《唱道真言》Vol. 2

When the mind returns to its original state of emptiness and stillness, the Elixir can be refined. Why is this so? The Elixir is inherently empty, so it can be refined only when the mind is empty and still. It is like refining something out of nothing.

How can something be refined from nothing? Before I was born, for example, I had no sense organs, limbs, or body, and no physical form as the person “I” am. Suddenly, a single thought arose, and I entered the womb of my own accord, taking up residence in another body. What, exactly, is it that enters the womb and inhabits the body? With spiritual awareness comes Qi; with Qi comes Jing. Once inside the womb, after ten months a person’s body takes shape and springs forth from the Niwan Palace (the upper Dantian in the head). One can then move between being and nonbeing, transcending the aging of the postnatal body.

If my mind has not returned to emptiness and stillness, and my emotions, sensory awareness, and thoughts remain in turmoil, then I am still merely a person with a physical body. Since I already have this body, what sense is there in trying to acquire another body and gestate another embryo? A human body has only two ears and two eyes, one nose and one mouth, as well as its internal organs and limbs. How could it grow a second set? Clearly, that is impossible.

Therefore, those who practice alchemy must let the ears, eyes, nose, mouth, internal organs, and limbs all return to nothingness, as though they had never entered the womb and possessed nothing at all, leaving only a trace of bright, undimmed Shen. Then they must form an embryo anew, allowing the ears, eyes, nose, mouth, internal organs, and limbs to appear again. The Yang Shen (the luminous spiritual form brought forth through Neidan practice) formed in this way is still only oneself; no second body has been added. Though the Yang Shen becomes manifest, its ears, eyes, mouth, nose, internal organs, and limbs are ultimately empty by nature. In other words, they have not truly formed a physical body. This is why it can be free from birth and death and unite with the Dao in its true reality. Here the principles of alchemical refinement have been fully explained.

The practice of the Dao takes Wuwei (non-action) as its foundation. Even actions arising from Wuwei that can summon wind and rain, uproot mountains, or divert rivers must ultimately lead to freedom from birth and death and union with the Dao in its true reality. Here the principles of alchemical refinement have been fully explained.

In practicing the Daoist arts, take Wuwei (non-action)—following nature and avoiding contrived action—as the foundation. Any active technique that arises from Wuwei, even one that can summon wind and rain, move mountains, or divert rivers, ultimately accords with its purpose. Otherwise, every action, whether drawing talismans or performing registers—the Daoist rites involving talismans and ritual registers—is merely the craft of a minor school if it does not grasp the foundation of the Great Dao.

In alchemical practice, what you refine should be the elixir of Wuwei; in performing rites, what you practice should be the way of Wuwei. Reciting scriptures and upholding incantations, too, should accord with Wuwei. The words “Wuwei” name Heaven’s original nature and the source of the Dao. To seek some branch or detail apart from Wuwei is to stray into heterodox paths. If you can accord with Heaven’s original nature and understand the source of the Dao, why worry that you cannot understand the Dong Jing (Cavern Scripture) or master the various arts? I place great hopes in you.

“Wuwei” (non-action) is the substance of the Dao (the Way); “elixir-making” means carrying out deliberate practices within Wuwei. The ancient sages took pity on people, who found it difficult to attain Wuwei directly, so they taught them to refine the elixir and seek deliberate action within Wuwei.

“Gathering Yang” means gathering Yang Qi amid a state of indistinct stillness; primordial Yang arises from this. Once Yang Qi has arisen, it gathers into an embryo within Wuwei. After a period of profound stillness, the spirit embryo takes shape. Once it has formed, Wuwei must serve as the fire’s timing: continuous, subtle, and seemingly absent. One exerts no deliberate force, yet remains constantly alert and aware, holding steady without losing the practice. After a year and ten months, the Yang spirit will appear. Once it has appeared, it ultimately returns to Nonbeing. Amid purple Qi and radiance, a state emerges that seems to exist yet not to exist, seems to have form yet not to have form: formlessness becomes form, and silence becomes sound. Why is this so? Because this is simply the nature of the Dao.

There are three things to avoid during cultivation. When gathering Yang, avoid reckless movement. As Yin and Yang Qi gather, one must remain focused: only in stillness can Yang Qi arise; disturbance disperses it. Does Yang Qi itself have form? Here, the mind’s intention serves as the form of Yang Qi. Shen (spirit) can transform into Qi. When the mind and spirit are still, how could Qi fail to arise? Reckless movement breaks the mind’s intention; when that intention breaks, Shen cannot continue, and Yang Qi ceases.

When forming the elixir, avoid stagnation. After Yin and Yang meet, immediately use a focused intention to send one tiny “millet pearl”—a metaphor for the minute essence of the Neidan (internal alchemy) elixir—back to the “Yellow Court,” the region of the body’s Dantian (energy center) described in Daoist internal alchemy, and seal it firmly in the cauldron. Even slight delay causes Jing (essence) and Qi to weaken, so they can no longer contain Yin. When the fire’s timing arrives, they may also become agitated, making it difficult for the embryo to form.

When tending the fire, avoid intensity. After gathering Yang Qi and forming the spirit embryo, the ten months of tending the fire must continue as if they were a single day, while the fire for a single day must be as refined as that for a single moment. This is “pure fire.” Only when the spirit embryo is nurtured by pure fire can it become firm and imperishable, endure for a long time, and soar freely. If one often loses awareness of the fire’s timing, then suddenly resolves to intensify the refining, the fire becomes agitated and hurried. Even if one sits in meditation until the breath returns to primordial Qi, the fire is still too intense, because this state has been brought about by applying effort deliberately and intermittently.

From this we can see that refining the elixir is no easy matter. Only when you recognize that you have no fire can you use the fire; only when you perceive that you have no Yang can you gather Yang. Heaven and earth are clear and still, seemingly empty of all things, yet the four seasons continue to turn and all beings continue to grow, without end since time immemorial.

You worry that you can only satisfy yourself with textual and philological research, and cannot practice quiet cultivation. But you can begin right now to clarify the mind and perceive your original nature—that is where I intended you to start. Refining the mind is half the work of becoming an immortal. Why not begin with this half and leave the other half for its proper time? Why abandon what you can do now and worry about what brings no benefit?

Since you have already been able to reduce your desires, you have laid the foundation for cultivating the Dao. Next, settle your mind and spirit, quiet your thoughts, and contemplate in stillness; the “one aperture of the Mysterious Pass,” a term in internal alchemy for the crucial inner opening, will then stir into view.

“Forming the embryo” refers to the process of nurturing the inner Golden Elixir and the Yang Spirit in cultivation. Its key principle is “doing nothing”—that is, not relying on deliberate effort, but allowing things to unfold naturally. This natural Wuwei (non-action) is the very foundation of the “embryo.”

Why is this so? When the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the undivided source before the emergence of all things, gave rise to Heaven and Earth, it did so naturally and without awareness: the clear and light rose to become Heaven, while the turbid and heavy sank to become Earth. In this way, Heaven and Earth formed of themselves. Had the Taiji forcibly manipulated and reversed Yin-Yang as it gave rise to Heaven and Earth, throwing the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) into disorder, then before the world had even formed, its guiding order would already have been destroyed. This would have gone against the nature of the Dao.

Once practitioners understand how the Taiji naturally gives rise to Heaven and Earth, they should also make Wuwei their guiding principle when forming the Elixir. Yang Qi should rise and Yin Qi should descend, just as the clear rose above and the turbid sank below when the Taiji generated Heaven and Earth. Though Heaven and Earth separated, the Taiji did not; Yin and Yang then joined and congealed into a precious pearl, remaining undivided. This whole is the Taiji, and it is why the Elixir becomes an Elixir and the embryo becomes an embryo.

When the timing and degree of cultivation—the “fire times”—are right, the Yang Spirit will appear. One must understand that the Yang Spirit is an undivided, uncarved existence, not something formed by the gathering of the “Four Great Elements and Five Phases” that make up the human body. If it were made of the Four Great Elements and Five Phases, it would be merely the physical body. The physical body has discriminating thought and clever devices, and so cannot achieve Wuwei; it therefore departs from the Dao.

The Yang Spirit, then, is the Taiji. If so, why does it have an appearance? This can be explained as follows: the Yang Spirit is like the first person to appear when the primordial world first opened. The ancients used the cyclical signs Zi, Chou, and Yin to mark the sequence in which Heaven opened, Earth was formed, and humanity emerged. This person understands all things and aids the world through reason. Seemingly capable of nothing, he is capable of everything; seemingly knowing nothing, he knows everything. Unadorned and uncarved, sincere and untouched, he has an appearance, yet in substance remains the Taiji. The Taiji is the source of the Dao.

The Elixir, the achievement of Neidan cultivation, has its own origin. Do you know what it is? The Elixir takes the Great Void—the original state of empty stillness and formlessness—as its ancestor. The Great Void gives rise to spirit; spirit gives rise to Qi; Qi gives rise to essence. Spirit, Qi, and essence all come from the Great Void, so they should follow its nature. If none of them were empty, would that not go against the Dao and make them unworthy descendants? How could the Great Void have descendants like that?

Can a person return to a state of emptiness and stillness? Yes. How can one return to it? By avoiding misguided thoughts and actions. Yet the root of Wuwei lies in thoughtlessness. Why do I say this? Some people sit quietly all day and avoid worldly affairs, appearing carefree and at ease, like immortals who have attained the Dao. In truth, their thoughts are in turmoil, concealing countless concerns. A single thought can set the cycle of rebirth in motion and sow endless births and deaths. Ordinary people may be able to avoid misguided actions, but only those who have reached the highest attainment can truly be without thoughts. Ask your own mind: can it really be without a thought? You will find that it cannot manage even a moment. Since thoughtlessness is beyond reach, when events arise they will unsettle you, and when external things touch your heart, thoughts will stir. It is difficult to avoid thinking.

You live in the ordinary world and earn your living by explaining the scriptures. How could you possibly be entirely without thoughts? But there are different kinds of reflection: some thoughts are fitting to one’s proper station, while others go beyond it and become delusion. Such excessive longing does not mean only craving sensual pleasures, wealth, and profit. Even single-mindedly wishing to become an immortal or a Buddha means being dissatisfied with one’s proper station and clinging to hopes and chances; this, too, should be cast aside. Just keep steadily doing the useful work before you, and study without seeking repayment from others. Apply yourself at all times and do not let your days go to waste. Then your mind and spirit will naturally grow calm, your vitality will steadily strengthen, and your aspirations will become extraordinary. Set aside the labels “immortal” and “Buddha,” and you will instead be moving toward the very foundation of becoming one. True immortals and Buddhas arise in just this way.

Mencius said, “When Shun lived in the mountains, among trees and rocks, and alongside deer and pigs, he differed from the people of the wilderness only slightly.” This shows how open and luminous his heart was. Later, when he heard a good saying or saw a good deed, he welcomed it joyfully, like a river bursting its banks, unstoppable. This shows how responsive his mind was. This is what it means to truly understand cultivation.

Someone who is willing to live like an ordinary person in the mountains, without feeling ashamed, who does not cry when struck or become angry when insulted, and who seems simple and slow, like a child unfamiliar with the world, is not far from the Dao. Such a person is not truly dull or foolish, but has great aspirations and genuine learning. His heart is like a river: try to clear it, and it is hard to make it any clearer; stir it up, and it is hard to make it muddy. His integrity is like that of the pines and cypresses: it does not flourish especially in spring, nor wither in winter. Surely such a person has reached the highest attainment! Ah, where can I find someone like this, so that I may discuss the Great Dao with him?

You are alone in your present circumstances, with children to care for as well. You have a truly difficult burden to bear. Yet it is your circumstances that have you trapped. With a resolve that moves only forward and never retreats, you can endure countless hardships, break through walls of iron, and pass through mountains of fire, laying the foundation for becoming an immortal or attaining Buddhahood. Only then can you find your footing amid adversity and settle your mind. Becoming an immortal or attaining Buddhahood is a momentous undertaking. How could everyone simply take it up with ease?

You must grit your teeth, keep your mind at ease, and hold firmly to your path. The body may live or die, suffer cold or endure hunger, but let your resolve to follow the Dao remain unshaken by life and death, unchanged by cold and hunger. If your resolve is as steadfast as repeatedly tempered steel, could all the countless perfected beings in heaven—Daoist immortals of profound attainment—really fail to hear or see you and come to protect you? That is simply impossible. So what you should worry about is whether your resolve is firm enough, not whether your circumstances are too difficult. With sincere resolve, what situation could you not face calmly? Even amid mountains of blades and trees of swords, on iron beds or in fiery pits, you could attain immortality or Buddhahood here and now. How much more so when all you have to do is eat wild yellow chives and plain fare, and drink gruel and water—the ordinary lot of the poor.

The Elixir here refers to internal alchemy; it is the primordial beginning, the state before Heaven and Earth were divided, when all things first came into being. Given this, what circumstances could you not face calmly? Even amid mountains of blades and trees of swords, on iron beds or in fiery pits, you could attain immortality or Buddhahood here and now. How much more so when all you have to do is eat wild yellow chives and plain fare, and drink gruel and water—the common life of the poor.

“Dan” is a point of true primordial vitality—the fundamental original Qi on which life and cultivation depend. It has existed since the Great Beginning, before Heaven and Earth were formed, but only now has it become manifest and clear enough to grasp and recognize. That is why it is called “Dan.”

This is like taking earth to make a pellet: first, the sand and stones must be thoroughly washed away before the earth can be kneaded into a ball. Those who cultivate the Elixir must likewise carefully wash away the seven emotions and six desires—joy, anger, worry, reflection, sorrow, fear, alarm, and all manner of desires—leaving no impurity behind. Then a point of true primordial vitality will shine like the autumn moon. After this, it is brought into harmony through ascent and descent—the circulation of Qi in internal cultivation—and the Golden Elixir will fully congeal within the Palace of Central Yellow Taiyi, a bodily palace described in Daoist internal alchemy. It will be clear and unmistakable, and will never dissipate.

The “three grades of superior medicine” are Shen, Qi, and Jing. Shen is the mother of Qi and the ancestor of Jing. A child cannot be separated from its mother, and descendants remain mindful of their ancestors. Thus, in Elixir cultivation, one need only gather the spirit, and Qi and Jing will naturally follow. Though the great medicine has three names—Shen, Qi, and Jing—in reality, they are one.

Gathering Yang Qi depends on intention; so does the moment of union; and so does guiding it into the Yellow Court, the central palace described in Daoist internal cultivation, and sealing it there with intention. As for the ten months of firing times—the adjustment of timing and progress during internal cultivation—constant inward observation and reflection ultimately depend on Shen. Intention acquired after birth is called “yi”; the innate intention present from before birth is called “Shen.”

Where Shen goes, Qi follows. Qi is born through Shen and also rests through Shen. During the formation of the embryo—a metaphor in internal alchemy for the congealing Elixir—stillness allows Yang Qi to emerge. In stillness, Shen settles; when Shen settles, primordial Jing comes forth, and Qi arises with it. This is what it means for Qi to be born through Shen. During the ten months of firing times, inward observation and reflection focus wholly on this. The primordial Shen gives its full attention to it, the Qi of the Five Phases gathers there, and fetal breathing—the inner breathing described in internal cultivation—circulates there. This is what it means for Qi to move through Shen. Because primordial Shen is used with undivided focus throughout the process, the Shen that emerges from the embryo is called “Yang Shen,” the spirit formed through internal cultivation. The power of Shen is truly vast!

In accounts of alchemical cultivation, Qi is compared to the mother, Shen to the father, and Jing to the child. Why is Qi compared to the mother? Because the Elixir is formed by the condensation of a single Qi. Qi is needed to gather Yang Qi and to regulate the firing process. This is like a mother bringing a child to term: the child’s body and organs are formed from the mother’s essence and blood.

Why is Shen compared to the father? Because Qi is born from Shen. Shen cannot act on its own; it must rely on Qi. Though Qi is insubstantial, it still has form, while Shen is insubstantial and formless. Those who cultivate Neidan (internal alchemy) must first gather Shen and bring it into Qi; then they condense it into the spirit embryo—the inner embryo formed through cultivation. This is like a father being unable to conceive a child on his own: he must transmit his essence into the mother’s womb, and only after Yin and Yang join can an infant be born.

Why is Jing compared to the child? Because Jing nourishes the Elixir, much as water sustains a dragon. Though a dragon can soar and transform, without water it cannot exercise its powers and is no different from a lizard. Even if the spirit embryo has already condensed, without true Jing to nourish it, it will wither and become useless. The comparison draws on the idea that a child can care for its parents; hence Jing is called the “child.”

Therefore, genuine practitioners must bring Jing, Qi, and Shen together in full, then proceed from their “fullness” to their “perfection” before they can speak of cultivating the Dao and hoping to become immortals. Ordinary people often think that only the essence released through sexual intercourse is Yin essence, and that this kind of essence is entirely unnecessary for forming the Elixir, so losing it does no harm. They do not realize that essence itself is neither Yin nor Yang: when there is no desire, the essence within the body is Yang essence; when there is desire, it is Yin essence. Yang essence is formless, while Yin essence has substance; the difference lies only in whether desire is present.

The scriptures say, “There are three kinds of superior medicine: Shen, Qi, and Jing.” Ordinary people do not know that they possess Jing, Qi, and Shen; even if they do know, they do not know how to use them. So the sages teach that Jing, Qi, and Shen are the superior medicines for cultivating Neidan. They are not outside the body, but all within your own body. As for those with superior natural endowments…

A scripture says, “There are three superior medicines: Shen (spirit), Qi (vital energy), and Jing (essence).” Ordinary people do not know that they possess Jing, Qi, and Shen. Even when they do know, they often do not know how to use them. So the sages taught that Jing, Qi, and Shen are the superior medicines used in Neidan (internal alchemy). They are not outside the body; they are entirely within oneself.

Those with superior innate capacity have already understood the Great Dao and therefore diligently practice its inner methods. (“Secret seals” refers to the secret formulas or hand seals used in practice.) When body and mind enter a state of undivided, undifferentiated unity, how could one tell what is Shen, what is Qi, and what is Jing? Call it Shen, and it also contains Qi and Jing; call it Qi, and it also contains Shen and Jing; call it Jing, and it also contains Shen and Qi. The three merge as sugar blends with honey, or flour is worked into dough.

Before the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) have appeared, and before the Three Powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—have been distinguished, this fundamental state is the source of the Elixir Way: the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). Practitioners make use of a subtle, numinous mechanism within it and cultivate it in stillness and concentration until it condenses into the “millet pearl,” a name for the exceedingly small, concentrated inner elixir. They then nourish it with the “Primordial Qi of Taiyi,” understood as the fundamental innate original Qi. After ten months, it gives birth to the Yang Shen (pure yang spirit spoken of in cultivation).

The Yang Shen here should not be understood merely as a spirit cultivated within an individual’s body. The creation of Heaven and Earth also arises through its activity: Heaven is formed through it, and Earth is formed through it. The sun, moon, and stars; beings born from the womb, from eggs, from moisture, or through transformation; and all creatures that fly, swim, move, and grow likewise come from this same Yang Shen.

How can the Yang Shen give rise to so many things? The scripture says it is because Taiji is the Yang Shen, and the Yang Shen is Taiji. If it is regarded merely as one thing called the “Yang Shen,” it cannot give rise to the Yang Shen again. But if it is understood as the fundamental source, Taiji, it can transform and give birth to the myriad things. This is the highest principle. Otherwise, the transformations of the immortals would be difficult to fathom. Do the immortals themselves possess an inexhaustible power? One must understand that these transformations are not wrought by the immortals through their own personal power; it is Taiji that is at work.

The Elixir originally has no definite form, yet it is not nothing. Its gathering and dispersal have no fixed beginning, and its transformations are difficult to fathom. It can spread out and permeate the whole body, or draw together and rest quietly within a single aperture. With one transformation, it takes on an appearance; with the next, it returns to emptiness. Even spirits and deities cannot grasp its workings, and Heaven and Earth cannot exhaust its mysteries.

“Spirit has no fixed location, and the Changes have no fixed form”—might this be speaking of the Elixir’s wondrous nature?

Thus, the Elixir is divided into the Elixir of Earlier Heaven and the Elixir of Later Heaven. The Elixir of Earlier Heaven arises from the primordial Qi of the undivided Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). A person born endowed with this clear, harmonious, and richly pure Taiji Qi becomes a sage. When Heaven and Earth first opened and chaos first emerged, the vital essence of creation gathered. Thus, in ancient times, extraordinary sages often appeared: they initiated new things and accomplished great deeds, established rites, and composed music. The principle of the Elixir is the same.

The Elixir of Later Heaven, by contrast, forms from turbid Qi as it rises and disperses. When the Qi of chaos scatters, the vital essence of creation also wanes. For this reason, people of the middle ages were often inferior to those of ancient times, and few possessed the virtues of strength and vigor, moral rectitude, and inner balance.

What is the Elixir of Earlier Heaven? It condenses from the formless substance of the Great Beginning, then is refined through the primordial Qi of Taiyi, the source of the Great One. This is what is called the Elixir of Earlier Heaven. Nothing in the Great Dao is greater than Taiji, and the Elixir is its emblem. Why is this so? The Elixir cannot be sought through concrete names, objects, or quantities. The clear and empty, deep and mysterious Qi, still undivided in chaos, is the very substance of the Dao.

Someone asked, “Why can internal alchemy symbolize the Supreme Ultimate?” I replied, “The Supreme Ultimate symbolized by internal alchemy is internal alchemy itself. A pill the size of a millet grain can bring the whole world into being.”

From ancient times to the present, the Yang Spirit—the spiritual life spoken of in internal alchemy practice—has been changing at every moment. People living within it have long grown accustomed to all this, so they neither notice it nor understand how it works. Alas, who can truly perceive and understand it? Only those with profound insight into what is hidden and subtle, who investigate its principles deeply, can understand the meaning of internal alchemy.

If it is formed through non-action, how did Heaven and Earth come to divide apart? If it is formed through action, how can Heaven and Earth return from chaos to the Supreme Ultimate? There must be some wondrous operation at work. In the human body, the area above the heart is called Qian, and the area below the navel is called Kun. The breath of Heaven does not flow downward, and the breath of Earth does not rise to meet it: this forms the “Obstruction” hexagram in the Book of Changes. The Book of Changes says, “When the breaths of Heaven and Earth do not meet, the myriad things cannot flourish; when man and woman do not meet, their hearts and intentions cannot unite.”

Thus, those who follow the Dao use the Fire of the Li trigram to replenish the Yin of the Kan trigram, and the Water of the Kan trigram to nourish the Yang of the Li trigram. This forms the “Peace” hexagram in the Book of Changes. The Book of Changes says, “When the breaths of Heaven and Earth unite, the myriad things can flourish; when man and woman unite, their hearts and intentions can come together.” Here, Kan and Li are hexagrams borrowed by internal alchemy to explain the harmonizing of Yin-Yang, water, and fire within the body.

But how, in practice, should one cultivate? The best approach is to quiet the mind. When the mind is still, Shen (spirit) settles; when Shen settles, Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) come into harmony. As Jing and Qi continue to harmonize, becoming so fine that they can no longer be divided, the foundation of internal alchemy is established.

Yet even when the foundation has been established, it remains unstable. One must therefore use the “being” within “nonbeing” to refine “nonbeing” within “being.” Within a state of complete unity, one draws out what is most subtle and indivisible, then blends it back into “nonbeing.” The Golden Essence and the Wood Fluid—symbols in internal alchemy for different Yin and Yang energies—join and move together, as if setting the instruments of the nine heavens in motion and playing zithers in all eight directions. The sun and moon appear below the navel; wind and clouds rise between the armpits. The alchemical substance is perfectly round and clear, yet in the end remains a single Qi of the Supreme Ultimate: pure, empty, mysterious, and still undivided in chaos.

It contains Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, and every kind of creature: those that fly, swim, walk, or grow as plants and trees, as well as those born from the womb, hatched from eggs, born in moisture, or brought forth through transformation. Once this wondrous vitality stirs, all sounds resound together. The myriad forms revealed by the primordial Qi cannot be fully described in words. Laozi said, “Mystery within mystery: the gateway to all wonders.”

Alchemical cultivation, or Neidan (internal alchemy), should be undertaken with a Wuwei (non-action) attitude; then the Elixir is more likely to manifest its numinous efficacy. If one deliberately forces the process through active methods, the Elixir may not prove effective. Why is this? Because the Elixir follows the natural workings of Heaven and Earth. In the Dao of Heaven and Earth, where there is Yin there is Yang, where there is Water there is Fire, where there is gathering and closing there is opening and spreading, and where there is ascent there is descent. The Dao is the Dao precisely because it embodies the natural workings of Heaven and Earth.

Within the human body, too, there are Yin and Yang, Water and Fire, opening and closing, ascent and descent. These changes are not produced by force; they occur naturally, as things follow their own course. Letting each thing follow its nature and find its proper place allows all things to grow. This is a principle unchanged through countless kalpas. How could I presume to alter it? Since it cannot be altered, all that is needed is to follow it.

Ordinary people in the world think that alchemical cultivation means seizing the power of creation and prying into Heaven and Earth’s secrets. They do not understand that I have no deliberate intent in this; I simply act in accord with natural principles. You worry that gathering Yang—recognizing when the Yang Qi within the body begins to stir—has no reliable basis. In fact, the stirring of Yang has its own signs; simply follow those signs. You worry that the fire phase—the timing and degree of regulating the breath and carrying out the alchemical work—is difficult to gauge. In fact, the fire has its own timing for beginning and subsiding; simply act in accord with that timing.

You worry that True Mercury, a Neidan term often referring to the mind’s spirit or its luminous nature, cannot be brought forth. The mind is the hub of the Qi of the Five Viscera: when the central Qi rises, the Qi of the other organs rises with it; when the central Qi descends, theirs descends as well. Mencius said, “The will is the commander of the Qi; the Qi fills the body.” First establish the will as commander, then follow its movement.

Refining Jing into Qi, refining Qi into Shen, and refining Shen to return to emptiness all reverse the ordinary course of human life. Yet in the alchemical tradition’s actual practice, the mind must accord at every moment, and each thought must accord. To make reverse cultivation one’s practice while completing it through accord with nature: this is the highest secret of alchemical cultivation.

Since Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate, the source from which all things in the universe arise) differentiated into Heaven and Earth, cultivation has emphasized “refining Jing into Qi, refining Qi into Shen, and refining Shen until it returns to emptiness.” The various methods of cultivation all work against ordinary principles; this is how alchemical practice is applied. Yet the mind must remain natural in every respect. Cultivate by moving against the ordinary course, and in the end follow the current to completion: this is the most important secret of alchemy.

Since Heaven and Earth came into being, everything with form, appearance, substance, or temperament has grown day by day and continued to multiply. Heaven and Earth seem to toil for the ceaseless renewal of the myriad things, yet cannot help but go on transforming and generating them. The myriad things receive Heaven and Earth’s bounty without knowing that Heaven and Earth, too, grow weary from ceaseless creation. The primordial Qi of Heaven and Earth—the fundamental energy through which they nurture all things—continually disperses, flowing away without being gathered back. In the end, Heaven and Earth must also be exhausted. If Heaven and Earth are already depleted, hoping that what they have produced will endure without end like the Dao is like asking someone unable to lift even a chick to train until they can shoot an arrow through a willow leaf from a hundred paces away. How could that make sense?

Then what should those who set their hearts on learning the Dao do? The scripture says: let the Yin-Yang within you return to the primal state of undifferentiated chaos; only then can you refine the Elixir. Cultivation begins with Wuwei (non-action, refraining from contrivance and following what is natural) and concludes with freedom from thought, without attachment to deliberation. In this way, Heaven becomes clear and tranquil above, and Earth settles below. Then let Yin and Yang mingle as one and condense into an Elixir pearl, gathered within a single subtle, mysterious aperture. There, set the transformations in motion through inversion: they remain indistinct and beyond words, like a furnace of cosmic creation releasing a boundless flood of divine light.

At this level, Heaven and Earth grow weary, but I do not tire; Heaven and Earth disperse, but I remain undivided. Heaven and Earth struggle to sustain ceaseless renewal, while I rest within an unbroken, continuous breath. Heaven and Earth undergo countless transformations and ultimately return to chaos; I, by contrast, can open and close at will, gather and release as circumstances require, bringing things forth and letting them rest—now the myriad things abound, now all return to unity. Follow this to its highest point, and it becomes one with the Great Void, the boundless, empty realm without form. How could Heaven and Earth compare with that?

What, ultimately, is the basis of the Elixir? Its basis is having no basis. Why say this? Because the Elixir is the root of all things in Heaven and Earth. The Elixir is the Dao (the Way), and the Dao is the substance of emptiness. Emptiness cannot be confined by a name, so the sages used “Dao” as a provisional name for it. The scripture says: “Emptiness gives birth to the One; the One gives birth to the myriad things; the myriad things return to the One, and the One returns to emptiness.”

How can emptiness give birth to the One? This is the mystery of transformation and generation, which cannot be fully expressed. Broadly speaking, emptiness has neither shape nor appearance; the One it gives birth to is likewise initially without shape or appearance. If so, why call it the One? Because emptiness itself is the One. The Great Void—the vast, formless substance of emptiness—has no breaks and is mixed with nothing else. It is wholly pure, so it is said, “The Great Void gives birth to the One.”

What does “the One gives birth to the myriad things” mean? All things remain within the Great Void. The Great Void is not a fixed, unchanging thing. Because it has no interruption or admixture, the myriad things are said to be “one with it.” Within the Great Void, what receives Qi takes shape, and what receives principle forms its nature and disposition. Thus all things can divide and combine, become large or small, square or round, and change between movement and stillness. This is why it is also said, “The void is shattered.”

Yet the Great Void has no form or image. How, then, can it generate things that do have form and image? The scripture answers: the Great Void itself does not deliberately create them; rather, change arises spontaneously within it. If the Great Void intended to generate the myriad things, it would one day be exhausted. Therefore, those who practice alchemy must make the single millet pearl—a metaphor for the tiny, perfectly integrated form of Neidan (internal alchemy)—one with the Great Void. Then the myriad things can transform and arise naturally within it. The Great Void acts through Wuwei (non-action), and all things follow their own course; the Great Void is without intention, and all things grow of themselves.

This is truly the highest state; nothing can surpass it. How else can I praise it? I shall give it a circle. But a circle has boundaries and cannot adequately represent the mystery of this Dao, so I shall also give it “emptiness.” Yet “emptiness” can suggest a boundless, vacant expanse, and I fear this may confuse later practitioners of alchemy. So I give it in this way: first, a circle; then, emptiness as a gift to that circle.

Those who practice alchemy—that is, Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy)—should take Wuwei (non-action) as their guiding principle, use purposeful action as a support, draw on Water and Fire for assistance, and let intention direct the process. The phrase “boundless and limitless” may leave later practitioners puzzled, so I offer them a circle. The circle, in turn, can be traced back to emptiness.

What does it mean to take Wuwei as the guiding principle? The three grades of superior medicine—the Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) of Neidan—each return to emptiness. The human body is like a clear, hollow crystal sphere, unstained by anything. Only then can Jing, Qi, and Shen merge as one, the heart-mind become clear and open, and all distinctions dissolve. The foundation of the Elixir is then established.

What does it mean to use purposeful action as a support? Within emptiness, all things are present. To say there is no Jing is to say that Jing is there; to say there is no Qi is to say that Qi is there; to say there is no Shen is to say that Shen is there. This is like the ancient age, when people were simple and content, and grace filled every place, though it could not be defined by a single name or fixed image. Yet the order of ritual and music, government directives, and penal laws was still in place.

What does it mean to draw on Water and Fire for assistance? Water and Fire are the substances used in cultivation. Water is below and must be made to rise; Fire is above and must be made to descend. This is like a ruler governing with balance, giving no undue weight to inner or outer matters. Yin-Yang is harmonized, and the foundation is firm. At this point, within the Elixir pearl as tiny as a millet grain, all things are present: the Qi of the four seasons is complete, the winds of the eight directions are calm, and Heaven, Earth, and humanity—the Three Powers—are all embodied. By this stage, six or seven tenths of the work of cultivation is complete.

What does it mean to let intention direct the process? What causes Water to rise and Fire to descend? Intention does. But before intention, there is no deliberate intention, and afterward, no intention remains. One takes only the pure, unified True Intention at the center. Gathering Yang Qi, forming the embryo of the Neidan, and emerging from the physical body as Shen all depend on this True Intention. This completes the account of the method of alchemy.

The Elixir is something innate and primordial, not something made after birth. If it is regarded as something acquired, it becomes an invention conjured up by curious people of the world, belonging to heterodox paths. The Elixir is the Dao (the Way). The ancient sages spoke thousands upon thousands of words, but in the end they were only teaching people to devote themselves wholly to cultivating the Dao. Those who understand the natural Dao also understand the natural Elixir.

When Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) brought forth Heaven and Earth, Yang Qi rose to become Heaven, while Yin Qi descended to become Earth. Therefore, those who cultivate the Elixir should understand what Taiji was before Heaven and Earth took shape. Taiji is the quiet, still, empty, and nonactive source. Before form, sound, breath, or number had appeared, it was already supremely subtle and wondrous beyond measure. This is Taiji.

How did Taiji bring forth Heaven and Earth? In truth, Taiji did not produce them like a creator. Heaven and Earth simply received its numinous Qi: what was vast and open became Heaven, while what was dense and solid became Earth. If Taiji is called the root from which Heaven and Earth arise, one might think that it ceased to exist once they had formed. Yet Taiji did not disappear.

The human mind itself is a Taiji, the root of the Elixir. Practitioners of the mysterious Dao gather a spark of numinous Qi within their own minds and concentrate it in the Elixir Palace, the place where spirit is focused and Qi refined in Neidan (internal alchemy). There, spirit and breath depend on one another, gradually forming an inner image. With long cultivation, it can transform without limit, seeming to share Taiji’s boundless duration.

Why is this so? Because it is not material. If it takes shape without being material, what, then, is it? No such concrete thing has ever existed between Heaven and Earth. Since it is not material, it may be called the Dao; since it is immaterial yet ultimately takes form, it may be called the Elixir. But to name it precisely, one may simply call it Taiji. Taiji is the source through which the Dao becomes manifest.

At birth, the navel is the first part to form. The umbilical cord connects to the fetus’s root and extends into the mother’s womb. Within it is a trace of innate true origin, containing what life needs in order to grow—the genuine seed.

From Niwan at the crown of the head, an upper aperture in Daoist teaching, to Yongquan on the sole of the foot, an acupoint beneath the foot, the navel lies at the body’s center. It is also midway between the coccyx and the external kidneys. Like the central point between Heaven and Earth, it gathers the influences of the five directions and embodies the Qi of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). It lies where the bones and meridians of the whole body converge. This makes it the most suitable place to set the cauldron: properly centered, neither to one side nor the other, neither high nor low. Because it occupies the body’s center, it is called the “Yellow Court.” “Yellow” is the color of the center, while “court” suggests an empty space that can receive and contain. The “center within form” described by the Perfected Ziyang, and the “aperture unlike any ordinary aperture” mentioned in The Four Hundred Words on the Golden Elixir, both refer to this place.

The Zhouyi says, “Opening the gate is called Qian; closing it is called Kun.” Here, “opening” means that after Yin and Yang meet, the Elixir is sent into the Yellow Court. The Elixir is firm and vigorous, possessing the virtue of Yang. The cauldron gate is opened, and the Elixir falls inside; this is why the process is called Qian. “Closing” means that once the Elixir has returned to the cauldron, it is sealed in place through focused intent, as though shutting a gate. At this point, calm should be the guiding principle, expressing Kun’s yielding and settled nature; this is why the process is called Kun.

The Five Qi are the Qi of the five Zang organs. Qi moves through the Qi cavities—the places where the movement of Qi gathers in Neidan practice—and circulates among the five organs. In the lungs it is Metal Qi; in the heart, Fire Qi; in the liver, Wood Qi; in the spleen, Earth Qi; and in the kidneys, Water Qi. These are called the Qi of the Five Phases. Under ordinary conditions, the Five Qi move through the organs, each waxing and waning in turn. If any becomes too weak or too strong, illness may result. If the movement of Qi is obstructed, conditions such as paralysis, madness, or abscesses and swellings may also arise.

When a person enters the practice state known as “each breath returning to its source,” the Qi in the Qi cavities rises vigorously from the Tail Gate, a passage near the base of the spine, and penetrates the Mudball, a passage in the head, where it resonates with the brain and marrow. It then descends to the Towering Throat and nourishes the organs and viscera. Like smoke and moonlight shining over the Xiao and Xiang rivers and Lake Dongting, it condenses into a millet-sized pearl—a metaphor for a tiny, concentrated Elixir—and is sent into the Golden Cauldron of the Yellow Court, a symbol of the place within the body where Neidan is cultivated. There the embryo receives the complete Qi of the Five Phases. For this reason, the Yang Spirit formed later through cultivation still resembles the human body. If one kind of Qi is missing, the Yang Spirit will be incomplete and cannot take on a fully human form.

Cultivation, however, must be carried out in profound stillness, so that the Five Qi transform into precelestial Qi. Only then can the Yang Spirit that forms become a numinous, luminous, sacred, and wondrous being. If postcelestial Qi is mixed into the practice, the embryo may fail to form; even if it does form, it will lack spiritual clarity and will struggle to reach the wondrous realm of penetrating the mystery.

The essential principle of refining the Elixir lies, quite simply, in the two words “gather the Shen.” Where should the Shen be gathered? In the place where life first begins and receives its mandate from Heaven. When should the Shen be gathered? When the true breath returns to its source.

The Qi in the human body makes twelve circuits of the celestial cycle each day, like the handle of the Northern Dipper successively pointing to the twelve double-hours. When Qi rises, the Qi of all five organs rises with it; when Qi descends, the Qi of all five organs descends as well. After descending, the Five Qi unite as one. This is the moment the Elixir scriptures describe as “Metal and Wood joining, nature and emotion becoming one.”

As for “raising Mercury,” when the true breath returns to its source, the Mercury within the Li trigram—a Neidan term often used for the Shen-Qi within the heart—has already risen along with the Qi of the five organs. What is more, when Lead reaches the Spirit Chamber, the place where Shen and Qi are cultivated in Golden Elixir practice, Metal generates Water, and Lead-Metal naturally gives rise to Wood-liquid. The Metal Lord seeking his mate and the Wood Mother seeking her consort are likewise inevitable. What is there to doubt?

The true state attained through stillness practice cannot be conveyed in words as well as it can be experienced firsthand. In Chan Buddhism, realization is called “seeing one’s nature”; in Daoism, returning to the source is called “attaining life.” Only after seeing one’s nature can one understand one’s life, which is why nature is cultivated first. Attaining life also allows one to understand one’s nature. Thus, after embryonic breathing returns to the root, one naturally comes into complete accord with a point of numinous light. Nature and life may appear to come in a particular order, but in truth neither comes first. Only the keen and perceptive can understand this.

Question: Why can the Yang Spirit, the spiritual body formed through Neidan cultivation, divide into hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands?

The Master said: The Yang Spirit is formed by the condensation of a mass of true Qi. When true Qi moves and disperses, it is like sparks bursting forth and flying in every direction; each spark carries the nature of fire. The Elixir is Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), the source from which all things in the universe arise. Taiji gives rise to Heaven and Earth, to human beings and all things, and to countless beings with form and appearance. When the Golden Elixir condenses into a single particle, it is wholly one Taiji and can naturally transform into countless people. One Crane-Thin Master (the speaker’s self-designation or Daoist title) can likewise extend throughout the universe.

Yet all things between Heaven and Earth, once they have form and appearance, must eventually be destroyed. Although the Yang Spirit born from the Great Elixir appears in a visible form, in truth it has no fixed body. That is why it can divide into countless manifestations and, when gathered together, remain one.

Question: Since the Yang Spirit has no body, how does it eat and drink?

The Master said: It is a mass of pure Yang Qi, like the summer sun or the sunlight of autumn. What could it not melt?

Question: After the Yang Spirit divides into multiple Yang Spirits, do they still have exactly the same spiritual nature and supernatural powers?

The Master said: Things with form and appearance may differ after division. That is why even an intelligent person may have foolish and unruly sons. The Yang Spirit is spirit through and through, with nothing else mixed into it. So its manifestations naturally have exactly the same spiritual nature and supernatural powers.

Question: After the Yang Spirit divides and scatters in all directions, what happens?

The Master said: Nothing is too subtle for what is supremely wondrous to permeate throughout Heaven and Earth. When a copper mountain collapses, a bell rings in response; after a sword transforms into a dragon, it can still reunite as one. Even inanimate things can resonate with one another in this way. So the claim that scattered Yang Spirits become cut off from one another and cannot communicate is mistaken.

Question: Does the Elixir have a form?

The Master said: Nothing is too subtle for what is supremely wondrous to permeate throughout Heaven and Earth. When a copper mountain collapses, a bell rings in response; after a sword transforms into a dragon, it can still reunite as one. Even inanimate things can resonate with one another in this way. So the claim that scattered Yang Spirits become cut off from one another and cannot communicate is mistaken.

Question: Does Neidan (internal alchemy, in which one forms an “elixir” by cultivating one’s own Jing, Qi, and Shen) have a definite form? The master replied: After body and mind merge, the whole body feels harmonious, warm as a spring day, like waking from a deep sleep, with the chest clear and open. What exactly is this merging? To call it Shen, Jing, or Qi is not quite right; to say it is not Shen, Jing, or Qi is not quite right either. It is called the Dao; when it appears, it is called the Elixir. If we must seek an analogy in concepts, it can be compared to the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). After ten months of cultivation, it becomes the Yang Spirit—the spirit body said to be formed through the practitioner’s cultivation.

In general, the various images used to describe elixir cultivation should not be taken as material objects. The so-called “millet pearl,” a metaphor for an elixir that is tiny and pure, is in fact an undivided whole, like the Great Void: a vast, formless emptiness. To reflect carefully on this is already to understand most of the matter.

You should understand the character “Dan” (elixir). “Dan” can symbolize the human body, and the horizontal stroke can symbolize the navel; the Elixir within the navel is what is meant by Dan. The Elixir is like the body, and the body is like the Elixir. Why is the navel represented by a horizontal stroke rather than a circle? What does this mean? The stroke draws on the idea of Fuxi’s trigrams: according to tradition, before the Bagua (Eight Trigrams) appeared, Fuxi first drew this line. It also resembles the human condition in the womb: before the features and limbs have formed, there is first the navel, connected to the mother through the umbilical cord. The horizontal stroke in the character “Dan” thus carries this symbolic meaning.

The scripture explains that the Elixir is formed in the navel, not elsewhere, because the navel is regarded as the root of human life. Elixir cultivation is intended to establish one’s life foundation; since this foundation is to be secured, the Elixir should be formed where the root of life lies.

The elixir is governed by a spirit and lies within the palace that reaches the mystery and penetrates the subtle. With this spirit’s help, the elixir may be refined; without it, no one can know how long cultivation might take. What spirit is meant here? It is the Ancestor of the Elixir. When you vow to cultivate the Dao, the Ancestor of the Elixir descends with the vital energy of the Dipper’s ladle into the heart palace, where the mind spirit resides. It harmonizes the many things within the body, bringing clarity to the heart and purity to one’s disposition. These are all workings of the Ancestor of the Elixir.

The Ancestor of the Elixir abhors agitation and favors stillness; it abhors fullness and stagnation, and favors emptiness, quietude, and clarity. When stillness and emptiness reach their utmost, the Ancestor of the Elixir naturally manifests in radiant awareness. From this awareness, its vast powers unfold: it commands the spirits of the five viscera and six bowels, gathers the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and brings the myriad forms together. This is like a helmsman aboard a boat: at a bend, the boat turns with the bend; near the shore, it adjusts to the lay of the bank. In this way, it encounters neither obstruction nor difficulty.

When you have accomplished one part of the work, the Ancestor of the Elixir guides you onward to the second; when you have accomplished two parts, it leads you toward the third. It is always there to support and guide you, offering insight and nourishment from many sides, until your work reaches nine parts, then ten, and is complete. All of this depends on the power of the Ancestor of the Elixir. You should now take the two words “stillness” and “emptiness” as the means of making offerings to the Ancestor of the Elixir. How do you make these offerings? Through stillness and emptiness.

Volume Four

The Southern Pole Celestial Palace and the Azure Sublime Emperor, a revered deity of Daoism, are the compassionate father who has protected and blessed living beings through countless ages of tribulation, and the master of the writings of all generations. His renown resounds like struck gold and vibrating jade, as he established orthodox learning in the Eastern Continent. Like one seated upright upon a lion throne and lotus dais, he expounds the teachings and transmits their doctrines in the Western Regions. The wonders of his divine transformation cannot be spoken, and the workings of his changes are beyond fathoming. Though he may seem wild and unrestrained, he is in truth a sage, dwelling in a realm of clarity, harmony, and natural freedom. At times he remains hidden from view, yet in the end he is certain to shine forth, transcending advancement and retreat, honor and disgrace. He is boundlessly compassionate and devoted, supremely sagely and benevolent. He establishes many skillful means to guide and transform immeasurable beings. The supreme Daoist patriarch and immortal master bestows the talismans and registers.

Question: Once one has reached the stage of “a body beyond the body,” what further work remains?

The Master said: A good question. From here, there are two paths. Practitioners of the lower grade leave behind the fleshly body and depart; the process is quicker. Practitioners of the higher grade depart with the whole body; the process is slower. Why is this so? After the Yang Spirit (the spiritual form cultivated through practice, believed capable of leaving the body and moving independently) emerges from the crown of the head, it roams freely in the Great Void (the vast, boundless emptiness). In an instant, it can fly ten thousand miles. It can rise toward the sun and moon and tread among clouds and rosy mists, or descend to visit islands and admire splendid mountains and rivers. Its transformations are endless, and it goes wherever it wishes. Looking back at the fleshly body, it sees it as no better than a clod of dung and decides to leave it behind. So it abandons the body in a desolate mountain and travels far away. This is the way of leaving the fleshly body behind and roaming freely.

If an aspiring practitioner does not seek quick results and is willing to undertake slower work, the Yang Spirit may emerge, yet be kept from departing for the time being; the fleshly body may be relinquished, yet not be relinquished for the time being. The practitioner devotes the mind to guarding the Original Spirit (the human being’s primordial spirit), refining and nourishing it again and again. The mind and spirit are returned to emptiness, then tempered with pure fire, so that the practitioner and the spirit undergo transformation together. This is the way of departing with the whole body. Both paths are set out here, for anyone to choose. Should a person with aspirations not aim for the higher path?

Another question: Is this the same as, or different from, the stage called “refining emptiness”?

The Master said: Refining emptiness makes up for work on refining the mind that remains incomplete. The stage discussed here makes up for work on refining Qi that remains incomplete. If refining the mind has already reached the point of having nothing at all, would it not be very easy to undertake this stage after shedding the womb? If one cultivates life first and nature afterward, in the end one may be able to attend only to work on nature, and no longer to work on life. Those endowed with wisdom accumulated in past lives can bring the two together as one, which is also good.

The practitioner of cultivation should abide in the Dao and let the spirit roam through the Great Void, a boundless, empty realm without form. The Great Void has never contained anything called “the Dao”; people merely borrow this name to refer to it. Nor does a person possess a fixed and unchanging “Dao.” The saying “the Dao that is not the Dao” means that only by not treating the Dao as some concrete thing can one tentatively call it the Dao. In truth, the Dao is not something that can be possessed.

Alas, where does the name “Dao” come from? Everything within and beyond Heaven and Earth lies in the Great Void. Once Heaven and Earth took shape, the Dao’s unfolding through the Great Void seemed to be obstructed. Thus it is said that when Heaven and Earth are destroyed, the Dao appears in its fullness. I and the Great Void were originally one expanse of emptiness. Only because I acquired a body do I seem cut off from it. Though the body’s nine apertures—the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and other openings—connect me with the outside world, they also make the Great Void within me narrow and troubled. When the mind and spirit are unsettled, things accumulate and become blocked; then Heaven and Earth are destroyed, and the Dao appears in its fullness.

I and the Great Void were originally one expanse of emptiness. Only because I acquired a body do I seem cut off from it. Though the body’s nine apertures provide passage, the Great Void within becomes narrow and troubled. When the mind and spirit are unsettled, feelings gather and desires arise: at times joy or anger, at times sorrow or pleasure. A thousand moods and myriad expressions take shape, until the mind exhausts itself in schemes and clever contrivances. A spark of numinous light, originally unhindered, sinks into flesh and blood. No wonder people are beset by hardship and distress, able only to resort to all kinds of stratagems.

After sinking in this way for a long time, people gradually forget the emptiness they originally possess. Even after death, they remain deluded and unaware, falling into evil paths—the unwholesome destinations of transmigration—and passing from one life to the next, dying and being reborn again and again. How difficult it is to escape from this!

If the body brings such entanglements, why do the immortals still seek to ascend in broad daylight through cultivation? The answer is that this is a transformed body, not the body of an ordinary person. The transformed body is no different from the Great Void. It is forged through the firing of the true fire—the timing and transformative power of Neidan cultivation—so that both its form and its nature are changed. Thus, when it gathers, it becomes a body; when it disperses, it becomes Qi. As for the mystery of these transformations through gathering and dispersal, no one knows why they happen of themselves.

Those who truly cultivate the Dao can refine the Elixir—in other words, practice Neidan (internal alchemy)—whether they are in famous mountains and sacred caves or in narrow, crowded, noisy, polluted city streets. Their bodies may be as hot as fire, yet their minds remain calm as ice; their breath moves like flowing spring water, while their spirit is as steady as a mountain. This is called attaining the Dao and becoming an immortal. I have not seen anyone like this for a long time.

The method of refining the body is to quiet the mind and body, set aside deliberate action, and follow the natural workings of Heaven. In time, the body transforms until it can no longer be found through its visible, material form.

Some monks with shallow cultivation often mock our Daoist tradition, saying that Daoists cultivate while dragging around their corpses, and that their understanding is like looking at the sky through a bamboo tube: how could they be fit to speak of the vastness of Heaven and Earth? Little do they know that when Daoists devote themselves to cultivation and reach a state in which both body and spirit are transformed, they merge into the boundless Great Void. They become nothing but purple light and dark Qi filling Heaven and Earth. When bright, this becomes the sun and moon; when fierce, thunder and lightning; when it stirs and surges, wind; when it nourishes, rain. When living beings cry out for help, they can go to their aid; no plea goes unanswered. They hold the pivot of Heaven and Earth’s transformations and become the parents of all living beings. Is this not a radiant and magnificent achievement? It is, in truth, the proper calling of a noble person. The Great Luo Heaven, the highest celestial realm in Daoist belief, is not a place human beings can reach by ordinary means. The key lies in what one dares to expect of oneself.

The Most High—the supreme Dao (the Way)—transforms and saves living beings through the Dao, not through elixirs. Although the immortals use elixir methods to guide people, they have never departed from the Great Dao. Those whose cultivation is shallow are quick to boast that they have received secret teachings. Since ancient times, no one has ever relied on techniques alone to help people attain immortality and escape the cycle of birth and death. Techniques may perhaps prolong life and ease illness; that much is possible.

Of the elixir texts written by the ancients, only the Cantong qi is relatively trustworthy; the others often mix truth with falsehood. Yet once falsehood is mixed into what is true, the truth becomes hard to recognize. Those who cultivate the Mysterious Way cling to old teachings written on paper, vainly hoping to seize Heaven’s creative power. People rush about blindly, failing to recognize the Great Dao even when they see it, while believing the fanciful and contrived claims in elixir texts. They cast aside things as precious as luminous pearls and treasure things unworthy of esteem. This is why Yangzi lamented that there were so many divergent paths.

Alas, throughout the ages, countless side paths in the cultivation of the Mysterious Way have been invented from nothing, offering empty promises to satisfy hunger. How could they truly relieve people’s suffering? Those with resolve should cultivate the Highest Way, take the great sages and worthies as their teachers, and make understanding the mind and seeing one’s nature—the insight into one’s original mind and recognition of one’s nature—their guiding principle. Affliction and Bodhi (awakening) are not two separate realms; the heavenly palace and the underworld, too, both depend on the mind. If one applies oneself with perseverance and cultivates in earnest, then while living among people one is an earth-walking immortal; upon ascending to Heaven, one becomes a true official in the jade palace. One’s descendants, too, may dwell for generations in a blessed land. Is this not the most complete fulfillment and the most profound rest?

When speaking of refining the Elixir—a Daoist term for inner cultivation, in which Qi and spirit are cultivated to condense one’s inner essence—stillness may seem to hold no Elixir, yet the Elixir can arise from it. In movement, the Elixir may seem already present, though in truth it has not yet been refined. Try sitting quietly for a while, with the mind and spirit at ease and the breath calm and deep. Once spirit and Qi depend on each other, let the true mind give rise to true intent, condense it into the precious substance of mysterious essence, and store it in the Dantian (the place within the body where cultivated essence and Qi gather).

From then on, turn your gaze inward at every moment, continually observing yourself with focused attention. Even when cultivation feels like a raging fire filling heaven and earth, keep the mind and spirit at ease and the breath calm. Let spirit and Qi remain joined, then let the true mind give rise to true intent, condense the mysterious essence, and store it in the Dantian. With sustained practice, the “furnace fire” grows strong and gold appears everywhere; the Dipper’s course (the direction traced by the stars of the Northern Dipper) begins to turn, and Yin-Yang reverses and transforms in turn.

When cultivation is complete and the Dao is attained, the pure, supremely firm Yang Qi nourishes the skin and tempers the bones. It makes the adept’s ritual body warm and balanced, as if spring lasted through every season. It is like the sun high overhead: there is only day, with no night. The power that brings all things into being is held within the body; there is only vitality, with no decline or destruction. The adept can also make the One become the myriad things, and the myriad things return to the One. This is called becoming a perfected person: spirit and body alike reach a mysterious state, joining with the Dao and becoming true.

The cultivation and conduct of the immortals are not mysterious or extraordinary. They simply use ordinary methods to do ordinary things, and live as ordinary people. Confucius said, “Cultivate virtue in accordance with the constant Way, and speak ordinary words with care.” The immortals in heaven were originally ordinary people in the world. I have always taught you only ordinary principles and words; there is nothing astonishing or unconventional in them. If you put these principles into practice, why worry that the path to immortality is hard to travel, the ranks of immortals hard to attain, the offices of immortal officials hard to hold, or their emoluments hard to obtain? Riding clouds and cranes, appearing and disappearing without a trace—these are paths a virtuous gentleman can walk. They arise from the Confucian tradition of self-cultivation and are nothing to marvel at. What, then, is there to doubt?

As for refining the Elixir, the Most High (a Daoist honorific for the supreme deity) originally taught that cultivating the heart and nature comes first, while prolonging life comes second. The true and constant nature remains whole through countless kalpas, beyond the reach of Yanluo, the deity who governs life and death in the underworld. Though he can cause people to be born and die, he cannot make the boundless Dao come into being or pass away. As for cultivating life, when practice reaches maturity, the whole person can ascend and roam through the Great Clarity, the Daoist realm of pure emptiness.

But let me ask you: What, exactly, are you refining within yourself? First, you must cleanse and purify it, freeing it from birth and death. Only then might the body, too, be freed from birth and death. If the foundation within has not been thoroughly purified, the roots of birth and death will remain tightly bound to you. It is like having a fine house while its owner refuses to sit peacefully inside and instead chases after pleasures beyond its walls, losing himself in the pleasure quarters. He goes out and forgets to return; no one lives in the house, and in the end it must collapse. So refining nature—cultivating the heart and nature—first means keeping the owner inside the house and no longer chasing outward. Refining form—cultivating the body—is like the owner repairing the house. Think carefully about which matters more and which less, and which should come first and which later; the answer will become clear.

When sitting in stillness, let the mind and spirit rest in the Great Void. Once the breath is even and body and mind are settled, gradually gather the spirit inward and contemplate your own nature. If you truly reach a state of empty stillness, you can directly experience wondrous awakening: the worlds in all ten directions are contained within awareness, yet there is no object being perceived. Awareness neither arises nor ceases. This is true awakening.

That original, numinous awareness is complete and wondrous: it can be as small as a hair and as vast as Mount Sumeru. All things with form receive their forms from it; things without form also manifest their formlessness through it. Heaven, earth, sun, and moon, along with all life born from wombs, eggs, moisture, and transformation, sometimes divide into the myriad things and sometimes return to unity. What, arising from this awareness, could not be accomplished?

All concrete, tangible things, once they become full and solid, will ultimately be destroyed. If something is said to be indestructible, it must be empty space. The human body is formed from the gathering of the Four Elements—earth, water, fire, and wind, the four basic constituents of the material body—and after death it returns to them. Only what is empty and numinous has nowhere to which it can return. If it is said to return to emptiness, then it was empty to begin with. When this “emptiness” returns to that “emptiness,” where could it go, since there is no distinction between one and the other within emptiness? Precisely because empty space has nowhere to return, what is called “immortal” is emptiness.

Even the refining of elixirs ultimately comes down to emptiness. The so-called Yang Spirit (the numinous awareness spoken of in cultivation) is not a body temporarily assembled from the Four Elements. How could it not be empty? The Yang Spirit is precisely that which is empty yet numinous. It cannot be depicted or fabricated; even the most skilled artisan cannot impose the slightest contrivance upon it. The term “Yang Spirit” alone gives a clear image of the words “empty yet numinous.” Thus, the Chan school and the arcane learning—that is, Daoist cultivation—differ by no more than a hair’s breadth. We cannot say they are entirely different, nor that they are entirely the same. Only the highest wisdom can fully fathom the subtlety of their sameness and difference.

Those who study the Dao should make endurance their foundation. Joy, anger, sorrow, and fear should not rule my heart. To sweep them all away—what freedom and joy that brings! Yet the word “endurance” is easy to say and hard to practice. Who can do it without great courage? Who can do it without the vast, upright spirit that fills Heaven and Earth? Since you have resolved to cultivate the Dao, take great courage as your guide and encourage yourself with this vast, upright spirit. Let your resolve be as fierce and steadfast as ginger and cinnamon, and your moral strength as firm as ice and iron. True gold reveals its brilliance all the more clearly when refined by fire. As for the Chan school’s sudden awakening and realization of one’s original mind, after awakening to the Dao one must still nurture it through the practice of stillness and concentration.

Those who cultivate the Dao while living at home differ from those who cultivate it after leaving home. Why? Monastics study texts on the way of the immortals and live in quiet mountain chambers. Even after their minds have awakened, they must continue to nurture that realization through the practice of stillness and concentration.

Those who practice at home and those who practice after leaving home live in very different circumstances. Why? Those who have left home study the texts of the Immortals and dwell in quiet chambers in the mountains. Even when active during the day, they can still maintain stillness. Those who remain at home must either labor hard to make a living or rush about attending to all kinds of affairs. Even when outwardly quiet, their minds are often in motion. Unless they can find leisure amid busyness and stillness amid noise, their nature and mind will struggle to return to their original life, and their original life will struggle to unite with their nature and mind. Even if they seem to follow their natural course, calm and carefree, it is still difficult to let the true breath (the true Qi breath of cultivation) return to its source, reveal the Original Spirit, spread Yellow Sprouts (a Neidan term for signs that true Qi is beginning to arise) across the ground, and fill the sky with White Snow (a Neidan term for signs that Jing and Qi are congealing).

Since you have already vowed to enter the Daoist tradition, you must apply yourself in earnest and examine yourself at the root: Have the external objects encountered by your senses, and the vexations that arise from them, been completely cleared away? Is the body of your mind already fully rounded and lucid? Within the space of your mind and the seven-foot frame of your body, is there truly nothing at all, like the clear transparency of a crystal tower or a glazed treasure vase? If so, go further and seek stillness within stillness. Make your resolve firmer and grit your teeth as you persist in practice: lie on a rope bed, sit on a rush mat, and regard what you see as though you had not seen it, and what you hear as though you had not heard it.

Next, seek within the body the wondrous opening of the Mysterious Pass (the crucial location in Neidan practice), and set up the Golden Cauldron and Jade Furnace (Neidan symbols for the body and mind where Jing and Qi are refined and nourished), gathering and cultivating primordial Yang, the true Qi. In practice, neither urge it on deliberately nor neglect to maintain it; let the work accumulate day by day and month by month. Then the essence will gather of itself, like a bright pearl beneath the water or fine jade within a stone, and its radiance will naturally appear. The scripture says that after a year and ten months, the infant emerges from the Numinous Embryo (a Neidan metaphor for the fruits of inner life cultivation). With this current of primordial Yang Qi, one can break through the Heavenly Gate at the crown of the head. This is the work of heroes and great men.

Question: Must cultivation methods such as gathering the medicine, replenishing, and drawing and adding be performed one by one in a fixed order?

The Master said: These methods are various names that sages established only as a last resort, out of compassion for those they sought to help. If someone of exceptional understanding can grasp at once the principles of the Great Vehicle—that is, a higher level of cultivation—and, in the four daily postures of walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, let go of every attachment and continually turn inward to observe the mind, then, after six or ten months, when the work has matured, they can naturally stop being bound by these names. At that point, the moon of nature—the clear, original nature, like the moon—will appear of itself, and the original spirit, as described in cultivation, will also emerge. The sages therefore taught people to proceed directly to cultivating the upper pass and refining the spirit until it returns to emptiness—that is, moving from refining the spirit toward stillness and emptiness. This is indeed a subtle teaching.

However, after someone has practiced seated meditation for a long time, the Qi throughout the body will inevitably circulate, rising and descending in accordance with the cycles of the Circulation of the Celestial Circuit. At times it may surge like the tide on the fifteenth night of the month, seeming to pierce the sinews and cleanse the marrow, even making one feel that the joints are about to shatter. The sages feared that when practitioners reached this state, they might panic or even lose their minds, damaging their cultivation. So, with great compassion, they established methods such as gathering the medicine, replenishing, and drawing and adding, to prepare practitioners for the experiences they might encounter. Then, when the moment came, they could remain composed and undisturbed by these states; even if waves swept across the river, they could respond steadily, like a boat turning with the rudder.

I tell you plainly: the key to refining the Elixir absolutely does not lie in these methods. Do you understand?

Everyone speaks of refining elixirs and refining lead, yet they do not know that the true elixir is not made from lead. Only by finding the elixir seed already within oneself—the foundation of inner cultivation—can one understand that the teachings in the elixir scriptures may contain many errors. Alas, even my own words may be mistaken, so you must also grasp the principles that cannot be expressed in words.

Your heart is troubled by fear because your resolve to seek the Dao is not firm enough, your recognition of your true nature is not clear enough, and your trust in me is not deep enough. If you vow to seek the Dao, then you should diligently and steadily work to realize your nature. If the master transmits one sentence, accept and trust that sentence; if the master transmits half a sentence, accept and trust half a sentence. Now that you have met a true master and received true instructions, what is there to worry about that should keep you from practicing?

You are uneasy in your heart, afraid that seeking the Dao will bring no benefit and instead invite calamity. At the very thought of sitting in stillness to cultivate, doubt and fear arise together. Without this kind of courage, you cannot become a loyal minister or a filial child, much less an immortal. Understand that your nature is your own nature, and your life is your own life; both were bestowed by Heaven. Can what Heaven has bestowed be seized by demons? There is no such possibility.

Those who study the Dao should take lightly the distinction between being and nonbeing, and see through the body’s ultimate unreality. Even if swords, saws, cauldrons, and boiling vats—the instruments of ancient punishments—can harm the flesh, they cannot destroy the inner, luminous and empty essence. Since this essence cannot be destroyed, even if demons were truly to kill you in this life, that luminous nature would remain as firm as metal and stone, and as fierce as a blazing fire. In the next life, you would be born again as a human being and naturally continue to fulfill your aspiration to attain immortality and the Dao. What is more, if your mind remains undisturbed and single, the myriad demons will have no way to trouble you. A focused mind can withstand them all, and your true nature can dispel every kind of illusion. What is there to fear?

The sages of the higher realms cherish disciples who carry on the lineage and tradition of the Dao as they would pearls and jade. Pearls and jade have value, but a truly good disciple is priceless. As soon as a disciple begins cultivating the Dao and makes a vow, their name and native place are entered into the celestial registers, and the sages examine their merits and faults every day. If their aspiration is sincere and their resolve firm, the sages rejoice and protect them unseen, just as a loving mother protects her infant. How could the sages abandon their disciples and let fierce demons and evil spirits trouble, bully, and harm them? That is absolutely impossible.

Since you have already resolved to become a disciple of our Daoist tradition, you must summon great courage and make a vast vow. Become a person who stands tall between Heaven and Earth, a hero who can turn the universe around. Strive to revive the Daoist tradition and widely establish Daoist altars. Even if you were trapped in a demon’s lair with your life in danger, you could still let the light of your own spiritual nature shine forth, illuminating the darkest places and driving the demons away while making the ghosts hide. How much more so when you are in a peaceful and pure setting, accompanied by exalted immortals? To respond with fear and slackened resolve—could that be the conduct of a true hero?

Those who study the Dao fall silent and calmly regulate their breathing; when they speak, they laugh with delight, their hearts filled with joy. Their actions accord with the Way of Heaven. Every day feels like a spring breeze bathing them; at every moment, they seem to stand beneath the bright moon. Thus they can join with the High Perfected, immortals of exalted rank, and keep company with the immortals. A person like this is beyond your reach.

A man should take Heaven and Earth for his dwelling and lakes and seas for the breadth of his heart. Let his whereabouts be as elusive as clouds: where can he not go? Why be confined to living in one place? Because you have so many children, you cannot help being tied down by them. Yet the whole family of Pang the Layman cultivated the Dao, while Zhang Zhihe made a boat his home and wandered across rivers and lakes. When I think of these people of old, their way of life accords with my own heart. Their noble example is not far away, and the paths they left are worth following.

Wherever a person who has attained the Dao goes, the road is open; when they encounter a mountain, they make it their home. Laozi rode west on a blue ox, and Bodhidharma left Tianzhu, ancient India, and came east. Once you step outside, the great road lies before you. Why should wife and children become a burden? The skills you carry with you are provisions for the journey—what is there to worry about?

I have seen that when people who cultivated the Dao in ancient times had refined and nourished themselves until their minds were clear and bright, they could understand all kinds of subtle principles within themselves. Their practice felt intimate and real, and they were not easily misled or obstructed. Later generations who studied the Dao forgot this. They had to ask their masters for the key to everything. Some masters did not understand for themselves, yet put on airs, swore oaths before Heaven, and accepted others’ worship. What they passed on were merely techniques from minor schools, which they presented as the Great Dao. They had never even seen the gateway to the Great Dao, yet passed errors from one person to another and chased illusion with illusion: the blind following the blind, the deaf gathering to debate. Is it not both difficult and lamentable to hope to cultivate into perfected beings and enter the sacred realm in this way?

When true Immortals teach people, they impart only a formula for refining the mind, guiding them to advance step by step and layer by layer. Every insight gradually arises from deep within the practitioners themselves. If someone has exceptional nature and aptitude, they may suddenly awaken and enter the Great Vehicle, the profound and complete realm of cultivation. Looking up, they seem to see a heavenly palace; mountains, rivers, and the land everywhere appear as a golden world. Immortal friends and Dao companions come and go from time to time. When both body and spirit reach a subtle and refined state, they no longer need to rely even on their own body and mind, much less on the methods taught by a master, which seem no more than clods of earth. Only then do they understand that the long detours and winding paths they took earlier were also necessary stages of cultivation.

I say these things not to deceive the people of the world. Only those of superior nature and aptitude can truly believe them. Because your aptitude is excellent, I have written this down for you to read.

Those who study the Dao… even the methods taught by a master seem like clods of earth. Only then do they understand that the long detours and winding paths they took earlier were necessary stages. My words are not meant to deceive the people of the world; only those of superior nature and aptitude can believe them. Because your aptitude is excellent, I have written this down for you to read.

Those who study the Dao possess within themselves a numinous clarity capable of seeing into all things. Nothing in Heaven or on Earth lies beyond its sight. For this reason, the sages of old who sought the Dao did not rush about looking for it outside themselves. They quieted their minds and examined within, for the Dao is already present in the heart and mind, complete in every respect.

The Supreme Lord Lao’s Nine-Cauldron Divine Elixir—the wondrous method of alchemy spoken of in Daoism—was originally transmitted from heart to heart. It was not taught through speech or written texts. If one seeks the Great Dao only in words and books, then even after hearing or reading about it, one will struggle to draw near to it. In actual practice, things often do not go as hoped. The heart and mind are the root of all things and the place where the Dao of Primordial Beginning gathers. To leave the heart and mind in search of the Great Dao is like leaving a tree’s roots to look for its branches and leaves.

I see some people in the world who practice the Dao learn one or two things and then assume the airs of masters, demanding that others bow to and support them. When I see this, I cannot help but sigh, “What a sin.” The true ancestral masters of past generations guided countless people. All they taught was how to clarify the mind and see one’s nature, and how to polish and cleanse the Mysterious Pearl—a metaphor for the innate spirit obscured by dust—so that its numinous light could shine forth. From this, people naturally gained insight, silently attuned themselves to the Dao’s hidden workings, and brought their minds into clarity and harmony with it. What one awakens to within oneself is what one can truly understand and put into practice with ease. When cultivation reaches completion, one understands that the myriad teachings ultimately return to emptiness, while a single true source contains them all. Once the meaning of the Dao is grasped, there is no need to cling to words. How could someone else’s few pointers give you this realization? How could merely hearing another person’s explanations make you truly understand? To chatter endlessly while seeking the Great Dao only in words and writing—is that not a mistake?

Alas, it has been a long time since the world had a true teacher. Yet people who talk about the mysteries are everywhere. Nine out of ten claim to have attained the Great Dao, vaunting themselves and putting on airs. It is truly shameful. When I see this, I cannot help but sigh, “What a sin.”

Sometimes those who study the Dao awaken to it without realizing how it happened. Why? When the moment of inspiration arrives, they have not been consciously thinking about it, yet suddenly enter the subtle gate. This is because they possess innate spiritual insight and have long had the foundations for cultivating the Dao.

You truly have the qualities of an immortal, but your ingrained habits are so strong that they can obstruct your cultivation. You should clear them away continually. The ancient sages’ teaching to “restrain anger and curb desire” means mastering anger and suppressing desire; neither of these forms of discipline can be neglected. Treat others with calmness and be generous in your dealings with everyone. Speak little to nurture De, and keep your mind settled. Wash away every bad habit, and you will be like an immortal living among ordinary people.

The immortals in Heaven have always enjoyed making friends. They travel and stay together, sing in response to one another, drink together, and exchange poems; in these things they are no different from ordinary people. But because there are few in the human world who share their interests, they usually remain in Heaven or live in seclusion in the mountains, unwilling to appear among people. If you can truly remain humble and inwardly settled—without displaying pride, while keeping your inner life steady and full—and if your interests align with theirs, your hearts are in accord, and conversation flows easily between you, they will come to your home and become close friends. You will be unwilling to part with them, and they will not abandon you. They will also protect and support you until your alchemical work and spiritual merit are complete, then take you by the hand to ascend together to immortality. How joyful that would be!

Therefore, one need not seek immortality outside oneself; what matters is turning one’s gaze back toward the heart and mind. The Great Dao cannot be found through words alone, nor can it be possessed through knowledge alone. It must be tested and examined in the concrete affairs of life, while one continually accumulates merit and cultivates oneself. In this way, the heavenly spirits will lend their aid. Not only can one’s alchemical work be brought to completion, but one’s spiritual arts can also become effective.

Those of the highest capacity who study the Dao put it into practice in themselves and in their daily conduct. Those of middling capacity seek it mainly through speech and the classics. Those of the lowest capacity place their hopes in various arts and techniques. Many people study the Dao, but few truly attain it. The reason is that the Dao is actually close at hand, yet people go looking for it far away.

You have resolved to give up wealth and honor and willingly live in poverty, devoting yourself wholly to seeking the Great Dao. You can certainly be called a person of aspiration, but you have not yet applied yourself fully to practical cultivation. What does practical effort mean? Confucius said, “Correct your own faults; do not criticize the faults of others.” This is practical effort. Faults that show in one’s actions are easy to see; faults hidden in the heart are difficult to notice and correct. So those who love learning must examine their hearts at every moment and consider whether their subtle, hard-to-detect thoughts accord with the Dao.

The moment a thought arises, whether wholesome or harmful, you can know it yourself. If it is harmful, remove it at once, pulling it out by the root like a weed so it cannot grow again. If it is wholesome, keep expanding and nurturing it so that it grows day by day. Mencius said, “Everyone has things they cannot bear to do. Extend that unwillingness to things you would otherwise be willing to do, and this is benevolence. Everyone has things they do not wish to do. Extend that reluctance to things you would otherwise do, and this is righteousness.” Put this into practice, and benevolence and righteousness can continue to unfold. When they fill the heart, they will also appear in one’s actions and undertakings, influence the present age, and endure for generations to come.

What kind of person is this? Could he not be called an immortal, a bodhisattva? This is a true immortal, a great bodhisattva living in the human world.

Since you and I became teacher and student, I have explained the principles of the Way of the Elixir and the Great Dao with complete clarity. Yet, observing your thoughts, I feel that you still seem to believe this is not enough. The Great Dao is ordinary; it is no different from everyday life. If people truly put it into practice, they can reach the highest state, where Heaven and humanity correspond. This attainment is actually as close as a single breath. The golden registers and jade books of Heaven, the golden boys and jade maidens, and such visions are said to be bestowed by the Celestial Emperor and to accompany immortals. But they cannot be obtained by abandoning practical cultivation here and now in favor of fantasizing about remote, mysterious realms. Why set aside real effort and long only for distant, wondrous states? That will lead you astray: you speak of seeking the Dao, yet end up farther from it; you claim to seek immortality, yet end up farther from becoming an immortal. Was this really my intention when I first came to guide you?

The more difficult and harsh the circumstances in which a Dao cultivator finds himself, the more he should gather his mind, steady his breath, and calmly accept what comes. He lives beside a stream in a mountain hollow, in a thatched hut barely large enough to shelter him. He owns nothing but a water dipper and a bamboo hat. Rain and wind beat against the hut; no fire burns in the stove. Pines roar through the valley, and deep snow lies outside the cave entrance. The Daoist wears tattered, incomplete robes, and his sitting mat is filthy and worn. Sitting cross-legged in stillness, eyes closed and mind settled, he remains at ease even when food and clothing are often scarce. His companions are a crane shivering in the cold and a chilled gibbon. What kind of state is this? Ordinary people of the world would call it poverty and hardship, unbearable to endure. I, however, see it as a pure land of bliss, a place of quiet and peace. You have vegetables to fill your stomach and plain clothes to cover your body; at night, you have a rattan bed and a cotton quilt, and can sleep soundly until morning. Your heart is free of worldly concerns and your mind of distracting thoughts. This is already the good fortune of a humble earthly immortal—an immortal who lives in the world and has attained through cultivation. Do you still think it is not enough?

As for the stage of refining life—the work of cultivating life and one’s nature and life—although the formula has already been imparted, you must still wait for your destined encounter with the immortals. Someone will come to guide you. Heaven is far above, yet it can hear the voices below; it will never let you stop halfway through your cultivation, left on your own. I have said all I can. You should keep these words firmly in your heart.

Someone asked about the difference between the Yang spirit and the Yin spirit. The master replied: At the root, Yin and Yang are not absolutely distinct. When Yin Qi has not been fully refined away and the spirit emerges too soon, this is called the “Yin spirit.”

As the spirit emerges, some people see a river-like white light appear before them, and the spirit leaves through the eyes. Others hear the sounds of instruments such as bells, stone chimes, mouth organs, and flutes, and the spirit leaves through the ears. Because Yang Qi is not yet strong enough to break through the Celestial Pass—the opening said in cultivation to lead to the upper realms—the spirit takes another route at the side, following its natural course.

After leaving the body, the Yin spirit can still feel free and joyful. It can walk through streets and lanes, travel everywhere, and climb mountains or approach waters, going wherever it pleases. But it can manifest only one body, not divide into many; it can speak, but cannot eat or drink; it can wander in the human world, but cannot fly or transform. Even so, when the summer sun hangs high, it still fears the light and hides from it. Thus, although the Yin spirit bears something of an immortal’s aspect, it has not escaped the realm of ghosts. How could it attain the state in which body and spirit are both wondrous and unite with the Dao in truth?

Question: Can the Yin spirit be refined into the Yang spirit? The master said: Yes. It is like a potter or a metalworker who makes an object, then discovers it leaks. The object can be broken apart, poured into a mold, and fired again. After the Yin spirit of a person cultivating immortality leaves the body, they should not be content with this initial achievement. They must continue refining: break apart the Yin spirit’s original form and place it in the “Golden Cauldron and Jade Furnace” (a symbolic expression for cultivation) to refine and nourish it anew. When the firing reaches maturity, Yin energy will naturally be exhausted, Yang energy restored, and the form of the Realized Person will appear.

Question: How can the Yin spirit’s original form be shattered? The master said: Forget yourself and let the mind return to emptiness and stillness. When you reach a state of clear emptiness, free of all things and with no thoughts arising, you can transform the ordinary embryo into a spiritual embryo, turn an ordinary person into a Realized Person, and complete your cultivation.

The ancients could feel at ease wherever they found themselves. Even when they encountered venomous snakes and ferocious beasts, they could live alongside them, growing as close as brothers. How much more so should this be possible with other people? You want to choose another place to live because your learning is still shallow, and you lack firm insight, a broad heart, and deep cultivation. When you see worldly people or hear worldly talk, your heart stirs; so you want to find a quiet place, withdraw from others, and live alone, believing only then you will be content. With this frame of mind, where could you go and feel at home? You are mistaken to think this way.

A person of broad spirit and learning would never act like this. If others treat me with adversity, I accept it in stride; if they come in anger, I meet them with joy. An orchid growing among mugwort and wormwood does not try to distinguish itself from them. It simply gives off its fragrance, naturally turning the heads of passersby and winning their affection. A crane standing among chickens and ducks does not try to flaunt its elegance, yet its bearing is naturally extraordinary and its aspirations lofty. In ancient times, those who attained the Dao often entered the palaces of demons and became members of the demon kings’ retinues. Through their virtue they transformed them, until even the demon kings bowed in respect and they came to honor and love one another. If even fierce demons can be transformed, why worry about ordinary people?

You wish to cultivate the Dao in Quanzhen (Complete Perfection)—to practice the Daoist way and preserve your true nature—and have made the supreme aspiration for Bodhi, seeking the highest awakening and wisdom. Yet you quarrel with a woman over who is right in the moment. Is that not unbecoming? As for whether to set up an altar, that is a secondary matter; there is no need to be rigid about it. Within your own heart lies a numinous altar. If you can sweep away the grime that has accumulated in your heart and light a stick of incense of faith in a brazier with the primordial fire, the true fire that symbolizes inner cultivation, I will descend there and silently join with you in mutual understanding, transmitting the esoteric teachings. I ask nothing beyond this.

“Why do so many visions appear during seated meditation?”

The Master said, “Things appear because there is a body to receive them and a mind to perceive them. Thus, what arises from stirring thoughts is called a ‘scene,’ while what arises during seated meditation is called an ‘image.’

“Why call it a ‘scene’? Broadly speaking, this is because a person’s deluded thoughts ceaselessly cling to things and chase after them, constructing scenes in empty space like a mirage. The moment clear awareness awakens, these scenes immediately vanish.

“Why call it an ‘image’? Beginners are usually tossed about and confused by turmoil in daily life. As soon as they sit down on the meditation cushion, the six faculties—eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—grow quiet. Their discriminating consciousness, which thinks and perceives, is left idle with nothing to do. Unaccustomed to stillness, they naturally begin to have stray thoughts, and all kinds of forms appear, like spirits and ghosts. So long as they do not become attached to these forms, they too immediately vanish. This is the difference between ‘scenes’ and ‘images.’

“Yet scenes are imaginary and have no substance, while images arise through transformation and seem to possess concrete form. Why is this? Movement belongs to Yang, and Yang has no form; stillness belongs to Yin, and Yin has substance. Understand that the forms seen in stillness are in fact the shapes imagined in movement. Though scenes and images differ, both are tricks of discriminating consciousness.

“If those who study the Dao can keep the mirror of awareness raised high and the pearl of wisdom bright as they go about their daily affairs—that is, remain clearly aware and distinguish right from wrong—then they will notice a thought as soon as it arises and dispel it once noticed. When a thought dies away, let it cease completely and not arise again. In this way, discriminating consciousness will have been extinguished amid movement. When stillness comes, what could possibly leap before their eyes and cavort like ghosts in broad daylight? When the Realized One appears, the worlds in all ten directions are forever free from the intrusion of evil spirits. What could bring greater peace and joy than this?

“People today know only that images appearing during seated meditation are frightening. They do not realize that the deluded scenes arising in the course of daily activity are even more deserving of caution and even more terrifying.

“To be free of distinctions between self and others, and to be openhearted and fair; not to impose on others what one would not wish to endure oneself—this is called the Dao. When the Most High speaks of ‘forgetting feelings,’ it means forgetting the causes that draw one into emotional attachment and clinging.”

Because people cling to the distinction between “you” and “I,” emotions arise. Once emotions arise, the outer world appears; once this world appears, deluded thoughts follow. These deluded thoughts conjure countless illusory scenes, like castles in the air. People are born amid these illusions and die amid them. The root of birth and death is nothing other than this single thought that divides “you” from “I.”

A spark of numinous light—the innate clarity of awareness—abides in the Great Void. Seeing the pleasures of love and lust in the human world, it is touched without knowing it, like a seed sprouting again. Thoughts of birth and death then arise. Once karmic ties—the pull formed by actions and conditions—have taken shape, the fire of ignorance, the mind’s confusion and delusion, is hard to quell. In an instant, the numinous light falls into a mother’s womb, governed by Yin-Yang Qi. Through the six faculties of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and thought, it begins to function, dazed as a drunkard who settles wherever he happens to find shelter for the night.

Thus, those who cultivate the Dao must see through the falsehoods of the past, seek truth within appearances, and recognize their original nature amid emotional thoughts. It is like suddenly waking from a deep dream: awareness becomes clear and lucid. When this moment arrives, karmic ties are severed, and the path of birth and death comes to an end.

This awakening is like turning over on the ocean floor and rising above layer upon layer of waves. Gathering the spirit and quieting the mind, one looks closely and sees that the other shore is not far away; the realm of clear, empty, mysterious brightness remains as it always was. Like a wayward son returning home, or a traveler coming back to his own house, how could one not feel joy?

I see people everywhere losing their true nature and chasing illusions, yet few can awaken at once amid the bustle and turmoil of this dreamlike world, as if a bowl of cold water had been poured over their heads, dissolving illusory conditions and realms. Even those who do awaken often practice blindly because they have not met a true master, and in the end accomplish nothing. When birth and death bind people so tightly, how could a hero fail to take charge of his own destiny and become truly free beneath Heaven and Earth?

Reading and discussing the Dao, speaking freely while waving a horsetail whisk, and probing its hidden and subtle principles; burning incense and sitting quietly, traveling to famous mountains beyond the Six Directions, and observing the customs and conditions of the Eight Directions; playing the zither in jeweled forests and jade gardens, and growing medicinal herbs in jeweled halls and fields of lingzhi. As for the exalted Perfected Ones in Heaven, they oversee the workings of creation, assist the Heavenly Emperor in the realm of wondrous being within true emptiness, and command the vital secrets in the palace of the Most High and the Limitless. They act with ease and without strain, and carry out their affairs in order, without confusion. Heaven and Earth are vast, yet seem as close as things one can point to in the palm of one’s hand. What could be more joyful than this?

Among those who cultivate the mysterious Dao, even if several thousand can enter the “wondrous presence of the true void”—the subtle realm beyond distinctions between being and nonbeing—and grasp the essential teachings of the Supreme Ultimate Palace, they can still act with ease, without strain or confusion. The Great Dao between Heaven and Earth seems to rest in the palm of one’s hand, close at hand. What could bring greater joy than this?

Though there are several thousand schools of people cultivating the mysterious Dao, among those who enter through techniques and continue their cultivation, nine out of ten will fall away, leaving only one in ten. Even so, among ten thousand people, it is rare to find even one or two who truly understand the Great Dao and comprehend its mysteries. Alas, all this comes from being misled by talk of “long life”! Since ancient times, few people have truly understood those two words. Before recognizing the true nature of long life, people first seek methods for attaining it. So talk of Kan and Li, Water and Fire, and of gathering lead and refining mercury spreads everywhere. The crowd does not understand the principles; driven only by greed and wishful thinking, they hope to achieve something, but most give up halfway. Even when they do succeed, they merely extend their lives by a few hundred or a few thousand years; in the end, their lives still have an end. Yet such people proudly claim to have attained the Great Dao. It is shameful indeed.

The key to what is called long life is recognizing that the “wondrous body of the true Origin”—one’s innate, true, mysterious nature and the root of life—is itself imperishable. The human body’s Four Great Elements, such as earth, water, fire, and wind, and the Five Skandhas, the five constituents of mental and bodily activity, are all subject to arising and passing away. Only this wondrous body of the true Origin is beyond the rule of life and death. When a person realizes and attains it, it is as though they have obtained the supreme elixir. From then on, cultivation attends to both inner and outer aspects, working from the roots through to the branches. After five or ten years of sustained practice, one nurtures the “Immortal Embryo,” a sacred spirit formed through cultivation, until it becomes supremely divine and holy. This nearly dissolves the habitual tendencies left over from previous lives. This is called refining the elixir, though in truth it means nurturing the mind and nature. Such is the essential teaching behind the Supreme One’s instruction to refine the elixir. Since so few have ever made it clear, I speak plainly, so that practitioners of elixir methods in the world may awaken to it. Is this not a good thing?

Cultivating nature and life is originally a single undertaking, not two separate things. If one can truly see one’s nature, one can also establish the true foundation of life. When cultivation becomes mature and one reaches “the embryo complete after ten months”—a metaphor that compares the completion of cultivation to ten months of gestation—the Yang Spirit, the spiritual form that appears upon the completion of cultivation, can emerge through the crown of the head. Though this is said to be the work that brings cultivation of nature and life to completion, in fact it belongs entirely to nature itself. From this we can see that nature and life cannot originally be separated.

The essential aim of cultivating the Dao is this: in the end, the thousands of sages and perfected beings all return to stillness and extinction—transcending life and death and entering quietude and non-action. If one studies the Dao without reaching this state, one cannot truly pass through calamities. Yet the distinction between the Immortal Way and the Buddhist Way lies in their different emphases on refining nature and refining Qi (vital energy): the cultivation of one’s inner nature and the cultivation of primordial Qi within.

Buddhists value refining nature, allowing the light of numinous awareness to shine forth on its own, free from the constraints of the body and the world of dust. This is called “the immortality of nature.” Immortals value refining Qi, refining it into a pure Yang body—a cultivated state free of Yin—so that golden light fills the Dharma realm, the whole world in which all things exist. This is achieved through one’s own cultivation and is called “the immortality of Qi.”

At the highest source, Qi is simply nature, and immortality is simply stillness and extinction. Why is this so? If what is called Qi were merely the Qi of Yin-Yang and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), it would be something with form and substance: what is born from it must also die from it; what makes one human could also make one a ghost. Yet the Qi cultivated by the immortals goes beyond the Five Phases. Put simply, it is a point of numinous light that has existed since the Primordial Beginning, all-pervading and in harmony with Great Harmony. It is the utmost reality, yet cannot be said to be any concrete thing. Since there is no concrete thing, what calamity is there to pass through?

People in the world who study the Way of the Immortals often indulge in fanciful notions, imagining that immortals are a company of people who enjoy blessings, comforts, and carefree pleasures. But where there are blessings to enjoy, there may also be offenses to suffer; where there is pleasure, there is also sorrow. The two cancel each other out and correspond to one another. The common people are foolish to hold such views: they arise from the three delusions of greed, anger, and ignorance. To study the Dao with such thoughts is to stray far from it.

Volume Five

The Azure Radiance Emperor, Qinghua, of the Southern Pole Celestial Palace—a Daoist honored deity often associated with saving living beings—received the primordial Qi of the Duke of Wood and dwells beside the Queen Mother of the West. He wanders freely by the shore of the vast sea and rests his spirit in quietude atop Kunlun. He rescues living beings from calamities of flood, fire, and warfare, and subdues demons amid the disasters of Yang Nine and Six Hundred (major cycles of tribulation in Daoist teaching). At times he comes to the human world, taking the form of a holy being in a particular region; afterward he returns to Heaven and merges into auspicious light stretching for ten thousand miles.

In the golden furnace, the elixir of Creation is refined: inferior medicines heal the body, while superior medicines heal spirit and Qi. On jade tablets are engraved words of long life: numinous formulas can save people in the world, while the most subtle formulas directly transform immortals and perfected beings. These principles are vast and boundless, without any fixed name, and beyond comprehension. Their virtue is lofty, beyond the power of words to describe. With great compassion and great vows, with utmost holiness and benevolence, may their power silently turn and circulate, saving immeasurable living beings. May the Celestial Worthy and the supreme Dao Ancestor, the Immortal Master, bestow the Fulu (talismans and registers).

Jue asked, “How can I see my own mind?”

The master said, “If you want to see your mind, seek it in stillness and settledness. When you are still, let go of every concern and thought, like the bright sun hanging in the sky with nothing to obscure it. At that point, no thought of knowing arises, and no thought of awareness appears. What gives rise to awareness from this state is the true, original substance of my mind.

“If you take a complete lack of awareness to be the substance of your mind, that is dead emptiness. If you take awareness once it has arisen to be the substance of your mind, that is delusion stirred up by the circumstances before you. Both views are mistaken. When no thought of awareness is present, find where awareness can arise: this is the foundation from which the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji) begins.

“Then, before awareness has arisen, where is the mind? Mencius said, ‘When people speak of human nature, they mean what is so of itself; this original nature takes fulfillment and free passage as its foundation.’ When awareness has not yet arisen, you do not know where the mind is. Try sitting quietly until the mind rests without moving. Suddenly, someone calls your name, and you will surely answer at once, ‘Here!’ Who is it that answers? You might say that your mouth is answering. But what truly knows and responds? That is the original substance of your mind.

“From this we can infer that even before thoughts of awareness arise, the mind is always present. It needs no deliberation; hearing a call, it can respond. This is what Mencius calls ‘the reason’ and ‘what is fitting.’ The Book of Changes says, ‘In stillness and without movement, once stirred by an encounter, it can penetrate the principles of all things under Heaven.’ This too means the same thing.”

Someone asked, “When perceptions and thoughts arise one after another, where is the true substance of the mind?”

The teacher said, “You asked earlier where the mind’s original nature is when perceptions have ceased. I taught you to sit quietly until you had no perceptions at all. If someone suddenly called your name, you would surely answer at once, ‘Here!’ That immediate response is the true substance of the mind.

“Now I will use the same example to show where the mind’s true substance is when thoughts arise in a flood. As you sit quietly, things around you stir your mind, and all kinds of stray thoughts churn within you. If someone suddenly calls you then, you will answer immediately. In the very moment you respond, the thoughts that had been tangled together seem to fall away. What was knotted and impossible to sort out through wisdom and reflection suddenly breaks apart and dissolves between the call and your answer. In that response, the mind’s original clarity reveals itself.

“From this we can see that when perceptions have ceased, the external world seems to disappear all at once; yet when you hear a call, you respond immediately. So the mind does not disappear along with the external world. When perceptions arise in a rush, the external world seems to appear all at once; yet between the call and your answer, the true mind reveals itself. So the mind does not arise along with the external world. This is what is meant by neither arising nor ceasing. If you can suddenly understand this, you will see through life and death. The phrase ‘before your parents gave birth to you’ points to this. ‘After your parents gave birth to you’ refers to being within the great trichiliocosm—the Buddhist term for the countless worlds of the cosmos.”

Before he could finish, someone clapped and laughed. “If this was here before your parents gave birth to you, then if someone had called you before you were born, could you have answered?”

The teacher said, “Why couldn’t I? I had no body then, so whom would you have called? If you called empty space, empty space should have answered you. Since empty space did not respond, what responds cannot be empty space. So it is the absence of response that is called emptiness. Who says I could not respond?”

The person laughed again. “If you were within the great trichiliocosm after you were born, then when someone calls you, isn’t the entire great trichiliocosm responding? Why is it only you who answers?”

The teacher said, “Who says the great trichiliocosm does not respond along with me? If you insist that only I respond, you must believe there are no other sounds beyond my body. Understand that my single response is the response of the entire great trichiliocosm at once. Do not try to understand this through the body. Seeking an answer only in bodily form will confine you.

“Consider making fire by drilling wood. If you insist that the fire comes only from this piece of wood, you will think that only this piece contains fire and that no other wood does. Even if every piece of wood can produce fire, you might still suppose that the fire in each piece is different and that fire itself has different natures. In truth, the fire produced by one piece of wood is the same fire that all wood can produce; the nature of fire in one place is the nature shared by all fire. Fire fills heaven and earth. From ancient times to the present, fire and the nature of fire have always been one.

“That is why the Tathagata, an honorific for the Buddha, can contain the worlds of the ten directions on the tip of a single hair. Why is this possible? It is just so.”

Someone asked, “The mind’s original nature is empty and still, containing nothing. Where, then, do joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure arise from? If these emotions were not there from the beginning, we could not respond when we encountered things in the world. Since we can respond, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure must not come from outside us.”

I replied, “Joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure arise only when we encounter things in the world. This shows that the mind becomes active only after meeting them. If joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure were already present in the mind’s original nature, we would feel joy without seeing anything joyful, anger without seeing anything angering, sorrow without seeing anything sorrowful, and pleasure without seeing anything pleasurable. If someone suddenly became joyful or angry, sorrowful or pleased, for no reason, people would surely laugh at them as foolish or say they were possessed. Why? Because the human mind has no fixed joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure. From this we can infer that people first see something that brings joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure, and only then experience the corresponding emotion. The mind first perceives and then responds. Is this not a mind that becomes active only after encountering things in the world?”

Another person asked, “If, as you say, the mind’s original nature has no joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure, why does the Doctrine of the Mean say, ‘When emotions arise and all are properly measured, this is called harmony’?”

I replied, “The mind is a subtle and perceptive presence. When it encounters things in the world, it becomes active and responds appropriately of its own accord, without deliberate preparation; this is why it is called ‘harmony.’ The Book of Changes says, ‘Still and unmoving; when stirred, it penetrates the causes of all things under Heaven.’ ‘Still and unmoving’ describes the balanced and upright state before emotions arise. ‘When stirred, it penetrates’ describes an appropriate response, in due measure, after the mind has been touched. This is harmony. The sages who composed the Book of Changes chose the word ‘stirred’ with great precision: the mind becomes active only after being touched. From this we can see that the mind’s original nature has no fixed joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure.”

Someone else said, “The teacher says that joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure arise when we encounter things in the world. This shows that they already exist within the mind.”

The teacher replied, “The mind’s original nature is empty; there is nothing in it. If something fixed were inside the mind, the mind would itself become a particular thing. How could a particular thing respond to all the myriad things? Joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure all arise when things in the world touch the mind. The mind’s original nature is supremely responsive, so as soon as it is touched, it answers. Once it has answered, nothing remains.

“If the roots of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure were already hidden in the mind, look within yourself now: Where is joy? Where is anger? Where is sorrow? Where is pleasure? If they truly had fixed roots, you should be able to find them even when you feel none of these emotions. If you try right now to force yourself to feel joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure and cannot do so, this shows that the mind’s original nature is clear and still, with nothing fixed within it. Precisely because it is empty, unobstructed, and responsive, the mind answers when something in the world touches it.

“That is why Mencius said, ‘If someone suddenly sees a child about to fall into a well, everyone will at once feel alarm and compassion.’ The ‘heart of alarm and compassion’ means a feeling of shock and pity, with the wish to help. The moment you see the child, this feeling arises. Before you see the child, the mind is empty; after you have seen the child, the feeling fades. Only in that first moment of seeing does compassion surge up from who knows where, like a river bursting its banks, impossible to hold back.

“If this compassion had been present all along, why was the mind empty before you saw the child, and why did the feeling disappear afterward? Once it has disappeared, you may later encounter a similar situation, and it will arise in response to what you see, then fade, and arise again after fading. This shows that nothing fixed is in the mind: it is empty to the utmost, and responsive to the utmost. Because it is both empty and responsive, thoughts arise in response to what is before us; when the situation has passed, the thoughts fade as well. From this, we can also grasp much of what Daoists call the ‘one aperture of the Mysterious Pass,’ the crucial gateway through which the mind and spirit accord with the Dao during cultivation.

“Yet compassion arises as soon as we see a child about to fall into a well. When we see money or valuables, a thought of theft may suddenly arise; when we see someone beautiful, a thought of lust may suddenly arise. These thoughts, too, arise in response to what is before us. How should we distinguish among them?

“Know this: when a thought arises in complete fullness, without the slightest lack, it is the mind’s true original nature. If there is even a trace of unease or dissatisfaction, it is the deluded mind. How sincere and free-flowing is the compassion that arises when you see a child about to fall into a well! It is powerful and abundant, like the blazing midsummer sun; it is also poignant and deep, like a sorrowful wind and bitter rain. This compassion is neither greater nor lesser than the compassionate wish of a great bodhisattva—a realized being who vows to save sentient beings from suffering. It is the mind’s true original nature.

“When you see valuables and feel the urge to steal, or see someone beautiful and feel lust, these thoughts may also arise in response to what is before you. Yet you know they are unwholesome thoughts of your own: you would not dare tell Heaven about them, nor speak of them openly to other people. You want to act on them but do not dare; you want to let them go but cannot do so at once. These thoughts are not complete and full in the way compassion is. Once you come to your senses and understand that lust and the urge to steal must never be allowed to grow, they immediately fade like melting ice and snow. As they fade, the true mind becomes complete and full again. At that moment, you could ascend the jeweled lotus throne and teach the Dharma to all; a single glimmer of numinous light shines forth, as if illuminating the three thousand great thousand worlds, the vast cosmos of Buddhist cosmology.

“So when a thought arises in complete fullness, without the slightest lack, it is the mind’s true original nature; if there is even a trace of unease, it is a deluded thought. That is why Mencius said that human nature is fundamentally good.”

Someone said, “The teacher explains that joy, anger, grief, and pleasure all arise when things in the external world stir the mind. Yet when someone suddenly sees a child about to fall into a well, they naturally feel alarm and compassion. Mencius therefore said that this is the sprout of benevolence. If so, benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are thoughts set in motion by encounters with the external world, not qualities that were fixed in the mind from the beginning. But Mencius also said that ‘benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are rooted in the mind,’ and Confucians often say that these qualities are innate in human nature. How should we understand this?”

I replied, “Confucians usually discuss nature by starting from the principles of things and tracing them back to their source. That is why they say benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are rooted in the mind. But if we speak of the mind in its own essence, it is originally empty of anything. In stillness, it is no different from the Great Void—the vast, formless emptiness. Could one say that benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are already present in the Great Void?”

Someone said, “The way Heaven and Earth bring forth and nourish the myriad things is benevolence; the changing of the four seasons is righteousness; the ordered relations among the myriad things are propriety; and distinguishing among the myriad things is wisdom. How, then, can you say that benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are absent from the Great Void?”

I replied, “These are the workings of the transformation of Qi—the movement and change of primordial energy—within the Great Void. As Qi transforms and moves, its display of order may be called propriety, and its capacity to distinguish among the myriad things may be called wisdom. But the transformation of Qi itself cannot be equated with the Great Void.”

Someone said, “Since Qi transforms within the Great Void, benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom must naturally also exist in the human mind. Qi moves through the Great Void, while benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom work within the mind. They are the same in essence.”

I replied, “That is true only at a later stage. Before the transformation of Qi began, was there not already the Great Void? That primal source of true energy exists naturally in empty stillness. It is not wrong to say that benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are rooted in the mind. Beginning with the Taiji, the great transformation continually tends toward the ceaseless generation of life; this generation of life is benevolence. Once there is benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom must follow. Human beings come forth through benevolence, so the mind manifests these qualities. When stirred by encounters with things, they become apparent. From this reasoning comes the claim that benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are rooted in the mind.

“But if we pursue the matter to its deepest point, even the word ‘mind’ no longer applies, much less benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. Confucians mainly discuss mind and nature from the stage after generation has begun; Daoists discuss them from the stage before generation. When joy, anger, grief, and pleasure arise in due measure, they are benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. If they stray even slightly from that measure, they become selfish desires. So we cannot simply say that benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are fixed in the mind from the beginning.”

Since the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji) came into being, after all things experienced a moment of stillness, change in Heaven and Earth has tended increasingly toward activity. Activity has its source in stillness. When Confucians discuss the turning point between movement and stillness, they often speak in broad, indistinct terms, and so propose that benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are rooted in the human heart. Daoists, by contrast, trace things back to their beginnings and investigate their ends. To trace their beginnings is to inquire into the state of stillness at its utmost, before it has yet turned to movement; to investigate their ends is to inquire into the state after movement has reached its utmost and turned to stillness. This is where the foundations of Confucian and Daoist thought differ.

As for the sages Fuxi, Shennong, the Yellow Emperor, Yao, Shun, and Yu, as well as King Wen of Zhou, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius, they did speak of this matter. People simply failed to notice what they were saying.

Daoists call this state “emptiness”; Buddhists call it “voidness.” The void can see and hear everything. For example, when two people face one another, neither knows what the other is thinking, because their bodies stand between them. The void has no such obstruction. It is boundless by nature, so although someone in the same room may not know when a person has just formed a thought, the vast, boundless void can know it.

The Book of Documents says, “What Heaven sees comes from what the people see; what Heaven hears comes from what the people hear.” How can Heaven know what the people see and hear? Because Heaven is void. Confucians speak of “being vigilant in solitude,” remaining careful and self-possessed even when alone, because they revere this all-knowing void. When a petty person does wrong in private, a noble person seems able to see into his very innards; this is because the noble person’s heart is empty and clear. How vast is the power of emptiness!

Someone asked, “The emptiness within my heart is not the same size as the emptiness of the great void—the boundless space of the cosmos. How can it…”