Qian) immediately after Great Possession (Dayou)—because only by holding great possession yet remaining modest can one long keep everything; this applies not only at the moment of full flourishing. Formerly Confucius praised Wei Gongzi Jing of Wei for governing his household well, precisely because he knew contentment. The Supreme One (Taishang—Laozi) said: “To know contentment is not to be disgraced; to know when to stop is to be without danger—one may endure long.” A Buddhist scripture says: “One who knows contentment, though poor, is as if rich; one who does not know contentment, though rich, is as if poor—and is often pitied by those who know contentment.” The Book of Poetry says: “Without resentment and without covetous greed—what undertaking would not go well?” Once discontent arises, greedy desire is born; when greedy desire is born, resentment and covetous greed grow heavier, the right way to meet one’s circumstances is wholly lost—how much more so when one is at the peak of prosperity. Therefore when prosperity rises, joy appears and pride and extravagance follow; when something goes slightly against one’s wish, worry arises and anger flares. These follow one another by a fixed logic—it is necessarily so.

The cosmos is vast, and the span from ancient times to the present is long—can there never have been families at the height of their glory? I will not multiply examples here. Take the eight branches of the Xi clan in Jin: they produced five grand officers and three ministers—a pinnacle of eminence; within a few generations their descendants were plowing the fields. Or Tang-era Fenyang (Prince of Fenyang Guo Ziyi): his merit lay in restoring the imperial cause, his name endures in history, he stood at the summit of subjecthood, and many in his house held office—again a pinnacle of eminence; likewise within a few generations the residence the emperor had granted him belonged to others. Where, in the end, does the momentum of full prosperity reside? Therefore, while fortune is rising, one should only hold to humility, settle into thrift, and guard virtue. As for the fixed pattern of rise and decline, leave it to Heaven and rest in fate. To wish to remain forever at full prosperity without the slightest slip—since antiquity, that has never happened.

Chapter Twenty-Five, “Clear Verification of Cause and Condition” (Yinyuan Mingyan): this is the twenty-fifth chapter; the title “Clear Verification of Cause and Condition” uses plain examples to verify cause and condition (karma and retribution).

The transformations of the Dao proceed thus: from void (xu) to spirit (Shen), from spirit to Qi, from Qi to form and body. Once form and body come into being, the myriad things become obstructed. Why are they obstructed? Because they are hemmed in by form and Qi. In the human body, the eyes govern seeing and the ears govern hearing. Seeing demands clarity, hearing demands acuity; the organs differ in shape and their functions are distinct from one another. The chicken belongs among feathered creatures: by day its vision is clear, at night it is dim. The owl (xiao), likewise feathered, is dim by day yet sees clearly at night. The reason the two differ is that each is confined by its own form and Qi. Consider again empty space: space is not a solid thing, yet one who has attained the Dao can walk within the void. Consider metal and stone: metal and stone are not empty, yet one who has attained the Dao can pass through them. The human being’s five senses and four limbs cannot substitute for one another—but through the divine power of the Tathagata, the eyes may perform the work of the ears, and the ears may perform the work of the eyes. What is it that turns obstruction into unobstructed flow? It is “transformation” (hua). The Dao transforms everywhere and reveals its wonder in every place.

As for the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water): Earth by nature restrains Water, yet when Water grows strong it can in turn harm Earth and clog it with silt; Wood by nature generates Fire, yet when Fire blazes fiercely it can burn Wood to ash. Among them are generation, restraint, change, and transformation. Change is from nonbeing to being—it does not arise without cause; transformation is from being to nonbeing—it does not vanish without cause. In both, causes and conditions (yinyuan: grounds and contributing factors) are at work.

Long ago, when Shakyamuni taught the Dharma, he used many causal links and parables to instruct; Ajnata-Kondanna and others all awakened through such causes and conditions. The Lotus Sutra (Fahua Jing) expounded dependent origination once, and Purna and others all received predictions of future buddhahood. It was not only ancient sages and buddhas who acted thus. Even when I was formerly Miaoxing Zhenren (the immortal name before Patriarch Lü’s birth) and my spirit descended to be born into the Lü family, there was a reason for it. Without karmic ties from past lives, how could I have been born in that house? Later I met the sacred master Zhengyang (Zhongli Quan), who bestowed on me one scroll of the Scripture for Saving Humanity (Duren Jing)—again because Shaoyang Dijun, the ancestral sage, had made this connection clear, so that I could be saved. That ancestral sage was a man of the Zhou dynasty; only in the Han did he save Zhengyang—likewise on Taishang’s (Supreme Sovereign’s) order he went down the mountain to wait on the great road and then returned to the immortal grotto. Because of the merit of saving Zhengyang, he was confirmed as Donghua Zifu Shaoyang Dijun; later the sacred master too, for the merit of saving me, was confirmed as Zhengyang Chuandao Chuiji Dijun. Without such causes and conditions, from Zhou to Han would have been many centuries, and from Han to Tang many more—how could we have met as if by appointment?

Though the universe is vast, without causes planted in past lives, even meeting face to face one may still miss the connection; if the bond is truly from former lifetimes, distance of a thousand or ten thousand li counts for nothing. Long ago the First Patriarch of the Eastern Land (Dharma, first patriarch after Chan reached China) received the charge of the Twenty-Seventh Patriarch of the Western Heaven: “Your karmic affinity lies in Zhendan (China).” He crossed the sea and arrived in the Tianjian era of Emperor Wu of Liang. When his exchange on the Dharma with the emperor failed to align, he withdrew to Mount Shaoshi, faced the wall for nine years, and later met Shenguang (Huike), to whom he gave the verse: “One flower opens five petals; the fruit ripens of itself.” When it reached the Sixth Patriarch (Huineng), it exactly matched “one flower, five petals”—was that not affinity fixed long before?

I myself (Master Lü’s own account) spread teaching in Piling (in the region of present-day Changzhou) and stayed at Qizhen and other places; whether the bond called for long or short, it was never meeting without prior cause.

I received appointment from the Jade Pure Lingbao (supreme heaven and the Lingbao lineage), hold the spirit talisman of the Miluo Golden Palace (heavenly court), and in the great trichiliocosm universally deliver those with affinity. In compassion I hope that not a single person fails to be saved, so in one day I may attend three thousand assemblies—how could that be confined to one region or one place alone?

Yet however vast and deep the vow, the cause must still be cultivated through former lives. Like rain and dew, they cannot make a tree without roots grow. Thus a small cause yields a small affinity, a great cause a great affinity; there is no good cause that forms an evil bond, nor an evil cause that forms a good bond. Take the altars built for me in the Chu region—I no longer know how many there are; how much more so from the Tang until now, a thousand years across so vast a realm, my altars number in the tens of thousands. Those who now delight in my Way are precisely people who in a previous kalpa (former life) once believed in me and planted the cause. Deep affinity comes from deep cause; shallow affinity from shallow cause.

All of you disciples: today you are fortunate to gather at this altar—it is no accident. Each of you should examine yourselves in practice; that is a good cause, and together you bind good affinities. Those who can cultivate without turning back do so because in past kalpas they once served me. Where affinity runs deep, the cause was deep; where it runs shallow, the cause was shallow.

All of you disciples: today you are fortunate to gather at this altar—not by chance. Each should reflect and amend; that is a good cause, and you jointly forge good karmic ties. If you can cultivate without retreat, until cause is deep and affinity ripe, and you awaken to the Great Dao and become perfected persons, then you may trust it for yourselves. In former times Śāriputra—in the age of the Buddha “Lofty Sound King”—was already a disciple in Śākyamuni’s past cultivation of causes, kalpa after kalpa keeping close company without the slightest break; later, in Śākyamuni’s assembly, he ranked first in wisdom. All of you disciples: keep sincere intent, deeply trust cause and affinity; let the sprout of goodness renew day by day, and good karma will flourish because of it—do not be deluded and dim, and fall into a crooked path by your own doing.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Crime, Merit, Retribution, and Response

In high antiquity, plain simplicity had not yet thinned; sages and worthies held the heights, teaching and transforming until the realm was complete—every person had goodness and no evil. In middle antiquity, plain simplicity had already thinned, and so…

In high antiquity, when the breath of simple purity had not yet grown thin, sages held office and taught the realm; people inclined toward goodness and away from wrongdoing. By middle antiquity that purity had faded; wrongdoing was common and virtue scarce. Sages then drew on the way of spirits and gods to teach, setting forth the principle of reward and retribution for good and evil and the law of birth, death, and cyclic rebirth, so that people might reform and turn toward goodness.

Some Confucian scholars did not grasp that the cycle of Heaven’s Way and retribution allows no slack: aligning with Heaven’s Way brings fortune; going against it brings misfortune. When they heard Buddhists and immortals speak of retribution that actually came to pass, they often dismissed it as groundless fantasy, even claiming that before Buddhism entered China there was no talk of hellish torments such as pounding in mortars and grinding on millstones. They did not know that the sufferings of hell are recorded clearly in immortal scriptures and can be verified—they are not found only in Buddhist texts. Moreover, that the good ascend while accumulated evil sends one into the three paths of woe (hell, hungry ghosts, and animals) to suffer was plainly taught by the sages; it is simply that such matters belong to the hidden realm and people have not seen them with their own eyes.

The Supreme Venerable Sovereign (Tai Shang Laojun) said: “The way of Heaven does not contend, yet it excels at prevailing; it does not speak, yet it excels at responding.” Are these mere idle words? The various hellish scenes in Buddhist scriptures—pounding, grinding, and the rest—exist because people of dull capacity are hard to guide by reason alone; the three paths of woe must be shown plainly to warn them. This truly springs from Buddhist compassion and from necessity. The Vimalakīrti Sūtra says that people in this land are stubborn and hard to transform, so the Buddha uses stern words to subdue them. That does not mean those who cultivate goodness will suffer pounding and grinding. For those of upper and middle capacity, one speaks only of the work of illuminating the mind and seeing one’s true nature; as for guilt and retribution, one merely admonishes them not to transgress.

The principle of retribution is not repeated only by Buddhists and immortals; Confucian classics record it too, more than can be listed. The Spring and Autumn Annals, for example, is the great norm handed down by the ancient sages: events are recorded first, retribution verified afterward; across two hundred forty-two years, instances where retribution stood clear are beyond counting. A few examples will suffice.

Duke Xiang of Qi was in fact responsible for the death of the ruler of Lu. When the people of Lu came to demand an account, he shifted the blame onto Prince Pengsheng—the Qi prince who had been ordered to harm the Lu ruler. When the minister Cui Zhu rose in rebellion, the ruler saw a pig standing upright and weeping like a human, saying, “I am Prince Pengsheng.” Terrified, he fled and soon met his end.

The ghostly portent in the state of Zheng was spoken before Gongshu Duan (younger brother of Duke Zhuang of Zheng) was put to death the following year; when Duan was killed the next year, the omen was fulfilled. Is this not grievance and vengeance still at work after death?

At the Covenant of Kuiqiu—the great alliance Duke Huan of Qi presided over—the first article of the pact declared that no one should replace an established heir or elevate a concubine to the rank of principal wife. Yet in his own palace he had six favored women treated as if they were wives, with the result that after his death five sons fought for the throne, his body could not be properly encoffined, and maggots crawled as far as the outer gate of his chamber. Is this not the bitter price of breaking one’s oath?

Duke Xian of Jin borrowed a passage through Yu to destroy the state of Guo—a scheme of extreme cunning—and Heaven answered with cunning in turn. Xian took Li Ji to wife; she bore Xiqi and Zhuozi. He wiped out other states and took their women; the enemy was at his side while he remained blind to the danger, until Crown Prince Shen Sheng was killed, Prince Chong’er fled into exile, and Huai and Hui also went abroad, so that the state nearly perished. Can anyone claim that Heaven does not see through secret plots?

As for Wei Kuo, who “tied grass” to turn back an enemy: he honored his father’s clear last wish and had his father’s concubine remarried; she repaid the kindness from the realm below and helped him overcome his foe. Who can say that all dealings with ghosts and spirits are empty and unbelievable?

Yet Han Yu of Changli, a leading Confucian, also called the Zuo Commentary overwrought; Liu Zongyuan, a man of considerable learning, likewise often refused to credit such accounts—how much more so those who fall short of them?

Examples of retribution for good and evil, in past and present, are not limited to these. Lü Buwei gave a concubine who was already pregnant to the king of Qin, hoping his own son would become Son of Heaven; that child later became the First Emperor of Qin, so that the imperial line of Qin was, in effect, Lü blood in place of Ying. Nevertheless Lü Buwei still died at the hands of that very son.

From ancient times to the present, examples of retribution for good and evil are not limited to these. Lü Buwei, a merchant of the late Warring States who later became chancellor of Qin, presented a pregnant concubine to the king of Qin so that his own son might become emperor; that child was Qin Shi Huang, and for a time the imperial line of Qin seemed to pass from the surname Ying to Lü. Yet Lü Buwei in the end died at the hands of his own son. His scheming was ingenious; Heaven’s retribution was more ingenious still. Lord Chunshen, Huang Xie, prime minister of Chu in the Warring States, gave a pregnant concubine to the king of Chu in the hope that his son would become king, and was killed by that very woman. Those who plot against others are plotted against in turn; those who harm others are harmed in turn, and calamity can arrive in an instant. Even so, these are only cases of retribution among human beings.

The Qin general Lord Wu’an, Bai Qi, who at Changping slaughtered or buried alive four hundred thousand Zhao troops, is said still to wander in the path of rebirth as beasts—the karmic destination of falling into animal forms—with no end in sight. Qin was already a brutal state, and Bai Qi served it with further brutality, treating tens of thousands of lives as less than a dog or a pig. The Way of Heaven cherishes life; bitter retribution of this kind is what he earned, and even across countless ages it would be hard to undo. Accounts in unofficial histories, and in works such as Gongguo and Quanshan—books that record merit and fault and urge people toward good—come partly from hearsay and partly from eyewitness; even when the stories are very strange, many can be taken seriously and are not all empty invention. The cosmos is vast: what reason says cannot be often turns out to be so in fact. How can one dismiss everything out of hand?

The Book of Poetry says: “When the spirits draw near, none can guess their ways—how dare we be slack?” It also says: “Heaven is bright and clear, rising and descending among human affairs, observing day by day.” And again: “God on high is watching you—do not be of two minds.”

Whenever disciples in the assembly hear that someone has received a good retribution (the favorable consequence of doing good), they should rejoice and say: “Why can’t I be like that too?” Joy in the heart gives rise to vigor; once stirred to vigor, one wants to follow that example, and a mind of goodness arises from it. When they hear that someone has received an unfavorable retribution, they should be alert and fearful, saying: “Do I also have such things in myself?” Alertness in the heart leads to self-restraint; once restrained, one fears walking that path again, and an unwholesome mind is checked. Hence it is said: “When you see the worthy, think of matching them; when you see the unworthy, turn and examine yourself inwardly.” If one sees good but does not know how to encourage oneself toward it, sees what is not good but does not know how to be on guard—or hears of good retribution and feels jealousy instead, or hears of bad retribution and feels glad—holding such attitudes, one may fear that unwholesome causes accumulate day by day until the bad retribution falls on oneself. Never fall into the one-sided views of pedantic Confucian scholars who treat the retribution taught by Buddhists and immortals as untrustworthy, take the scripture’s cycle of birth and death (endless round of living and dying) and the painful realms of hell (the suffering states in hell) as mere fiction, willingly sink into decline, and refuse to repent even unto death.

Chapter 27: Verification through the Responsive Power of Ghosts and Spirits

In former times, when Kumarajīva (the translator of Buddhist scriptures) was near parinirvāṇa (peaceful passing), he vowed before the Buddha: “Every sūtra and treatise I have translated follows the Sanskrit originals. If a single word fails to accord with the Buddha’s intent, let my tongue be destroyed at once.” Therefore at his cremation ( śarīra fire offering), all present saw: though the whole body was consumed, the tongue alone remained intact, like a red lotus flower. To this day, the scriptures and treatises he translated are revered by ghosts and spirits; in immortal palaces and on isles of the immortals, devas and nāgas (heavenly beings and dragon assemblies) guard them and offer incense and flowers. Are these empty words, strange opinions, or books of wild fancy?

Some Confucian scholars in the world have narrow experience and limited understanding; shut away in one corner, they fail to grasp that Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism spring from a common root. As soon as desire stirs, they sink into lust; before marriage and family are settled, they are already near the dusk of life. They do not see that the four great elements of the body—earth, water, fire, and wind—are empty, nor that the sentient beings before their eyes are all illusion. So they abandon what is true and chase what is false, freely mocking and reviling texts of immortality and treating Buddhist scriptures with contempt; they call the principle that virtue brings blessing and vice brings harm something with no basis, and they ridicule the teaching of birth, death, and rebirth as unworthy of belief. At bottom, their own nature is unclear and their grasp of principle is not thorough. Ask whether they can unite and penetrate nature and life (xingming), and they are blank; look whether they are solid in human relations and duty, and it is only show. Alone in the room they already feel shame; alone with their shadow in bed they feel guilt all the more—how then dare they treat spirits and gods as empty fiction and buddhas and immortals as wild fantasy? When Zilu asked how to serve the spirits, the Sage Confucius answered, “You are not yet able to serve people—how could you serve ghosts?” That was practical guidance, not disbelief in spirits. The Sage also said, “Life and death are matters of great weight!”

The principles of life and death are something that even worthies and sages cannot escape. The Book of Changes says: “Trace things back to their beginning and return to their end, and thus you can know the principles of life and death; when refined qi gathers and forms things, and the wandering soul undergoes change, thus you can know the true state of ghosts and spirits.” What is called refined qi is spirit arriving and life arising; what is called the wandering soul is po descending and death occurring. Once this is understood, the principle of rebirth—the cycle of birth and death and renewed incarnation—becomes clear. Zhang Zai (Zihou) said: “Only when one knows that death is not annihilation can one discuss nature with him.” The two terms “life” and “death” refer to the physical body; they do not mean that mind-nature itself has birth and death. The body may decay, but original nature does not decay. It is like grass and trees: though branches and leaves wither, the root remains in the earth, and in spring they sprout again. Ordinary people who accumulate blessed merit are reborn in the human realm and heavenly realms; those who create karmic obstructions fall into wretched destinies—this follows the same principle. If one holds that life and death mean complete annihilation after death, then the account in the “Metal Coffer” chapter of the Book of Documents, in which the Duke of Zhou offered himself in the king’s place to bear misfortune, where he says “I am benevolent like my late father and skilled in many arts, able to serve ghosts and spirits”—and the words with which the Duke prayed to the former kings of Zhou—would flatly contradict the annihilationist view common among worldly Confucians. On annihilationist grounds, when the Duke died in the king’s stead, his body would already have rotted and his spirit dispersed; however many arts he possessed, how could he still serve ghosts and spirits? Moreover, ghosts and spirits would themselves have been annihilated—what could there be for the Duke to serve?

The rites of sacrifice were highly valued by the ancient sages. If ghosts and spirits are vague and without foundation, then what the classics praise as “living frugally yet offering one’s reverence to ghosts and spirits” (as the Analects says in praise of Yu the Great)—would that not be pedantic? Even if one holds that sacrifice is merely descendants receiving the qi of their ancestors, and that qi meeting qi enables responsive communion (gange: the spirits being moved and responding), then when the Son of Heaven sacrifices to the Five Sacred Mountains, the Four Great Rivers, and the mountains and rivers, he is not their descendant—how then can there be responsive communion? Mencius (Zi Yu) said: let Shun and Yu preside over sacrifice, and the myriad spirits all come to partake. Were Shun and Yu descendants of the myriad spirits? Thus although the way of ghosts and spirits is remote and hard to fathom, the principles of life and death are plainly visible. Responsive effect is faster than drumbeats striking the drum; karmic retribution in the wheel of rebirth turns like a chariot wheel, with extreme swiftness. If there were no retribution for good and evil, no hell, and no rebirth, how would the Creator of Things settle the case of the sage Yan Hui, who was restored to sagehood? And why would Heaven favor Cao Cao, Emperor Wu of Wei, above all others?

As for the book Zhengao (True Declarations), it is a later forgery and not to be trusted. If “rewarding good and punishing evil” had no basis at all, then those who cultivate themselves and act with integrity throughout life, diligent and careful, would be worse off than those who indulge desires, chase profit, and commit evil deeds yet slip through by luck—that would be the winning strategy. Custom grows more corrupt day by day; hearts grow more shallow day by day. When evil retribution is already clear before one’s eyes, people still defy death with arrogance—how much more the sufferings of hell after death! Since they neither know nor accept this, it is no wonder they live without knowing where they came from, die without knowing where they are going, waste this life, and day after day remain within the wheel of rebirth without realizing it.

People in the world are used to handling affairs with clever stratagems, thinking that if they stir thoughts in some hidden place, the spirits may not know at once. They do not realize that the dharma realm—the totality in which all phenomena abide—and one’s own mind were never two things to begin with. As soon as the mind moves, the ten directions and the three realms can all know it. That is why the opening of the Doctrine of the Mean teaches scholars with vigilance and caution and with reverence in solitude: though the spirits seem dim and beyond sight, deep and beyond hearing, the spirit within one’s own heart cannot be deceived.

Every disciple who has entered the Way should wake and cultivate himself: do not treat the wheel of birth and death as empty fiction, and do not treat the retribution of spirits as vague and distant. Once the heart of vigilance arises, good causes are gradually accumulated and evil karma is gradually cleared away; offering up bright De as fragrant incense, the spirits will naturally receive and enjoy it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Dharma Body Is Uniform (the substance of the Way is everywhere the same, without division)

The Way of true constancy is originally complete in every person. Whether one moves or is still, speaks or is silent, it is all this true and constant De; offering it as fragrant incense, the spirits will partake of it.

The Dao of true constancy is something every person already possesses in themselves. Whether one moves or rests, speaks or is silent, it is this true constancy that manifests in responsive function; in dealing with others and handling affairs, one is appropriate everywhere without omission. What Confucians call “sincerity without ceasing” (zhicheng wuxi), what Daoists call “attaining one’s nature through true constancy” (zhenchang dexing), and what Buddhists call “the constant-nature true mind” (changxing zhenxin)—the principle is one and the same.

The Dao is inherently true, so one should realize it with complete freedom from falsity; the Dao is inherently constant, so one should pursue it with unwavering perseverance. If one treats non-being as being and emptiness as fullness, and scattered deluded thoughts churn on, one loses the “true.” If one cultivates one day and neglects ten, or changes course whenever something else appears, one loses the “constant.” Therefore the way of Heaven and Earth runs forever without stopping; the way of the noble person, once established, does not shift from its proper direction.

This Dao of true constancy is also what the Yujing and Qingjing (Daoist classics) call the Dao of true unity without duality. It gives birth to the myriad dharmas, hence it is called the “Dharma gate” (entry to the Way). The Yijing says: “Complete the nature, preserve and keep it—the gate of the Dao and its power.” Many principles spring from here; that is the meaning of “gate.” Hence “One gives birth to two, two gives birth to three, three gives birth to the myriad things. The myriad things carry yin and embrace yang.” What is this “One”? It is sincerity (cheng). Yin and yang as the two modes divide here; Heaven, Earth, and humanity as the three powers are fixed here; the myriad things are born and grow here. The way of Heaven and Earth in transforming and nurturing the myriad things never departs from this single principle, so the mystery of generation cannot be fathomed. Heaven and Earth are this one; human beings and things are this one; sages, buddhas, and immortals equally are this one; the Supreme Lord (Shangdi) is also this one.

This Dharma gate of true unity without duality is most numinous and precious, and most pure and clear. When Yuanshi (Primordial Lord) ascended the seat to teach the Dharma, it was to elucidate this one; when the Jade Emperor (Yuhuang Dadi) manifested in birth, it was rooted in this one; cultivating the Dao on Mount Puming Xiangyan was cultivating this one; becoming a buddha or an emperor is all the full realization of this one. In terms of outward signs, the land of Guangyan Miaole is where the Supreme Lord appeared in birth; Mount Puming is the place of true cultivation. In terms of the Dao, Guangyan Miaole is the person’s dignified body; Puming Xiangyan is the luminous mind-ground.

The Jade Emperor (Shangdi) gave up his kingdom to cultivate the Way, just as Shakyamuni Buddha renounced his status as heir to the Brahma-king and refused to rest content in high rank, going instead to the snowy mountains to practice. “Snowy mountains” and “Fragrant Cliff” (Xiangyan) both signify purity.

Why does each stage of the Jade Emperor’s cultivation speak of “eight hundred” kalpas? Here is a brief explanation. The first eight hundred kalpas of renouncing the realm mark the eight kinds of “turning away from attachment” (ba bei she)—eight modes of leaving behind grasping; in Buddhism too, the six paramitas begin with dana (giving). The next eight hundred kalpas turn the eight consciousnesses into the great mirror wisdom (dayuanjing zhi)—wisdom perfected from mind-consciousness—for without wisdom one cannot enter the path. Another eight hundred kalpas stand for the eightfold correct path (ba zhengdao): the six paramitas and all other practices converge on the utmost rectitude of the Dao. The later eight hundred kalpas of giving up one’s own flesh and blood signify the eight liberations (ba jietuo). Until then cultivation still clung to “person” and “dharmas”; when flesh and blood are relinquished, both sides—person and dharmas—are forgotten. Hence through three thousand two hundred kalpas one attains the rank of Golden Immortal (jinxian).

Long ago Shakyamuni’s buddhahood took countless millions of kalpas; how could the Jade Emperor have needed only three thousand two hundred? “Three thousand” means transcending the three realms and penetrating the three vehicles; “two hundred” means the perfect interpenetration of the two truths (er di yuantong). These three thousand two hundred kalpas are precisely the causes of buddhahood. Effect matches cause: the Buddha is called Great Awakening and also Dharma King (fawang); the Jade Emperor is likewise titled Awakened King Tathagata (juewang rulai). Yet his compassion is vast: he yielded the buddha’s seat and did not occupy it, and went on to practice the bodhisattva path. After further countless kalpas he only then verified the throne of the Jade Emperor (yudi)—the power of his merit is beyond reckoning.

Why is the Jade Maiden’s pure, clear body the same as the Jade Emperor’s? Because when Yin and Yang unite, that is called the Dao (the Way). The Jade Maiden’s practice of every kind of sublime conduct is cultivation of this Dao; the Supreme Lord’s universal shining of divine light is the disclosure of this Dao. Hence the subtle fragrance of liberation that flows from the Jade Maiden’s body brings benefit throughout the six realms—heaven, humanity, asuras, animals, hungry ghosts, and hell.

In the past Shariputra, a disciple of the Buddha, doubted that the dragon girl could become a Buddha, holding that the female body is impure and carries five obstructions, so how could she attain Buddhahood? That was still clinging to outer form and appearance. The Great Dao does not divide male and female; it cannot be sought through color, shape, or sound.

When the Jade Emperor sends forth light, it illumines boundless worlds; golden immortals (Buddhas) and bodhisattvas arrive scattering flowers and wafting fragrance—showing that immortals and Buddhas spring from one source, not two separate teachings. When Shakyamuni taught the Dharma long ago, his light moved the earth and all the heavenly lords gathered; it was the same. The Supreme Lord has measureless light—why are only seventeen kinds named? From antiquity, those who cultivated the Dao among Buddhas and immortals first aroused the four immeasurables—kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity—and only then reached the summit of sagehood, divine power, and transformation. Thus the Supreme Lord’s seventeen lights run from the light of great compassion to the light of none can surpass. Such radiance is not wholly absent in living beings: ordinary people have it yet hide it from themselves; sages have it yet may not reach the full extreme; only the Supreme Lord possesses it completely, so it is the most vast.

The Lord of the High Void Pure Bright Heaven is the eighth of the Nine Heavens wherein spirits are born—how could he not know the Jade Emperor’s affairs? Yet the Primordial Lord of the Dao still said: “You still, because of deep-seated habit, do not see this Lord’s compassionate countenance.” Beings’ obstructions are heavy; they cannot see nature (zixing—the original face of the mind). Therefore, by putting words in the Heavenly Lord’s mouth, the text teaches the world to cut obstructions. The first thing in cutting obstructions is to arouse great compassion; only compassion can deliver the world. So toward all beings, bodhisattvas wish to ferry them entirely to remainderless nirvana—the complete cessation of affliction and birth-and-death.

All doubt and indecision, entanglement in right and wrong, clinging to the distinction between self and other, and greed, hatred, pride, arrogance, and lust—these various obstructions are the root of falling into samsara, the unending cycle of birth and death. What the scripture calls “duan zhang” (cutting off obstructions) is what Buddhism calls “du sheng” (delivering beings from suffering), and what Confucianism calls “ke ji” (restraining oneself and one’s selfish desires). Cultivation must begin here. One who upholds this scripture, if able to cut off obstructions and drop private motives, quiet the mind and hold to the right Way, without pride or deceit, with full loyalty and filial piety, taking refuge in and practicing the supreme Great Dao—that alone qualifies as “Zhengyi Zhenren” (a person of upright, unified heart who has truly attained the Way). It is not by reciting aloud that one may call oneself a zhenren (perfected person).

You disciples in the assembly often recite this scripture. If you can remove one by one the various obstructions spoken of in the scripture, until there is no obstruction left to cut, that is the highest skill of realizing the Great Dao and the most essential matter for transcending the ordinary and entering sagehood.

“Chapter Twenty-Nine on Interpreting the Meaning of the Scripture” is the title of the twenty-ninth chapter: it means to expound the meaning and principle of this scripture.

Buddhism and the way of immortals are two distinct traditions: their scriptures differ, and their methods of cultivation diverge in many ways. Yet when I examine the intent of the Yujing (Jade Emperor Scripture), much of it aligns with Buddhist sutras. For example, the scripture says that the Jade Emperor (Yuhuang Dadi), who manifests in countless forms throughout the ten directions, all assemble beneath the dharma assembly of Yuanshi (Primordial Beginning), “like an boundless mirror.” This parallels Shakyamuni’s bodies filling the ten directions: when he was about to open the Treasure Pagoda, he thrice manifested pure lands to receive the Buddha-bodies of the ten directions, who together opened the pagoda. “The wondrous flowers of heavenly treasure offered by the Lord of the Clear and Bright Heaven (a deity in the scripture) immediately formed a flower canopy” likewise matches the five hundred elder sons of Vimalakirti in Vaisali, each holding a seven-jewel canopy to offer to the Buddha, whereupon the Buddha merged all canopies into one. If all were merged into one without differentiation, the marvel of myriad transformations could not be seen; if there were only differentiation without return to the One, the subtlety of the One Origin could not be seen. As for Shakyamuni’s responsive body (the form assumed to save beings), it descended from the Celestial Palace of Seed People (the heaven where “seed people” dwell in Daoist cosmology). According to the Daoist canon, Shakyamuni is also a manifestation of the Jade Emperor—something those who have read the entire canon in depth may not have noticed, and so remain unaware. Thus his visible traces, descent to be born in the world, and the spiritual transformation attained through cultivation are largely the same. What differs is mainly the mandates of the Five Directions (the edicts of the Five Directional Gods). For the Jade Emperor spreads teaching, governs affairs, and stabilizes water and soil—matters in which he differs from the Buddha. Yet the mandates of the Five Directions and the Red Book of Spirit Writing (crimson spirit-texts in Lingbao scriptures) are said by Yuanshi Tianzun to have arisen before the kalpas of calamity, at the very beginning of chaos: yin and yang separated through them, and sun and moon gained their light through them. Consider: before yin and yang were divided and sun and moon had not yet shone, where did this spirit-writing arise? Only one who penetrates this has truly understood. People know only that the Five Old Gods (the Five Directional Celestial Emperors) petitioned Yuanshi to open the Yugui liturgy and transmit the Lingbao teaching, but they do not know that the scripture calls them the Five Olds to show that the five-phase qi (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) that humans receive all return to the original unity.

The spiritual text of the Yugui (Jade Casket) is originally hidden within the human heart-mind. Who says the Yujing (scripture recording the Lord on High’s origin and deeds) speaks only of the Lord’s birth and actions, and is not a book that expounds the Great Dao? If cultivators can, in accordance with the scripture, first cut off the various obstacles and then practice according to the Wufang Lingwen (spirit-texts used in cultivation of the five directions), and persist long enough, the true spirits of Heaven will naturally protect them; demons will be bound in form and unable to act rashly; and the twelve bodies spoken of in the scripture can themselves realize thirty kinds of merit—without forcing, they arrive naturally. What one fears is only that people’s deluded attachments are not removed and worldly obstructions are not purified. If indeed no thoughts arise and the myriad entanglements suddenly cease, then evil karma as numerous as grains of sand will also dissolve with the mind. If one only recites without cultivating, in the end there is still a leaky cause (a practice that cannot reach the ultimate and still leaks away)—this does not accord with the meaning of the scripture. It is not only the Yujing that is so: in reciting any scripture at all, one should understand it in this way.

Many people today follow the Dao, and many gather in groups to chant scriptures. Some worship the Three Officials (Sanyuan—the officials of Heaven, Earth, and Water), some venerate the Northern Dipper (Beidou), some follow Buddhist practices, and some are drawn to the subtle wind of the Daoist path; their methods differ widely. Yet most of them know only that these practices can avert disaster and ward off hardship, and do not understand that learning the Dao and seeking immortality is the greater attainment. Thus many chant scriptures, but few truly grasp what the scriptures mean.

Let me clarify the meaning of the Three Officials (Sanyuan) once more. People know that on Yuntai Mountain dwell three sovereign lords who issue commands from the Capital Assembly Hall (Du Huifu); taken literally, Yuntai Mountain lies amid the northern seas, and the Capital Assembly Hall is where the three sages govern. Viewed this way, one clings to the letter and strays far from the three sages’ intent to teach the world.

If one grasps it through principle, the three sages alike arise from one Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) and are not separate from each person’s own body. The “sea” is the sea of wisdom-nature; Yuntai Mountain is this square inch of ground within the heart; “cloud” is the light of wisdom shining forth in the heart; the Capital Assembly Hall is this body’s numinous treasury—the root of responding aptly in every situation. Master Ziyu (Mencius) said, “All things are complete in me”—is that not precisely this “capital assembly”?

The Upper Origin (Shangyuan) is the nine qi, belonging to the nine yang breaths: in the Five Phases (Wuxing) it is Wood, and in the seasons it is spring, so the Upper Origin is born in the first month, arriving on the spring qi. Among the five constants it is benevolence (ren); benevolence governs loving-kindness, and its function is to bestow blessing. In human life it is the bao mingyuan qi—the fetal origin and the primordial breath of life. The Middle Origin (Zhongyuan) is the seven qi, belonging to the seven yang breaths: in the Five Phases it is Metal, and in the seasons it is autumn, so the Middle Origin is born in the seventh month, arriving on the autumn qi. Among the five constants it is righteousness (yi); righteousness governs judgment, and its function is to pardon sin. In human life it is the hun mingyuan qi. The Lower Origin (Xiayuan) is the five qi, belonging to the five yang breaths: in the Five Phases it is Water, and in the seasons it is winter, so the Lower Origin is born in the tenth month, arriving on the water qi. Among the five constants it is wisdom (zhi); wisdom clears obstructions, and its function is to resolve adversity. In human life it is the po mingyuan qi.

The Three Yuan (the Three Yuan Emperors—the Heaven Official of the Upper Yuan, the Earth Official of the Middle Yuan, and the Water Official of the Lower Yuan) correspond on the human body to Niwan (the upper Dantian at the crown), the Dantian, and Dongfang (the inner landscape palace inward from the brow). When an ordinary person forms a single thought, they can know it, because human spirit and awareness are connected with the Three Yuan. Those who attain the Dao must all be recommended by the Three Yuan before they can become confidential ministers at the side of the Highest Emperor, administering the rewards and punishments of good and evil, assessing cultivators, deciding the promotion and demotion of the immortals, and overseeing the host of deities. Their merit is vast and their authority is weighty. Although the immortal scriptures have been handed down for a long time and many people uphold them, the essential aim was never made clear, so people in the world did not truly understand. I now do not hesitate to lay bare these principles and give earnest instruction: everyone must chant and uphold the practice according to the law, aligning one’s own heart with the heart of God. Then the Three Yuan Emperors will respond in accord with the heart—seek blessing and blessing arrives, avert calamity and calamity is dispelled.

In former times Fa Da recited the Lotus Sutra through three thousand complete cycles; one day he went to pay respects to the Sixth Patriarch (Huineng, the Sixth Patriarch of Chan). The Patriarch questioned him on the meaning of the sutra, and Fa Da could not answer. The Patriarch said, “Your name is Fa Da (‘Dharma Penetrating’), yet you have still not penetrated the Dharma.” He then opened for him the Buddha’s correct view, and Fa Da immediately awakened and offered a verse: “The sutra recited through three thousand fascicles—one sentence from Caoxi and it is gone.” The Patriarch said, “Before, when you recited the sutra, you were only being led along by the text and could not yet master the text; only now may you be called a monk who truly recites the sutra.”

Disciples present at this assembly and all beings in future generations who recite the various classics must be able to master the classics and not be led along by them—only then is it well.

Reverently Trusting the Holy Teaching, Chapter Thirty

The ancients wrote books and established teachings in order to instruct later generations. Where the meaning had not yet been fully stated and words could not wholly express it, they set forth analogies to clarify the essential aim, so that people might grasp it for themselves beyond the literal wording. The Buddhist sutras say that all who possess wisdom must take this to heart.

The ancients wrote books and established doctrines in order to pass their lessons on to later generations. Where meaning was not yet fully exhausted and words could not make things clear, they set up analogies to express their intent completely, so that readers could grasp it on their own, beyond the literal text. A Buddhist scripture says: “Those with wisdom need analogies before they can understand.” Thus the books of the Three Teachings (Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism) for the most part employ comparison. Yet their implied meaning runs deep, and people often misunderstand. Take the Book of Changes: the sages established the hexagram images to the utmost of their intent, and appended the Xi Ci (Appended Phrases) to clarify fortune and misfortune. But its analogies are remote and subtle: warning that when yang qi has risen to fullness it cannot long endure, it says “the arrogant dragon has regret”; warning that when yin reaches its extreme and contends with yang, it says “dragons battle in the field; their blood is dark yellow”; warning against doubt and indecision, it says “a cartload of ghosts”; warning that affairs cannot be carried through and few reach a good end, it says “the fox wets its tail.” Most of the lines of the sixty-four hexagrams take their form from analogy. Had the supreme sage not composed the Xiang Zhuan (Commentary on the Images) to unfold their meaning, how could later Confucian scholars have known?

In antiquity, Wen Shi Dijun (Yin Xi), gazing toward the west, saw purple qi coming from the east and knew that an extraordinary person would pass by. He then met the Supreme Lord (Taishang Laojun, that is, Laozi), who was asked to compose the two parts of the Daode and unfold their hidden purport. The classic is vast enough to embrace all things, yet in its finer points nothing is left out. Much of what it says about governing a state and deploying troops, however, is metaphorical. Buddhist scriptures likewise treat the adornment of the Buddha-land as purifying one’s own mind; when the Supreme Lord speaks of governing the state, he is really regulating body and mind, and when he speaks of warfare, that too is figurative—repelling yin demons (disturbances of dark, wayward desire) and overcoming the harm selfish desires inflict on the heart. As the Yijing says, when troops are sent to campaign against the Guifang, only after three years does one receive enfeoffment in a great state; the Yinfu Jing says that cutting off profit-seeking and steadfastly guarding a single source makes one’s force equal to tenfold, and returning again and again day and night makes it equal to ten thousandfold. The two mean the same thing.

As for what the classic says—that if you wish to shrink something, you must first let it expand; if you wish to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong; if you wish to discard it, you must first let it flourish; if you wish to take it, you must first give it—this is the natural momentum of the Dao’s operation, like the sun about to set yet casting back its light, the year’s end turning cold and then suddenly warm again, a person near death suddenly seeming vigorous, a lamp about to go out flashing once more. The principle is no different. Such reasoning is hardest for people to see clearly, hence it is called “subtle illumination” (weiming): one is to know in advance, in matters of this kind, that fortune and misfortune are approaching, and first examine the hidden signs. Worldly Confucian scholars who do not discern this take it as the stratagems of interstate rivalry and alliance tactics (divide and unite)—surely they are mistaken?

The classic also says: to settle a deep-seated grudge still leaves lingering resentment; how can that be called good? This is precisely a blow of the staff to those who grasp only a little present ease and forget far-reaching care—the same as what the Yijing says about the noble person who, when he thinks of misfortune, guards against it beforehand; there is no more vital principle. When Zhou and Zheng had earlier exchanged hostages and soon afterward turned hostile, was that not a plain illustration?

Confucian scholars of the world assume the scripture speaks of Goujian and the state of Wu, yet they do not realize that when this classic was written, Wu and Yue had not yet fallen into enmity. To read its language of reconciling resentment as a story about Wu and Yue is a mistake. As for the claim that the teaching of Dao and De (Virtue) later degenerated into the “names and penal law” tradition (xingming)—a current that stresses statutes and political craft—and that what the Supreme Old Lord (Taishang, Laozi, revered in Daoism as the Supreme Old Lord) wrote was really cunning stratagem, is that not a still grosser slander?

In antiquity the Ultimate Sage (Confucius) asked the Supreme Old Lord about ritual. When he came out, he told his disciples, “In Lao Dan I see something like a dragon!” Even a sage of that stature praised him with the phrase “like a dragon” (you long); later Confucians belittle him and call his insight shallow—are they really wiser than the Ultimate Sage? When Sunshu Wushu once slandered Zhongni (Confucius), Duanmu Shi (Zigong) rebuked him for not knowing his own limits. Confucians who reject the Supreme Old Lord and depreciate Dao and De are likewise overestimating themselves; they do not harm the Supreme Old Lord in the least.

Commentaries on the Daodejing (Classic of Dao and De) in the world number no fewer than several dozen. Even Kumarajiva (Luoshi fashi, the eminent Buddhist translator), brilliant as he was, still faulted his exposition of the Daodejing for not discussing the “mind”—how much more so the rest? Yet the line in the classic, “Do not display what is desirable, so that the mind is not disturbed,” is precisely an admonition to guard against the deluded mind (wangxin, the heart stirred by desires) and carefully to preserve the true mind (zhenxin, the unstirred original heart).

The Dao De Jing says: “The sage has no fixed private heart of his own; he takes the hearts of the people as his heart.” How is that different from the old Buddhist gatha that says, “The mind does not arise in the first place—it only appears because of external conditions”?

The Supreme Lord (Laozi) also said: “Ritual is what appears when loyalty and good faith grow thin; it is also the beginning of disorder.” That is not saying that the root of ritual is thinness and disorder. Loyalty and good faith are the root of ritual; what the world calls “ritual” is mostly the outward trimmings—ceremony and ornament.

The Documents says: “In sacrifice, ritual is what matters; if the ritual does not match what is offered, it is not a true offering.” That is loyalty and good faith already grown thin. Wang Mang of the Xin feigned humility and respect for scholars, yet in the end usurped the Han throne—is that not the beginning of disorder? Those words of the Supreme Lord are really a warning for later ages. Yet worldly Confucians take them as a call to abolish ritual and righteousness—is that not going too far?

Long ago when I read the Dao De Jing, I worried deeply that I could not penetrate its meaning. After Heshanggong, there have been many commentaries, but each clings to its own view and few can unfold the deep intent. Fortunately, since achieving true fruition in cultivation, I discuss it day by day with the various sages, and only then fully grasp its subtlety.

Today, in this lecture, I have briefly explained one or two points to all of you disciples gathered here. Do not imitate worldly Confucian scholars, recklessly slandering and reviling until you become people who cast off all restraint. The scriptures still contain passages that have not been fully analyzed; each of you should grasp them according to their meaning and need not be bound by the letter. If you merely cling to the written words and fail to understand the Supreme Lord’s original intent in establishing this teaching, then juexue wuyou (“when forced learning is abandoned, there is no anxiety”)—a line from the Daodejing—will be misunderstood in many ways, and that is hardly surprising. Buddhists take it to mean “do not study at all”; Confucians again attack it as throwing away the Book of Poetry and the Book of Documents, almost reducing the human way to the level of horses and cattle. If you can truly honor and trust what I say, without the slightest biased view—relying on meaning, not on wording; on wisdom, not on discriminating consciousness—then you may investigate in this way, read widely in the scriptures of immortality, extend your understanding to the Buddhist canon, and still not be at odds with Confucian texts.

Chapter Thirty-One: Venerating and Beholding the Stars and the Dipper (gazing upward and paying reverence to the stars and the Northern Dipper).

Human beings live within the cosmos, endowed with the yin-yang qi of heaven and earth, and taking form through the essence and blood of their parents. Whether rich or poor, noble or lowly, everyone possesses numinous clarity and awakened nature—the originally luminous mind that can reflect and know—a seed that does not perish through many kalpas; yet human destiny in fact still belongs to heaven.

Heaven has the Seven Regulators (the sun, moon, and the five planets Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth), which govern the host of stars, uphold the fabric of creation, and hold sway over the human body. Length or brevity of life, success or failure, fortune or misfortune, blessing or calamity—all are weighed and decided by them. Yet the Seven Regulators depend on the Xuanji Jade Balance (the ancient instrument for observing the heavens and aligning the stars, also the pivot of the Northern Dipper’s motion) to be tuned correctly, lest they stray from their proper degrees. The subtle function of this balance lies in turning the four seasons and presiding over the cycles of cosmic time.

Therefore the ancient sage emperors first appointed Xi and He (officials in charge of astronomy and the calendar) to calculate the courses of sun, moon, and stars and to observe the Xuanji Jade Balance, so as to align the Seven Regulators. Later sages established the Way through divine teaching, and there arose the rites of observing the stars, liturgy to the Dipper (libai Beidou, bowing to the Northern Bushel), and rituals for averting disaster and escaping adversity. Hence the Yushu Jing instructs: to avoid the three calamities and nine misfortunes (sanzai jiuhéng, various disasters and untimely death), one should bow toward the Northern Chen (Beichen, the pole star) in the still of night. The Supreme One (Taishang Laojun) transmitted in the capital of Shu the Wudou Zhenjing and the Doumu Xinjing (Doumu is the Mother of the Dipper, mother of the Northern Bushel stars).

Afterward, those who compiled liturgical forms for reverencing the Dipper numbered no fewer than several dozen. Each wrote rules according to how the deities appeared and responded with efficacy, with detail or brevity differing. Methods such as “Sanyuan reverence to the two stars of the Honored Emperor” were extremely concise; people often found them too sparse and few followed them. Texts like the “Great Brahma Comprehensive Chapter” were unavoidably verbose and lacked subtle meaning. The Dipper rite expounded by the Wenchang Emperor suited literati but could not broadly benefit all kinds of people in the world.

Thus the paths of Dipper liturgy are many. Through the ages, cultivators who attained the Dao and became immortals by this means are beyond counting. Yet surveying the canon, the Buddhist side’s ritual methods surpass those of the Daoist school in excellence; among them, the path of Sanskrit sound is even more arcane than our Daoist rites. So in the Chan school too there are those who practice and thereby clarify mind and see nature. As for the Dipper rites circulated in the world, they have only the ceremonial bows and lack the secret essentials.

I once composed a verse: though the paths for reverencing the Northern Dipper are many, gathered together they are as fine as thread passing through a needle’s eye. In silent stillness, one secretly pays homage to the star sovereigns. Keep quiet before the altar in your heart; do not let thoughts scatter. Begin from the Source Sea aperture—the opening where vital generative qi arises within the body—only then can you ascend to Kunlun, the crown within inner alchemy. Unite in contemplation the precious liturgies of the Jade Emperor and the Mother of the Dipper, and you may reach the supreme vehicle. The Golden Elixir is obtained thereby, and the holy infant—the spiritual embryo of the elixir—can be perfected in an instant.

This dipper formula of mine has circulated longest, yet almost no one puts it into practice. People only know the Northern Dipper in the Palace of the Rotating Jade in the heavens; they do not know that within their own body there is a jade dipper that turns through the whole person daily, circulating through the hundred vessels from the zi hour to the hai hour without a moment’s rest. Only the discerning first recognize their natal star-dipper—the star of the Dipper that corresponds to their own destiny—and apply it without leaving the body; therefore they can illuminate the Dao and attain true realization.

These words can be told only to those of the highest spiritual capacity, and only such persons can carry them out. Why say the Northern Dipper exists solely within this one body? Because the white jade tortoise platform is the spiritual platform of our heart; the throne of the spirit beast is the wondrous transformation of this single mind. The jade hall of the Rotating Jade is the empty luminosity of this heart, which directs the movement of the five viscera. The alchemical classics say: “Why must you seek zi and wu at the edge of heaven? Within the body, yang naturally arises.” Thus at midnight in the zi hour, when the one yang first stirs, it is like the dipper’s handle turning in its circuit. At that time one should reverently worship the Dipper in sincerity, riding upon the newborn yang, emulating the ceaseless vigor of Heaven’s Dao and cultivating according to the correct method.

I now transmit to those who perform Beidou liturgy (worship of the Northern Dipper) a method that is simple yet essential: before the rite, one must observe fasting and purification, with sincere reverence and bodily cleanliness. In the deep stillness of night, enter first the doushi—the quiet chamber set aside for the rite—banish every stray thought, click the teeth nine times, stand upright with hands joined in respect, face north, and bow. It is as if Doumu (Tianmu—the Celestial Mother of the Dipper, mother of the Northern Stars) appears above in a golden countenance, the Nine Sovereigns and Two Emperors attend at left and right, and the host of sages array around them. Empty the mind of all concepts, gather the spirit in silence, then rise and perform the ritual movements. The heart must be utterly single-pointed, the spirit utterly still, the breath utterly solemn, the bearing utterly dignified, the mien utterly reverent, the voice utterly steady, the pitch utterly harmonious, the cadence utterly clear. Pace must be measured; advance and retreat must follow rule; kneeling and prostration must keep proper limits; rising and stopping must preserve correct deportment. Whether at home or in a temple hall, whether worshipping alone or in a society that meets for joint Beidou devotions, it should be the same. Restrain body and mind and do not let them scatter. First bow to the divine honorific titles of the deities, then recite the fanyin (mantra chants). There are dozens of kinds of Doumu fanyin in the Buddhist and Daoist canons, and one cannot recite them all. Among what the scriptures preserve as most essential, none surpasses the Heart Mantra (Xinzhou). Disciples, listen carefully—I shall explain it for you. In reciting the Doumu Heart Mantra, nuo mo is drawn out slightly on the first syllable; where two Sanskrit sounds are written as one character but rendered in Chinese as two graphs, those two graphs are still read in one breath without a break. For the Beidou Heart Mantra: graphs with the “mouth” radical are read with that radical in mind—syllables such as luo, ju, and hong follow this rule; there is also a way of reading that drops the “mouth” element, and graphs such as na are handled the same way.

This passage concerns the Great Brahma Northern Dipper Heart Mantra—the secret names of the great demons of the three realms. The Supreme Lord (Taishang Laojun) proclaimed this mantra and taught those who cultivate the Dao: as long as one recites it without ceasing and the mind does not waver, the host of demons will fear and submit, all evil will keep its distance, and malicious ghosts will be extinguished so they can no longer bring calamity. This Brahma sound is supremely subtle; it can heal every stubborn, long-standing serious illness and can avert every inauspicious star and baleful influence. When one’s fate palace and destiny cycle are unfavorable, or when one meets yearly disaster and monthly misfortune, or clashes of overcoming, battle, punishment, and opposition in the stars, reciting it can resolve and remove these. The essential point is only sincere reverence—then the response will be utterly numinous and divine.

The human face has seven openings, inwardly corresponding to the heart. The po (corporeal souls) have seven true aspects, received from the Northern Dipper. Therefore the battle, punishment, and opposition that the Northern Dipper governs can be released through reciting the mantra; one must still be sincere and reverent, for the response to be efficacious. The orifices of the Northern Dipper originally communicate with the orifices of the heart; the human mind is also the mind of Heaven.

Above every person’s head, the Three Terraces and the Northern Dipper record transgressions. On each person’s crown there is innate light—red, purple, yellow, or white, the colors differing. Only those who follow the Dao have light that is lofty and great. Those who do good show red or yellow light; those who do evil show black qi above the head, their nature-light hidden and unable to shine forth. The Northern Dipper inspects this light on the human crown to determine good and evil. This light on the crown is known only to the spirits—people themselves do not know it.

The method of honoring the Dipper (according to liturgical rites) falls short of cultivating the Golden Elixir; yet if one practices both together, one can still escape the wheel of rebirth and attain the immortal station. The distinction between good and evil still appears in this crown light, and only the spirits know this light—people cannot know it themselves.

The method of reverencing the Northern Dipper (lidou, the Daoist ritual of paying homage to the Lord of the Northern Dipper Stars), though it still falls short of cultivating the Golden Elixir (the elixir perfected through internal alchemy), can nevertheless, if practiced together with such cultivation, free one from the cycle of rebirth (the turning of birth and death) and attain the rank of immortal. Thus the Doumu Xinjing (Doumu, Mother of the Northern Dipper stars) says: “Those who practice the great elixir of the nine returns and seven reversals (in internal alchemy, the great elixir repeatedly refined through return and firing) who receive and uphold this method can suddenly awaken the mysterious gate (xuan guan, the pass where spiritual insight opens in practice), with numinous light appearing before them and vital flourishing arising naturally.” This resembles how in Buddhism reciting “Amitabha Buddha” and seeking rebirth in the Pure Land (the blissful realm) can likewise yield subtle karmic fruit—is this not a swift path to transcendence and realization?

Chapter Thirty-Two: Clarifying Cultivation and Realization in General

The Heavenly Sovereign (the title for the supreme venerable deity in Daoism) said: “What I speak of now are constant methods for daily observance, essential ways of cultivating truth (nurturing one’s true nature), and means—like a fish trap or a rabbit snare (tools borrowed to reach an aim)—for entering the sacred realm. They are not originally obscure or perilous, nor strange or secret. Those of superior capacity may practice them; even those of middle and lower aptitude have nothing in them that is hard to do. Yet though the matter is not difficult, people often find it hard in practice. Long ago Master Wuchao (a Tang monk who lived in a tree) said that the phrase ‘commit no evil, practice all good’ is understood by a three-year-old child, yet a hundred-year-old man cannot carry it out. It is precisely such an easy thing that everyone finds hard to do. As Gongsun Chou (a disciple of Mencius) said: ‘How high, how fine—it is like ascending to Heaven.’

“As for those who receive and uphold [these teachings]:

“First, one must awaken true faith (zheng xin xin). Knowing that the three karmas (deeds of body, speech, and mind) should be purified, one must guard one’s bearing and watch one’s words, carrying purity through to the end by faith; knowing that Heaven and Earth should be revered, one must at each dawn refrain from frivolity or disrespect, letting reverence arise from faith; in serving the ruler one should be loyal, staying at one’s post, acting with respect, and fulfilling loyalty through sincere trust; in serving parents one should be filial, at dawn holding them in heart and completing filial duty through faith; among brothers, affection and respect are real only when grounded in sincerity; between husband and wife, harmony is solid only through sincere trust; in friendship, steadfast good faith completes this human bond; in following a teacher’s instruction, one must believe, accept, and reverently practice. Though ghosts and spirits are dim and distant, sincerity must not deceive them; though cause and effect is subtle, believing in it is not mistaken; the words of sages must be believed and not slighted; the teachings of buddhas and immortals must be believed and not despised.”

Second, one must awaken the “steadfast heart”—a resolve that does not waver. Do not be diligent at first and slack later; do not see another path and want to switch; do not change your lifelong conduct because others mock you; do not abandon your clean integrity because of empty talk around you. Do not think a good deed too small to be worth doing; do not think a bad deed too slight to bother removing. Do not fence yourself in with self-imposed limits; do not advance too fiercely only to retreat just as fast.

Third, one must awaken the “enduring heart”—a resolve that lasts. The Yijing says: “One who cannot long sustain virtue may invite disgrace.” So a well rope thousands of feet long, used steadily enough, can wear through wood; eaves drip a foot or so long, dripping long enough, can pierce stone—what they rely on is simply duration. An old saying runs: “Fine streams never cease until they merge into river and sea; tiny sprouts left unpulled will someday need the axe.” Is that not the work of time?

If a person can awaken these three hearts, without break from start to finish, always holding them in mind and fixing attention on them, not stopping until the goal is reached, then the body labors in practice and effort is sustained—then even the dull will surely understand, even the soft will surely grow strong. With such a heart one enters the Dao, and the Dao is not hard to enter; with such a heart one seeks transcendence, and transcendence is not hard to seek. Saving oneself from cosmic calamity, dispelling disasters, seeking blessing, resolving misfortune, preserving life, extending years, realizing the true Dao, and achieving sage fruition—all can come through this scripture.

This scripture gathers the essence of Confucianism and Buddhism and embodies the teaching of all three traditions—Confucian, Buddhist, and Dao. Some pedantic Confucians rashly criticize, saying such words drag Confucianism toward Buddhism and Buddhism toward Daoism, and so they mock and reject it—yet they do not understand that the three teachings share one source. Therefore it widely cites Confucian classics, Buddhist scriptures, and Daoist texts, harmonizing the three teachings into one, to leave instruction behind.

You disciples who are gathered in this assembly, and all sentient beings under heaven in ages to come—if you can deeply trust my words, ponder their meaning with care, cultivate in earnest, and verify them in practice, then not only will my heart’s wish be fulfilled; the sacred intent of the Supreme Deity in sending down this teaching will likewise not be betrayed.

The immortals then heard this to the end. They prostrated themselves in the most solemn obeisance, praised it in verse, and said: How marvelous—the Great Instructor of the Mysterious Origin! He expounds this great canon of cultivation, and with a compassionate heart widely saves beings in the final age (mojie), so that the wheel of the Law turns in worlds as countless as the sands of the Ganges. The root of the great Dao arises from primordial chaos (hundun), when heaven’s way was clear and its principle most plain. Serving heaven depends entirely on a reverent heart; loyalty and filial piety both unfold from that same heart. Brothers should cherish one another, for they share one breath of life; harmony between husband and wife, a home well ordered, is what the Odes hold in esteem. Friendship in good faith accords with mutual benefit among friends (lize); honoring the teacher and revering the Dao is the proper order of human relations. When the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness) are complete, that is the foundation of cultivation. Inwardly guarding the true origin (zhenyuan), essence and qi stay secure; further accumulating merit and good deeds, taking joy in doing good, and constantly examining oneself. Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism originally spring from one source; mind-nature is shared by sages and ordinary people alike. Do not say that cause and effect lack proof—how could good and evil each fail to bring fortune or misfortune? Evil deeds leave lingering suffering; good deeds bring blessing; the spirits’ retribution layer upon layer. Immortal scriptures and Buddhist sutras have long made this clear in many ways. Do not imitate fools who recklessly slander buddhas and immortals with their mouths, and so fall into the bitter retribution of hell (nili). Those who awaken should at once change course, trust what the Celestial Venerable (Tianzun) has said, strive diligently in practice, earnestly seek the Way of the Golden Elixir (jindan dadao—the internal alchemy of refining essence, qi, and shen), and diligently explore the jade-casket scriptures (yuji). The work is not far off—it is right in the heart. Having heard the immortal master’s profound intent, I could not help but leap for joy. I only wish that beings in the final age who wish to leave the wheel of rebirth (lunhui) would keep these words in mind and recite them day after day without ceasing. Once mind-nature is awakened, all affairs are complete. This scripture gathers the essentials of the Daoist Canon (Daozang); to transcend the ordinary, cultivate only in the heart. When cultivation is accomplished, the subtle truth is bright as a mirror; return to the root and restore the origin, and merge with the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate—the undifferentiated root of yin and yang). Even if empty space were shattered to dust, what would it matter? Whether substantial or insubstantial, the Dao is one.

After the various immortals and perfected ones had finished their hymns of praise, the Heavenly Lord again addressed the disciples present at the teaching and said: “Each of you should practice in accordance with the teaching and spread it widely.”

When the Heavenly Lord had finished expounding the scripture, he rose from the dharma seat. At once heavenly flowers rained down, rare fragrance drifted in the air, auspicious dark cranes appeared, and propitious clouds filled the hall. The disciples present bowed in reverence, received the teaching in faith, vowed to follow it, and then withdrew.

Eulogy

The mysterious meaning that joins all in one embraces the essential purport of the scriptures; tracing it to the root, it points out the gate of practice. With sincere, reverent, and pure mind one should worship the stars, thereby relieving calamities and dispelling baleful qi, so that near and far all may enjoy peace and stability.

Yixingzi’s Heart Mantra of Doumu and Heart Mantra of Beidou state:

Doumu was a person of the Tianzhu (India) land in the Longhan primordial kalpa. The Sanskrit mantras she spoke are the same in kind as Buddhist mantras—both belong to Sanskrit sound and Sanskrit script. People of the Eastern Land do not know Sanskrit characters, so masters and perfected ones of earlier generations used Chinese characters to transliterate them; yet the written forms do not resemble ordinary Confucian texts, and it is hard to read them by standard pronunciation. Often the same sound is rendered in more than one way.

This is because the underlying Sanskrit sounds are originally the same. Characters marked with “yin” (prolonged syllable) should be read with the vowel or tone slightly drawn out; what is called “erhe” (two-as-one) was originally a single character in Sanskrit. Translators wrote it as two Chinese characters, but in recitation they must still be run together as one breath, read in one continuous roll.

When Patriarch Lü transmitted this mantra, he once manifested the dharma image of Doumu—the Daoist goddess, mother of the stars of the Northern Dipper—and said: She has four faces and eight arms, in the aspect of a divine being of the central heaven. She wears a robe of sky-blue cloud brocade; atop her jeweled coiffure stands a nine-tiered golden pagoda, and on its summit blooms a mandarapuṭa flower called “Carefree Flower,” whose color surpasses even the udumbara and whose fragrance and beauty are beyond compare. Her two central hands form a mudra (a ritual hand seal); her other six hands hold: one supporting the sun, one the moon, one a halberd with a banner on it bearing the golden characters “Great Emperor, Thunder Ancestor of the Nine Heavens”; one a pestle, one a bow, and one an arrow. She sits upon a lotus throne; beneath it is a white jade tortoise platform, with the two heavenly kings Yufan and Miaofan standing in attendance on either side, while myriad sages and countless perfected ones guard her on every side. Because the punctuation and phrasing of the mantra’s Sanskrit syllables (how the lines are divided for recitation) must be made clear, the dharma image is also recorded below.

Hansan Yulu (Volume 28)

Preface to Hansan Yulu in Complete Works of Patriarch Lü

In former times Confucians had yulei (classified sayings), and Buddhists had yulu (recorded sayings)—both were disciples’ notes of their teachers’ questions and answers, word for word, unwilling to forget anything, to aid their study; yet what truly deserved preservation was very little. Hansan Yulu is nothing but everyday talk, yet it already exhausts the subtle and the great Way. Because the body of the Dao is complete and never leaves one’s own person, it is intimate and full of flavor. Its language is almost the same as the yulei of the Luoyang and Min lineages (the recorded sayings of the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi in Song Neo-Confucianism)—by no means something that others’ lecturing on scriptures and preaching the Dharma could approach even in the slightest. Immortal Master Emei said that these words are like drops of sweet dew seeping into the heart—why must one still divide “scripture” from “record”? That remark is indeed apt.

The persons who recorded these sayings were Huang Chengshu, Wu Yishu, and Li Wushu; those who compiled them were Sun Shoushu and my nephew Yuncheng; the supplementary continuation was completed by Huang Jun and myself. What is gathered here are instructions received in recent years while traveling from Qianzhong (the Guizhou region) to Chu (roughly present-day Hunan and Hubei) to collect classics and expound the Daoist canon, combined with earlier records into one scroll. In general, sayings of this kind attributed to Han San are very numerous; most have been scattered or held in private hands and could not all be included, which is deeply regrettable.

Recorded Sayings of Han San

Patriarch Lu (Lu Dongbin) said: The Dao originally admits of no words; what can be put into words is not the Dao. Though there is no Dao that ought to be spoken of, people deliberately speak—and what they speak is only the outer contour of the Dao. Though there is no Dao that ought to be fabricated, people deliberately act—and what they achieve is the worm that gnaws at the Dao. How subtle! Before Heaven and Earth existed, where did the Dao abide? After Heaven and Earth came to be, where is the Dao? It reaches down into the nine abysses, ascends through the nine heavens, embraces the six directions, and turns upon the two poles. The wise have nowhere to apply their cleverness; the skilled have nowhere to exert their strength. One must use plainness to conceal it, foolishness to hold fast to it, clarity to contain it, and stillness to nurture it—only then can spirit become wondrous and illumination penetrate. Therefore, to reach the utmost of spirit, one cannot do without nurturing; to obtain nurturing, one cannot do without containing (han); to achieve containing, one must first be able to hold fast (shou). When holding is firm, hiding must be deep. Precisely because one can hide, one can hold; precisely because one holds, one can contain. When cultivation is full, the transformations of spirit cannot be fathomed.

Yet this great Dao truly lies in wuwei—not contriving, but following what is natural. One must not treat it as mere emptiness alone, nor as mere fullness alone; only when emptiness and fullness contain and mutually complete each other is it the ultimate Dao. When persons of shallow understanding hear this, they laugh loudly at its core meaning. Let them laugh—why bother with that? They do not understand emptiness, so how could they grasp fullness? They do not understand fullness, so how could they grasp emptiness? They only follow outward traces, unaware of transformation, grasping at forms in pursuit. Some do not rely on the orthodox method but habitually practice heterodox arts, stuffing their chests full yet failing to awaken to the deepest mystery. How could they know that subtle principle never departs from the heart as sovereign ruler of the body? Clever people play with cunning, hoping to take shortcuts and achieve quick results; those who pride themselves on intelligence impose private opinions, hoping to reach the realm of the Dao by some other road. Thus they invent all kinds of gathering-and-refining techniques, drifting ever farther from the Dao. Even if their mouths can speak refined words and they try to seek it inwardly, without genuine accomplishment it is empty talk—what real connection does that have with the Dao?

All who study the Dao should bring forth utmost sincerity, uproot selfishness, and lay aside every trace of cleverness. Use plainness to guard yourself, use dullness to hold fast, use clarity and stillness to nourish yourself, and use quiet to cultivate yourself—then the spirit-mind becomes luminous; over long time it gradually ripens, the great elixir (neidan achievement) is perfected, and your merit matches that of the highest sages. If desire for profit and gain is not yet forgotten, if attachment to self-view is not yet removed, and one presumptuously discusses the great Dao, one only creates obstacles. That persons of shallow understanding do not act in this way is truly deeply pitiable.

The Dao—I cannot truly know it, nor can I put it into words. Because it cannot be known, my knowing cannot grasp it; because it cannot be spoken, my words cannot express it. Knowing cannot apply because there is nothing there to be known in the first place; speech cannot apply because there is nothing there to be spoken in the first place. Where nothing can be spoken, naturally there is nothing to say; where nothing can be known, naturally there is nothing to know. Though the Dao is originally beyond knowing, if you insist on seeking to know it, what you “know” is only scattered twigs and leaves of the Dao; though it is originally beyond speech, if you insist on speaking, what you say is only its outer skin and surface. How subtle! How subtle! It has form yet no form, has image yet no image. It cannot be grasped by ordinary knowing, yet nothing is unknown—this is called true knowing; it cannot be conveyed in words, and only by not resting in words is this supreme speech. With neither knowing nor speech, there is no longer any object called “the Dao” to discuss; given that, what is there left to say or to know? To be without knowing yet not to stand fixed in “no knowing,” to be without speech yet not to stand fixed in “no speech”—that is the wondrous Dao.

Sincerity leads to clarity, and clarity leads to sincerity. The secret of the Golden Elixir lies in guarding one whole, undivided totality: hold fast to your Jing (essence), nourish your Shen (spirit), rest in quiet emptiness, keep to the primal undifferentiated chaos, do not forget your original face (your originally pure nature), and be of one kind with green mountains and clear waters—equally pure and natural.

When ordinary people study the Way, they must first nurture Qi (vital energy). When Qi grows coarse, the heart floats; when the heart floats, courage swells; when courage swells, desires run wild; when desires run wild, the heart turned toward the Dao (daoxin) cannot settle; when the daoxin is unsettled, all sorts of adverse conditions (circumstances that lead to fault) gather at once. Thus nurturing Qi is the most essential practice for entering the Way.

The Great Dao is utterly fair and without partiality; its subtle efficacy (the Dao’s mysterious working) is fine and hard to fathom. Every living being that receives Qi and takes form can also awaken and understand; yet once you indulge private motives and clever contrivances, you create obstacles and fall into confusion. What you should still investigate is nurturing Qi—this is the most essential practice for entering the Way.

The Great Dao is utterly impartial; its mysterious power is subtle and profound. All who receive qi and take form can also perceive and comprehend. Yet if one indulges private desire and clever scheming, obstacles arise instead, and one sinks into confusion. Once you penetrate that single point of the xuanguan (the critical aperture of inner cultivation), the three treasures—Jing, Qi, and Shen—are no more than chaff; fail to break through layer upon layer of bondage, and the six roots (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) become your tormentors. Turn the head in a sudden flash, and even the boundless sea has a far shore; act at once, and in vast empty sky you can see the clear blue heavens. People only plan for the corpse they will leave behind, never noticing how they pile error upon error! To lay foundations for sons and grandsons they toil like oxen and horses, accumulating heavy karma in the world, until the calamity of blades follows one after another. Know that a hundred years are limited—this body cannot endure for a thousand ages! You should rein in the yima-xinyuan (the mind that scatters like a wild horse and leaps like a monkey) and work until long jiang hu fu—the dragon is subdued and the tiger is stilled (the clashing forces within body and mind are harmonized). Without genuine effort you only grope in vain; even if you recite mysterious texts every day, it is wasted strength. From here each of you must seek the upward path and no longer let the years pass empty. Strive to do this—I will say no more.

Instruction to Xiao Xiushu: One vast expanse—where is the shore? Where is the place of stillness (where thought dies away)? I fear you have not yet reached that place of stillness! What use is abandoning the body? Better to seek a zhenren (one who has attained the Dao) at this very moment! Dry, dead sitting in meditation only wastes time. Encourage yourselves—I will not speak further.

Instruction to Xiao Xiushu: One vast expanse—where is the shore? Where is the place of stillness? I fear you have not yet reached that place of stillness! What use is abandoning the body? Better to seek a zhenren at this very moment! Sitting in dead, empty meditation brings no benefit. Quietly hold to your practice for three months; sit here for a hundred days and nights and see how things stand—only then can you reach that place of stillness.

Question to Liu Shoushu: Of my words, can you grasp one or two parts? Then speak those one or two parts. Shoushu answered: Is this “one” the xiantian (the primordial state before differentiation)? Reply: “One” is not xiantian. How can a single word be fixed to xiantian? From the time the single stroke opened heaven, it had already fallen one rank lower. Can you grasp the meaning within my words? First speak the surface meaning.

Strip away the outer skin and you see the marrow within.

Someone asked Shou Shu to explain the meaning of xu (empty) and shi (full/real). Shou Shu replied: “Xu is xiantian—the original state before heaven and earth were divided, before anything had yet taken on concrete form.” The questioner asked: “Where does xiantian rest?” He answered: “That is only the root of xiantian, not xiantian itself. Set aside jing, qi, and shen—that is xiantian. Cultivating the Three Treasures (jing, qi, shen) belongs to houtian practice; once you reach xiantian, you no longer do such work. Xiantian is the realm of forgetting upon forgetting, emptying again and again—no trace of thought can remain; the moment a single thought arises, it is no longer xiantian.”

The questioner also asked about disciples who still did not understand, and requested one concrete illustration. Wu Yishu asked: “When one first begins to practice, how should the heart-mind be used?” The answer: “At the very start, the heart-mind should be single-minded; place your intention on the xuanguan—the subtle gate where inner cultivation begins. After you have begun and grasped its subtlety, the heart-mind should chiefly be wu—without clinging. The great secret of the Golden Elixir lies in this.”

Someone also asked what state follows once the infant—the sacred embryo formed in neidan—is complete. Shou Shu answered incorrectly at first, saying, “That is not what you asked me.” So they asked again: “After it is complete, exactly what stage have you reached?” He answered: “Once it is complete, you leave houtian behind and can already perceive xiantian—do you understand? Xiantian is wuwei (non-action). When the infant is already formed, it belongs to xiantian, and one should practice wuwei. If the heart-mind has not yet reached the stage of forgetting upon forgetting, and a thought stirs the moment something external touches it, that is not wuwei; when it is not wuwei, the three calamities—troubles that arise from restless, wandering thoughts—will occur.”

Shou Shu asked about the essentials of stillness and movement. The reply was: if there is no movement at all, things rot; if there is no stillness at all, things fall into disorder. In movement and stillness, what matters is ziran—spontaneous naturalness. Yin and Yang are simply the natural rhythm of movement and stillness; the turning of the four seasons is likewise the natural rhythm of movement and stillness. Taiji—the source before yin and yang divide, yet already holding the seeds of movement and stillness—is the natural turning whereby movement at its limit becomes stillness and stillness at its limit becomes movement. Only in Wuji, the state beyond all paired opposites, is there nothing that can be called movement or stillness.

Shou Shu also asked about the passage in the San Pin on widely seeking instruction from gaozhen, perfected immortals who have attained the Dao. The reply was: once the infant—the Holy Embryo of internal alchemy—is fully formed, how could one still fail to penetrate the deepest xuanxuan, the layer upon layer of mystery? The point is that when the infant is complete, you must not rush to let it “leave the house”—to let the spirit (shen) separate from the body. You may need to nourish it for ten or twenty years, or even thirty or fifty, before that step is possible. The whole art of nurturing lies in wuwei, non-forcing action; otherwise it is hard to avoid the three calamities—the disasters that careless cultivation invites. Weigh this answer against the text you are reading.

The Great Dao has neither name nor visible form. Seek it in the margin between closeness and distance; receive it in the interval between deliberate intent and letting go. Forget the self; forget external things; be without sound and without stir.

This lineage is vast in scope and strict in rule; this Dao is even-handed, its precepts solemn. Whoever can keep the rules of this gate and hold the discipline of this teaching should align word and heart. Keep the thought of the Dao pure and firm; dwell in hidden retreat; do not meddle in worldly affairs or create needless trouble for yourself; loosen bonds and cut entanglements. Do not grasp at honor and thereby invite shame; cast off what is crooked and turn to the right path. Guard the feminine—hold to yielding stillness—and nourish the primordial source; then the Dao can truly settle and endure.

It does not rest in any particular place, nor fall into thought and speech. Spirit Mountain (originally Vulture Peak, here used for the realm of awakening and purity) is not in the city, not in the Western regions, and not in the mind.

Do you know where Spirit Mountain dwells? To cling to the idea of “Spirit Mountain” is not to truly know it.

Where does Spirit Mountain dwell? In jade-white radiance, towers and pavilions appear; not a single mote or moment need be sought or guessed at with effort. The tip of a hair already holds the great earth, mountains, and rivers—why seek elsewhere for a Spirit Mountain to fix upon? Do not speak rashly or arrange things deliberately. The fragrant flowers before you, and the fragrant flowers with jade candles, are themselves the Western Pure Land (the Pure Land of the West in Buddhism).

Let me speak plainly to you: think it through carefully. Your school is empty to begin with; my Dao is emptier still. When emptiness reaches the point where nothing more can be emptied, what is left to investigate? From this you can see that this Dao shares one source and returns to one dwelling. If you hunt for a living path only in piles of old paper, that is no different from talking dreams to a fool. Therefore my Dao takes not clinging in the heart as its utmost; your school takes not clinging to the outer world as its refinement. Know this: though you do not cling to the outer world, the heart remains—why not empty that heart as well? Would that not be better? These days Chan folk go off to study—how is that different from side-path “moving” of qi? They only drain spirit and achieve nothing real. I tell you: the Buddhas of old and the immortals of former times all worked from what is solid. Without six years of austerity on the snowy mountain, how could one see the morning star, awaken, and smile? Today’s cultivators sit on a meditation cushion, pick up a line or two of leftover fox Chan, and let the mind wander. Plain people thus waste a whole lifetime in emptiness; clever ones sharpen their tongues, string together catchphrases, and lead later students to open halls and preach—ruining the style of Buddhas and patriarchs of old. Alas, alas! In such matters the clear see for themselves; the muddled rarely notice. Take my Daoist gate: talk of cultivation fills the land, yet who truly understands void and fullness? You have entered my gate; you need only become accomplished. If you are truly sincere and reverent, you will naturally find a way in—you will not take others’ painful blows for nothing.

When a person’s Shen (spirit) is not empty (xu), it grows stiff and loses agility, like a ditch of dead water: before it has even rotted, it already changes color and flavor. Only emptiness prevents stagnation; only without stagnation is there no fixation—then one is lively and responsive, like an empty valley: one call sounds, and many voices answer. Therefore what is valued in human Shen is emptiness that is not “dead”; only then can one fully grasp the secret of the Profound Pass (Xuanguan), the pivotal gate in practice, and obtain the marvelous power of spiritual penetration and change. Among students of the Way in every age, some have formed the infant (the holy fetus of inner alchemy), seen the Yang Shen (Yang spirit) emerge, yet still ended in failure—simply because they did not understand the line “the valley spirit does not die.” Hence in the Supreme Venerable (Laozi’s) five-thousand-word Daodejing, the deepest mystery is concentrated in this saying alone. So-called refining nature and refining form are all dross; what mystery is there in them?

Someone asked about “Water and Fire, Kan and Li” (using water, fire, and the trigrams Kan and Li to stand for yin and yang within the body).

What is indicated is precisely the line “the valley spirit does not die.” Thus in the Supreme Venerable’s five-thousand-word Daodejing, the deepest mystery is concentrated in this saying alone. So-called refining nature and refining form are all dross; what mystery is there in them?

Someone asked about “Water and Fire, Kan and Li.”

The scripture’s teaching asks: What is water? What is fire? What are Kan and Li? Since you say “sun and moon together form the great elixir of heaven and earth,” start from there. What are sun and moon? I will set this straight for you.

The sun is the great yang; yet within the sun there is a trace of yin essence (the yin, yielding essence). Without that bit of yin essence, sunlight could not nourish the ten thousand things—it would scorch all kinds of life instead. The moon is the great yin; yet within the moon there is a trace of yang qi. Without that bit of yang qi, there would be only po (the yin, form-bound spirit) and no hun (the yang, luminous spirit), and it could not illuminate the world. Thus though the moon is purely yin in name, in fact it never departs from yang.

Sun and moon divide yin and yang in this way; yang and yin meet and yin takes part—all from the stirring and blending of heaven-and-earth qi. Therefore Daoists take sun and moon as the elixir, heaven and earth as the furnace and cauldron, yin-yang as the firing (the rhythm of advance, retreat, and gentle nurturing in practice), and Taiji and the pre-heaven are our own original face.

The principle of Kan and Li is the same. The reason we speak of Kan and Li rather than Qian and Kun is that Qian is solitary yang and Kun is solitary yin; solitary yang cannot generate and solitary yin cannot grow. So when Daoists speak of the dan tou (the root of forming the elixir), they do not say Qian and Kun but Kan and Li. In the Kan trigram (one yang between two yins, image of water), that single yang sits within the two yins—yin wrapping yang—so there is the power to give birth. In the Li trigram (one yin between two yangs, image of fire), that single yin sits within the two yangs—yang wrapping yin—so there is the power to complete things. Thus Daoists first arrange the dan yuan (the source of the elixir) through Kan and Li, then place the yang of Kan into the yin of Li, and it becomes pure Qian again—the pre-heaven body restored.

People only know Kan as water and Li as fire and take mutual aid of water and fire as the elixir formula, without seeing that this is nothing outside the one qi in our own body. Qi has yin and yang; those who do not understand the Dao mix yin and yang and cannot tell them apart. Therefore those who study the Dao must first discern the vital points of yin and yang, then either support one side with the other or replenish one side from the other. Jing and shen are both within qi, so Daoists do not treat jing and shen separately but speak only of qi.

Someone asked: “How should one distinguish the two qi of Yin and Yang?”

The reply was: “Taken separately, what is clear and bright is Yang, what is turbid is Yin; exhalation is Yang, inhalation is Yin; rising is Yang, falling is Yin; what is above is Yang, what is below is Yin; the left side is Yang, the right side is Yin; heart qi is Yang, kidney qi is Yin; the liver, which belongs to Wood among the Five Phases, is Yang, and the lungs, which belong to Metal, are Yin. In sum, the human body as a whole is Yin; there is only a single point of yang jing—the pure essence of Yang.”

They asked again: “Where is this point of yang jing?”

The reply was: “This is the true seed, the true face, and the true lifeline by which one becomes an immortal or a Buddha. At this depth, how could one speak of it lightly?”

Another person inquired into the essential meaning of xing (human nature).

According to Lü Dongbin’s teaching: Before heaven and earth existed, there was first Xing (innate nature). Once there was Xing, there was Qi (vital energy). Thus Xing is the heart of heaven and earth, and Qi is their bodily form. How could there be Xing without Qi, or Qi without Xing? Yet when we speak of heaven and earth, we cannot speak of Xing alone or Qi alone. If heaven and earth were nothing but Xing, what would the myriad things above and below be? If we spoke of heaven and earth only in terms of Qi—its ceaseless movement, its not collapsing or falling—what would uphold and govern that? Therefore when we speak of heaven and earth, it is enough to speak of a single Dao (the Way); Xing and Qi are both contained within it.

Human beings are born from receiving the Qi of heaven and earth: first there is this Xing, then this Qi; once there is Qi, there is bodily form. Without Qi, the body would disintegrate; without Xing, what would govern Qi? Qi is like a house, and Xing is like the master. When you have found the master, you need not keep asking about the house. Thus once you can illuminate the mind and see true nature (mingxin jianxing), you need not go on at length about refining Qi and refining the bodily form.

Beginners who do not even recognize the house—how can they suddenly recognize the master? So to find the master, you must first seek out the house; when you find the house, you will naturally meet the master. Yet some find the house but fail to recognize the master, or the master does not respond to them. That is why I sweep aside all side issues and take nothing as higher than beholding the Xingtian—the original face of innate nature.

But beginners must first preserve the bodily form. If they do not understand the Xuanguan (Mystery Gate, the key portal in inner alchemy), and do not nourish Qi and refine form, once the house collapses the master has nowhere to stand. If you wish for a shortcut, wait until my Sanpin (Three Grades, a treatise on cultivation) is finished; cultivate according to its methods, and your form will be stable, your Qi full, and your Xing manifest. Then that Infant (the holy fetus formed by the inner elixir)—without laboring through the Nine Turnings (repeated alchemical refinement)—will naturally give rise to the Yang Spirit (yang shen), reaching marvelous transformations beyond reckoning.

For one who cultivates the Dao, the first task is to mend the heart-mind.

Environmental quiet is inferior to bodily quiet; bodily quiet is in turn inferior to inner quiet. Once the heart-mind grows still, every kind of sound is forgotten, and all becomes silent. If the heart-mind is not still, then even if one sits cross-legged in meditation (fu sitting, the Daoist posture of still sitting) all day and shuts out every external sound, the heart-mind has already sunk into all sorts of noises and thoughts, and not even a moment of genuine stillness can be attained.

The work of mending the heart-mind does not begin in a quiet room; it must be tested amid all kinds of activity and disturbance, forcing oneself to apply effort, so that one can see whether the heart-mind is moving or still. If one who mends the heart-mind does not start from noisy, turbulent situations but only seeks quiet in secluded places, then when circumstances change, that former state of quiet will slip away unnoticed. Moreover, how could life offer days of unbroken quiet? One should precisely in the midst of confusion and busyness secretly settle the heart-mind in stillness. As for daily food and drink, one need only pass through them as circumstances allow (suiyuan: accepting what comes, living with what one meets), without deliberately arranging or managing things, lest divided attention disturb the original heart-mind that seeks the Dao.

Those who cultivate the Way, broadly speaking, do nothing beyond refining the heart-mind. The heart-mind is the master of Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit). Worthies who aspire to sagehood never stray from this heart-mind; Daoists who study immortality never stray from it; Buddhists who seek buddhahood never stray from it either. The sages of Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism in guiding later generations do nothing but teach people to cultivate this one heart-mind.

The heart-mind is Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate)—stillness and movement are both contained within it. Before a thought has arisen, one is still in the pre-heaven state; once a thought has arisen, one has already fallen into the post-heaven realm. Thus when stillness reaches its utmost, feelings and discriminating awareness all vanish, and Wuji (the limitless root) appears as if of itself. After that, the more the heart-mind stirs, the farther it drifts from true authenticity; every external defilement enters through the six senses (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind), like thieves disturbing the person.

Therefore Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism, however each establishes its own gate, never speak apart from the heart-mind. The work of our lineage lies in cultivating the Three Treasures (Jing, Qi, and Shen) to form the spiritual embryo (the sacred fetus condensed in internal alchemy), and in penetrating the five depths of mystery to probe the secrets of the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing). If one traces back to the root, it is only this heart-mind. Without a quiet heart-mind, one cannot be empty; without emptiness, one cannot be numinous; without numinosity, one is merely a dull, inert lump no different from ordinary objects—how then could one form the spiritual embryo or achieve the great elixir (the fruition of internal alchemy)?

The Supreme Lord (Laozi) taught people to take clarity and stillness as the root, to hold to the receptive and inwardly gather themselves, so that spirit arises like an empty valley. In ten thousand words, he only taught the refinement of the heart-mind; the various manipulations of technique that came later were all invented by later people at the start. The more one violates the Great Way, the farther one is from it. I now expound this classic: regarding the subtlety of the Great Way, I dare not say I have explained it entirely; but as for the heart-mind, I unite the three teachings in one aim, so that later generations do not mistake the source of the Way and, when they begin practice, do not lack a place to start. In that respect, there may be a little help after all.

This exquisite classic, San Pin (Three Grades), is the efficacious chapter I have left to the world and the dharma eye of the Three Teachings. For the way of immortals, Confucianism, and Buddhism alike, there is no need to seek another gate: this one text is the bridge by which you may ferry across toward the Great Dao. Alas, in the vast cosmos few ask after the Way, and fewer still know how to examine it closely. If someone seeks with a sincere heart, whose karmic roots from past lives are pure and whose dao-qi is thick and firm, why would they still need a teacher’s pointing? Once the words are spoken, understanding comes at once. Know that the merit of this scripture equals that of the Jade Scripture; even the Heavenly Sovereign treats it with special solemnity, so it is widely circulated, bestowing boundless blessing—reaching up to Heaven and down to Earth, all may benefit. It does not only carry you through a moment of peril; it also forges wide karmic ties, so that across ten thousand kalpas you may rely on it to transcend and attain fruition. This is truly a profound text that saves the world in later ages; do not treat it lightly or as ordinary writing.

The sage person’s good deeds: the heart is like the great void; faults dissolve at once and leave no trace. The worthy person’s good deeds: they strive to act and never slacken over long years, until sincerity is complete. The middling person’s good deeds: like foam and illusion, they rise and fall, appear and vanish. The inferior person’s good deeds: they look only to blessed reward and karmic cause; if they turn and inspect the inner heart, it is not true goodness after all. You later students, listen with reverence: cultivate your mind; do not give rise to greed and delusion; turn back, examine, and reproach yourself—you must be sincere and must hold fast; follow my instructions, and in time you will gain what is due.

Doing good comes from the heart; doing wrong also comes from the heart. When the heart is good, it lies in not being disturbed. You later students, listen with reverence: cultivate your mind; do not give rise to greed and delusion; turn back, examine, and reproach yourself—you must be sincere and must hold fast; follow my instructions, and in time you will gain what is due.

Doing good comes from the heart; doing evil comes from the heart as well. When good thoughts arise, do not wonder what karmic retribution (cause and effect) may follow; when evil thoughts arise, do not tally up the retribution either. For to reckon with retribution is itself the root of doing evil.

Suppose someone performs one good deed, or ten, or a hundred, and secretly thinks: “Will Heaven reward me?” If no reward appears, they decide that doing good is useless, and the heart that would do good stops. Or suppose someone does one unwholesome thing, or ten, or a hundred, and likewise thinks: “Will Heaven punish me?” If no punishment appears, they decide that doing evil does no harm, and the heart that would repent stops.

When you wish to do good, do not treat “good” as a good deed to perform. Once you take that to be good, the heart is already not good. What we call good is only in this one heart. Ask yourself: if this matter does no harm to reason and feeling, it is good; if it harms reason and feeling, it is not good. Good and evil need not always show up in outward action. One thought turned toward good—good is inexhaustible; one thought turned toward evil—evil is likewise beyond measure.

So the way to seek goodness is still to turn back and question this heart of yours. When the heart grows still, Huiguang (the wisdom-light that naturally arises in the heart) appears of itself—why seek any other method?

Daoxin (the heart that seeks the Dao) must be firm; the intention you hold must be solid. If it is neither firm nor solid, waimo (external disturbances and obstacles) will cling to you; even if you have affinity with the Dao, many hindrances will arise.

When the text turns to the qin, the book admonishes Qiao Yishu as follows: Every step on the path of the qin holds hidden depth. When you play, the mind should be still yet open, the qi (vital energy) even and calm, and the fingers relaxed and at ease—unattached to the body, to outer things, to whatever appears before you, and not even attached to the qin itself. Send that mind quietly outward until it merges with the Great Void (the original emptiness and vastness of heaven and earth); then whatever the fingers draw forth will be the music of primordial antiquity (the plain, ancient tone). If you only parade clever new pieces to please listeners, you sink into soft, sensual excess and drift far from the qin’s true way.

Sickness of the body can still be met with medicine; sickness of the heart is hard to heal. External demons (outside temptations and disturbances) can be subdued; internal demons (wayward thoughts within) are hard to master. Once you wrongly trust deceitful talk, wild imaginings arise at once; imaginings breed causes, causes pile up as obstructions, and when obstructions never stop, demon-heads appear. Demons settle in the heart for long and stir things at will, so that dreams and thoughts turn upside down—resentment, curses, trashing the true way, or spreading false teachings. In the large scale they ruin households; in the small they snuff out one’s true nature. Even a moment’s repentance is followed at once by confusion again, round and round without end. I pity sentient beings, and so I act as the King of Medicine (the sage who heals), curing their heart-sickness and restraining their inner demons. Remove heart-sickness and bodily illness has nowhere to take root; clear the inner demons and how can outer demons break in? If you do not start from the heart, the disease sinks into the marrow (the place where illness is grave and beyond easy remedy). When demons blaze within, outer demons show themselves all the more. Reflect on this in stillness, and you can all return together to what is good.

Only after tempering in fierce fire does one become a man of iron; only after leaping from deep water is one the hidden dragon (the dragon that lurks in the depths and rises in a single bound).

On the path of cultivating the Dao, one must above all be able to let go and free oneself in all things, and when meeting others take a step back—only then does one count as a vessel fit to receive the Dao (daoqi). Cling even slightly to self-centered views (wojian) or harbor the least trace of a proud, self-important heart (jinxin), and how could one enter the Dao?

Life between heaven and earth is no more than a mayfly—a tiny creature born at dawn and dead by dusk. That is true not only of ordinary people; from antiquity to the present, even those who become immortals or buddhas are no different. Yet life is limited while spirit is inexhaustible. If I measure heaven and earth by my one lifetime, my life is only one mayfly; if I measure heaven and earth by my spirit, heaven and earth are also only one mayfly. Alas! In my view this mayfly has one birth and one death in a day, and one transformation in a day; gathered over ten thousand years, it is still this one birth and death, this one transformation. People know only the mayfly’s living, not its dying; they see only the mayfly’s dying, not its transforming. In my view, this mayfly begins and ends together with heaven and earth.

Daytime is the time for activity. The ten thousand things are in motion, and I move with them; night is the time for stillness. The ten thousand things are at rest, and I rest with them. This movement and stillness, rising and falling with the ten thousand things, is the natural rhythm of Qi in heaven and earth—the pulse of yin-yang’s turning—and the principle of unceasing generation and growth. People often invert day and night, living by day as if it were night and extending daytime into the night without rest. That violates heaven and earth’s natural Qi, departs far from the way humans are meant to live, and cuts off the possibility of receiving heaven and earth’s nurturing transformation—generation, nourishing, formation, and completion. One should therefore rise and act by day and rest peacefully by night; guard essence and Qi and preserve spirit. Do not compete with outer things; reduce desires and clarify the mind; know how to regulate oneself in stillness (jingshe)—only then can one hope for long life.

My path takes “quiet purity and emptiness”—a clear heart and pure thoughts, not grasping at what is not possessed—as its foundation, and uses long life without death to nourish spirit. Do not compete with outer things; keep desires few and the heart clear. If one knows how to regulate oneself in stillness, one may expect long life.

The Dao of our lineage takes clarity, stillness, and emptiness (qingjing xuwu) as its root, takes long life without death as what matters most, takes helping people and benefiting things as its aim, and takes free wandering at ease as its ideal. In deep mountains and lonely valleys, many people admire this path, yet they never meet a true teacher to guide them and simply let the years slip by. Look further down: in the turbid world, living beings scramble for fame at court and for profit in the marketplace, sink in the sea of desires, and turn upside down in the river of attachment. Clearly they fear death and want to live, yet they rush after wealth and forget their very lives. The gate of right awakening stands before them, but they do not enter; a near and easy road lies before their eyes, but they do not walk it. It is truly astonishing—and truly pitiable!

He asked: “Explain this word ‘heart’ (xin). Do you all have a heart? Where is the heart?”

Someone answered: “I do not know.”

Then he said: “Wonderful, wonderful! The wonder lies in those three words ‘I do not know.’ What is meant by not knowing is having no heart toward objects: when facing circumstances, the heart does not cling. Right now, for instance, your hearts are here; when this moment passes and you meet another situation, the heart is there. Being so elusive, how can one pin down where it is? The heart of the Dao is awakening. Awakening is knowing; when knowing reaches its limit, it turns into not knowing. Only through not knowing can one practice wuwei (non-action); through wuwei one can truly act (youwei); through acting one can return to wuwei. Wuwei is the innate substance. Since the substance is wuwei, how can the original face be grasped with ordinary knowing? Therefore ‘not knowing’ is true knowing. What you have said already comes close to expressing this subtle point!”

He asked again: “Once a person has awareness, that is the heart. The heart comes and goes without a fixed place—where does it ultimately abide?”

Someone answered: “The heart is before the sage.”

Someone asked: Once a person has awareness and perception, that is the heart-mind (xin). The heart-mind comes and goes with no fixed abode—where does it ultimately dwell?

Another answered: “The heart-mind is before the sage.”

The reply was: How lamentable! People fail to obtain the true Dao because they cling to the idea that they possess a heart-mind, and because that heart-mind always seeks some place to settle. When you say “the heart-mind is before me,” the heart-mind at once sticks to my form and appearance; once it sticks, your heart-mind is no longer your heart-mind—it has become my heart-mind. How can my heart-mind serve as your heart-mind? Therefore the perfected person (zhiren) is without heart-mind—not that there is truly no heart-mind, but that the heart-mind is like the Great Void (taixu), with nowhere to alight. Since the heart-mind dwells nowhere, what is it then? Though the heart-mind is like the Great Void, the Great Void is not dead emptiness (wankong)—a barren nothingness. At Huangmei, upon hearing “Give rise to a mind that abides nowhere” (ying wu suo zhu er sheng qi xin), enlightenment came in an instant. I have explained this clearly—why are you still so confused? When empty space is shattered to pieces, is that right or wrong? With nothing clinging before your eyes, what is there to doubt? After a few stars pass, dawn draws near; a shadow falls into a cold pool and slowly fades away.

How lamentable, all you living beings! I tell you: like this flower—before it is defiled, its fragrance and color are fresh and lovely; once stained with filth, it sinks into the mud. If you guard your original innocence, its scent remains clear and distant. Out of compassion for living beings, I teach this wondrous method. Put it into practice in earnest—practicing in embodied life and restoring original nature (jianxing fuxing)—like planting a lotus in fire: precisely in the heat you must find coolness. Do not wait until after the rain to bury the flower, wasting its innate beauty in vain. If you trust it, it is like a spring gushing from a rock crevice, bound eventually to flow into the great sea; if you do not trust it, it is like groping for a door in a dark room—you never find a way out. Doubt all you like; this old adept speaks only to save the world. Watch how things turn out in the end, and you will know these words are not wrong.

In how one lives as a person, one’s horizon should be high and one’s heart broad. When favored, be as wary as if startled; when shamed, bear it with patience. Let your forbearance be like the great sea, and your mind as open as the Grand Vacuity (Taixu). The highest rank and the richest stipend—if they are truly yours to accept, accept them without treating them as glory; even a single bowl and gourd’s worth of sustenance—if it is yours to decline, decline without playing the recluse. The ancient sages could hold the realm without making it private, and let it go like throwing away worn shoes—never did they fix wealth or poverty in their hearts. Most people today keep such thoughts knotted inside and cannot loosen them. If rank and riches were suddenly thrust upon them, who knows what they would become? Are not the stubborn and shallow just like this?

Some people can grasp the Dao in understanding, yet only know it and do not live it—so the Dao cannot shine forth under heaven. When we speak now of seeking the Dao, what is there to say? There is only one path: proceed step by step in order; do not indulge wild hopes; do not take side gates (deviant methods). “Laying the foundation” and “beating mercury” are names from external alchemy (Waidan)—empty labels. The Dao is within heaven and earth and moves with the four seasons. Heaven and earth have day and night; sun and moon wax and wane. When yin and yang can unite, that principle gathers in the creative and receptive (Qiankun). Every hardship in between must be dissolved back into primordial chaos (Hundun). The five senses pull the nine openings; the six thieves (desires arising from eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) stir the seven emotions (joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, hatred, desire). Above, one must scale thousand-ren peaks; below, enter hundred-zhang abysses; the dragon churns the ocean’s waves, the tiger’s roar makes ten thousand peaks tremble. What can counter this? Wield the sword to cut the root of delusion; bind stray thoughts and tie down phantoms; extinguish ghosts and sever demonic qi. Put the dwelling in order and sweep the house clean, so the Inner Yellow Court (Huangting)—where the spirit rests in inner cultivation—stays quiet: bright as the moon in the blue sky, lively as clouds on the ridge. Forget clever scheming and forget outward form; no self, no name. The whole genuine utmost principle lies in guarding the empty, luminous mind (xuling).

The meaning of giving you this body must be told from the very beginning. A mother carries a child for ten months; at the moment of birth, the pain is hard to bear. She nurses and feeds for three years, and in that constant watching and care, she is worn with worry day and night. Before a child can even say that something hurts or feels wrong, the mother is already anxious. Whether the child is coming or going, resting or active, she may not be at his side, yet her heart is always with him. When she sees him laugh or cry, her own mood swings between worry and joy; when she watches him take his first steps, she is so moved she can hardly contain herself. She would rather go hungry and see the child fed first; she would rather endure the cold and see the child clothed. Long before the child has asked for anything, the mother has already thought it through for him.