《唱道真言》Vol. 1

The Azure Florescence Emperor of the Southern Pole Celestial Palace, a revered Daoist deity, descended with primordial Qi (precelestial vital energy) and bestowed illumination through a heart of great compassion and vows, supreme holiness and benevolence. He preached the scriptures and expounded the teachings, enduring countless tribulations to guide and transform immeasurable beings. This text was personally composed by the supreme Daoist patriarch and immortal master.

I see that people in the world who study the Dao often stray because the teachings they receive and pass on are improper. They talk of lead at every turn and mercury at every turn, using such language to mislead others and draw them into delusions, while they themselves become obsessed with fantasies of immortality. Look closely at what they teach: they merely point out one or two methods of practice, yet imagine they possess precious secret teachings. They demand money, accept people’s bows, and put on airs as masters. Whenever I see this, I cannot help but sigh: it is truly a sin!

Those who cultivate cannot transcend the constraints of Yin-Yang and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) and endure alone with the Great Void—the boundless expanse of emptiness—unless they understand their own mind and nature. True immortals therefore guide people to work on cultivating inwardly, refining the mind until it is like a crystal bead or a precious glass vessel. Then the inexhaustible wondrous principles can be understood from the source of one’s own mind; thoughts flow freely in every direction, and the heart is clear at all times. The mysteries that immortals have guarded and seldom transmitted since antiquity can then all be understood.

When the principles realized through one’s own mind are put into practice in cultivating one’s own nature and life, a subtle understanding beyond words naturally arises, perfectly attuned to the crucial points of cultivation. Demonic obstacles can no longer intrude, and no intractable difficulties remain in the course of practice.

Thus, the art of refining the Elixir rests above all on flexible application and moving with the circumstances. Yet worldly masters teach only old phrases from books and narrow, fixed methods, expecting everyone to cultivate in exactly the same way. This is like trying to make a pellet by striking it with a ball of cotton, or fixing a zither’s strings with glue and then trying to play it. It would be difficult to succeed in cultivation by such means.

On a spring morning in the third month of the jiyou year, on the jiachen day, the old master transmitted the Great Method for Refining the Wenchang Brush Record to his dharma heir, He Quzi Jueshou. The old master and He Quzi had been bound by ties from a former life, and it had been nearly three years since the master first descended to the ritual altar that day. What I passed on to He Quzi amounted to just two words: “refine the heart.” A thousand words, ten thousand more, all serve to explain that refining the heart is the path followed by sages and worthies through the ages, and the key to the cultivation of countless perfected beings. Among the many exalted immortals of the Great Luo Heaven and Jade Capital Mountain, none can attain freedom in the realm of true radiance and become an inner-chamber disciple of the Primordial Heavenly King without refining the heart. Examination and verification, one case at a time, have never revealed an exception.

I remember that when I first descended to the altar and gave He Quzi the words “refine the heart,” he did not believe me at first. He thought that alchemy must have some other secret transmission. Everyone talks about refining the heart, and it seems that anyone can do it, so when he raised questions and sought instruction, he mostly asked about the way of cultivating life. I answered his questions, yet always took care to explain the refining of the heart in detail. After a year, He Quzi’s cultivation had advanced and he had gained practical insight. Only then did he believe that his teacher was not merely an empty talker. To save living beings, immortals first help people understand the nature that can live forever, then cultivate the life that can live forever. This is called the dual cultivation of nature and life.

Alas! Since He Quzi and I began our discussions, three years of winter and summer have passed. The waters around Penglai have grown shallower once more, and the peach blossoms have bloomed again. We wrote verses together at the Plum Pavilion and discussed profound principles in the Banana Hall. Whenever He Quzi developed an insight, he would withdraw and record it in a volume. These writings now exceed fifty thousand characters. He Quzi wishes to make them public as a model for future students of the Way, and has asked me to write a preface. The book already records the essentials of cultivation in detail. I only fear that people will think the words “refine the heart” too easy to understand, and so refuse to believe them. For this reason, I have once again explained the meaning of these two words.

This old man has repeatedly emphasized the two words “the mind” since time immemorial. Fearing that people may think they are too easy to understand and therefore refuse to believe them, I will explain them once more with due seriousness.

Since time immemorial, I have vowed before the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning to deliver countless living beings. I would not dare speak falsely and deceive people in this world or in generations to come. Hejuzi respectfully approached, holding the scripture in both hands, and said, “The preface you have written is excellent. But this scripture expounds a grand and wondrous teaching. If it is to be passed down for ten thousand generations, it cannot be without a title.”

I said, “The two words ‘refining the mind’ are the true and vital formula spoken by the Old Lord Taishang when he delivered living beings and elucidated the Great Dao. How would it be to call this book The True Words of Singing the Dao?” Hejuzi descended the steps, bowed his head, and said, “Excellent!”

Written by the Old Man Qinghua.

Inscription

The Azure Florescence Emperor of the Southern Pole Celestial Palace, a Daoist high deity, has a vast compassionate vow. Most holy and most benevolent, he nurtures harmonious Qi and preserves true nature; widely bestowing grace and spreading his teaching, he watches over the myriad nations and travels throughout the nine provinces, dispelling calamities and resolving tribulations, delivering immeasurable living beings. These are sacred instructions composed by the supreme Daoist patriarch and immortal master.

This scripture first teaches the refinement of the mind, then the refinement of life. If people cultivate according to its methods, they can understand their own mind and nature and make life’s foundation secure. The “Six Thieves” within the mind—the six desires or sensory temptations that disturb the spirit—will naturally disappear, and the “Three Corpses,” spirits said to lie hidden in the human body and hinder cultivation, will likewise be extinguished. When one’s Daoist cultivation is complete, one can ascend to Shangqing, the pure realm of the immortals. In this way, one’s ancestors through all generations can ascend to Heaven, while one’s descendants will become immortals generation after generation. This is an exceedingly important method and a crucial path of cultivation for many perfected beings.

If a person of poor character fails to revere Heaven’s Mandate, treats the words of the sages with contempt, neglects to honor this scripture and leafs through it carelessly, without taking care to avoid women, or stores it in an unclean place, the guardian deities will record his offenses and report them to the Lords of the Northern and Southern Dipper constellations, deities revered in Daoism, bringing calamity upon him. After death, he will also suffer in the underworld. He will remain there until someone attains the Dao and the Dipper Court, the divine bureau governing the Lords of the Northern and Southern Dipper, issues a document pardoning his sins. Only then may he leave the underworld and be permitted to be reborn. Alas, take care, and do not let yourself fall into wrongdoing!

In name, this scripture was written by the recluse Hequzi alone. In truth, it may be shared with all: those throughout the world who are fortunate enough to encounter it can cultivate their nature and become sages, or refine and nourish their nature and life to become immortals. It points people toward the steps that lead to the higher realms and fulfills my wish to spread the Dao and save others. Is this not a cause for joy? Yet failing to teach someone who is suited to receive it, or casually teaching someone who is not, will both bring down Heaven’s punishment. Therefore, teacher and recipient alike must consider the matter carefully.

When transmitting the scripture and teaching the Dao, timing is essential. Even when the time is right, one must meet a suitable person before revealing the mysteries of precious texts and conveying their most subtle meaning. The Daoist tradition has rules and prohibitions governing transmission, and these must be observed with care. Choose someone upright in intention and conduct, and investigate their family background. If their ancestors suffered Heaven’s retribution, betrayed their ruler or relatives, or built the family’s livelihood through inhumane means, then this scripture may be given to them. After transmitting it, repeatedly admonish and instruct them not to pass it on casually.

If the recipient is truly a great worthy, there is no need to refuse them because of their ancestors’ faults. Good methods are easy to hear of, but truly outstanding people are rare; such a person is an upper-level adept, one of high virtue and insight. If someone did wrong in youth but can repent and reform by middle age, sincerely turning toward the Great Dao, they too may be allowed to cleanse their heart and begin anew. Do not reject everyone without distinction; in this way, one may understand the Most High’s compassion and wish to save people.

Alas, my words must eventually come to an end, but my wishes know no bounds. Who among all beings between Heaven and Earth cannot learn the Dao or cultivate it? Everyone has an innate spiritual nature, and each person already possesses wondrous powers. How difficult can it be to become an immortal and attain sagehood? Yet habits carried over from past lives obscure our nature, while the illusory scenes before our eyes conceal right awareness. We mistake who is close and who is distant, treating enemies as kin; we abandon what is real and chase what is false. Thus people leave and return within the Three Paths and Eight Difficulties—the painful conditions described in Buddhism—and wander without end through the Six Realms and Four Births, the destinations and forms of life in the cycle of rebirth. They regard Heaven’s gate as a distant, unfamiliar place, yet treat hell as somewhere they visit often. Alas, is this not cause for grief?

I wish that all beings throughout the world who read this Jing would rouse themselves to courageous and vigorous effort, and together attain the fruition of birth through transformation from a lotus. The far shore of the Dao is not distant: pursue benevolence and goodness, and you can reach it. Riding in a phoenix carriage or a qilin chariot—the conveyances of immortals—may be only days away. This is the state of attainment that a great-hearted person should seek, and every day I hope to see such people succeed.

Those who cultivate the Dao and uphold this Jing should first observe fasting and keep the precepts. They should establish an altar and a clean, quiet chamber, then burn twelve kinds of incense offered in reverence. Afterward, they should bow and recite the sacred name of the Heavenly Worthy Mother of the Dipper, Moli Zhi Tian Doumu (Doumu Yuanjun, a revered Daoist deity), along with the Seven Perfected of the Northern Dipper, Wenchang of the Southern Dipper, the Heavenly Officials who administer all affairs, the high perfected beings of the Dipper Palace, all the numinous powers of the Grotto Heavens and blessed lands, and the perfected masters of every generation who transmitted the scriptures and initiated the teachings. Only after cultivating in this way for forty-nine days may they open the scroll and read it. They must not be naked, nor may they go near anything filthy or impure.

Wherever a Daoist scripture is kept, an immortal perfected being from the celestial realm may come to inspect it. Divine light and auspicious Qi fill the room, opening the mind and renewing the spirit. If the being is offended even slightly, they will no longer descend. Then, I fear, heterodox spirits and demons may seize the chance to intrude. This is something one must understand.

In daily life, cultivate yourself with care, restrain your desires, and do good deeds widely. On the day when the Northern Dipper is said to descend, close the doors and sit quietly, focusing your thoughts until your heart and spirit ascend in audience to the Purple Palace, the celestial realm’s palace. The Northern Dipper will then erase your name among the dead in the register of life and death and enter it in the register of the living, keeping you and your family safe from calamity. Whatever you turn your thoughts to, you will also understand at once. In this way, drawing near to the Great Dao may perhaps be less distant than it seems.

If those who cultivate the Way and seek truth can always recite and uphold this scripture with reverence and sincerity, I will protect them as one watches over an infant. I will continually bathe the crown of their heads in divine light, so that their wisdom grows day by day and they no longer have doubts when reading the scripture.

If they serve at court, they will know when to withdraw from official life; if they live at home, their children and grandchildren will be virtuous, and no outside disturbance will arise. If they cultivate in a mountain cave, snakes, insects, tigers, wolves, mountain demons, and tree spirits will all keep their distance and leave them undisturbed. If they cross a river, the dragon spirits will bow their heads, and the water will lie calm and still.

If they seek alms in a town or market, men and women, young and old, will feel joy upon seeing them and gladly give alms. Calamities involving water, fire, or weapons will not harm them. During their cultivation, heterodox forces and evil spirits will find no chance to intrude. I will always watch over and protect them until they have attained success in cultivating the Way. Only when they have gained great spiritual powers will my wish be fulfilled! Shakyamuni Buddha (here called the “Tathāgata”) said, “The Tathāgata never speaks falsely.” Would I be any different?

Volume One

The Azure Radiance Emperor of the Southern Pole’s Celestial Palace is the savior of Fusang, the land where the divine tree of the East stands, and governs the heavenly order of Great Yi. His Qi transforms and moves through the Nine Heavens, overseeing the Five Sacred Peaks. He can manifest countless millions of transformations, revealing profound truths to sages, perfected beings, and immortals. With great compassion and great vows, supreme holiness and benevolence, he widely saves people through auspicious signs. This supreme Celestial Worthy and ancestral master of the Dao bestows Dao registers, the credentials of office that Daoism confers upon its priests.

Ending text The words “Today, reading the Qing…” are merely a fragment, meaning “Today, reading the Qing…”.

When reading the Qingjing Jing (Scripture of Clarity and Stillness), one should practice the method of clarity and stillness according to its teachings. Clarity and stillness mean bringing the mind to rest and calm. The root of people’s distress lies mostly in their many deluded thoughts. Once these thoughts are removed, the mind often remains full of scattered, confused ideas. The key to clearing them away is inner observation: turning inward to examine one’s own body and mind.

At first, when practicing inner observation, it may seem that something is still present in the mind. Gradually, even the images of things disappear, and one reaches a state of self-forgetfulness. The mind then resembles a clear pool, undisturbed by ripples; it is also like the bright moon reflected in water, leaving no shadow behind. To call this “not empty” means that even the finest details are clearly visible, and there is only radiance. Yet to say it is originally empty and still is to describe something deep and silent, containing all things. In this state, there is nothing to cling to and no thought on which to fix the mind. The mind is empty, clear, and open, yet also profound and still. The method of forming the Elixir in Neidan (internal alchemy) is contained here as well.

Cultivating merit and practicing good deeds are steps on the path to becoming an immortal and entering the Dao, and they should begin with filial piety. Giving aid and alms is not something every poor person can manage. But encouraging others to do good and stopping them from doing evil takes only a little effort in speech, while bringing them great blessings. This is great hidden merit—merit quietly accumulated without seeking reward.

Reciting the Scripture of the Great Cavern and chanting the Dipper Mother’s incantation, a prayer to the Dipper Mother, can deliver one’s ancestors and increase their blessings in the underworld. This, too, is an expression of filial piety. There is no need to read books that offer no benefit or watch plays that offer no benefit. When there is work to be done, approach it with honesty and kindness, and strive to bring blessings to the people and all living things. When there is nothing to do, quiet the mind and sit in practice. You may recite scriptures or pay homage in silence, keeping your thoughts ever turned toward the Highest Perfected Ones.

The Highest Perfected Ones are supremely compassionate. They regard those who study the Dao as a loving mother regards her child, keeping them constantly in her thoughts. How could a child long for a loving mother while the mother paid no heed at all? Alas, life passes in the blink of an eye. The sages cherish even a brief inch of time; we should cherish every moment all the more. This is indeed a profound truth. If you have an aspiration, make it sincere and steadfast. If you seek learning and cultivate the Dao, study earnestly and diligently. Persevere over time without growing slack, and once the light of the spirit—inner wisdom and awakening—shines forth, the immortal islands and heavenly palaces will seem to lie before your eyes.

A broad, upright road and a bright gate of the Dharma both lie within each person’s own heart. The road is the path to Heaven; the gate is the entrance to the Dao. If a person is willing to take the first step, set out along this broad road, and enter through this gate of the Dharma, then, with thoughts kept true and undivided, each step will be firm. Cultivate in this way, and becoming an immortal or a Buddha will not be difficult.

In cultivating Neidan (internal alchemy), the first task is to cultivate the mind. The method is to remove scattered thoughts and delusions so that the mind becomes clear and tranquil. This is the fundamental method passed down through generations of the immortals; there is no other secret. When the mind is free of distracting thoughts, it naturally becomes empty, still, and lucid. Only then do Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) become true Jing, true Qi, and true Shen. Unite and refine these three, bringing them together as one, until they form the “millet-seed pearl”—a term for the subtle Elixir formed in internal alchemy—and the “Yang Spirit,” the spiritual body attained through cultivation. In this way, the Dao of immortality can be realized.

The key to uniting Shen and Qi is to nurture them in stillness. This is what Mencius meant by “preserving the mind and nourishing one’s nature.” Uniting Qi and Shen depends on steadfastness. This is what Mencius meant by “holding fast to one’s will and not letting one’s Qi run wild.” The foundation for uniting Jing and Shen is clarity and stillness. This is what Mencius meant by “nothing is better for nourishing the mind than having few desires.”

Jing, Qi, and Shen are three when considered separately, but one when united. Shen and Qi alike follow the governance of Jing. If a person can preserve Jing, Shen will naturally grow strong and Qi will flow freely. Then, by harmonizing and nurturing them and cultivating according to the Way of return, there is no need to worry that the spiritual embryo—the inner embryo formed through internal alchemy—will be difficult to bring to completion, or that the Great Elixir cannot be refined. This is the method for beginning the practice, written here expressly to convey it to you.

To seek the Dao through alchemical cultivation without first cultivating the mind and nature is like whipping a horse to make it run while binding its legs. Cultivating the mind is half the work of becoming an immortal. When the mind is clear and pure, the spirit is lucid; when the spirit is lucid, Qi can gather; when Qi gathers, Jing can be securely preserved.

The foundations, or “laying the groundwork,” described in alchemical scriptures; the “ingredients,” meaning the basic conditions required for alchemy; the “furnace and cauldron,” metaphorical vessels for alchemical work; and “lead and mercury,” “dragon and tiger,” “sun and moon,” and Kan and Li—all borrowed terms for relationships such as Yin-Yang and water and fire in cultivation—are built on cultivating the mind. Harmonizing Yin-Yang, bringing water and fire together, and methods for guiding Qi as it rises and descends and for refining and nurturing it all come later.

If thoughts are still unclear and desires remain entangling, then even an apparently solid foundation will eventually be shaken, and the conditions needed for cultivation will still be incomplete. The furnace and cauldron will decay; dragon and tiger will struggle; sun and moon will fall out of harmony; Kan water will weaken while Li fire grows excessive. If one then tries to speak of Yin-Yang working together, they will be in discord. Without knowing how to harmonize and join them, water and fire will not unite. Qi that one wants to rise will instead descend, while Qi meant to descend will turn back and rise. The Three Corpses, malevolent spirits said to dwell within the body, will do harm, and the Six Thieves, a metaphor for the six sensory desires that disturb body and mind, will invade. It is like trying to extinguish a great fire consuming a cartload of wood with a single cup of water.

Thus, cultivating the mind is half the work of becoming an immortal. This is a deeply perceptive and accurate statement: it identifies the crucial point and is enough to dispel the confusion in the minds of cultivators.

Cultivating the mind and nature is the fundamental path of Daoist practice from beginning to end. If the mind is obscured, then even if one obtains the methods of alchemy, one has only strayed onto a heterodox path. Even becoming a “stubborn immortal,” obsessed with magical techniques, will not gain one entry into the registers of the immortals, much less enable one to comprehend the realm of the Great Luo Immortals or enter the Mahayana teaching. Therefore, to form the sacred embryo—a stage in cultivation that symbolizes the achievement of internal alchemy—one must first attain perfect awakening. This is an essential instruction for practice.

The work of harmonizing body and mind lies entirely in ascent and descent; the method of ascent and descent lies entirely in still observation. Stillness does not mean mere stagnation: activity exists within stillness. This activity is not ordinary movement, but the unfolding of creation and transformation. Nor should one become attached to “observation,” for awareness is present within it. This awareness is not something to grasp; rather, numinous light appears indistinctly. First settle into stillness, then observe. After observing, remain able to return to tranquility: this is called still observation.

When this state is reached, the crucible—the body and mind in the metaphor of alchemy—is empty, while the medicine—the essence produced through internal alchemy—is full; the water is firm, while the fire is gentle. The processes of cooking and refining, and of breathing in and out, correspond to the mysterious transformations of Heaven and Earth, the movements of the sun and moon, the clear and turbid aspects of Yin-Yang, and the changing of the four seasons. Entering from being into nonbeing is called the millet pearl, the subtle essence of internal alchemy; returning from nonbeing to being is called the Yang Spirit, the numinous spirit formed through cultivation. When practice reaches this point, body and spirit are transformed together.

Without cultivating the mind and nature, one remains inwardly burdened by the seven emotions and six desires—feelings such as joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure, along with worldly desires—and by the impurities of the world. To seek the art of longevity and probe the mysteries of the Golden Elixir in this state is like a warrior trying to play stringed instruments while holding weapons, or a worn-out horse wearing a bridle and attempting to run along a narrow, treacherous slope. It is difficult to make the five tones harmonious and the six reins steady and responsive.

As mentioned earlier, refining the mind is half the work of cultivating immortality. This is the principle by which the myriad methods return to a single source. Patriarchs through the ages have transmitted it mind to mind; if you did not sincerely cherish the Dao, I would not pass it on to you.

There are two ways to refine the mind: one refines the mind that can hear, see, and perceive external things; the other refines the mind until it is no longer stirred by hearing or seeing. What is the mind that can hear and see? When events arise and external things appear, the mind responds to them, remaining at ease in every circumstance and finding principle at every turn among the things around it. Confucian sages have said similar things. It is like a bright mirror reflecting objects or a precious pearl catching the light: the mirror is still and ever clear; the pearl is perfectly rounded and naturally luminous. Neither changes because of what it reflects, nor grows dim from reflecting too much.

What is the mind without hearing or seeing? It is to turn the light of awareness back upon one’s own mind in stillness, gazing inward with clarity: clinging neither to “someone is looking” nor to “I am looking,” neither to existence nor to nonexistence, nor even to the idea that “both existence and nonexistence are absent.” At this point, it is as though there were the light of a mirror without a mirror, the radiance of a precious pearl without a pearl. At such a state, even the Greatly Awakened Tathagata—the Buddha who has fully awakened—would yield you a place. All forms and sounds lie within the radiance of your white hair-mark. The white hair-mark is the white hair between the Buddha’s eyebrows, which in Buddhist scriptures often symbolizes light and wisdom.

To refine the mind that can hear and see, practice amid turbulent circumstances. Even if you are in an environment like a raging fire, as though heaven and earth themselves were being scorched, keep your mind cool and at ease, like a dewdrop on a willow branch. This is refining the mind amid activity.

To refine the mind without hearing or seeing, practice in stillness. In a single thought, myriad kalpas are like bubbles or flashes of lightning; thoughts arise and pass away, while the mind remains unmoving and its innate wisdom stays ever clear and empty. This is refining the mind in stillness.

In truth, the mind that can hear and see and the mind without hearing or seeing come down to the same thing. Refining the mind amid activity and refining it in stillness are both simply refining the mind—so why separate them?

Zhang Ziyang, a Daoist of the Northern Song who wrote the Wuzhen pian, explained principles that earlier authors had left unclear. His work is indeed a guide for those who cultivate Neidan (internal alchemy). Yet when discussing such matters as gathering the ingredients and regulating the firing process, he often used obscure language. Zhang believed that the elixir was a hidden mystery of Heaven and Earth, and hoped that those who studied the Dao would quiet their minds, contemplate deeply, and understand it for themselves. His intention was profound.

I take a different approach. We must sweep away the dust of old thoughts and clearly point out the Great Dao, so that those who study the Dao can begin their practice in the morning and gain insight by evening. Anyone with the roots of wisdom can penetrate its subtle principles and attain the rank of a Great Luo Immortal. Yet this is no easy matter.

Take “refining the mind” alone: it is a practice that runs through the whole path of cultivating the Dao and becoming an immortal. Unless you have sat in stillness for a long time, until your meditation cushion is worn through and your knees are rubbed raw, how can you keep stray thoughts from arising, remain untouched by external things, see your original nature, and fully realize the highest source? Refining the mind is therefore a formidable barrier in the immortal’s practice. If you can pass through this barrier and break through this wall, you will reach a state of perfect freedom, purity, and freedom from defilement. Your true nature, small as a grain of millet, will appear, and the Yang Spirit—the spiritual body formed through cultivation—will gather and take shape. You will move freely in the Mysterious Palace, the inner realm of Daoist cultivation, and have access to the Dharma Realm, the all-encompassing realm shared by all things. Even if you still need to undertake such practices as cooking the ingredients and tending the firing process, it will be like a seven-storied pagoda already built, with only its capstone left to set: completion will be close at hand.

You have a strong devotion to the Dao and the courage to temper yourself; you are truly an outstanding person of this age. Why worry that you will fail to understand the principles or form the Golden Elixir? Still, the practice of silent contemplation calls for a mind as still as cold ashes and a body as settled as a withered tree. Without this, you cannot let go of everything, surrendering attachment completely as if releasing your grip at the edge of a cliff. Though you have grown indifferent to worldly thoughts, your family ties have not yet been severed. How, then, could you immediately develop such a frame of mind and shoulder this work of cultivation?

Alas, youth passes quickly, and white hair hastens old age. You must strive in your cultivation, while remaining constantly alert and reflecting on yourself.

The disciple asked, “Although I feel little attachment to the world, household affairs are complicated, my children crowd around me, and the burden of making a living weighs on my mind. For many years I have earned my livelihood by teaching. Though I long to cultivate the Dao, I cannot find a quiet place to live. I am often disturbed by worldly matters and bound by karmic ties. I fear that one day I may suddenly die and sink forever into the sea of suffering. I beg you, Master, in your compassion, to show me what I should do.”

The Master replied, “The methods of refining the Elixir and cultivating are summed up in two words, however many thousands of words are spoken: ‘refine the heart.’ Refining the heart does not necessarily require leaving the world. Did everyone in ancient times who attained immortality have to live in the mountains and forests and cut off all dealings with people before they could ride phoenixes and cranes and roam freely in the Purple Palace, the celestial realm where immortals dwell?”

In general, one can experience and cultivate the Dao through everyday meals, caring for elders and raising a family, and even fighting on the battlefield. The ancients said, “Cultivate the spirit through activity; cultivate life through stillness.” These words are profound.

As for sitting meditation, the opening of the Doctrine of the Mean says, “Be vigilant and wary even where no one can see or hear you.” When no one is watching or listening, if you can still remain careful and reverent, your heart will become balanced and upright, and Heaven and Earth will each settle into their proper place; when your heart becomes peaceful, all things can grow. This is the highest level of practice for the Tathagata, an honorific for the Buddha. The images of riding a lion or sitting upon an elephant express nothing more than the same heart and the same principle; they are no different from those of ordinary people.

You are troubled by the burdens of worldly affairs and human relationships, and want to leave your present life in search of some place beyond it. But a noble person should be at ease wherever they are and do their best to carry out what lies before them. Surely they would not act this way. King Wen of Zhou was imprisoned at Youli, yet still worked out the Zhouyi; Confucius was stranded between the states of Chen and Cai, yet still played the qin and sang. Even in unbearable hardship, the sages could fully express their nature and understand the Mandate of Heaven. How much less, then, has your present situation reached such extremes? You need only worry that your resolve is not firm; there is no need to fret over the number of your obligations. With sincere resolve comes genuine learning.

From the grotto-heavens and blessed lands where immortals are said to dwell, down to sheep pens and horse stables, those who study the Dao should regard all places equally. In the end, the lotus throne of a great bodhisattva and the iron bed and fiery pit endured by sinful ghosts belong to the same fundamental realm. Why? Because bodhisattvas have Buddha-nature, and sinful ghosts have Buddha-nature too. A noble person speaks of one’s essential nature and does not cling to one’s circumstances.

When Zhang Ziyang discussed “using intent as the medium”—using the mind’s intent to harmonize and apply the methods of internal alchemy—he did so in only a few brief words, leaving the meaning insufficiently clear and complete. I will explain it further here.

Intent originates in the mind and is expressed through one’s innate nature. Thus, only with the true mind can there be true nature, and only with true nature can there be true intent. This intent is called “the single intent of the precelestial.” “Precelestial” refers to the time before things take shape or show any signs. At that point, how could there be “intent” in the ordinary sense?

When sitting in stillness, the mind is settled and upright, inwardly clear and open, free of distracting thoughts and untouched by the distinctions imposed by knowledge. This is the precelestial substance of nature. From this emptiness and stillness, a glimmer of true intent emerges. It is like the Taiji appearing as a circle, from which Yin-Yang is conceived; or like Fuxi drawing a single line, from which the Two Modes arise. Hence it is called “the single intent of the precelestial.”

With this intent, one can coordinate Water and Fire and work with Lead and Mercury, applying them with flexibility. The cultivation of the alchemical Dao depends entirely on this intent to set things in motion and direct them. This is what alchemists mean by using intent. Zhang Ziyang explained it far too briefly: how could this alone instruct later students and pass the teaching on to those who come after?

The Mysterious Pass, the crucial point spoken of in cultivation, is subtle and difficult to understand. Say it is inside the body, and it is not inside; say it is outside the body, and it is not outside. The first chapter of the Doctrine of the Mean also says: “When joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure have not yet emerged, this is called the Center; when they emerge and all accord with due measure, this is called Harmony.” Yet while emotions have not emerged, that is not the Mysterious Pass; once they have emerged, that is not the Mysterious Pass either. Only the instant when an emotion is about to arise but has not yet done so—or has not arisen and then suddenly stirs—is the Mysterious Pass. One instant earlier does not count; one instant later does not count either.

Thus, in the human body, when all is still, the Mysterious Pass seems as though it could be glimpsed in the blink of an eye; once things begin to move, it vanishes just as quickly. It exists only for an instant, as briefly as a blink or a breath.

Viewed on a grand scale, the Mysterious Pass exists before Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things come into being. Why? Once Heaven and Earth have formed, they continually tend toward movement. What sets their movement in motion? The Mysterious Pass. But as soon as it stirs, it is no longer the Mysterious Pass. On a smaller scale, what makes an eagle fly, a fish leap, an insect transform, or a cicada sing? In each case, the Mysterious Pass is at work.

Considered in relation to the human body, the matter is different again. The movements of the hands and feet, the hearing of the ears and seeing of the eyes, the sense of smell in the nose, and the sense of taste in the mouth cannot directly be called the Mysterious Pass. The Mysterious Pass is the instant when all phenomena have settled into stillness and no thought has yet formed, and suddenly there is a response through which all becomes accessible; suddenly there is an awareness through which all becomes clear. That instant is the Mysterious Pass. But once a response gives rise to thought, or awareness begins to observe, it is no longer the Mysterious Pass.

Thus, in the human body, the Mysterious Pass is like a spark struck from stone or a flash of light in a bolt of lightning: elusive and impossible to grasp.

Alas, those who practice Neidan (internal alchemy, a Daoist practice based on the inner Jing, Qi, and Shen) will fall into profound confusion if they do not understand the “one opening of the Mysterious Pass,” regarded in cultivation as the key point where the mind and nature, along with primordial Jing and Qi, are set in motion. Ordinary people are governed by acquired temperament and habits, and the Mysterious Pass is blocked and obstructed. This is already so from the moment they leave the womb at birth. Only by repeatedly quieting the mind, entering a state of stillness, mystery, and clarity, can one come to recognize this one opening of the Mysterious Pass.

This opening is the source from which the true mind, true nature, true Jing, true Shen, and true Qi emerge; the Mysterious Pass is the pivot that sets them in motion. Shao Yong said, “Where the first Yang stirs, before the myriad things are born.” His words describe the moment when nothing has yet appeared and Yang Qi has just begun to stir. There, within it, is the one opening of the Mysterious Pass, the place from which primordial true Qi emerges. It lasts only an instant, so one must seek it out quickly.

Yesterday I said that the one opening of the Mysterious Pass is a primordial secret teaching, not easily passed on, and that the patriarchs of successive generations were unwilling to explain it fully. Now I have told you everything. When the sages and immortals realized the mind and saw their nature, they singled out the words “Mysterious Pass” to instruct those who study and cultivate. How can the mind become clear? The moment it suddenly becomes clear is the Mysterious Pass. How can one’s nature become manifest? The moment one suddenly sees one’s original nature is also the Mysterious Pass. The Mysterious Pass is the wondrous and subtle opening through which the mind becomes clear and one’s nature is seen; it is also the essential key to forming the embryo and refining the Elixir (Neidan cultivation based on the body, mind, Jing, and Qi).

The ancients deliberately used the words “Mysterious Pass” to instruct later students, so that they might suddenly awaken at an opportunity lasting only a brief moment and put that fleeting realization into practice. The immortals’ teachings about dividing the body and transforming it into Qi, emerging from water and entering fire, traveling above the heavens and below the earth, and undergoing countless transformations all begin with investigating and grasping the Mysterious Pass. Once one truly understands it and puts that understanding into practice, one can transform things at will, with darkness and light both under one’s command and nothing beyond one’s power. These are all secret essentials. Without ten years of hard work, it is difficult to investigate them thoroughly.

Yet to cling to “ten years” as a fixed term is itself a foolish view: if it is easy, one may understand it in an instant; if it is difficult, one may fail to understand it even over a lifetime. You possess the wisdom-root accumulated in a previous life, so I think you will surely find it not too difficult to grasp.

Disciple Jue said, “Through the affinities I formed in a past life, I was able to meet a sage master and receive your guidance in the Great Dao. It is not that I have never tried to follow your teachings. Yet I have ultimately been burdened by the affairs of speech and worldly business. For years I have taught, like an old horse beside a trough, driven wherever others choose, with my thoughts fixed only on getting fodder. As for cultivating the learning of nature and life, I have not even glimpsed its doorway. The sea of suffering is deep, and I cannot see the shore even when I look up. Thinking of this, I feel an inner fire rise and sweat all over. I beg you, Master, have compassion and pity on me, and point out what I should do.”

The Master said, “For now, simply do what you can, judging your efforts for yourself. If you can accomplish one part, then one part will count. Even if this is not yet the key to cultivating the Dao, it can become the foundation for attaining the Dao in the future. It is like building a house: first you must lay a firm foundation and set four pillars securely in place. Only then can you gradually build the upper stories and pavilions, with painted beams and pillars. If you refuse to pile up even a little earth or gather a single piece of firewood, yet only dream of grand halls and spacious mansions, how is that any different from climbing a tree to look for fish?

“Books on the Elixir Arts, writings about Neidan cultivation, are essential reading, but you must not mechanically pursue results by following the diagrams in those books. First try practicing quiet meditation. Once you find a point of entry, all kinds of subtle insights will naturally unfold one after another, and you will understand the principles wherever you look. By then, even if you wanted to stop, you would not be able to. You were born with the roots of wisdom, and your name is already recorded in the registers of the immortals. You ought to cultivate the Great Dao deeply. How could you take it lightly?”

I have always taught people to begin with the fundamentals, learning first what is simple and accessible. In time, they can naturally reach profound levels. In truth, though, cultivation has no absolute distinction between high and low. When it comes to refining the mind, both beginner’s practice and profound attainment depend on the mind. Dispelling delusions and clearing away distracting thoughts are the first steps; entering perfect awakening in an instant is a profound attainment. The ancients, too, offer examples of this. If others could do it, so can I—what is there to fear? Still, before you begin practicing, or when you have only just started, do not rush to think this way, lest a restless mind take hold. First enduring hardship and then gaining something from it is indeed an important method of quiet cultivation.

As for gathering the ingredients and refining the Elixir—a term in Daoist Neidan for processes such as gathering and refining Jing and Qi—you have read the alchemical scriptures and already understand the general idea. Once the subtle work of quiet cultivation has matured, its successive stages will unfold naturally, each one in accord with the Dao. Infinite wondrous states will also emerge from a single thought in the prenatal state—the innate condition described in Daoism, untouched by later acquired distractions. These are not merely empty understanding or vague sensations: they bring real joy and benefit. The state in which primordial Qi returns to unity often appears, and all things seem to come alive anew. Such experiences are difficult to put into words.

I have held nothing back from you. The ties formed in our past lives brought us together today; you are not the only one who cannot be without me—I cannot be without you either. I worry that you may fail to achieve success in cultivating the Dao. Whenever you have a little free time during the day, sit upright for a while and turn your attention inward to observe the mind’s own nature. Thoughts of resentment and anger arise most often in you. If you can bring the mind to stillness, you will remove a major obstacle. You must also clear away, one by one, the various roots of trouble. Keep up your practice without interruption, and the time will come when circumstances converge and your wishes are fulfilled. Once the burdens of the world are cleared away, body and mind will meet no obstruction, and the foundations of your cultivation will naturally become firm. What, then, would make the Dao difficult to attain?

I will teach you to begin with the fundamental practices. Since ancient times, most people who became immortals and attained the Dao have cultivated in this way. Do you imagine you alone must do so?

Quiet the mind to nourish the heart and spirit; clarify the mind so your original nature may emerge; use wisdom to illuminate spiritual awareness; settle yourself so the breath becomes long and even; lessen desire to nourish the life-sustaining Jing and Qi; and let thoughts return to emptiness and stillness so your will becomes firm. These are the essentials of cultivation. When the mind is quiet, it does not act recklessly, and the mind becomes clear. When the mind is clear, it does not sink into dullness, and original nature emerges. Wisdom illuminates, so spiritual awareness is complete. When the heart and spirit are settled and kept from scattering, the breath becomes open and unhurried. When desire is reduced, the innate Original Qi can be preserved, and Jing and Qi are nourished. When thoughts are empty and still, distractions from the outside world all fall away, and the will becomes steadfast. These are the most important parts of the essentials.

As for the various names and symbols found in alchemical texts (classics that explain Neidan, or internal alchemy), I think they could well be dispensed with. Lead and mercury, sun and moon, the Crow and Hare, Metal and Wood, the infant and the maiden, and phrases such as “three in the east, four in the west, two in the south, and one in the north” are all names later writers devised according to their own interpretations. At root, they speak only of Jing, Qi, and Shen. The principles of the Three Primordials and the Five Phases are also contained within them. When the movement of Qi should descend, let it descend; when it should rise, let it rise. Guard it through stillness, and through emptiness and stillness bring yourself into accord with the Dao. Guide it with intention, but do not exert the mind deliberately; understand it inwardly, but do not cling to thoughts. In action, follow the vigorous workings of the Way of Heaven, with stillness contained within movement. In quietude, remain settled like the earth, with movement contained within stillness.

The most crucial point in cultivation is the single aperture of the Mysterious Pass (the key point in Neidan where the movements of body, mind, and Qi converge): you must see through it clearly and be able to settle and keep to it. My two earlier discussions have already explained this fully. The Great Dao is Wuwei (non-action) and supremely simple; there is nothing strange or bizarre in it to astonish anyone. It is something anyone can do. How much more so for you, with your intelligence and firm resolve? Some alchemists like to speak in novel and pleasing phrases, but I cannot tell what Dao or what Elixir they are actually talking about.

When studying the alchemical classics (texts on Daoist Neidan cultivation), practitioners should grasp their fundamental principles. Key teachings worth heeding include statements in the works of the Perfected Ziyang (Zhang Boduan), such as “the heart is the master, Shen the ruler, Jing and Qi the attendants, and intention the intermediary.” His explanations of drawing out and replenishing, changing the fire, and dividing cultivation into the method of “ten turns,” however, should not be accepted wholesale.

Alchemical cultivation is like cooking: if the heat is too high, the food will burn; if it is too low, the food will remain undercooked. Only when the heat is just right will the food develop its flavor. If the fire in alchemical cultivation is too intense, lead will escape and mercury will scatter. So the work should continue without interruption, but without deliberate exertion. If the fire is too weak, the cauldron and furnace will grow cold. So practitioners should remain alert and focused, fully present throughout. When the heat is neither too high nor too low, and the fire reaches maturity, Yin Qi will naturally fade and the Yang Shen—the pure-Yang spirit described in Neidan cultivation—will naturally appear. Why set up so many labels and lead people down wrong paths, leaving students confused?

Let me explain two essential points: first, “stillness”; second, “observation.” In observing, stillness takes the lead; even in stillness, observation remains. The whole method of alchemical cultivation is contained in these two.

In the latter part of Zhang Ziyang’s alchemical classic, it says: “Let me explain two essential points: first, ‘stillness’; second, ‘observation.’ In observing, stillness takes the lead; even in stillness, observation remains. The whole method of alchemical cultivation is contained in these two.”

In the later sections of Zhang Ziyang’s alchemical text, each of the twelve two-hour periods of the day is assigned a degree of firing on the left and right sides. This arrangement may reflect only what he learned through his own practice, and may not suit everyone. Each person’s meridians differ slightly, so the firing method may not be appropriate for all. Each person should therefore draw on their own experience and test it for themselves. If Zhang Ziyang intended to prescribe his own method for everyone under Heaven, his approach would inevitably be biased.

I teach you to refine the mind and practice stillness (a method of cultivation involving quiet sitting and calming the spirit), while leaving the firing method to nature. My firing method suits me; yours may be different. I have my own insights, but forcing them onto you would be like nailing down a qin bridge and then trying to produce variations in the music: it simply will not work.

Begin practicing stillness when the autumn air turns cool. As long as you hold a single sincere thought, all manner of worries will subside. Once inner demons are cleared away, outer demons will naturally disperse. You also recite the Scripture of the Great Cavern, so the guardian spirits will remain by your side. There is no need to worry about this.

If a person has not yet cut off the karmic thoughts in their heart, they themselves become the greatest demon. All kinds of thoughts and knowledge become demon generals and soldiers; the liver, kidneys, lungs, and intestines all become demon lairs and caves. But if you can keep your heart clear and the source of your nature pure, and establish a sincere resolve and a great vow, what is there to fear, even if a hundred thousand demon troops surround you? A great man has a liver of bronze and a heart of iron, and seeks to accomplish great deeds for Heaven and Earth. If he does not fear death even when faced with knives, saws, cauldrons, and boiling oil (ancient instruments of torture and a form of execution), how much less should he fear demons, which are only illusions? How could illusions truly disturb the original mind? Press forward with courage, advancing without retreat. You must vow to persevere and never slacken!

Question: How long must one sit in stillness before seeing Yuanguo (the text reads this way; it may refer to a particular state or vision in cultivation)?

Question: How long must one sit in meditation before seeing the Original Spirit (a person’s true spiritual nature) and Original Qi (the fundamental energy of life)?

The master replied: When meditation is free of stray thoughts and thoughts that divide and distinguish, the breath becomes subtle and long. The Original Spirit appears, and Original Qi begins to arise.

Question: Do spirit and Qi have a shape?

The master replied: They are clear, empty, and luminous. How could they have a shape?

Question: If they have no shape, why are they called “spirit” and “Qi”?

The master replied: The part within them that is spiritually aware and never obscured is called spirit; the part that flows and circulates is called Qi.

Question: How can something without form condense into an elixir?

The master replied: This is the real arising from nonbeing.

Question: How long must one meditate before becoming free of stray thoughts?

The master replied: Beginners at sitting meditation often need to sit for some time before they can clear away deluded, wandering thoughts. After practicing stillness and concentration for a long time, they need only the time it takes to eat a meal to enter, in a trance-like state, the “realm of nowhere” (a still, empty state beyond the distinctions and concerns of everyday life).

Beginners should not focus only while sitting in meditation. In their daily work and dealings, they should also continually preserve the state of mind they experienced in meditation. In this way, concentration is more readily cultivated, subtle states more readily appear, and meditative absorption grows ever deeper, as if the whole body had melted away without obstruction—like clouds among mountain peaks or the moon above a river.

When practitioners of internal alchemy speak of “gathering lead and drawing mercury,” they likewise mean that, in a state of fasting the mind and sitting in forgetfulness, a trace of “embryonic breathing” (a term in internal alchemy for subtle, deep inner breath) naturally arises, and serves as its foundation.

The disciple asked, “I feel that in my early years I was beset by misfortune and repeatedly fell into disaster. I once thought that sooner or later my life would end in a ditch. Only after passing through immeasurable kalpas was I fortunate enough, in this very life, to meet a sage master and receive your guidance in the Great Dao! I am grateful and stirred to action, then moved to tears; my reverence has grown deeper still. I beg you to teach me all the secret essentials of refining the elixir. Once I attain the Dao, I vow to remain by your side for a long time and take refuge in you forever!”

The master said, “What I spoke of earlier treated the cultivation of nature (nurturing the mind and character) in detail, but the cultivation of life (refining life and Jing and Qi) only briefly. This is what you feel was left unsaid. Forming the elixir begins with refining the mind, and refining the mind lies in still observation. When still observation reaches its utmost, the Great Medicine (the inner substance formed through the gathering of Jing, Qi, and Shen in Neidan practice) arises naturally, and the Three Origins (the essential elements of inner cultivation, such as Jing, Qi, and Shen) become mutually manifest. The terms ‘setting up the furnace and establishing the cauldron,’ and ‘Xun wind and Kun earth,’ can be understood by consulting the writings of the Perfected Ziyang (Zhang Boduan, a Daoist Neidan adept). As for the firing process—the rhythms of advance, retreat, and circulation in refining and nurturing—there is more to say.

“The circulation and movement of a person’s blood and Qi, rising and descending, should naturally accord with the rhythms of the celestial circuit. In ordinary activity, one does not notice it. But when still, one can faintly sense the Qi between the channels and joints rising, then flowing down continuously, with exact measure and not the slightest deviation: it travels upward from the Weilü (a Neidan term for a point near the base of the spine) to the Niwan (a Neidan term for a point in the head), then descends from the Niwan to the Jiangong (a Neidan term for the heart region), gathers in the Shen chamber (an inner place for cultivating Shen and refining Qi), merges with the Qi of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and returns to the central yellow and the interior of the navel. This is what is meant by ‘a single point falling into the Yellow Court’ (the return and gathering of inner cultivation’s Qi at the body’s central place). The method of ‘drawing out lead and adding mercury’ (a Neidan metaphor for regulating and refining Yin-Yang essence and Qi) is simply this. The many explanations are tangled and overly minute, and make things very complicated.”

When the Yang Spirit—the spirit consciousness that practitioners say appears after separating from the physical body—leaves the womb, light shines outward from the navel center, and fragrance escapes from the nose and mouth. These are signs that the emergence is near. Afterward, golden light radiates in every direction, and the pores shine through, like the sun just rising above the sea or a luminous pearl appearing in the depths. Fragrance fills the whole room. Then comes a clap of thunder. Golden light mingles with flashes of fire, and the Yang Spirit emerges from the Mudball Palace, the cultivation site above the head.

What happens after the Yang Spirit emerges depends entirely on one’s daily cultivation. I began by discussing the cultivation of the mind because this is the most crucial stage. When the mind has been cultivated until it is empty and clear, the Yang Spirit that takes shape is made purely of innate spiritual energy. It is naturally free of thought and action, remains unstained when it encounters things, and is unmoved by what it sees. Its coming and going, its expansion and withdrawal, are entirely under one’s own control. When the Yang Spirit enters the Mudball Palace, the body becomes hot as if it were on fire; golden light shines again through the pores, and fragrance fills the room once more. In an instant, it returns to the Yellow Court, a cultivation site within the body, seeming both present and absent. The person is entirely unaware of it. This is the true state.

If the mind has not yet been cultivated to emptiness and clarity, what forms will not be a Sacred Embryo, the pure fruit of cultivation. The spirit that takes shape will be mixed with impure energy, like a person of murky disposition who is often ruled by acquired temperament. Though such a spirit may be able to leave the body, it will feel fear when it encounters something terrifying and desire when it encounters something enticing. It may linger and fail to return, thereby falling into the demonic path. Even if the physical body has died, others may think the person has peacefully passed away after attaining immortality. They will not know that once the Yang Spirit has left, it never came back—and the consequences are impossible to imagine.

From this, we can conclude that cultivating the mind is indispensable to becoming an immortal, from beginning to end. It was once said to account for half the work of attaining immortality. Now it seems we should say it accounts for all of it; indeed, it may be more important than all the rest combined. Even if the sages of antiquity were to return, they would not change this view.

Someone asked, “If the mind has not yet reached a state of utter emptiness, stillness, and clarity, but the embryo-spirit—the primordial spirit formed through Neidan cultivation—has already left the body, what should one do?” The master replied, “When there is no other recourse, the stage called ‘refining emptiness’ can still make amends. Although the embryo-spirit has already emerged, you must hold it firmly in check and let it complete the work of refining emptiness. When you finally let it go, it will roam freely through the realm of true light, its transformations vast and its state beyond words.” The person asked again, “What is meant by refining emptiness?” The master said, “It is hard to explain.”

The firing times and measures you spoke of earlier accord with what I have said: the main thing is to remain still and settled, turn awareness inward, and keep the true Qi circulating. “Drawing out lead and adding mercury” means continuously raising true Water, which symbolizes Yin essence, and lowering true Fire, which symbolizes Yang energy. The ancient sages’ teaching to “curb anger and restrain desire” gives the key to bathing and drawing out and adding. If anger is left unchecked, Fire, which should descend, instead rises. If desire is left unchecked, Water, which should rise, instead drains away. Even if one cultivates with great diligence and reaches ninety-nine percent completion, these deviations may still cause the elixir cauldron to fail and the primordial essence to be lost, or even bring about unforeseen dangers. The result may be more than simply failing to complete the cultivation.

Still, “curbing anger and restraining desire” remains a deliberate, effortful practice. Only when you have cultivated to the point where there is no anger to curb and no desire to restrain, and have even forgotten the thought of “curbing and restraining,” can the elixir be formed.

The stages of alchemical cultivation (Neidan, internal alchemy) generally begin with refining the mind, proceed to gathering, and conclude with regulating the firing process.

Refining the mind takes quiet observation as its foundation. Observe inwardly in stillness, without clinging to anything; while observing, remain calm, so that the mind can be active without becoming scattered. At this point, Original Jing (pre-heavenly essence and vital energy) blends and flows, Original Shen (pre-heavenly spirit) is lively and responsive, and Original Qi (pre-heavenly vital energy) rises in abundance. Jing, Shen, and Qi are then all present.

Gathering refers to guiding the movement and convergence of vital energy during cultivation. True Intent (focused, undistracted awareness) arises from the True Mind, and True Origin (primordial essence and vital energy) is stirred into motion by True Intent. Guide it upward as gently and steadily as a dragon pearl, without haste or delay; guide it downward like a spring trickling through a bamboo tube, neither too quickly nor too slowly. The whole process should be harmonious, like playing the mouth organ and tuning the zither and lute, and like a man and woman finding delight in one another, a husband and wife balancing firmness and softness, their feelings flowing in accord. Then send it into the Yellow Palace, the term in internal alchemy for the body’s inner Dantian region. With this, the process of gathering and union is complete.

The firing process is the regulation of how the breath is applied in cultivation and how continuously it is sustained. Warming the body with True Qi is called “bathing”; keeping the practice going without interruption is called “drawing out and adding,” meaning the continued nurturing and increase of essence and vital energy. After years of cultivation, at about ten months, an inner image resembling a human form appears. It lingers in the Palace of the Sun, then appears in the Mansion of Niwan, an internal alchemy term for a region of the head, and is then sent into the Yellow Palace. In this way, the inner elixir throughout the body is refined to completion.

As for refining emptiness, this means opening the heart and mind until one forgets oneself, makes no distinction between self and others, and no longer clings to Heaven and Earth. One becomes aware of a clear, empty, undivided Qi, with a spark of True Yang within the primordial undifferentiated state. It is neither oneself nor not oneself; neither emptiness nor not emptiness. The workings of creation turn without cease, Yin and Yang alternating in succession. When divided, they cannot be divided further; when joined, they cannot be joined further. This is called refining emptiness.

Refining emptiness means joining the emptiness of the Yang Spirit—the spiritual being described in internal alchemy—with the emptiness of the Great Void, the vast, formless expanse between Heaven and Earth, until they merge without separation. This is what is meant by “the body and spirit both wondrous, merging with the Dao in truth.” It is the stage of cultivation after the Yang Spirit is born from the womb and before it divides into multiple forms.

Question: After the Yang Spirit (the spiritual form spoken of in cultivation) leaves the womb, it is still within the person’s abdomen. How can it become one with the Great Void (the boundless expanse of emptiness)?

The Master replied: Empty and still the mind, and you can forget the body. Once a person reaches the state of forgetting the body, the Yang Spirit, though still within the abdomen, is no different from being in the Great Void. What, then, could prevent it from becoming one with the Great Void? In general, refining emptiness is the final stage of refining the mind. The Illusory Body (the tangible body formed through cultivation) has form, so this is called refining the mind; the Yang Spirit has no form, so this is called refining emptiness.

Question: How long must one cultivate refining emptiness?

The Master replied: Nine years of warming and nourishing (long-term cultivation to nurture and consolidate what has been attained) merely completes the stage of refining emptiness. Its wonders lie in transformations without end: one may tread the rosy clouds, ride the clouds, and fly away with the whole body. Why speak only of the spirit leaving the body? This stage, however, is the hardest to attain. Among ten million people, it is rare to find even one or two who succeed.

Someone asked, “If one refines the mind until nothing remains, after the spirit is released from the embryo, can one skip the stage of refining emptiness?”

The master replied, “Once you have refined until nothing remains, and body and mind have dissolved into emptiness, what emptiness is there left to refine? From a mind in which nothing remains, form an embryo in which nothing remains; nurture it into a Yang Spirit—the Original Spirit spoken of by practitioners—in which nothing remains. When it then merges with the vast, boundless Great Void, a grand Dharma form can appear and radiant light can shine forth. Even if it manifests billions of bodies, filling all of space, it is still like a single luminous pearl: in essence, it remains one ray of light.

“If, while refining the mind, you have not fully eliminated the ingrained habits and distracting thoughts accumulated in the past, the Yang Spirit will remain impure. Even if it can fill all of space, its attempt to ascend to the heights will be like a needle hidden in cotton or water mixed into oil: the two cannot blend. It must therefore undergo nine years of nurturing and refinement, practicing release from the embryo and refinement of emptiness, until nothing remains. Only then is the work complete.

“In brief, the Yang Spirit attained through refining the mind makes one’s original nature manifest; the Yang Spirit attained through refining emptiness returns to that original nature. This manifestation and return cannot be forced by human effort.”

Someone asked, “If that is so, the Yang Spirit attained by refining the mind can do without a period of nurturing. Why, then, do the alchemical scriptures criticize the spirit’s emergence as premature?”

The master replied, “The method I have taught you takes refining the mind as the highest level of cultivation. What is formed through it is a sacred embryo; the one who emerges from it is a sage. The practitioner radiates light, transcends the Three Realms—the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm—and endures with the Great Void, untouched by the destruction of Heaven and Earth. This is the wondrous Dao cultivated by the ancient Buddhas of the West.

“But most teachers in the world understand only the cultivation of life, not the cultivation of nature. They know only methods such as opening and closing the gates and apertures, holding the breath, and shifting the furnace and cauldron; they do not understand that one’s original nature is inherently empty, utterly devoid of anything. The embryo formed in this way remains an ordinary embryo, and the spirit that emerges is still that of an ordinary person. It cannot ascend to Heaven or attain the state of a sage. There is no choice but to apply effort again, so that this child can resume the Way, illuminate the mind, and see its original nature, transforming what is substantial into emptiness and what exists into nothingness. This is to seek the result by returning to the root.

“It is like someone who was weak to begin with and then caught a chill. An ignorant doctor focuses only on tonifying the body, and tonifies the chill along with it. How could the illness be cured? In the immortals’ cultivation of life, replenishing the root is the medicine; refining the mind is the medicine that removes the root of illness. To cultivate life, one must first cultivate nature; to replenish Original Qi, one must first clear and remove the various ailments. This is an invariable principle.

“Therefore, those who practice with great diligence place special importance on refining the mind, purifying the Original Spirit until it is clear and pure, like water’s radiance mingling with moonlight. When the work reaches maturity, the embryo spirit is perfected. The lid of the cauldron is lifted, and one leaps free of the cycle of rebirth. At that moment, the four directions of Heaven and Earth dissolve into a mass of purple-gold light, extending upward to the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing), the three highest deities honored in Daoism, and downward to the Six Paths, the six destinations through which beings pass in the cycle of rebirth. The Most Venerable Original Beginning and the ancient Buddha Vairocana then gladly come to meet, clasping hands and speaking of the long separation, regretting only that they did not meet sooner. All this happens in an instant. Why, then, speak of nine years of nurturing?”

Counting the breaths—the practice of counting one’s own breaths to calm the mind and spirit—is meant to gather in the scattered mind. If one can quietly observe and remain inwardly aware at all times, is it still necessary to count the breaths? Only when quiet observation has reached the point where no stray thoughts arise in the mind may one use the mind to seek the “One Cavity of the Mysterious Pass,” a term in cultivation for the gateway to a crucial inner awareness. If it is said that thoughts do not arise, why use the mind to seek it at all? Because there is a subtle way of using the mind: maintaining awareness amid a state of no mind and no thought is like tending a fire. Though the flame cannot be seen, it has not gone out. When all the myriad external appearances have subsided into still emptiness, and a moment of awareness suddenly arises, could this not be the Mysterious Pass?

From then on, one must clearly grasp this key. Imagine someone riding a swift horse that races away, raising dust. To recognize the rider, I need only see him clearly for the instant he passes before me, then remember his appearance firmly, as though the few hairs on his face remained distinct before my eyes. Only then has the Mysterious Pass truly been grasped by me. Immortality, freedom from the cycles of calamity, and the ability to respond to ten thousand changes all depend on this moment of awareness to guide and set things in motion.

Yet this awareness is not easy to attain. Priceless treasures such as pearls and fine jade can still be sought through intelligence and strength; this awareness cannot be gained through intellect. But neither is it difficult: one may travel to the ends of the earth only to discover that it was close at hand all along. Everyone already possesses it; there is no need to buy it.

Someone asked, “Cultivating the Elixir must involve actual practice. Why regard this awareness as so important?” I replied: “From time without beginning, this awareness has been exceedingly rare. The Supreme Ultimate (Taiji), the source from which the myriad things of the cosmos arise, brought forth Heaven and Earth through this awareness; the human body attains immortality and Buddhahood through it. In general, the ‘one awareness’ discussed here has two meanings. So when and where should this awareness be sought?” The answer is: “It appears at the point when stillness reaches its utmost and movement is about to begin. It is neither in stillness nor after movement has begun, but only in the instant when it comes to light. Once that instant has passed, it no longer appears.”

Volume Two

The Great Emperor of Qinghua in the Southern Pole’s Celestial Palace, a revered Daoist deity, is a messenger and assistant of the Shangqing tradition, as well as an emanation of the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning. Across the ages, he has manifested miraculous signs, appearing in ever-changing forms. He once dwelt on Mount Kongtong, where he taught profound and mysterious secrets; he also transformed Yin Xi, the Pass Keeper at Hangu, and transmitted the Dao De Jing to him. In the human realm, he is a teacher of emperors; in the heavens, he is foremost among the immortals. With great compassion and great vows, supreme holiness and benevolence, he pardons sins, bestows blessings, and saves living beings without measure. The supreme Ancestor of the Dao and Immortal Master bestows the talismans and registers (Fulu).

What is the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the root from which all things arise and change? It may be said to be a single Golden Elixir at the opening of primordial chaos. Once Heaven and Earth had formed, did the Taiji suddenly become fully manifest and disperse? No. The Taiji can transform: dividing, it becomes the myriad things, and each of the myriad things contains the Taiji within itself; when the myriad things’ transformations return to unity, that unity is still the Taiji. The Taiji is vast enough to encompass Heaven and Earth, yet small enough to enter a mustard seed, the tiniest of things. Heaven and Earth have form, but the Taiji is formless. Heaven and Earth may perish, but the Taiji does not. Understand this principle, and one can speak of refining the Elixir.

What is the “Elixir”? It is the Taiji within the human body. A person’s body and mind can divide into ten thousand forms, yet those ten thousand forms can still reunite as one body. It is like the Taiji dividing from one into ten thousand, then returning from ten thousand to one. Understand this, and one can speak of the Yang Spirit, the yang aspect of consciousness cultivated by a Daoist practitioner.

Someone asked, “How should we explain the word ‘aperture’ in the ‘one aperture of the Mysterious Pass,’ the key inner opening in Neidan cultivation?” The master replied, “Aperture” conveys a state of extreme emptiness. Any hollow space in an object responds readily to the slightest disturbance: call out beside a well, and an echo comes from within; wind passing through a mountain valley makes a sound rise from its depths. This is the natural way of things. When the human heart is free of distractions, it rests in stillness and emptiness. In this utmost emptiness, the slightest touch, when it meets the right conditions, sets it suddenly in motion. At that moment of movement, the numinous light appears and takes form. The Book of Changes says, ‘Quiet and unmoving, it responds and thereby penetrates all that happens beneath Heaven.’ This is what it means.

Someone asked, “Does the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) produce the two forms of Yin and Yang because some kind of accumulation existed first?”

The master replied, “Qi, the vital energy that makes up all things, can accumulate, but Shen, the spirit or faculty of awareness, does not accumulate. Once the crucial point in this change is set in motion, all things begin to come into being from it, with scarcely the slightest interval. Thus, as soon as the Taiji begins, all phenomena appear from it.”

The questioner asked again, “How are Wuji and Taiji distinguished?”

The master said, “There is a mysterious gateway, a single aperture—the crucial opening spoken of in cultivation—and it is through this that the names Wuji and Taiji are distinguished. Wuji is Taiji: this is an unchanging principle. I speak only of Taiji and not of Wuji for this very reason. But I feared you might not understand, so I also said, ‘Wuji is Taiji.’ Wuji is represented by an empty circle, ‘○’; Taiji by a circle with a dot inside, ‘⊙’. It is only because of the mysterious gateway that there is a distinction between Wuji and Taiji; in reality, they have never truly been separate.

“If we say that Taiji gives rise to Heaven and Earth, and that Taiji itself divides when Heaven and Earth separate, this may sound reasonable. But when Heaven and Earth divide, Taiji itself does not. Taiji is whole and undifferentiated, just as it was before Heaven and Earth came into being. The Doctrine of the Mean says that, considered in its vastness, nothing under Heaven can contain it; this means Taiji encompasses what lies beyond Heaven and Earth. Considered in its smallness, nothing under Heaven can split it open; this means Taiji is present within all things. Viewed together, Heaven and Earth embody a single Taiji; viewed separately, each thing embodies Taiji in its own way. How could Taiji truly be divided?

“Then why do Yin and Yang separate and form Heaven and Earth? This is the function of Taiji, not its underlying essence. Yin and Yang are Taiji’s function. Whether beyond Heaven and Earth or within them, Taiji encompasses and permeates everything. If Taiji’s underlying essence were destroyed, Heaven and Earth would also be destroyed. But if Heaven and Earth were destroyed, Taiji would ultimately remain unharmed. Why? Because it is empty yet numinous: being empty, it has no concrete form; being numinous, it endures forever. What, then, could destroy it?

“Therefore, to form the Elixir—to refine the Elixir Body in Neidan (internal alchemy)—one must return to Taiji’s underlying essence. Only then can the Elixir be formed. I have said that perceiving the mysterious gateway reveals Taiji. What does this have to do with forming the Elixir? Understand that once a person experiences the mysterious gateway, the supremely empty and numinous essence becomes fully manifest in the heart-mind. This complete essence is Taiji, the Taiji on which refining Shen depends. With this Taiji, Yang Qi rises and Yin Qi descends, congealing into an Elixir, just as Taiji gives rise to Heaven and Earth. This is the Taiji on which refining the body depends.”

“Dan” means “the single.” Because nothing stands opposite the Dao (the Way), it is called “Dan.” The Dao De Jing (Classic of the Dao and De) says that Heaven gains the One and becomes clear, Earth gains the One and becomes settled, valleys gain the One and become full, and people gain the One and can live long. Here, “the One” also means the single, with nothing opposite it.

Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) gives rise to Yin-Yang. Since Yin and Yang stand opposite one another, how can Taiji still be called “the single”? We can say that Taiji itself originally had no Yin or Yang, but was simply undivided and whole. Yin and Yang appeared only as the Two Modes were about to separate. Things in the world often come in pairs, but Taiji is one: how, then, can it give rise to Yin and Yang? Consider Fuxi, the legendary ancient sage king, who drew only one line when making the trigrams. If things could arise only in pairs, this would not be possible. Why did Fuxi draw one line rather than two? The Doctrine of the Mean says, “As a thing, it is not two.” Not two means one. The Yi Jing (Classic of Changes) says, “One Yin and one Yang: this is called the Dao.” The alternation of Yin and Yang is the Dao’s function; the Dao’s original substance has neither Yin nor Yang and is their source.

If Taiji originally had no Yin or Yang, what is this undivided whole? The scripture answers: it is “Shen,” the root from which transformation and change arise. When the Mysterious Pass—the pivotal point of change in body and mind during Neidan (internal alchemy) practice—stirs, its active aspect differentiates into Yang and its still aspect into Yin. Taiji then manifests the changes of Yin and Yang as if blossoming and bearing fruit.

So, is Taiji the “One,” the “single”? The human body is full of things that come in opposing pairs. Returning to the single is “Dan.” How can one return to the single? The scripture says that by quieting the mind and abiding in stillness, one can return to the single. Dan is Taiji; the Unqualified (the undifferentiated source) is also Taiji. The two divide from one into two, then return from two to one.

The disciple asked, “Teacher, you previously spoke of the ‘Mysterious Pass’ (the key point in Neidan cultivation where Yin and Yang have not yet divided and the movement of Qi begins). You also said that the Wuji and Taiji differentiate from it, which sounds as though Qi comes first and Shen comes later. Now you say that the ‘one circle’ within Taiji is Shen, which sounds as though Shen comes first and Qi comes later. Please use your all-encompassing and penetrating understanding to explain my confusion in detail.”

The teacher replied, “Taiji gives rise to Qi through Shen, but Shen and Qi cannot be sharply separated. It is like fire in the air: the nature of fire is empty. If there were fire in the air, then the earth, mountains, rivers, gardens, and plants would all have to burn. But if the nature of fire is empty, then there would only be emptiness facing emptiness. Where, then, would the fire abide? When two ‘emptinesses’ meet, where does the nature of fire come from?

“The relationship between Taiji and Yin-Yang is the same. Taiji itself has no Yin-Yang, yet the roots of Yin-Yang are contained within it. If Taiji first possessed Yin-Yang and then a numinous light entered it, Taiji would seem narrow indeed. In truth, Taiji is in a state of undifferentiated, swirling unity, where Qi intermingles. Yin-Yang cannot yet be seen or separated. As soon as the Mysterious Pass stirs, Yin and Yang divide from one another and transform into Heaven and Earth. There is nothing among the myriad things that does not arise from this.

“This is like a fire-starting mirror: no fire can be seen in the mirror, yet when sunlight shines on it, it can scorch moxa and burn the hand. So, in the end, which comes first, and which comes later?”

The disciple asked, “The teacher says that Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), the fundamental state before the myriad things divide, is Shen. In that undifferentiated, hazy, all-pervading state, is it Qi or Shen? Does Shen arise from within, or enter from outside?” The disciple focused his mind and listened attentively to the teaching.

The teacher said, “The original true state, before anything has opened into existence, is called ‘Chaos.’ When primordial Qi first shows signs of emerging, that state is called ‘diffuse vitality’—the breath spreading everywhere as all things are about to be born. Shen gives rise to Qi, and Qi gives rise to Jing. This is how Taiji brings the myriad things into being in accordance with the natural order. Jing transforms into Qi, and Qi transforms into Shen. When a person reverses this process through cultivation, they can become an immortal. This is what it means to return to the root and restore the origin.

“Shen is neither produced from within nor does it enter from outside. This state is called diffuse vitality. If Shen were produced from within, Taiji would have to exist first, and Shen would come afterward—as if a circle called Taiji were created first, and then Shen emerged from it. But Taiji depends on nothing. If Shen entered from outside, Taiji would be vast and boundless; where could there be any outside from which to enter? There is nowhere beyond Taiji.

“If Shen is neither within nor without, where does it begin? It simply is, naturally. And where does the natural begin? Where there is Taiji, there is Shen. Yet one must not cling even to the word ‘is’: Taiji takes Shen as Taiji. But one must not cling even to a phrase such as ‘takes this as that’: Taiji is Shen, and Shen is Taiji. Yet one must not cling even to the words ‘is’ or ‘equals.’ The moment you investigate through thought or explain through words, it is already no longer Taiji. In the end, a single circle is enough to express the meaning of Taiji. Why ask about inside and outside, or whether it has a beginning?

“It is like fire hidden in a stone or fire hidden in a mirror: where and when does the fire begin? Is it produced from within, or does it enter from outside? If the fire begins only when the stone is formed or the mirror is cast, where was it before the stone existed or the mirror was made? If the fire emerges from inside the stone or mirror, why does the stone not turn to ash, and why does the mirror not melt? If the fire enters from outside, where could it pass through the hard metal or stone? None of this can be explained through speculation and debate.

“Then where do the myriad things begin, and how do they arise? All things originate in emptiness; Taiji itself is emptiness. When emptiness meets emptiness, not the slightest trace is not empty. When the myriad things return to emptiness, how could their own natures differ? Emptiness can give rise to the One, and the One can give rise to the myriad things. The myriad things return to the One, and the One returns to emptiness. Emptiness is the source of all things.

“Those who cultivate the Dao must understand true emptiness and not mistake it for false emptiness; understand numinous emptiness and not mistake it for lifeless stillness; understand complete emptiness and not see only emptiness in part; understand the emptiness of nature and not see only the emptiness of form; understand void emptiness and not mistake it for substantial existence; understand constant emptiness and not mistake it for something strange; understand emptiness as it has always been and not think only of emptiness in the past; understand the emptiness taught by immortals and Buddhas and not mistake it for the emptiness taught by heterodox paths. Learn to perceive emptiness in visible, tangible things such as the sun, moon, and stars, mountains and rivers, animals and plants. Do not understand emptiness only as something that vanishes in an instant without a trace, like frost flowers, bubbles, a spark from stone, or a flash of lightning.”

Is Dan the essential nature of metal? Heaven’s first Qi gives rise to water. If water had no metal as its mother, how could it come into being? That is why I say “single.” Dan also carries the meaning of “single.” Another explanation is that “single” means one, drawn from the idea of “Heaven’s One.”

Earth’s fourth position gives rise to metal. This refers to the level of form and substance, not to a state beyond form and substance. Before Yin and Yang had separated, Yin-Yang Qi flowed within Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate, the source of the cosmos), already containing the Five Phases (Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth). The nature of metal was fully latent within it from the beginning. Taiji itself is empty, numinous, and clear; its nature is metal, its color is gold, and it governs before the Five Phases take shape. After Yin and Yang separate, water is the first to arise, as a mother gives birth to a child.

How do we know that Taiji has the nature of metal and appears golden? When those who have attained the Dao realize the perfected, radiant source of wondrous awareness, they see their bodies turn golden, with golden light streaming from their heads. This perfected, radiant source of wondrous awareness is the original substance of Taiji, so it manifests golden light and color in accord with Taiji. In cultivating Neidan (internal alchemy), practitioners of the immortals’ arts first seek to manifest Taiji within the body. The Elixir they form is like a grain of purple gold; when the Yang Spirit—the pure Yang spiritual form described in cultivation—appears, the whole body takes on the color of refined purple gold. Is Taiji not like this as well?

In principle, among the Five Phases, metal is the most empty; only what is empty can endure. Hollow objects resound, and metal produces clear, ringing tones, showing that metal has the quality of emptiness. Metal is also the most active in nature: activity brings nimbleness, and nimbleness makes transformation possible. Its child is water. Water flows without cease, displaying its mother’s nature. We can understand the mother through the nature of the child: Taiji is empty and numinous, its color is golden light, and its nature is metal.

Alchemy is the refinement of something into a pure and unified substance. What does “refining the One” mean? Here, the “One” refers to the Celestial One. The Celestial One belongs to Water, and Water’s source lies in Metal. The Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the source from which all things emerge before they divide, has the nature of Metal. This is the mystery of natural generation, not something with a visible form or substance. Thus, alchemy refines the nature of Metal until it is pure, and the Elixir is thereby formed.

The human body contains all Five Phases, with Metal foremost among them. Why say this? Because “the Celestial One generates Water,” and Water is generated by Metal. Nothing can come into being without a foundation. Know that an innate trace of true Metal exists within the human body; the human voice is the expression of Metal Qi within the body. Considered according to the Five Phases, Wood produces a rustling sound, Water a hissing sound, Fire a rushing sound, and Earth a rumbling sound. Only Metal produces a resonant clang. That is why a baby, just after leaving the mother’s womb, gives a loud cry: it is caused by Metal Qi. Metal sounds when hollow; once the child leaves the womb, the inside and outside of its body are connected, and it can therefore cry. The mother’s duty to nurture arises through the child, just as Metal resides with Water. Water is generated by the Celestial One.

Wherever metal is found in the world, white vapor often rises above it. The pure white color of the body’s Jing and Qi is likewise an expression of Metal Qi. Therefore, in alchemy, one gathers and refines the essence produced by Original Jing, then joins it with the “Mercury within Li”—the fiery substance symbolized by the Li trigram—to form the Elixir. When the firing process reaches completion, a golden radiance appears outwardly, revealing its inherent nature.

Yet Metal is vulnerable to being melted by Fire. Why, then, should the Metal within Kan—the Metal in Water symbolized by the Kan trigram—be brought near the Fire within Li? In terms of cosmological correspondences, Metal begins its cycle of growth at the Si position, which belongs to Fire. People know only that Metal fears Fire, not that it is also drawn to Fire. When Metal is hidden in Earth, one sees only the Earth and not the Metal. Only when true Fire presses upon it does the Earth’s Qi disperse and the form of Metal become visible. This is like a child in the womb, unable to emerge on its own; only when the inner workings of its vital spirit are set in motion do the Three Lights—Jing, Qi, and Shen—become manifest. Fire is the vital spirit of Metal. That is why frost and snow rarely settle above a metal mine: Metal is born from Fire and also carries the nature of Fire. Bringing the Metal within Kan toward the Fire within Li, then, is precisely to return it to its source and accord with what it naturally seeks. The principle behind the Elixir as a substance formed from the nature of Metal is now clear.

Scattered, drifting thoughts do not count as true intention. Nor do wavering reflections and delusions. The “intention” spoken of here is a thought that arises clearly from within the heart-mind. Once the intention has arisen, the heart-mind returns to emptiness and stillness. This is why it is also called “intention that seems to be no intention.”

The power of intention is immense. At first, when Yang Qi begins to sprout, intention guides it. After Yang Qi has arisen, intention is also at work in gathering and drawing in the primordial Yang of the precelestial state. Once it has been gathered, intention is still needed to bring it together with Shen in the “Spirit Chamber.” After this union, intention is needed to send it into the “Yellow Court,” a vital place within the body in Daoist Neidan practice. The power of intention is truly immense.

That is not all. When the Yang Spirit, formed through Neidan cultivation, leaves the body, intention guides it. After it departs, intention guides it as it rides the wind through the air. As it roams the Imperial Realm, the realm of the immortals, and then returns to the Spirit Chamber, the inner place where Shen and Qi are nurtured, it likewise cannot do without intention. The power of intention is truly immense!

Someone asked, “Can the Yang Spirit eat and drink, and speak? Does it also have the five viscera and six bowels?” The reply was, “One can say that it does, and one can say that it does not.” The key still lies in the power of intention.

Someone asked, “Can the Yang Spirit—the divine body formed through cultivation—eat and drink, speak, and have the five internal organs?”

The reply was: “You could say it does, and you could say it does not. Why say it does? After ten months of cultivation, a childlike being clearly comes forth. It can laugh and speak, eat and drink, and walk. If it had no internal organs, it would be no more than a puppet. Who, then, would direct it as it speaks, walks, sits, and lies down? That is why I say it has them.

“Why say it does not? In essence, the Yang Spirit is empty and without substance. It walks by day without casting a shadow; it leaves no footprints in mud; it does not scorch in fire or get wet in water. It can hide its form within metal and stone, or transform into flying creatures, swimming creatures, animals, plants, and other things. If it had a fixed form and substance, how could it move freely and transform without obstruction? That is why I also say it does not.

“So does the Yang Spirit truly exist, or is it truly nonexistent? If we say it exists, then everything between Heaven and Earth could be called a Yang Spirit. If we say it does not, then there is no material thing originally within my own mind, either. Those who have attained deep cultivation unite with the Dao and become one with reality. The Dao can transform into the myriad forms and appear differently according to each thing; in this sense, it is reasonable to say that the Yang Spirit exists.

“The Dao has neither form nor sound, yet it contains Heaven and Earth. From emptiness it gives rise to the One, and from the One arise the myriad things. The myriad things return to the One, and the One returns to emptiness. When emptiness operates through emptiness, one can see how transformation takes place. In this sense, it is also reasonable to say that the Yang Spirit does not exist.

“Those who study and cultivate should grasp this fundamental principle, so they will not be misled by illusory forms and imaginings. As for whether the Yang Spirit can be cultivated or can leave the body, let it happen naturally.”

The key to Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation lies in a single word: “emptiness.” Once you grasp this essential point, many things become clear. What is meant by “the One” is “emptiness.” Someone may ask, “Can emptiness be explained in words?” It can. In the end, the Dao (the Way) is nothing other than emptiness. When I speak with you about cultivating the Dao, I speak of just one word: “emptiness.” The mind must be refined through emptiness, intention must be empty, and so must the gathering of the medicine, the formation of the embryo, the regulation of the firing times, and the refinement of the Yang Spirit. Refining emptiness means returning emptiness to emptiness; the Mysterious Pass means using emptiness to perceive emptiness. The thousand forms of emptiness, in the end, are all the same emptiness.

The “emptiness” spoken of here is not a void with nothing in it, but an emptiness that is full and profound. Nor is it scattered and loose; it is whole and undivided, which is why it is called “the One.” Consider whether everything within body and mind is ultimately empty or solid. In its original state, all is empty, yet you cling to it as solid. The mind is originally empty, yet you let the senses and external objects fill it (“sense faculties and their objects” refers to the six sense faculties and their six objects of perception). Shen (spirit) is originally empty, yet you make it dull and fixed with thoughts. Jing (essence) is originally empty, yet you make it stagnant through sexual desire. Qi (vital energy) is originally empty, yet you disturb it through toil. Intention is originally empty, yet you let it be occupied by joy, anger, sorrow, and fear. The nose is congested by smelling too many odors; the ears by hearing too much; the eyes by seeing too much; the mouth by speaking too much; the hands and feet by restless movement; and the pores by foul and impure things.

All things are originally empty, yet you take each one to be real, and so these attachments bind body and mind. Alas, when something utterly empty meets a person clinging to what is utterly solid, it is like a feather falling into water: unable to rise and fly, it can only rot in the end.

How, then, can you return to emptiness? Confucians speak of “stopping,” Daoists of “stillness,” and Buddhists of “concentration.” One must continually clear away the accumulated obstructions in the mind, like muck filling a vat and taking great effort to remove. But if you can directly realize your original state, in an instant you reach the stage of “no leakage”—a state of cultivation free from afflictions and deficiencies—like a fierce wind sweeping away dust or the sun melting accumulated snow. This is the highest awareness. It can also bring the Lower Dantian’s Dan Origin to completion, and can be achieved in the blink of an eye.

Someone asked, “Deluded thoughts and attachments all arise from seeing. How can we reach a state in which we see things yet are as if we had not seen them?”

The master replied, “A good question. This is precisely the key. The various sensations that arise when our senses meet the outside world are especially easily pulled along by sight. To ‘see as though not seeing,’ the key is to preserve the spirit and settle the heart. There are three methods of cultivation.

“First, nourish the heart and spirit before awareness begins to stir. Let the heart be as clear and bright as the moon in an empty sky, free of distracting thoughts, still and unmoving, yet always awake and lucid. Beautiful forms, alluring sounds, and other external things ultimately share the same essential nature as I do. External things are no different from me, and I am no different from external things. When things and self are not divided, the spirit is not drawn along by external things and can abide within the heart.

“Second, when awareness is about to stir, remain clear and undimmed, so that thoughts and actions stay within proper bounds. This is like a zither producing harmonious notes as the fingers move across its strings: the heart understands what is happening, yet does not cling to external things. In this way, thoughts may arise without carrying us away, and the spirit can abide within the heart.

“Third, in the interval as one awareness gives way to another, discern the subtle signs clearly. This is like guiding a chariot drawn by many horses: the horses move in concert as though they were one, and their hooves fall together as though they were a single hoof. The chariot travels like flowing clouds and running water, naturally, with no distracting thoughts allowed to enter. The heart and spirit move without obstruction, circling as though in the Great Void, while still abiding within the heart.

“Although something is seen, the heart and spirit remain apart from what is seen; although the heart and spirit are active in the eyes, seeing and spirit can also be joined. What does it mean for the heart and spirit to remain apart from what is seen? When an external thing touches the vision, seeing does not rush after it; when vision meets an external thing, that thing does not pull vision along. It is like an image reflected in a mirror: the image does not enter the mirror of its own accord, and the mirror does not reach out to touch things. How, then, could the heart and spirit race after external things?

“What does it mean for seeing and spirit to be joined? When there are no external things, the nature of seeing has not disappeared; when there is something to see, the nature of seeing is not stirred into agitation. All things pass before the eyes, while within the heart there remains a true and unchanging nature. This is like fire within crystal: it illuminates things inside a room, yet the fire is within the crystal, not outside it. How, then, could the heart and spirit race after external things?

“In sum, when the heart is still and its awareness is clear, the true spirit is free and unrestrained. The sun and moon must eventually come to an end, but the eye of wisdom is inexhaustible. Have you never watched fish? When a fish is unaware of the water, its nature is at ease; if it is constantly conscious of the water, its nature grows weary. When awareness remains clear, the true spirit is free. The sun and moon end, but the eye of wisdom is inexhaustible. This is how one should understand ‘seeing as though not seeing.’

“Liu Xiahui let a woman sit in his lap, yet his eyes did not regard her as a woman who might arouse desire. This means that although he saw another person, he was not moved by what he saw.

“Refining the Elixir and refining the heart are, in the end, the same work of cultivation. To refine the heart is to transform the thoughts already present within it; to refine the Elixir is to cultivate the Neidan (internal alchemy) that is inherently formless. The heart seems to be something ‘there,’ while the Elixir seems to be ‘nothing,’ yet a subtle mystery lies within this. The heart is governed by the spirit, and when the spirit abides in the heart, the Elixir can be said to belong to me. If the spirit is drawn away by external things, I can no longer govern my own heart. When the heart and spirit lose their anchor, the inner fire grows excessive, Qi (vital energy) is depleted, and cultivation loses an essential foundation. The Great Dao values ‘no mind,’ yet the true presence contained within nothingness is what truly exists. Refining the heart means cultivating the heart that is ‘present within nothingness.’

“The Neidan takes Jing (essence) as its foundation. The ‘Jing’ meant here is not the semen produced through sexual intercourse. The Jing of intercourse is mixed with the fire of desire, like water containing fire: it is salty and unsuitable for refining the Elixir. The scripture uses the example of boiling seawater to obtain salt to explain this point. The sea contains fiery Qi, and late at night, from a high ridge, one can sometimes see flames flickering across the surface of the water. The Neidan is formless and soundless, without color or taste; it cannot be mixed with Jing tainted by the fire of desire.

“Thus, what one gathers is ‘Original Jing’: a point of pure, empty and numinous essence, seeming to exist and yet seeming not to exist. From it the numinous Elixir condenses, as though a naked child sprang forth. Although this child seems to have shape and form, in truth it remains shapeless and formless. One uses inherently formless Jing to cultivate an inherently formless Elixir, then nurtures this inherently formless ‘child.’ Thus, refining the Elixir means cultivating the ‘Elixir that is nothing within what exists.’

“If the heart and spirit cannot remain anchored in themselves, one falls into a state of no mind, and the ‘child’ symbolized by the Neidan loses its numinous nature. It can only dress and eat; it cannot study or discuss the Dao. If what one gathers is not Original Jing but essence mixed with the fire of desire, it is like impure semen and cannot nurture the Elixir embryo. Even if an embryo takes shape, it will miscarry halfway through, like a woman suffering a miscarriage: it is cut off before its true form can appear.

“Therefore, the heart must both exist and recognize the no mind contained within this existence; the Elixir must be nothing, yet one must understand that it is the nothing contained within what exists. Being and nonbeing generate one another: this is the key to transformation, and it is called the Supreme Dao.”

Alchemical cultivation is not something one sets out to do deliberately. Only when one can act without contrivance and remain free of concerns can it truly be called alchemical cultivation. If a person can genuinely set aside distracting thoughts and reach the state of “fasting the mind and sitting in forgetfulness” (stilling the mind, cleansing thought, and forgetting the distinction between body and mind), why would the Elixir need to be cultivated deliberately? To reach the point where deliberate cultivation is no longer needed is to be truly skilled in alchemical cultivation.

Those in the world who speak of alchemical cultivation through forced interpretations treat it as an earth-shattering undertaking. Alas, such thinking has already strayed far from the Way of the Elixir. The Dao takes nature as its foundation. The Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the source from which Heaven, Earth, and all things arise, generates Heaven and Earth in the most ordinary and effortless way: unknowingly, the empty transforms into the empty, and the real joins with the real.

The human body already contains the Taiji. Once there is Taiji, Yang Qi rises, as though generating Heaven, while Yin Qi descends, as though generating Earth. Though Heaven and Earth differentiate, in the end they return to a single Taiji, empty, numinous, and containing the original source. There is nothing extraordinary about this. Cultivation requires no deliberate thought; one need only sit calmly and quietly in a room. If one wishes to practice benevolence, benevolence will come from this. To refine the Great Elixir from what one already possesses within oneself is like dressing and eating in a wealthy household: everything one needs comes from home, with plenty to spare.

One has one’s own innate nature, so one must realize that nature for oneself; one has one’s own life, so one must establish that life for oneself. The Way of the Elixir has no other secret: it concerns only nature and life. People today neglect nature and life and so head toward an early death, yet blame their fate. Were those who awakened to the Dao and became immortals destined by fate to live forever and transcend the Three Realms (the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm)? This is truly laughable.

A Buddhist scripture says, “There is no birth and no death.” The root of people’s troubles today is the excessive arising of delusive thoughts. Delusive thoughts give rise to delusive dust; delusive dust gives rise to delusive states; and delusive states give rise to delusive karma. In this way, each gives rise to the next without end. Where there is birth, there is death; where there is death, there is birth. Through countless eons, one turns ever deeper into delusion. In an instant, a thought suddenly arises and then suddenly vanishes. This thought is the cause of birth and death in the cycle of rebirth.

Where there is a thought, there will be a form. A form suddenly appears and then suddenly vanishes. This form is the place where birth and death unfold. Where there is a form, there will be a particular thing. A thing suddenly appears and then suddenly vanishes. This thing is the condition that gives rise to birth and death. In a single day, people do not realize that they have undergone birth and death dozens, hundreds, even thousands of times in the sea of desire. Changes in the physical body are merely a much longer process.

Someone asked, “If the Taiji generates Heaven and Earth, how can you say that it is unborn?” The answer is: Although the Taiji generates Heaven and Earth, something exists that is not born and does not perish along with them. Therefore, the Taiji does not perish.

There is nothing left to refine in alchemy. From where, then, could the Elixir be made? Refine emptiness and stillness until they are truly empty and still, and the Elixir is complete. “Emptiness” means that nothing is there. If so, what is there to refine? Yet something remains that does not vanish when Heaven and Earth arise and perish. Thus Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) does not perish.

There is nothing left to refine in alchemy. From where, then, could the Elixir be made? Refine emptiness and stillness until they are truly empty and still, and the Elixir is complete. “Emptiness” means that nothing is there. What, then, could be made from it? If you wish to refine the Elixir, you must work precisely where there is nothing at all. Once something has been refined, it ultimately returns to nothingness, and the Great Elixir is within you.

The highest Dao (the Way) has nothing that words can explain. The highest Elixir, too, is not some concrete thing that can be fashioned. If you cling to visible, tangible things in pursuit of it, you move ever farther from the Dao.

Consider what, within your body, truly belongs to “me.” Is it your hands and feet, ears, eyes, mouth, and nose? Your liver, kidneys, lungs, and intestines? Your heart, gallbladder, bones, and blood? Or your feelings, awareness, and thoughts? If you can find one of these and be certain that it is truly “mine,” try refining it. Reflect carefully, and you will see that all these are merely temporary forms and functions; none is the true self. What is more, clinging to them makes them a heavy burden, keeping you from becoming an immortal or a Buddha.

Now you must set all these things aside and seek out, on its own, the root that truly belongs to you—the source that neither arises nor dies. Then longevity will be yours to determine, and so will liberation from the Three Realms (the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm). What transformation or flight could you not command? Why let what has form weigh down the formless root?

Alas, people of the world bustle about, thinking they are seeking life, when in truth they are heading toward death. It is truly lamentable. You do not envy worldly honors and profits, nor crave wine and sensual pleasures. You truly have the potential to cultivate the Dao; it is only that your opportunity has not yet come. You live amid the surging dust of the world and gaze toward the lofty realm of immortals, yet cannot find the way there. You are like a thousand-mile horse trapped in a salt cart, helpless to move on.

For now, wait in peace. If you can live amid the dust of the world while keeping your heart still, observe your nature at every moment, and cultivate yourself continually, then no matter how fiercely worldly desires and temptations flare, you can extinguish them in an instant, as a single drop of sweet dew from a silver bottle puts out a raging flame. This is true learning of the Dao, true alchemy. As time passes, your practice will grow firmer; you will neither tire of it nor slacken. In time, an immortal adept will come to watch over you, teach you sacred writings and precious registers, and make you an immortal teacher in the world. Strive diligently, and do not think my words are empty.

For those who cultivate Neidan (internal alchemy), the most important thing is not to keep the matter of “refining the Elixir” constantly in mind. Even if a Golden Elixir—the sign that Neidan has been perfected—were to appear in the palm of your hand and someone seized it a moment later, you should be able to let it go without concern, feel that it is not worth cherishing, and hold no resentment or attachment. Only then can you be said to truly understand Elixir cultivation.

The Elixir is a precious treasure, unlike pearls or fine jade. How can it be treated so casually? In fact, if a practitioner does not have a broad and open heart, then even if they refine the Elixir day and night, they will ultimately find it hard to succeed. The Elixir’s essence is emptiness. If you cling to it and hold it in your heart, it is no longer the Elixir.

So before cultivation, it should be as though you had no wish at all to refine the Elixir; after cultivation, it should be as though you had never obtained it. Even if you rise into the realm of clear emptiness and roam among the blue heavens, seeing golden light, jade hues, pearl palaces, and towers of jade—the palaces and halls of the immortals—you should act as though you had seen nothing. Regard extraordinary realms as ordinary, and realized beings as ordinary people; treat them all as things that have always been there. To take them as naturally as everyday dressing, eating, and tending to household affairs requires a hero’s breadth of spirit. This is the capacity needed to become an immortal. It is what Mencius called “an unmoved heart.”

Suppose someone finds a luminous pearl but treats it like a piece of rubble. Then neither person nor pearl weighs upon the other, and both remain at ease. How free that is! But if the pearl is treated as a treasure, caressed constantly and kept in mind at every moment, it becomes a burden. When the heart is weighed down by attachment, it cannot be empty and still; when the heart cannot be empty and still, it departs from the Dao.

A man in the state of Chu once acquired a jade cup and treated it as his greatest treasure. Afraid it might be damaged, he stored it in a cabinet and wrapped it in brocade, seeming to know well how to protect it. Yet he kept opening the cabinet to look at it, then putting it away, then taking it out again. He grew so anxious that his eyes turned yellow and his hands trembled. In the end, he knocked over the cabinet and smashed the cup. People treat the Elixir in just the same way: to appear not to cherish it so much is to understand how to cherish it truly; to regard it as a rare treasure only harms it.

The “fire timing” of cultivation—the timing and effort involved in nurturing the inner Elixir—should also be ordinary and unremarkable: apply attention without contrivance, neither forget it nor force it, and let it proceed naturally, like water finding its course or meat growing tender when the firewood is sufficient. Teachings that specify every measure down to the tiniest fraction are apt to mislead. They are claims invented by people who boast of profound knowledge and affect an air of mystery; they only confuse students and make them think Elixir cultivation is exceedingly difficult, and that only these people understand it.

I have read many Elixir scriptures and diagrams, all of which say that fire timing must be kept secret and transmitted from teacher to student, heart to heart. Who would have thought that the true fire timing is so ordinary and easy to follow, so plain and unremarkable? Because you love the Dao, I have used these few words to make the essential point clear and pass it on to the world, sparing those who do not understand cultivation a great deal of worry. This is a great merit I have quietly accumulated, and a good deed that benefits all.

Bones matter more than muscles, and the hun is stronger than the po, so being slender does no harm. What you must guard against is letting the heart-fire—the state described in traditional Chinese medicine as an overexcited heart spirit and excessive internal heat—burn too fiercely. If it blazes too high, it will deplete your blood and Qi.

During the day, speak little and think little. Close your eyes to nourish the spirit, and regulate your breathing to nourish Qi. Let body and mind unfold freely, like drifting clouds: when things come before your eyes and stir you, do not let your heart be led by them. Keep this up over time, and naturally the various illnesses will fade, leaving body and mind at ease and refreshed. This is not difficult; you can persist in it whether active or still.

Shaozi, the Northern Song Confucian thinker Shao Yong, said, “Quietly observe the myriad things, and each reveals its own delight; the beautiful pleasures of the four seasons can be shared with others.” These are the words of someone who has gained insight through cultivating the Dao. How perceptive and open his heart must have been, how joyful! He was almost like a living immortal, brimming with vitality.

Since ancient times, those who cultivated the Dao, ascended to the mysterious, and became immortals have sometimes spent a thousand years before being entered into the registers of the immortals, while others have passed through several lifetimes before setting foot on the path to the celestial realm. Even the fastest took a hundred years, sixty or seventy years, or at least thirty or forty, or twenty years, before a true immortal came to guide them. You have cultivated for only a hundred days and already hope for an extraordinary opportunity. Nothing like this has ever happened since ancient times. I make you this promise: if you cultivate diligently without slackening, day after day for three years, I will assure you that your immortal affinity will gradually take shape, and that there will be clear steps for you to advance in your cultivation. Cherish yourself and spur yourself on. Do not disappoint my hopes!

Although Jing, Qi, and Shen have three different names, in reality they are one. Before people have let go of worldly emotions and settled their scattered thoughts, Jing, Qi, and Shen seem to separate, each responding to different things. But for someone who has attained the Dao, who fasts, purifies the mind, sits quietly, and forgets the self, how could Jing, Qi, and Shen still be divided? The Highest One—a Daoist honorific for the supreme deity—speaks only of the Dao, not of the Elixir. There is good reason for this.

When mixed together, they seem to be three; when clear and settled, they return to one. These three are not independent Shen, Qi, and Jing. To say they are one body means that Shen, Jing, and Qi merge into a complete whole, like a Taiji or a Golden Elixir. In motion, it contains all things; in stillness, it illuminates the ten directions. Its spiritual subtlety is beyond distinction, and its mysteries are difficult to express in words.

In discussing these principles with you, I have explained them in depth and at length. Understanding the principles is not difficult; putting them into practice is. If you can investigate them deeply, grasp their essential meaning, absorb them into your heart, and experience them firsthand in the affairs of daily life, then even if you have not yet ascended into the heavens, you will already be a person of high attainment who has realized the Dao. The heavenly spirits will protect you. The Dao-body will be complete and unobstructed, and your numinous root will endure, its wondrous workings without limit. You too will become one of the immortals.

The essential meaning of the Dao is simply the word “emptiness.” Emptiness can contain all things; the world will perish, but emptiness alone will not. The Daoist scripture says, “When form and spirit are both wondrous, one unites with the truth of the Dao.” The Dao is nothing other than emptiness. For form and spirit to be “both wondrous” means that the body and spirit both return to emptiness, to the same emptiness. Emptiness can contain all things; the world will perish, but emptiness alone will not. The Daoist scripture says, “When form and spirit are both wondrous, one unites with the truth of the Dao.” The Dao is nothing other than emptiness. For form and spirit to be “both wondrous” means that the body and spirit both return to emptiness.

I have always taught the Dao, saying from the beginning that one must first cultivate the mind and nature, continuing all the way to ascending to immortality in broad daylight. This is the one path that runs through the whole journey; there is no shortcut by which someone can begin cultivating in the morning and reach the goal by evening. Have you understood this clearly? The words “nature” and “life” are like interlocking rings of jade: each links with the other, and they cannot be separated.

People who cultivate the Dao today often fear that cultivating nature is difficult, so they begin with the work of life, focusing on the water and fire of Kan and Li, terms in Neidan that symbolize the transformations of Yin-Yang. Even if they form the embryo—the “sacred embryo” of internal alchemy—and the Yang spirit leaves the body, they may still have not cleansed the worldly roots of their nature or fully escaped the bonds of birth and death. They will therefore encounter obstacles when ascending and undergoing transformation, and will be unable to dwell in a realm of pure emptiness and luminous mystery. It will be difficult for them to roam through the Great Void and merge with the formless.

The key to ending birth and death and escaping the cycle of rebirth is to cultivate the school of nature—the path centered on cultivating the mind and realizing one’s nature—to completion. Without penetrating this fully, even if one nurtures the sacred embryo to maturity, one remains an ordinary person, a dull child. Even if one rises into the air, one may still fall back down; even if one lives for hundreds or thousands of years, one cannot avoid falling again. Why? Because one does not understand the principle of emptiness. And even if one understands it, one has not truly reached a state of empty stillness, free of attachment.

If one cultivates life first and turns to the study of nature afterward, the hardest part is left until last. When the Yang spirit has just formed, the sacred embryo must still contain unpurified energies. Without further work in facing the wall—sitting in seclusion and devoting oneself to cultivation—these may be difficult to refine and cleanse. Those who cultivate life first and nature afterward probably seek quick results, but in the end hinder the growth of the sacred embryo and make success difficult.

To move from cultivating nature to cultivating life requires genuine understanding: the mind must recognize the true mind, nature must recognize true nature, and spirit, essence, and Qi must each be understood in their true essence. Nature and life are inseparable by nature, and they can be cultivated together. On the day one attains the Dao, one takes a place among the heavenly officials and transcends the Three Realms—the realms of desire, form, and formlessness—existing before Heaven and Earth and enduring after they perish. This is the true lineage, beyond doubt. However artfully others may speak, they cannot go beyond the essential meaning of these few words of mine.

Someone asked, “Are Buddhist relics and the Daoist Golden Elixir the same thing?”

The master replied, “Buddhism makes directly realizing one’s true nature the aim of cultivation. Jing and Qi are not its primary objects of practice. All things in the world arise and pass away; only one’s true nature is neither born nor destroyed. After a person enters Nirvana—transcending life and death and reaching a state of stillness—their true nature is perfectly complete and clear, beyond the Three Realms (the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm), and forever free from rebirth in the Six Paths. The Jing and Qi left behind condense into relics. Sometimes they shine; at times they appear, then disappear. Such, broadly speaking, are the Buddha’s spiritual powers.

“Once the Buddha has entered Nirvana, the Jing and Qi he leaves behind have no awareness. How, then, can they appear or disappear, and what makes them shine? Ah, how can one say they are entirely without awareness? Yet how can one say they have awareness? It is like a luminous pearl: what makes it shine? The pearl forms inside a clam, condensed from the clam’s essence. Once it leaves the clam, it is separated from the clam’s spirit, yet remains smooth and bright as the moon, because it retains Jing and Qi within itself.

“Human Jing, Qi, and Shen are originally one; they are not three unrelated things. Buddhists focus on clarifying the mind and seeing one’s true nature, awakening wisdom and refining Shen’s light on its own. The remaining Jing and Qi condense into form. At this point, every kind of leakage from the body has been brought to an end, and all forms of stagnation have dissipated. Jing becomes Original Jing, and Qi becomes Original Qi. Though they are not as penetrating and clear, or as illuminating of all things, as Shen, they are still imbued with spirit. That is why they shine intermittently, appearing and disappearing, and change unpredictably. This is the principle behind it.

“The relics appear in different colors because the world contains many kinds of precious stones, each with its own luster depending on its substance and nature. Jing and Qi are treasures of the human body. The body contains the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), so it manifests five colors, and relics therefore differ in color as well. From this we can infer that when Buddhism speaks of what is neither born nor destroyed, it means Shen—that is, one’s nature. Relics, by contrast, belong to Jing and Qi—that is, one’s life. Buddhism cultivates nature but not life; therefore, after Nirvana, Shen ascends into emptiness, while Jing and Qi remain in the human world.”

Daoists practice the dual cultivation of nature and life (xingming shuangxiu), cultivating the spirit’s original nature and the physical life at the same time. They gather and unite Jing, Qi, and Shen into an inner elixir, then, through the “circulation of the celestial circuit and regulation of the firing process,” guide the breath according to Neidan methods and carefully pace their practice. From this they nurture a “child,” as light as a thin cloud, graceful as a young woman, and resembling themselves. At this stage, Shen and Jing are present within it. Some say that Shen, Jing, and Qi are all present: these three can be described separately, but in reality cannot be separated.

Someone asks: Practitioners seeking immortality also sometimes die seated upright, leaving relics after death. If they cultivate both nature and life, why do they leave relics? The author replies that if leaving relics is the measure, then the practice must be Buddhist rather than the way of the immortals, since that kind of cultivation emphasizes original nature and gives less attention to the physical life.

Those who cultivate both nature and life refine the Jing, Qi, and Shen within themselves until they are pure. Their bones and blood seem to have been transformed, and their pores become open and translucent. Their blood is like white paste; their bodies are light as cloud-fluff, red like the sun and bright, hot as fire. This force courses through all four limbs and appears within a clear, luminous state, enabling it to rise and descend, change, and move at will. The author uses this to explain the difference between Buddhist and Daoist cultivation.

Yet when it comes to the realm of “nature,” the two traditions also share common ground. Original nature is inherently empty and still; the six senses—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—remain in a state of quiet clarity. Only by preventing tangible things from burdening intangible nature can an empty, luminous mind illuminate all things. The light of wisdom is not confined to any place, and Suchness, the true and unchanging essence, remains clear for all time.

When someone practices Neidan (internal alchemy), the Yin Qi within the body is exhausted, and pure Yang Qi naturally becomes apparent. As Yang Qi grows strong, Yin Qi gradually recedes. The seven emotions and six desires of the human body are all sources from which Yin Qi arises. Remove this source, and true Yang will be revealed.

Among all things, Yin Qi is heavy and Yang Qi light. Yang Qi is clear, while Yin Qi is turbid. What is light and clear rises; what is heavy and turbid descends. Therefore, someone whose passions and desires are burning fiercely cannot soar into the heavens. Yin is cold in nature; Yang is hot. As soon as Yang Qi begins to stir, the earth seems to welcome spring. Have you not observed the seasons? In the depths of winter, Yang Qi lies dormant, and Heaven and Earth are closed off. Today, people exhaust themselves with scheming and deplete their vital energy, as though their bodies were in the depths of winter. Their pores dry out and their skin cracks and wrinkles, like plants withering in winter. When spring arrives, Yang Qi springs to life and Yin Qi recedes; flowers bloom, and the soil grows moist and fertile. If true Yang is present within the human body, white hair will turn black again, fallen teeth will grow back, and the skin’s texture and pores will become firm and smooth, lustrous as jade. The human body and Heaven and Earth differ in form, but their principles are the same.

So long as ordinary people have not severed their passions and desires, their Jing (essence) remains Yin essence. If white hair turns black again, fallen teeth grow back, and the skin’s texture and pores become firm and smooth, lustrous as jade, this shows that true Yang in the body is abundant. The human body and Heaven and Earth differ in form, but their principles are the same.

When ordinary people have not put an end to desire and passion, the Jing within them is Yin Jing, not Yang Jing; their Qi is Yin Qi, not Yang Qi; and their Shen is Yin Shen, not Yang Shen.

Why is the Jing called Yin Jing? The fire within the human body is stirred up by desire and passion; this is called Yin Fire. Yin Fire scorches Jing and Qi, and the Jing in the Gate of Life (Mingmen, the Daoist term for the source of life) is then released along with the fire. Thus Yang Jing is formless, while Yin Jing has form and substance.

Why is the Qi called Yin Qi? The Qi dispersed throughout the body is merely corpse Qi. Yin is stagnant by nature, so when Qi moves between the joints and suddenly becomes blocked, sores and ulcers arise. True Yang Qi rises like fire and unfurls and gathers like clouds. Like fire, it can dispel every kind of poison and malign influence; like clouds, it can clear obstructions and restore free flow. How could sores and ulcers arise?

Why is the Shen called Yin Shen? Shen is inherently Yang, yet it is governed by the seven emotions and six desires. Yin Jing and Yang Qi are buried below, like a coal ember placed in an icehouse: heat cannot overcome cold, Yang cannot overcome Yin, and the noble cannot overcome the petty.

In sum, Jing, Qi, and Shen are all Yang when they come from before birth, and all Yin when they are formed after birth. Confucius said, “There are only two kinds of Dao: benevolence and the absence of benevolence.”

Volume Three

The Azure Radiance Emperor of the Southern Pole Heavenly Palace proclaimed the wondrous current of the Dao in the eras of Fuxi, Shennong, the Yellow Emperor, and Tang Yao, and nurtured its lineage in the times of Yu, Xia, Shang, and Zhou. At times he lived in seclusion in the clear and tranquil Mingtang of the court; at others he revealed his true form in sacred caves on famous mountains. His divine powers were beyond measure, and his transformations had no fixed pattern. Originally the celestial Jupiter, he roamed the Garden of Peaches; he also served as an immortal official in the human realm, joking and conversing at the Golden Horse Gate. His compassion and great vows were boundless; he was supremely sagely and benevolent, freely contemplating the world and delivering immeasurable numbers of beings. The supreme Daoist Patriarch and Immortal Master bestowed a Dao register.

In alchemy, there is no tangible thing to be refined. Why, then, speak of “refining nothing”? Because what is refined has no substance to begin with. “Nothing” means emptiness. The mind is originally empty and formless, yet it becomes filled with emotions, discriminating thoughts, and all kinds of ideas. Cultivation means allowing these attachments to return to emptiness and stillness.