《圆峤内篇》Vol. 2

When a thought arises, more and more follow, as if you were up against a formidable foe; you shut your eyes and fight an inner battle until your chest is in turmoil and the heart is defeated. What can be done?

Broadly speaking, someone just starting out still cannot match those whose ties to the dusty world are already light and who can let go of attachment when things happen. Those who can suddenly awaken to emptiness (xu) certainly count as having superior wisdom; those who gradually awaken to their nature (xing) are not lower either. Students of the Dao need only begin from the “true heart” (zhenxin)—even if the work of refining oneself (lianyi) is not yet fully in place, one may still first find entry through stillness; what matters is to seize it when it appears and not let it slip away. The true heart sometimes shows in the early morning, sometimes at dusk, sometimes scattered through the twelve double-hours of the day—you must taste it and hold it yourself.

This way of speaking sounds as if the name were newly invented, but it is not really new; it is handy for beginners and does not clash with older internal alchemy (neidan) classics. If you practice step by step in this way—always guarding the true, day after day embracing the true, never for a moment leaving the true—from gradual progress to the everyday, long pure stillness, the work of refining oneself is folded into it as well—is the meaning not all the greater? So when the mind is now and then clear and bright, that is exactly good practice, good time, and a good realm; may you cherish such moments as worth a thousand pieces of gold in a single instant.

Chapter 32: Straight Talk on Heart-Mind and Spirit

(This chapter also treats methods of regulating the breath.)

The heart-mind (xin) is master of the whole body; spirit (Shen) is the finest of the three grades of “medicine.” Heart-mind and spirit are spoken of as two yet are also one—they must not be left unclear.

[What Laozi Said]

Laozi said: Human Shen (inner spirituality and awareness) naturally loves clarity and stillness, yet is disturbed by the heart-mind (discursive thought and emotion); the heart-mind naturally loves quiet, yet is pulled by desire (craving and grasping). Therefore one should often let go and release those desires—then the heart-mind will settle of itself; clarify the heart-mind, and Shen will become clear of itself.

[What Lu Qianxu Said]

Lu Qianxu said: The method of regulating breath must begin from regulating the heart-mind; the method of concentrating Shen must begin from regulating breath. This is the ferry and bridge by which sages, immortals, and buddhas ascend the path, and also the gateway by which we enter the Way and cultivate De.

Those who first study the Way must first gather thought back and return to stillness and stability. Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, keep the heart-mind guarding within the body (in the “inner chamber”)—only then can guarding stillness be solid.

What has thoughts is the deluded heart-mind; what has no deluded thought clinging to it is the true heart-mind. If in daily life one can gather thought and return to where it should rest, then when one applies effort one can be single-minded, and entry into concentration has a firm foundation. When the sages say “know stopping, then there is stability; with stability, then there is stillness,” they mean this.

When the heart-mind is still, breath is also easy to regulate; the finer the heart-mind, the subtler the breathing. When breath is regulated, Shen returns to its place; then stabilize Shen further within this, and concentrate Shen in the qì locus (the seat where refining Qi relies, such as the Dantian).

[Why Both Heart-Mind and Shen Are Mentioned]

Why speak of both “heart-mind” and “Shen”? The heart-mind resides in the Crimson Palace (the middle palace, the region of the chest center). When active and scattered, that is thought; when still and gathered, that is heart-mind. Still the heart-mind and return it to the chamber of Shen—it is then called Shen.

[Shen and the “Three Grades of Great Medicine”]

Shen is without deliberate thought or worry: in Wuwei (non-action) it can yet be without non-doing; in seeming uselessness it hides great use—this is what is called the Three Grades of Great Medicine (in Neidan practice, referring to Jing, Qi, and Shen, or their corresponding levels).

When concentrating Shen, one must let Shen and breath rely on each other: do not use Shen to chase the breath, and do not use Shen to manipulate the breath. Chasing the breath scatters Shen; manipulating the breath shakes Shen. Simply allow inhalation and exhalation to rise and fall naturally, following what is innate—then Shen will feel increasingly concentrated and stable.

When stillness reaches its limit and Qi moves, that is Shen obtaining the movement of vital energy (the stirring of true Qi within the body). At that moment Qi first breaks through primordial chaos: first utterly still and unmoving, then responsive and penetrating. Those who cultivate the Way are to apply effort in just this way within the realm of deliberate action.

Chapter 33: The Marvelous Use of Shen and Breath

Shen (spirit) is like fire; xi (breath and the qi mechanism) is like wind. To grasp how wind and fire work together, you must first settle shen and xi. Shen should hold its light within and stay quiet, not racing outward; xi relies on Qi (natural, long, inner breath) flowing on and on without break. Simply steady the shen—do not chase the breath at every turn. It is like gathering fire in a furnace and the bellows blowing wind: when wind fans the flames, the fire burns brighter; as the fire reddens, the “gold” (here, the inner “medicinal” substance that can be refined) melts by itself. Clearly wind assists fire—it is not fire chasing wind. There is a further secret: to make the air in the bellows blow single-mindedly and with force, the wind tube must sit flush against the furnace body so that qi passes through the message of breath (the pauses and comings and goings of breathing) and can fan the furnace flame until the fire’s color turns blue-green. The adept’s concentrating shen and gathering qi is fire refining gold; when xi blows toward Kan within (the lower dantian, the water position), that is again the wind tube pressing the furnace and wind chasing fire to help the flame. When fire rises in the furnace and sunlight surges, then shen is qi and qi is medicine—like iron reddened by fire until the red iron itself has become fire. Qiongguan Weng said “fire is medicine, medicine is fire”—that is exactly this. When fire and medicine merge, the Golden Elixir stands complete at once. If you only manipulate xi in the throat and nose and do not let it blow inward, that is like a wind tube that never presses the furnace—how is that not laughable?

Chapter 34: Further Discussion on Shen and Breath

When xi is still, shen returns to its place; the method of ning shen (concentrating spirit) has always depended on regulating breath. When shen is settled, xi naturally stays; the method of regulating breath likewise depends on concentrating shen. The two rely on each other—neither can be omitted.

When breathing grows quiet, spirit returns to its place; concentrating spirit depends on regulating breath. When spirit is settled, breath also stills; regulating breath, in turn, depends on concentrating spirit. Keep spirit guarded in empty stillness, and internal breath can arise. Thus breath clings to spirit and stops, while spirit relies on breath to remain in place. Spirit and breath balance each other, seemingly there yet not there, until one cannot tell spirit from breath. Wind fans the fire, fire draws on the wind’s strength—they pull on each other until one cannot tell wind from fire. When practice ripens, there is a state that words cannot fully capture.

Chapter 35: The Wondrous Use of Breath and Qi

Master Cao Yuansun said: “I will speak plainly—the root of life has always lain in true breath (zhenxi).” Why treat true breath as the stem of life? Because a person uses post-heaven breathing to harmonize with pre-heaven breathing; pre-heaven breathing is the true qi (zhenqi) within the body. When breath draws it, it stirs and flows back and forth in a subtle, unhurried way. At that moment, is it breath that moves, or qi? When breath moves, qi moves too—the two cannot be parted. Qi is within breath, so we say true breath is dense and mist-like; breath is within qi, so we say true breath works like a bellows (tuóyuè). When true breath stirs, true qi is born; when true qi arrives, the stem of life is established. The root of returning to life, the source of nurturing life, and the treasure that guards life—all truly hinge on this one matter of true breath.

Chapter 36: The Wondrous Use of Spirit and Intent

(Only the chapter title survives; the main text is not preserved.)

Plain-language explanation

Shen (spirit) is prized above all for concentrated stillness. What the Qi (a scripture on the elixir) means by “quiet emptiness, inwardly illuminating the bodily form” is exactly this. But Shen is not the same as yi (intention). When it says “to inwardly illuminate the xuanguan (mysterious pass), you must use zhenyi (true intention),” it means you must employ true intention—not treat spirit and intention as one and the same.

Chongxu Zhenren said: True intention is right awareness within emptiness. Qianxu Zhenren also said: for infusion above and below, yuanshen (original spirit) must be present to turn and circulate. That turning of original spirit is the right awareness of original spirit. So one cannot simply equate original spirit with true intention—there is a difference of ti (substance) and yong (function). What presides in silent non-being and stillness, governing transformation, is Shen; what is easy and harmonious, handles affairs without confusion, and can arrange and dispatch, is yi. Internal alchemists therefore often call Shen the sovereign of the elixir and yi its envoy. Shen and yi do differ as substance and function; once substance and function are distinguished, there are two—yet function clings to substance, and in practice they are often trained as one coordinated work.

Some add further: to cultivate true intention, you must first nourish yuanqi (original qi). True intention arises from the utmost stillness; only then can wondrous use be accomplished. Daoists speak of “constant response yet constant stillness”; Confucians say “when settled, then one can deliberate”; Buddhists say “wisdom arises from ding (concentration)”—all point to the same layer: first settle, first still, first be at peace; only then do true intention and discerning insight come forth.

At the beginning of quiet sitting with lowered eyelids, there is no need to force a split between Shen and Yi. Once movement and stillness alternate and practice deepens, Shen and Yi must be clearly distinguished.

Sometimes the Shen should guard the central palace, yet Yi is used in its place—that will not do. Moments such as “attain emptiness, keep stillness, and observe the return” in furnace work are examples.

Sometimes Yi should guard the central palace, yet Shen is allowed to take the lead—that also will not do. Stages such as “seizing lead, restraining mercury, and holding the celestial pivot” during mediating union and “marital” joining are examples.

Why? Shen leans toward wuwei (non-action); Yi leans toward youwei (deliberate action). Shen is wuwei yet accomplishes all without acting; Yi is youwei yet acts with fixed purpose. Shen is the master behind Yi; Yi takes Shen as its true origin, and Shen presides in stillness. Yi is the function Shen emits; Shen takes Yi as right awakening, and Yi can set change in motion.

To nourish Yuanshen (original spirit), one must chiefly rely on wunian (no-thought), so that wuwei accomplishes all without acting. Shangyang Zhenren’s commentary on Cantong Qi says: “The true person hides in the deep abyss—respond with no-thought; drift and guard the compass center—employ it with no-thought; breath in and out mutually nourish—bring it forth with no-thought; the three surnames have joined—enter with no-thought.” The uses of no-thought are not limited to these.

To activate zhenyi (true intent), one must first lianji (refine the self), and only then can there be youwei with purposeful action. Qianxu’s Jiuzheng Pian says: “In refining the self to seek lead, use the self to welcome it; in gathering fire into the cauldron, use the self to send it in; in cooking, refining, and bathing, use the self to guard it; in warm nurturing and emergence from the shell, use the self to complete it.” The subtle uses of yitu (the “self” or yin-earth in the firing process) are not limited to these either.

Shen (spirit) and Yi (intent) are extremely crucial; they run through the entire course of Golden Elixir (Jindan)—the elixir formed through Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation—practice, and cannot be departed from even for a moment. There are also many wondrous applications that must rely on learners’ own realization through insight; here I merely gather the explanations of various schools to make a beginning.

Chapter Thirty-Eight, “A Discussion of Striving Together for Immortality”: The ancients said that the highest is to establish virtue and its works, the next is to establish accomplishments, and the next is to leave behind words; all three can be imperishable. What enables a person to preserve and nurture the imperishable Shen is Dao (the Way); the reason establishing virtue, establishing accomplishments, and establishing words are also imperishable is that they can assist Dao. The De (Virtue/Power) of benevolence is the substance of Dao, and the De of humility and gentleness is the function of Dao; the work of universally benefiting all beings is the substance of Dao, and the effort of cultivating oneself is the function of Dao. As for words, they are records of merit and virtue and writings that carry Dao, and so they can strive together with Dao for immortality. To decay is to fall into the ordinary and vulgar; to be imperishable is to become a sage or worthy.

A person can strive for immortality: on one hand through “not contending,” and on the other through “contending.” Not contending means placing oneself behind and yet coming first, making the mind yielding and yet overcoming the hard and strong. Contending manifests as the spirited bearing of a man, the backbone of a great man, the resoluteness of a hero, and the fierceness of a champion; one does not contend with others over momentary superiority but contends with them for a name that will be fragrant through all ages. Confucius said, “When it comes to Ren (benevolence), do not defer even to one’s teacher,” precisely because he feared people would fail to contend in matters of Dao and righteousness and would waste away into people without courage. Earlier Confucians said that the clear Qi (vital energy) of early morning and the clear Shen of the quiet night are originally no different from those of sages and worthies; if a person can expand them, then even when compared with Confucius and Yan Hui, one need not be inferior. Buddhist scriptures say, “How is Nengren Jimou—‘able to be benevolent and silently quiescent’—different from Shakyamuni? When Prajna (wisdom) is practiced deeply, how is one different from Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva?” Daoist books say, “Gautama (the Buddha’s clan name, referring to Shakyamuni) did not gush forth from the earth; could Zhongli Quan and Lü Dongbin have fallen from heaven?” All these are contending for Dao, and there is no need to yield unconditionally to predecessors. People with aspiration must exert themselves; the thousand perfected and myriad sages have never tabooed people’s jointly striving for the great Dao.

Chapter Thirty-Nine is titled “On Withdrawing When Merit Is Accomplished and Fame Attained”; it discusses that after accomplishments are achieved and fame is fulfilled, one should withdraw and not claim credit, so as to accord with the Daoist Dao of humility and retreat.

Quotations from the Daodejing and Self-Cultivation

The Daodejing says: “When the work is done and fame is established, withdraw the person—that is the way of Heaven.” I hold that the way of Heaven is also the way of human beings, and that is the way of self-cultivation.

Heaven takes generating the myriad things and letting them flourish as its “merit and name”; when the seasons run their course and things grow, the Dao of Heaven turns toward withdrawal and storage, as in winter when the myriad things return to stillness. This is the Dao of Heaven.

Human beings take utmost loyalty as merit and name: when merit is achieved they are bold in withdrawing from the world; when fame is achieved they rein in their sharp edge—hence heroes are willing to follow Chisongzi in roaming beyond the mundane. People also take complete filial piety as merit and name: nurturing will and body together is merit; the clan praising one another is name; when parents live long and a child’s duty is fulfilled, one withdraws to preserve life—this is the way of humanity.

Those who refine the elixir take “merit without merit” in reaching emptiness and guarding stillness, and “name without name” in the dim and indistinct; when the return is complete and the sacred embryo’s name is established, they withdraw into the ancestral aperture and embrace the One to return to emptiness—this is the way of elixir refinement.

One who grasps such principles and reads human affairs should reflect on them deeply.

Chapter 40: On Cultivating Immortality and Buddhahood Together

Dual cultivation of nature and life (Xingming shuangxiu) is the great aim of becoming an immortal, a Buddha, or a sage. Some say Buddhism cultivates nature, Daoism cultivates life, and Confucianism governs the world—each with its own gate—because they have not looked deeply into each tradition’s core.

In my view: though Buddhism stresses nature, it never leaves life aside; though Daoism stresses life, it never leaves nature aside. Though Confucianism governs the world, it rests on self-cultivation. The three paths differ in route but meet in the same end—all in dual cultivation of nature and life, which must not be split apart in discussion.

Commentary: Buddhism emphasizes xing (nature), yet it has a “special transmission outside the teaching”—this does not mean ming (life) is ignored, only that it is often expressed in hidden language and kept secret. Stress on xing-work is meant to establish life from within nature, so that mind-nature becomes vast and illuminates the ten directions without limit. The way of immortals emphasizes ming, and within it there is also “authentic transmission within the teaching”; this does not mean xing is never spoken, only that another set of terms is used. Stress on ming-work is meant to complete xing through ming, so the root of life is firm and survives endless kalpas without end.

If xing-work is complete but one does not outwardly cultivate the method of establishing life, true nature cannot long endure and ultimately falls into empty stillness—how then could the Dharma fill countless worlds? If ming-work is thorough but one does not inwardly fully cultivate and complete xing, though true ming is guarded one only preserves the physical body—how then could one wield spirit-power throughout the three realms?

Buddhism has transmission outside the teaching: establishing life from xing, and the land of ultimate bliss grows ever clearer and emptier. Immortals have authentic transmission within the teaching: completing ming and finishing xing, and the Great Canopy Heaven is ever more transcendent. Buddhas, immortals, and sages all practice dual cultivation of nature and life, not a single path alone. Thus when Shakyamuni entered deep samadhi, there were effects such as light piercing the crown and knees; when Kashyapa expounded true meaning, there was the marvel of “toppling the flagpole.” What do you think?

Patriarch Lü said: “Cultivating only xing and not ming—this is the first great illness of practice.” Master Ziyang said: “Though you awaken the nature of suchness, you cannot avoid casting off the body and entering a body again. How much better to also cultivate the great medicine, and suddenly leap beyond leakage to become a true person.” One example is enough to infer the rest.

As for practicing profound prajna until the five skandhas are empty, or the elixir ripening in great return and ten years facing the wall, or “at sixty the ear is obedient, at seventy following the heart”—only then are nature and life both completed and one ascends together to the subtle realm. That too may be inferred by the same pattern.

When cultivation penetrates deeply into prajna wisdom, one can see that the five aggregates are empty; when internal alchemy (Neidan) is perfected and the great return is achieved, one has the single-minded concentration of a Chan patriarch who faced the wall for ten years. When one reaches the inner and outer transparency Confucius described—“at sixty, the ear is attuned; at seventy, one can follow the heart’s desires without overstepping bounds”—then both nature (xing) and life (ming) are fully understood, and one ascends together into a realm of emptiness and transcendence. The paths of immortals, Buddhas, and sages can all be realized. That is why the First Patriarch Bodhidharma said in the “Song of Realizing the Dao”: “The methods of the three schools are essentially one; do not treat them as two different things. Nature and life must be cultivated together, only then can one share the imperishability of heaven and earth.” Why must people argue over which of the three schools is right or wrong?

There is another layer of meaning: the lineages of the three teachings are often not truly understood by outsiders; if they were understood, there would be no mutual rejection—each would fulfill its role, and all would return to the one Dao. Suppose a “master of the Great Dao” were here to expound the three teachings. He might say: Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism are three pillars of the Great Dao—viewed separately they are three schools, but taken together they are one body. If the Dao could not divide, there would be no change; if the Dao could not unite, there would be no overarching principle—so these three pillars establish the root. Buddhism emphasizes “nature” (xing) and often remains silent on “life” (ming); the immortal’s path emphasizes transmitting “life” while often silently passing on “nature”; Confucianism takes urgent charge of worldly rites, law, and human affairs. The principles of nature are hard to explain clearly, and the work of life is rarely stated openly—so some lineages cultivate nature and life together in silence, while later followers of the three schools each guard their patriarch’s line, forming specialized disciplines with great prestige, debating right and wrong, each opening boundless realms: when Buddhists criticize Daoists they use marvelous ideas that overturn emptiness; when Daoists criticize Buddhists they use solid, practical cultivation; when Confucians criticize Buddhism and Daoism they use essays that stir heaven and earth and endless verbal dexterity—little do they know that these disputes are all branch expressions after the one Dao split into three. Once the Dao divides into three, branches differ and orthodox and heterodox diverge—that is natural; yet people do not reflect on the root and only talk of the branches.

If one lineage cultivates nature while also cultivating life, another cultivates life while also cultivating nature, and another treats nature and life as one fused whole—all three are streams of the Dao; when they return to nothingness, again there is one. A verse puts it roughly thus: the three teachings return to the same goal—do not fight over gates and schools; each fulfills its Dao, and all return to the one Dao.

If you blow out the bright lamp and still make a fuss in the dark, who would have thought the blow would land on your own people? If I speak up, some will take it as mutual fault-finding—and that is again “flying flowers dot your body” (a common phrase in neidan: external distractions and scattered thoughts turn back and strike you yourself).

Volume Two: Secret Instructions on the Three Chariots

Author: Changyi Shanchu Li Hanxu

Edited: Wanjiang Chen Yingning

Notice to Readers of Secret Instructions on the Three Chariots

1. The author of this book, Li Hanxu, is later known as founder of the Western School. Its main themes still fall within the scope of Cantong qi and Wuzhen pian, but as a distinct lineage it necessarily includes points other alchemical classics do not emphasize; students should treat it on its own terms.

2. Because practitioners differ in timing and depth of work, the teaching speaks of “three River Chariots.” The first River Chariot refers to the first stage of practice, the second to the second stage, and the third to the third. The path along which the River Chariot runs is still a single route—there are not three separate roads. Do not mistake this for three different tracks.

3. In the passage on the three River Chariots, some wording inevitably overstates or uses inexact analogies. Readers should not fix on the letter of the text and force what does not cohere into a rigid system.

4. The appended pieces such as “Method of Gathering the Mind” and “Initial Practical Work” are especially to the point. Careful reflection on them will surely bring benefit.

5. Miscellaneous Daoist Sentiments, Poetry, and Prose occasionally hides subtle meaning as well. If readers can extend insight by analogy, so much the better.

Six

This book is an old handwritten copy that has been passed down for more than eighty years without ever being carved and printed. Aside from the three essays on the “River Chariot,” pieces such as Heart-Gathering Method and Daoist Lyric Poetry had neither separate titles on the original manuscript nor any proper place under the name Secret Instructions on the Three Chariots; their order was also unsuitable. Those two sections are now marked as two separate appendices and rearranged for easier reading.

Seven

When earlier masters wrote alchemical scriptures, some did so to seek external protectors (people who support one’s practice), others only for disciples to read—they were never meant to save all beings or to be preserved for posterity. So they did not need to be understood by everyone; sometimes authors deliberately kept them from being easily understood. Layer upon layer of hidden language and alternate names appeared, and readers often could not find their footing. Meaning might lie in one place while the wording pointed elsewhere, and the truth was often masked in this way. Practitioners all say alchemical classics are hard to read—this is exactly why.

Eight

If anything in this book remains unclear, look for answers in Talk on the Dao Orifice; if Talk on the Dao Orifice still does not yield insight, consult the Complete Works of Zhang Sanfeng—the several books can cross-check and explain one another.

May 1937, Republic of China: composed in Shanghai by Chen Yingning of Wanjiang (Anhui).

Brief Biography of Perfected Li Hanzx

The Perfected was a native of Li Family River, Leshan County, Jiading Prefecture, Sichuan—known as the Elder of Changyi Mountain. He was born on the fourth day of the eighth month in the bingyin year of the Jiaqing reign, in the hour of yin (3–5 a.m.). When his mother gave birth, she dreamed that a Daoist entered carrying a casket of golden writings; when she awoke, the Perfected had already been born.

Among three brothers, the Perfected was the second. (The original biography may continue with further deeds; this manuscript copy is defective at this point.)

Three brothers—this master was the second. From childhood he was bright; around twenty he passed the county student examination. He was skilled at the qin and fond of poetry and wine. At twenty-four he once met Patriarch Lü (Lüzu), but did not recognize him at the time. Later, afflicted with an illness involving loss of blood, he went to Emei County on his mother’s orders to convalesce. There he met Master Zheng Pushan.

Master Zheng Pushan lived in the Kangxi era and was a leading disciple of Perfected Sun Jiaoluan. They lived together; Master Zheng treated his illness and told him that minerals, metals, and plant remedies can only treat the exterior. To get at the root, one must use the wondrous medicine within oneself—only then can the body become truly firm and strong. Hearing this, he felt as if waking from a deep sleep and at once bowed and took him as his teacher. Master Zheng transmitted the secret oral formulas and charged him: a great kalpa is approaching; you should cultivate swiftly to save the world, and you will yet have patriarchs and highest perfected ones as teachers. After that he went up Mount Emei and in a meditation monastery met Patriarch Lü and Patriarch Sanfeng (Sanfeng). His original name was Yuanzhi, courtesy name Pingquan. Patriarch Lü renamed him Xiyue, courtesy name Hanxu, and also gave him the style Tuanyang, secretly transmitting the root teaching to him. After several years of secluded cultivation he attained the Golden Elixir. The three masters appeared again and urged him to write books as soon as possible to save the world.

At the command of the Three Perfected Ones, he wrote a Commentary on the Thirteen Scriptures of the Most High, an Exposition of the Scripture of the Old Immortal of the Great Cavern, and two commentaries on the Rootless Tree—fifteen works in all, gathered under the title Fifteen Daoist Treatises—as well as Essentials for Guarding the Body. He edited Patriarch Lü’s chronology, sacred traces, alchemical scriptures, and other salvation-related writings into Marvelous Encounters of Sea and Mountain, and compiled Patriarch Sanfeng’s complete corpus as the Complete Works of Sanfeng. His own works also include Ninefold Refinement of the Heart, the Wenzhong Scripture, and A Connected Account of the Post-Heaven—all published. Three further works, Inner Chapters of Yuanqiao, Secret Essentials of the Three Vehicles, and Talks on the Aperture of the Dao, were not yet published.

Plain-Language Reading of Passages Related to Yuan Jiao Nei Pian (Inner Chapter of the Round Peak)

Li Daoshan writes in his own words: In the first month of the bingchen year of the Xianfeng reign, I came to Changyi Mountain Hermitage and saw my master’s kindly face in person; he looked to be about thirty years old. After I took my leave, the master ascended in flight at the yin hour on the eighth day of the fifth month of that same year, and wondrous fragrance filled the sky for seven days. On that day, at the mao hour, his immortal form appeared again in the Ziliujing area. After his ascension there were many manifestations of his presence—too many to recount one by one.

The master had two sons: the elder studied Confucian learning, the younger farmed. The elder brother (likely the master’s eldest son or a close kinsman) had three sons; the eldest was eleven, bright, benevolent, and filial, and the master often praised him.

There were many disciples, but only Zhou Daochang of Jiangxi completed the great elixir (Dadan); several others attained the jade-liquid return to elixir (Yuye Huandan)—a stage in neidan (internal alchemy) in which true essence transforms into liquid and is then restored as elixir.

I, Daoshan, am thin in virtue and shallow in karmic tie; I served the master only briefly, and here I give only a rough account of what I saw with my own eyes.

Respectfully recorded by Li Daoshan, disciple of Qiaoyang, Jianning County, Fujian.

On the “Three Chariots” (San Che)

The three chariots are three kinds of “river chariot” (He Che)—in neidan, a metaphor for how essence and qi move inside the body like a cart carrying cargo. The first is “moving qi”: the zi-wu firing of the microcosmic orbit (xiaozhoutian), in which essence and qi circulate along the Ren and Du channels. The second is “moving essence”: the jade-liquid river chariot, nourished by intent and warmth. The third is moving essence and qi together: the macrocosmic orbit’s transport of innate gold and mercury (Jin and Gong), through seven returns and nine reversions (qi fan, jiu huan) to form the great elixir (Dadan). All three chariots depend on the “true spirit” and “true intent” (Zhenshen and Zhenyi)—the original spirit (Yuanshen) and true intent—in the middle to steer and coordinate. When a person penetrates the secret meaning of the three chariots, the three grades—essence (Jing), qi (Qi), and spirit (Shen)—are complete, and only then can the ranks of celestial immortal, earth immortal, and human immortal (the three immortal levels often named in neidan) be achieved.

Plain-Language Reading of Yuanqiao Neipian

“Yunqi gongfu” refers to a method of cultivation that uses breath regulation and Qi circulation to open the passes, lay the foundation, and ultimately obtain the elixir and form the inner pill. The text goes on to explain that one must begin by nurturing the “true breath” (zhenxi) from emptiness: gather the mind and regulate the breath, close the eyes and store the spirit. The quieter you become, the clearer you are; let go of every thought, even forget the “self,” and enter a state of muddy chaos and deep obscurity.

When practice reaches this point, it is like all things in winter returning to their roots, or like the long night when the water clock drips slowly and every sound has fallen still—this is the moment of utmost stillness, “without knowing and without awareness.” Precisely in such unknowing and unawareness, a single Yang returns, as when winter ends and spring begins, or when the long night yields to dawn. Suddenly you start: though there is no smoke, it is as if there were smoke; though there is no Qi, it is as if there were Qi—warmth spreads from the lower Dantian (the cinnabar field below the navel) up to the heart region (the area around the heart aperture). One seems to wake as from a dream; this first moment of waking is called the “Living Zhour” (huo zi shi).

At this instant you must immediately set in motion the “First River Chariot” (the initial stage of guiding Qi upward along the Governing Vessel); capture this first thread of awakening Qi and circulate it. If you delay, the formless Qi will disperse and become mere physical breath, losing its subtle efficacy.

This Qi is also called “Ren lead,” the breath of postnatal existence, and “Yang fire”—hence the phrase “at Zhour one advances Yang fire.” What is advancing Yang fire? The practitioner takes the mind-intent that has just awakened and, with a sharp turn, shifts it past the “lower Magpie Bridge” (where the tongue meets the palate and the Conception and Governing vessels connect)—a secret key long withheld from outsiders—to “Weilü” (the starting point of the Governing Vessel at the tailbone), and holds it there without disturbance. In a moment the true Qi grows warm, passes through the two openings at the tip of the tailbone into the spine, rises to the “Jade Pillow” (the back of the head), and pierces into the “Mud Pill Palace” (niwan, the upper cinnabar field at the crown). The ancient immortals said, “Through Jiaji and the double passes to the crown gate—on this path cultivation is supreme”—they meant exactly this route.

Those who do not understand Qi circulation merely lick the upper palate to catch so-called “sweet dew”—truly laughable. The genuine path of cultivation lies in passing these barriers through the circulation described above, not in futile tongue-licking alone.

Those who do not understand yunqi (circulating Qi) sometimes lick the upper palate with the tongue to catch what is called “sweet dew.” Alas—it is both laughable and pitiful, and mostly because they never met a clear-sighted master. You should know that the yunqi method only means guiding Qi up to the throat.

The Huangting Jing says, “Take and ingest the mysterious Qi (xuanqi) to attain long life.” The yang-fire Qi spoken of here is purple-black in appearance; that is what is called xuanqi. Ingestion depends on a secret oral formula to send Qi into the Qi tract. If it enters the food passage by mistake, how can one speak of laying the elixir foundation? Yang Qi must be sent to the lower throat, to the place called xuanying, where it turns into sweet-dew water. The Huangting Jing line “The Qi tract of xuanying receives the essence talisman” refers to exactly this. Xuanying is also written xuanyong or xuanyong (“mysterious blockage”), meaning that when Qi reaches this point it easily stagnates. Ordinary people do not grasp this pivot: as soon as Qi reaches niwan (the upper energy center), they treat it as divine water and swallow it down like hot broth. In fact, if even a drop of water enters the Qi tract, one will cough without stopping—water has form and substance; how could it enter the Qi tract? Hence the Huangting Jing: “Clear Qi goes out, mysterious Qi comes in; the two Qi shine in mutual transformation—if the adept meets this, he ascends to the breadth of heaven.” Clear Qi issues from the dantian; mysterious Qi enters xuanying; the two Qi convert into each other. Qi becomes water, sprinkling and washing the heart palace; it then falls into the “void aperture,” where it is stored and accumulated—and that is laying the foundation.

When foundation work has gone on for a long time, the accumulation grows deeper. On an ordinary day of quiet sitting, something suddenly protrudes from the dantian, with a sound like wind and thunder and a color like stars and lightning. This is the “medicine” in which the innate is hidden within the acquired. By the method of the “first carriage,” it is moved up to niwan and there first turns into liquid; only after ingesting it does one obtain the jade-liquid cinnabar head—the beginning of “obtaining the medicine” and forming the elixir. From here one must keep the flow continuous and unbroken, firm the stem and deepen the roots, before one can fully bring out the wonders of nurturing the elixir. The following sections will explain this further.

The Second River Cart (He Che)

The work of moving Jing (essence) is meant to draw lead from within Kan and tame mercury within Li—in other words, to refine one’s xing (innate nature).

Before this, through long circulation of qi, one obtains the small medicine and forms the elixir seed (dantou). After that, with continuous subtle inner breathing, natural ease, and steady guarding of the Dantian (energy center), each morning—whether sitting quietly or lying quietly—the elixir rises like a soft mass to the xinfu (the region of the heart). It must still be gathered back into emptiness until there is no trace at all; only then will it not slip away. A verse says: “When spirit returns to the body, qi naturally restores”—that is exactly this stage. Day by day the embrace deepens; suddenly the Dantian is like spring water just beginning to flow, melting and rippling. One simply keeps to the natural inner breath, smelting and refining it, until that water suddenly turns into warm qi flowing from the inner thighs down to Yongquan (the bubbling spring at the soles). Spirit-intent must be fixed on both heels, with true breath (zhenxi) following—this is what is meant by “the true person’s breath reaches the heels.” After a while Yongquan settles still; then return the mind to Weilü (tail gate) and wait in silence. Suddenly one feels something arrive at Weilü—like cotton, like a steamed bun, like a lump of qi—heavy and hard to shift. Then harmonize the inner breath, fix attention in one place, and smelt and refine with urgency. A surge of warm fluid breaks from Weilü, slowly passes the waist and spine, and rolls upward to Niwan (mud-pill palace at the crown). Only then is it called the Yellow River flowing backward and Cao Creek running in reverse. This kind of River Cart (He Che)—what the Dadong Jing calls “driving refined spirit into Niwan,” what Patriarch Lü calls “moving essence into the upper palace”—is not the same as the earlier qi circulation.

In the Niwan palace, the sound of water roars; after long time the water sound stops and spirit rests there. Hold a while, then curl the tongue to the palate, hold breath in the nose, clench the teeth, press both hands back against the seat, and lift the face toward the empty beam. Wait until golden fluid (jinye) fills the tongue; hold the nasal breath without releasing it, and with a “gu” sound it enters the windpipe, descends the twelve steps of Chonglou (the heavy tower), and divine water (shenshui) pours into Huachi.

Most people do not know this Huachi. Some say it is under the tongue, some say in the lower Dantian—both are wrong. This Huachi lies between the two breasts; it is called the upper sea of qi (shang qihai), only one layer apart from Xuanying. Bai Yuchan said: “Huachi lies right within the sea of qi”—that is the meaning. When water fills Huachi, it moves on without lingering, reaches Jianggong; the heart-mind grows cool and clear, and settles in Huangting; heart-fire reaches great stillness (taiding). This is drawing lead and regulating mercury, leading the tiger and subduing the dragon. The two hexagrams Jiji and Weiji turn without ceasing—this is the work of refining oneself with jade fluid (yuye lianji).

But this jade fluid cannot come every day; one must add the earlier qi-circulation practice. Circulate several times before it comes once. When jade fluid comes often, then the yellow opens through the center, the skin is moist and bright, the heart-sovereign is at ease, the nature-body is luminous; facing things one forgets emotion, in desire yet not caught by desire, passing days according to conditions, in the dust yet apart from dust—true intent (zhenyi) firm as a blade, sword-edge sharp and keen: round and full, blazing bright, nakedly vivid, brilliantly gleaming—this is when refining oneself (lianji) is fully ripe.

The third item is still the River Chariot (He Che): it means circulating innate primordial essence (xian tian jing qi). In internal alchemy this is called “mercury welcoming lead inward”—when qing (desire, the postnatal heart-mind) returns to xing (true nature, the original spirit), which is the work of the seven returns and nine reversals (qi fan jiu huan) in the firing process. Before that, one must first refine the self (lian ji) until it is fully mature—body, mind, and intent steadied; only when mercury-nature (the original spirit, the yang side) is likewise fully mature can one speak of operating the River Chariot.

(The discussion of the three chariots continues; the details follow in the next section.)

Before this stage, one must first refine the practice of “refining the self” (lian ji) until it is fully mature: the mercury nature—the pure, agile shen-qi of inner refinement—must already communicate with spirit, advance and retreat at will, and respond freely to yin-yang and male-female pairing. Only when skill reaches this level may one undertake the great work of “return” (fan huan).

What is called the “sevenfold return of the elixir” (qi fan huan dan) means first taking the mercury nature already refined and naming it the “internal elixir” (nei dan). Then one enters seclusion and sits in the round (ru shi zuo huan)—cultivating in closed retreat in a quiet chamber—and places the internal elixir in the empty, marvelous aperture: above, the image is like Qian; below, like Kun. On the side of nature (xing) belongs “being”; on the side of life (ming) belongs “non-being.” First one must “enter non-being from being,” then from “non-being” give birth again to “being.” The image is like the essence of Qian sown in the mother of Kun—Kun’s belly fills and becomes Kan; Kun’s essence responds to the father of Qian—Qian’s heart empties and becomes Li. Once Qian and Kun are established, this is named the cauldron vessel (ding qi)—the marvelous aperture where being and non-being meet. The function of the Li and Kan trigrams thereby manifests in form on body and mind.

In the instant of “entering non-being from being,” all is silent and still; heart and breath gradually fade while the primordial spirit (yuan shen) alone remains. After a little while, one may see the discriminating spirit (shi shen) transform into something startling or alluring, testing the inner spirit; or heavenly demon generals may appear as good or evil figures, again testing the inner spirit. When every appearance fails to move one, the primordial spirit stays clear and unmoved. After another interval, a thread of yang qi arises—like the single yang returning beneath Kun yin (yi yang lai fu). At that moment one “sends forth one yin from the Qian palace to welcome it”—kidney qi rising and heart fluid descending, entirely according to nature—named “welcoming lead with mercury” (yi gong ying qian), also called “great Kan-Li intersection” (da kan li jiao), also called inner and outer yin-yang messaging. Once messaging is open, one commands the Taiyi spirit maiden Chou Qiu to present the female sword, pluck and take it, and immediately establish the elixir root (dan ben)—this is the “sevenfold return of the elixir.” Once the elixir root is set, shen and qi blend harmoniously; then yang qi gradually lengthens and becomes Dui, and the male in Kan becomes the female in Dui (this is what the texts mean by images such as the moon at Geng, the moon over the Western River, the crescent moon, and similar phrases). Thus the two characters “Dui maiden” (dui nü) refer to the stage when the Kan male has already turned into the Dui female.

Therefore the phrase “Dui Maiden” (the “maiden of Lake/Metal”) appears. For this reason alchemists also call it the Chief Scripture (shoujing), and again Tian Gui (Heavenly Water)—names that refer to its category. Fools who do not understand this blind themselves in practice and wild refinement, simply because they have never met a true master.

When the adept gathers this Chief Scripture, the work is called gathering emotion and returning to nature (sheqing guixing). When the five thousand forty-eight days are complete and it enters the Yellow Track (huangdao), it is like the full moon on the fifteenth day: Metal and Water are full. In the human body, this is the moment when innate primordial Jing and Qi surge vigorously. At this stage the student must promptly start the Great River Chariot (daheche) and carry it up to Niwan (the Mud-Pellet Palace, upper Dantian). Before long, a fine fluid will drop into the mouth beneath the jaw, as large as a sparrow’s egg or a grape—neither musk nor honey, yet strangely sweet and fragrant. This is the Nine-Return Golden-Liquid Great Elixir (jiu huan jinye dadan). After the adept takes this golden liquid, one may speak of lead entering mercury and metal joining wood: the post-heaven returns to pre-heaven, and the Infant meets the Crimson Maiden (chahü). When Infant and Maiden unite, they are nourished morning and evening; over time one sees through to the viscera, inner and outer brightness arise, and within appears a true one who looks exactly like oneself—Infant and Maiden have given birth to an Infant again. Whoever obtains this Infant must nurture it in silence, warming and storing it moment by moment, moving it from the Spirit Valley (linggu) up to the Heaven Valley (tiangu). Then one may go out in spirit and transform in substance, ascending to join the immortals.

Heart-Gathering Method (Shouxin Fa)

Composed by Changyi Shanren Li Hanxu

Revised by Chen Yingning of Wanjiang

Heart-Gathering Method: Rhyme Text (tici)

This passage explains the basics of gathering the mind (shouxin) and uses imagery from inner cultivation. The tone is partly autobiographical, with a thread of narrative about “receiving a title in a dream and writing the book after waking.”

Gathering the mind and the He Che (River Cart)

The method of gathering the mind is set out plainly and directly: practiced in this way, Heaven is pleased and does not add blame or punishment. Through the year one diligently cultivates the “He Che” (in inner alchemy, a common metaphor for qi moving along paths such as the Ren and Du channels). Outwardly the heart may seem worn with effort; inwardly it is at ease and settled.

The flying spirit paying homage to the True Ones and four hundred years of experience

Last night the spirit rose and paid homage to the Supreme True Ones (shang zhen), and was enfeoffed as “Great Perfected One of Virtuous Teaching (Shanjiao Dazhenren),” recounting four hundred years of experience: three times descending to play in the red dust (three rounds of trial in the human world). Embracing the Golden Elixir (jindan), finding joy in oneself, and with the immortals exchanging riddles and veiled speech (not stating things plainly, but teaching the elixir path through symbols).

Compassion and the Langhuan Ji

Only after waking did true compassion arise; then with one’s own hand one wrote the Langhuan Ji. Whether good or evil, wise or foolish, all should gather the mind and rest in emptiness (xuwu)—sitting in stillness and entering the void, without scattering the mind or clinging to distractions.

Seeing the Dao and the first decisive step

One must enter the deep obscurity (yaoming)—utter stillness without discrimination—before the Great Dao (da dao) can be seen; and in all of this, that very first move (the first technique at the outset) is the most critical work.

This passage teaches that nurturing life rests on true breath (zhenxi) as its root. Cao Wenyi said: “I will make the crucial point plain for you all— the root of life has always lain in true breath.” That line matters greatly. When you begin practice, first still the mind, then keep the mouth closed, then regulate the breath (when the mind is quiet, qi settles on its own; you need not force adjustment—the kind that “adjusts without adjusting” is best). Once nasal breathing is even, close the eyes and look inward, placing mind-intent on the root of the kidneys and the yin qiao channel (the region before the anal passage and behind the scrotum). After guarding there for a while, raise heart-breath into the void aperture (xuxu qiao) (between the navel and the lower back, between heart and kidneys—you need not fix on one spot). Rest mind-intent there and abide within; take naturalness (ziran) as your guide: if the mind is too tight, it is like gentle fire (wenhuo) running too hot and “flaring”; you must follow what is natural. If the mind is too scattered, it is like vigorous fire (wuhuo) too weak and “cold”; you must hold to naturalness. Gentle and vigorous fire cook together; from start to finish the subtle use is one. Inner breath should be even—neither forget nor force (wuwang wuzhu). At this point the heart is like empty space, yet with breath to rely on it is not empty; with breath to follow it is not void. In that between-not-empty-not-void, stillness deepens and clarity deepens; breath threads on, spirit stays silent. Here you must let everything go, even forgetting “self” and “other”—this is called drilling into the deep dark (zuan yaoming). In the deep dark there is qi; alone, one spirit knows—this is true breath. Once true breath appears, you may feel an inner tingling itch; still press it into the inner chamber and the void aperture, layer upon layer; the root of life (mingdi) forms, yang qi grows of itself, and only then can you open the gates and circulate qi (kaitian yunqi)—clear the passageways and turn the true qi.

Gathering the spirit and regulating the breath are the first skills on the path. Gathering the spirit means drawing the already settled, purified mind inward; when the mind is not yet quiet, do not force closed eyes and inward looking. First persuade and steady yourself, gather the scattered mind back, let it become cool and plain, then gather it into the Qixue (the place where qi gathers around the Dantian)—only then is it called gathering the spirit. Sitting in emptiness, neither leaning nor tilting, is also gathering the already clear mind inward; when the mind is not yet clear, do not close the eyes and look within—first persuade yourself to gather the mind, and after it is cool and plain, gather it into the Qixue: that is gathering the spirit. Sitting in emptiness without bias is gathering the spirit in emptiness.

Regulating the breath is not difficult: once mind and spirit are still, breathing naturally becomes smooth; simply guard it and follow it, and further shine spirit-light downward—that is regulating the breath. Guide the breath of the Yin Qiao (the channel near the perineum) to meet the breath in the heart at the Qixue; spirit within qi, silently intend toward the Yuanhai (the Dantian below the navel)—without forcing union it unites, without forcing contact it connects: what is called spirit communion across the body (form does not directly join, yet spirit and qi respond to each other). Guarding nature so it does not scatter, preserving spirit so it does not sink into dullness—thus one can enter deep trance and subtle oblivion.

When the heart rests below the navel, it is called gathering the spirit; when qi returns below the navel, it is called regulating the breath. Spirit and breath rely on each other; guarding their clear natural state is called neither forgetting; following their clear natural state is called neither forcing. Neither forgetting nor forcing—through silence and softness—breath becomes lively while the heart is at ease: that is using the “Drill” secret formula—taking emptiness as the place to lodge the heart, taking dim oblivion as the home of breath and spirit. Again and again clarify and clarify; suddenly heart and breath forget each other, spirit and qi merge, and without noticing one slips into trance—and Yang arises (the sign of yang stirring in inner refinement).

Miscellaneous Talk on the Method of Gathering the Heart

A disciple asked: “The Three Chariots secret teachings (the threefold method in neidan for moving jing, qi, and shen) fully reveal heaven’s secrets—are you not afraid of heavenly retribution?” Hanxu replied: It is not that I deliberately defy heavenly retribution; I truly hope people can understand.

A disciple asked: “The secret teaching of the Three Chariots reveals heaven’s innermost secrets—are you not afraid of heaven’s retribution?” Hanxu replied: It is not that one deliberately defies heaven’s will, but that one hopes people will turn from error and renew themselves. Whoever undertakes this practice must first set aside the ordinary mind and take up the mind that seeks the Dao, shut out ordinary breathing and seek the true breath, then settle spirit and Qi and “drill into profound obscurity” (zuan ru yaoming)—not one of these stages may be omitted. Once a person has entered this path, how could he still act as a petty man?

In cultivation, drilling into profound obscurity is the first great difficulty. Pre-heaven primordial Qi (xiantian yi qi) comes from emptiness (xuwu); only when there is true profound obscurity can there be true emptiness. First difficulty, then attainment—the whole body must be given up. In my day I learned to drill into profound obscurity in a grotto heaven (dongtian); only after seven or eight years did I gain a little. Nowadays students advance quickly and retreat just as quickly—how can they enter the Dao?

The disciple asked again: “When the master transmits the teaching, some say you transmit too widely. If people of inferior capacity receive the method and practice without result, might they turn and revile you?” Hanxu replied: Unless the lower sort mock you, the greatness of our Dao cannot be shown. The Great Dao first requires purifying body and mind and harmonizing spirit and Qi; at a deeper level, one must be able to let everything go and drill into profound obscurity. Only with such genuine effort can there be genuine verification. Those who have no achievement yet crave verification are people who will never obtain verification in the end. To be answered with biting ridicule is hardly worth calling an illness.

The disciple pressed further: “As the master says, for wicked people…” (here the source text appears to repeat or break off.) The gist matches the answer above: only true effort brings true verification; those who achieve nothing yet expect results will not gain them; sharp retorts need not be taken to heart.

A disciple asked: “According to what Master says, can people who have done wrong still learn the Way?” Han Xu answered: They can. He recited an admonition: treat everything before as if you died yesterday; everything after as if you were born today today—meaning one should regard past faults as already dead and start anew from this day. Then, by “doing no evil and practicing all good,” one can turn a hell-like state into heaven and transform black qi into red light. He also gave a three-word formula for cultivating the Way: qin (diligence), cheng (sincerity), and heng (constancy)—none of the three may be omitted. Even when one is already diligent and already sincere, everything must still come to rest on heng. Confucius said that without constancy a person cannot even succeed as a shaman or healer, let alone cultivate the Way. Scholars studying letters set terms of years, sometimes ten; can refining the heart and refining qi rank below reading and writing?

Cheng is the image of utmost yin: in the Yijing it corresponds to Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate); in Buddhism it is close to ru ru—unmoving thusness. Mencius said: “There has never been one who was utterly sincere and not responded to; there has never been one who was insincere and could move others.” Motion and stillness are paired, so one knows cheng belongs to yin and leans toward the side of stillness. The Ru tradition speaks of “extending utmost sincerity like spirit” and “spirit at its utmost without ceasing”—both are the great root and great function within stillness. Therefore entering stillness through cheng, the heart is still and unconfused; entering samadhi through cheng, the heart in samadhi does not waver; guarding the center through cheng, the center is not biased; entering yaoming (the deepest still realm) through cheng, one can penetrate the subtle without obstruction.

Qin is the root of learning; on the Way there is also a “diligence without diligence”: nurturing natural breath, settling the natural heart, acting without acting and not acting while acting. What Laozi calls “continuous, as if present; use it without forcing diligence”—that is diligence pushed to the extreme.

In practice, the key to dealing with the “sleep demon”—drowsiness and dullness during seated meditation—is diligence (qin), but this is not mindless busyness.

If you run to incense every day, rush through ritual obligations, and force yourself to sit when body and spirit are already drained, you will regress rather than advance. That is diligence misapplied: busyness becomes self-torment, not genuine gongfu.

Those who know how to “refine sleep” aim for a state in which the body still rests while the mind stays clear—or, before sleep fully takes hold, they keep up continuous awareness and do not follow the pull of dullness. In that way practice is never broken off, and qi and spirit gradually strengthen. By contrast, staying up late to fight sleep or stubbornly refusing to rest only summons the sleep demon all the more fiercely.

The Can Tong Qi (Syncretic Scripture of the Three) says: “In sleeping and waking, constantly embrace each other; in awakening, watch the pivot of life and death.” Sleep and wakefulness constantly hold each other without parting; in clear awareness one observes the hinge between life and death. Whoever applies this key will remain alert and vigilant at all times, and will not sink into foggy, dull unknowing.

A disciple asked: “Master Lu Qianxu said that ‘copulation is the essential secret transmitted by the Supreme One’—can you explain this method to us?”

The master replied: “Copulation” here refers to the root of utmost Yin and the foundation of yaoming—that deep, still, dark state approaching freedom from thought and from non-thought. One must first be able to sink into yaoming before genuine copulation can be discussed. I advise students first to gather and refine in empty stillness: stillness upon stillness, fixation upon fixation, with no self and no other, even letting go of “nothingness”—then one naturally enters yaoming. There is no need to force copulation; copulation establishes itself, and utmost Yang arises from utmost Yin.

The method of copulation differs between the pre-heaven and post-heaven realms. Pre-heaven copulation takes nature (xing) to establish life (ming); post-heaven copulation joins spirit (shen) with qi (vital energy). Hence the Ruyao Jing (Mirror for Compounding the Medicine) says: “It is nature and life—not spirit and qi; the lead of the water region is but a single flavor.” In pre-heaven terminology, everything is gathered under “the one thing”; in post-heaven terminology it splits into essence (jing), spirit, intent, qi, hun-soul, po-soul, nature, and emotion. On the pre-heaven path, if you refine only this one thing, all the rest are already contained within it. In sum, one must draw true Yang out of copulation.

The five viscera each have their proper place and must not be shifted at random. Daoists speak of “inverting Qian, Kun, Kan, and Li”—this does not mean moving the heart downward and the kidneys upward. Inversion refers to spirit and qi within heart and kidneys: mind-spirit bends down to descend, kidney qi lifts up to rise. Once spirit and qi invert, the visible relation of heart and kidneys also appears inverted, and the invisible framework of Qian and Kun (Heaven and Earth, the great yin-yang pattern) is inverted as well. After inverted mutual exchange, a point of Yang in Kun becomes Kan, and a point of Yin in Qian becomes Li; the Li maiden and Kan male exchange, much as the Dui maiden in the west meets the Zhen male in the east. South and north may also be viewed as east and west; water and fire may transform into metal and wood—through metal-as-emotion and wood-as-nature, they are called the White Tiger and Green Dragon. Dragon meeting tiger is like the crimson woman receiving the infant; tiger meeting dragon is like the infant entering the crimson woman. Still, these are ultimately the two things of nature and life: life holds nature within it, nature holds life within it—the two were originally one thing. Thus Master Ziyang (Zhang Boduan) said: “Zhen and Dui are not east and west; Kan and Li are not south and north.” At this point one may suddenly see clearly.

(Note: Throughout this text “copulation” is internal alchemy language for the harmonizing union of yin-yang spirit and qi—not worldly relations between men and women.)

The following is a plain-language reading of an excerpt from Yuanqiao Neipian (Inner Chapters of the Round Peak).

Confucianism and Daoism take different paths in “nurturing qi.” What Daoists call nurturing natural qi aims to preserve the true self, extend life, and live in accord with one’s nature. What Confucians call nurturing Haoran qi (the expansive, upright qi) ties qi to moral principle, so it can sustain both one’s conduct in life and the choice to “give up life for righteousness”—as when ancient men of resolve faced danger, accepted a mission, and chose death for humanity’s sake. When nurturing Haoran qi, the heart is filled with principle; it can fill heaven and earth, which is why Mencius said: this qi is greatest and most firm; nourish it with uprightness and do not harm it with crooked ways, and it will fill the space between heaven and earth—it is born from “gathering righteousness.” Daoist qi cultivation stresses keeping the original truth; one need not always hold out to the end in every crisis, nor withdraw or die too early for the sake of reputation—as the Book of Changes says of the noble person who “acts when the moment is clear and does not wait until the last day”: one who reads the occasion and steps away at the right time.

To enter Daoist practice, one first nurtures natural qi. What is natural qi? It is easier to describe in contrast: this qi is smallest and softest; nourish it with “yielding” and do not harm it, and it gathers in empty space—it is born from “gathering essence.” What Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy) achieves can also be spoken of as reaching the level of Haoran qi: once qi is truly present, one can likewise face danger without fear and give body and life for principle. The ancients named one kind of death daojie (“knife liberation”—the lore that one who has completed cultivation meets blades and shijie, liberates the corpse, and ascends). Some of this Confucians cannot fully explain in the same vocabulary: the person may afterward be seen elsewhere, with thinner brows and beard, wandering with immortal companions—that is the realm of the returned elixir, “a body outside the body” (a true form condensed from qi besides the ordinary frame).

Those who obtain the Dao have transformations ordinary people cannot fathom: in life they may be immortals, in death they may also be immortals—for example liuxing zhushi (retaining the physical form while dwelling in the world as an immortal) or shijie dengzhen (corpse liberation and ascension to perfection). Confucians who practice ren (humaneness) can keep stillness; in life they may live long, in death they may “complete their virtue” and leave a name—like Zengzi preserving his body or Yan Yuan dying young yet leaving an undying reputation. Master Ziyang (revered in the Zhang Boduan line of Neidan) said in old times: “Zhen and Dui are not east and west; Kan and Li are not south and north.” If one reflects that in alchemical scripture Kan, Li, Zhen, and Dui often point to the fire phases of mind and body rather than compass directions, the difference between the two schools’ ways of nurturing qi can feel a little clearer.

The Dao can be lost in five ways: Some people taste it briefly and leave; some float on the surface, coveting reputation; some work hard at first but slacken later; some are narrow-minded and, before they have even entered the gate, rashly belittle profound methods; some are too dull by nature—no amount of pointing awakens them, no calling brings realization.

The Dao can be gained in three ways: Those who truly know the Dao may become lingren (spiritual persons who resonate with the Dao); those who sincerely love the Dao may become zhenren (true persons who return to the root); those who genuinely delight in the Dao may become zhiren (supreme persons who unite with the Dao and reach its utmost).

On Volume Three, “Sequential Account of Post-Heaven Cultivation”

My commentaries on the Daode, Huangting, Dadong, Wugen, and other classics mostly treat xiantian (innate source and advanced application), not beginner paths. A long road starts from what is near; a tall tower is raised from what is low. Without understanding the step-by-step order of houtian (post-heaven practice, from coarse to fine), it is like someone in the world seeking rank: before passing the examinations for xiucai or xiangju, they already dream of jinshi or hanlin. Hence this piece, “Sequential Account of Post-Heaven Cultivation,” as a ladder for entering the gate.

Its sequence is: first, gathering the heart; second, seeking Qi; third, concentrating spirit; fourth, opening the orifices; fifth, opening the passes; sixth, laying the foundation; seventh, obtaining the medicine; eighth, forming the elixir; ninth, refining the self.

The Taishang (Supreme Venerable, Laozi) said: “The noble takes the base as root; the high takes the low as foundation.” Post-heaven nourishment and supplementation follow exactly this path of “base” and “low.” What is meant by base is what the master calls “speaking of what seems ugly” (not shunning the coarse, facing the lower region directly); what is meant by low is what the scripture calls “taking from below” (taking the medicine from the lower place, from the foundation). To cultivate the elixir foundation, one treasures Jing and Qi alone. In practice, one must first gather the heart inward (bring the scattered mind back into the body), take the center as the pole (hold the mean, guard the central palace), take harmony as the rule, take Shen as the substance and as stillness (with spirit as master, unmoved and settled), and take yi (intention) as function and as wisdom (using intention to guide Qi, using insight to observe).

Seek qi with the yinqiao (Yin Heel vessel) as the starting point. “Middle” means that lively, subtle place that cannot be seen or heard. Harmony (he) means single-mindedly softening the qi, holding the spirit, and taking stillness as the work; wisdom arises within settled stillness, and sitting in illumination is like the very first moment. When primordial essence (yuan jing) joins and primordial qi (yuan qi) is generated, opening the aperture and opening the passes are no longer difficult.

Primordial essence is that bit of qi in the yinqiao channel that day by day nourishes the person. For the practitioner to gather primordial essence, they must find where the qi is truly active, then unite with it through stillness—this is called spirit and qi joining (shen qi jiao). Once spirit and qi join, it is like man and woman joining in essence and blood: only then can the true seed (zhen zhong) be transformed and born. The true seed is the true qi in the post-heaven cauldron. The post-heaven cauldron is where primordial spirit (yuan shen) and primordial qi (yuan qi) meet, hence it is also called the spirit father and spirit mother.

After this qi is refined from the cauldron, one must concentrate the spirit and soften the intent, using softness to overcome hardness; it will naturally enter the inner cauldron. Further harmonizing, adjusting, forging, and refining, it hides in the dantian (energy center), breathing in emptiness—this is the root of life (ming di), also called embryonic breathing (tai xi).

Suddenly something bursts from the inner cauldron, leaping and hopping, sighing and spurting, rushing along the chong meridian straight to the heart palace—this is the moment of opening the aperture (zhan qiao). When its surge is strong, replace spirit with intent, draw it out from the weilü (tail gate), strike through the three passes (san guan) in one thrust, and fly up to the Mud Pill (ni wan)—that is opening the passes (kai guan).

Once the passes and apertures are open, one performs the work of nurturing the self (yang ji), and then speaks of the way of laying the foundation (zhu ji). Laying the foundation means taking the other’s blood and qi to supplement one’s own spirit and essence. Even when spirit and essence are strong, one still fears wavering; therefore Ren lead (ren qian) is used to subdue it. Ren lead is what is produced when the two qi unite in coupling.

(Where the following text repeats, the meaning is the same: the two qi couple and one carries out nurturing the self and discusses laying the foundation; gathering blood and qi to supplement spirit and essence; using Ren lead to control wavering.)

When we speak of the Qi of the Kan palace (water, below), it belongs to earth Qi; the Qi of the Li palace (fire, above) belongs to heaven Qi. At the moment heaven and earth meet, in chaotic mist and blending, a “void cave” first forms—the root in the inner landscape where emptiness can give birth to Qi. In that cave a single breath of Qi soon arises; in inner refinement this is what is called “Ren lead,” the season of “obtaining lead.”

In the teaching, lead “has Qi but no fixed substance,” so it is light and rises. When that Qi reaches Kunlun (the crown), the eyes look upward and spirit and Qi rest together at the top. After holding this for a while, yang reaches its peak and yin is born; then press the tongue to the upper palate and even out the breath through the nose. When the palate is held long enough, sweet fluid descends like drops from a cold spring. Even if the amount is small, swallow it in one gulp past the “multistory tower” (throat and chest) and, with intent, send it to Huangting (the middle palace, the dantian region). Sometimes one also feels surging sounds within, and sweet dew falls again—then one knows that the sweet dew of heaven was never abundant to begin with. When fluid enters Huangting, it can congeal into the inner elixir (Neidan).

From here one must cultivate “wanting to sever desire” amid desire, and “leaving the dust” while still in the world—facing situations without being turned by them, refining lead and subduing mercury, driving off the three corpses and five thieves (inner demons and outer disturbances that unsettle body and mind), and wearing down the six desires and seven emotions. When the work is deep, bones and flesh are like golden essence and skin like jade; the inner mechanism stirs while outer affairs align—without forcing, without clinging, without rigidity, without ego. Accumulate merit and virtue, refine Qi and nourish spirit; when things come and events arrive the mind stays bright—meet the scene and awaken the heart, using the wisdom sword to cut through worldly veils. Work done in the human realm is recorded in heaven; one receives heaven’s stipend and enjoys boundless years. At this stage one should hold the uncarved block and keep purity, guard against danger and foresee peril; heaven and human unite in issuing change, the myriad transformations find their foundation, spirit is forever firm, and one breath returns to emptiness—only then is the work of “refining the self” (laying foundation and cultivating one’s person) complete.

For beginners entering the gate, proceed in order: gather the mind, seek Qi, concentrate spirit, open the orifices, open the passes, lay the foundation, obtain the medicine, form the elixir, and keep purity and guard against peril, until heaven and human unite in issuing change, the myriad transformations find their foundation, spirit is forever firm, and one breath returns to emptiness—then the work of refining the self is fully in place.

Those who enter the gate of the Dao must first gather the mind (collecting scattered thoughts), seek Qi (vital energy; recovering the prenatal One Qi), concentrate Shen (spirit), open the apertures (opening the body’s passages), open the passes (clearing the apertures and passes), build the foundation (establishing the root of cultivation), obtain the medicine (gathering prenatal Jing and Qi), form the elixir (condensing the Golden Elixir), and refine the self (refining away selfish desires and purifying one’s nature). These nine stages of practice are the gateway into the Dao. After entering the gate, Yin-Yang returns to unity, cycling endlessly without exhaustion; by exhaustively investigating principle and fully realizing mind-nature so as to penetrate the practice of life, one moves from conditioned methods of doing into the method of Wuwei (non-action), and from forced effort into naturalness. In this way, the Golden Elixir (Neidan, internal alchemy) is inevitably accomplished.

Volume Four of the Xuntu Lu (Record of Following the Path) is titled “The Final Scripture of the Nine Stages of Refining the Mind in the Great Dao of the Human Primordial.” It was personally written by Hanxu Zi (Li Hanxu, a Neidan master), master of Purple Cloud Cave, and constitutes Daoist teachings on the nine stages of refining the mind. The Great Dao of the Human Primordial refers to the great path of cultivating Neidan (internal alchemy) through the Jing, Qi, and Shen of the human body.

The first stage of refining the mind refines the mind that is not yet pure and unified. An impure mind is full of delusive thoughts and wandering thoughts; delusive thoughts arise from greed and desire, while wandering thoughts arise unknowingly. When students sit in meditation, it is not that they do not wish to screen out dusty feelings, but no sooner are delusive thoughts removed than wandering thoughts suddenly arise again. The method lies in stopping and observing (settling the mind in one place and turning inward in contemplative reflection), whereby they can gradually dissolve. “Stopping” means stopping behind the hall of the navel (inside the navel) and in front of Mingmen (an important acupoint in the lumbar region), where slightly below there is a circle of emptiness (the Dantian energy-center area). The mind stops there and observes inward; the light of the mind shines into empty clarity and is kept together with Qi, maintained within the rules and bounds, coming and going within the square and circle. Each breath returns to its root (returning to the root of the Dantian), in accord with the natural workings of creation. Standing firm and unmoving, one establishes a pure original foundation. From this, a thread of mind-light connects with a strand of true Qi, profound and vast, calm and natural—this is the initial practice of refining the mind and nurturing Qi.

The second stage of refining the mind refines the mind of meditative concentration. Previously, a thread of mind-light had already connected with a strand of true Qi; if one can directly reach the deep and obscure (the profound, subtle realm), one naturally enters a profound, calm, and leisurely state. This is still the initial practice of refining the mind and nurturing Qi.

Second layer of refining the heart refines the heart in meditation entry (ding). If a thread of heart-light and a wisp of true qi have already joined, one could enter deep stillness (yaoming) and open the mysterious aperture (xuankong, the vital pass); but an unsettled mind is often dragged off by waking consciousness (shishen—the discriminating, scattered mind of everyday life), heart and qi part, and one still does not see the original face. Method: While heart and breath depend on each other, wipe out all ordinary awareness—heart inside qi without knowing it, qi wrapping the heart outside without knowing it, murky mist fused into one piece. This is the work of refining the heart and merging with qi.

Third layer of refining the heart refines the returning (laifu) heart. When murky mist had already fused into one piece, under heavy yin a single yang returns—the “heart of heaven and earth,” the one aperture of the mysterious gate (xuanguan). Then essence, qi, and spirit (jing, qi, shen) all stand in the pre-heaven; primordial chaos first divides, and though true essence, true qi, and true spirit are not yet named separately, this very state is true essence, true qi, and true spirit. If the heart does not stir, one can gather and circulate at once. But what has never been seen or heard appears like a vivid scene, and one does not know what to do; the heart moves, one drops into post-heaven, and essence, qi, and spirit split apart. Method: The moment the mysterious gate first shows, immediately tread the fire-cloud, go to weilu (tail gate), steady the heart and soften the breath, beat the iron drum and pass the three passes, then rest at Kunlun—the work of refining the heart and advancing qi.

The fourth layer of refining the heart-mind cultivates the heart of “retreat and concealment.” Before this, one has stepped on the fire clouds and passed the three passes: heart and Qi move together, and the Qi has already entered the Mud Pill Palace (niwan gong, the place within the crown where Qi gathers). Yet within the Mud Pill Palace, if the conscious spirit (shishen—the everyday thinking, discriminating mind) is stirred, the Qi turns cold and congeals and cannot become true water to wash the three palaces; the work done earlier is easily wasted. The method is to still the heart and take quiet as the main task at the Kunlun peak (the crown), blending with the Qi until the Qi becomes a fine fluid that falls from the upper palate; curl the tongue to receive this dew, swallow and send it down, directing attention through the Crimson Palace (jiang gong, at the heart), the Yellow Court (huangting, the middle palace), and the Origin Sea (yuan hai, the lower Dantian), with audible sensation all the way to the base, then wait again for the mysterious pass to appear—this is the work of refining the heart to obtain Qi, turning Qi into fine fluid, and sending it downward.

The fifth layer of refining the heart-mind cultivates the heart of “laying the foundation.” By then one has entered the Mud Pill and returned to the Qi cavity; the path of the River Chariot (he che, Qi circulating along the Conception and Governing vessels) is already there. From this point one pursues the practice single-mindedly, day and night without stopping; the foundation may be complete without necessarily waiting a full hundred days. But if slackness or wandering desire appears, practicing now and stopping then, the elixir foundation will not hold firm. Laying the foundation depends above all on gathering spirit and concentrating attention; if effort is not steady, spirit still scatters—how then can one extend life and serve the Dao? The method lies in practicing at the zi and wu hours, drawing and adding day by day, taking from Kan to fill Li (water and fire coupling, Yin-Yang harmonizing), accumulating “metal” to fill the belly—this is the work of refining the heart to accumulate Qi and solidify the foundation.

The sixth layer of refining the heart-mind cultivates the heart of “completing nature (xing).” By then the River Chariot turns and spirit and attention are gathered; the spiritual root is already full. From here, heart-fluid descends and kidney-Qi rises—this is Kan-Li union (heart and kidney joining, water and fire mutually fulfilled). One performs the work of refining the heart and accumulating Qi in profound obscurity—this layer advances toward completing nature.

Sixth Layer of Refining the Heart: Refining the Heart of Xing (Nature)

By this stage the river chariot (zhen qi circulating in the Governor Vessel) is already in motion, spirit and intent are gathered, and the spiritual root (the foundation of practice) is full. After that, heart fluid (the yin essence associated with the heart) descends and kidney qi rises—this is called Kan-Li intersection (water and fire meeting, heart and kidney joining).

In the depth of stillness (yao ming—a state of extreme quiet that is empty yet subtly present) there seems to be a sign of verification: vast as a tide—half like water vapor, hazy as mist; half like cloud vapor. This is called the first stirring of golden water; only then does one practice returning the jade elixir.

If the mind is not single-pointed, the work of “fully realizing nature” (jinxing) cannot be completed. The key lies in the moment golden water has just arisen: zhen qi from the Dantian (about three cun below the navel) splits and flows down to Yongquan (at the sole of the foot), then in an instant reunites at Weilü (at the tailbone). One regulates the breath with true breath (natural, fine, even breathing), using intent to drive and guide it, so that it surges upward to Tiangu (the crown); then it trickles down to be swallowed and settles in Huangting (the middle Dantian, roughly at the chest center).

Irrigating in this way day after day, the heart-ground grows cool and clear, blood turns to cream, intent congeals into earth, and from that earth mercury arises (in neidan vocabulary, the “spirit” that appears when essence transforms into qi and qi nourishes spirit). Mercury’s nature is round and bright; it does not shift when it meets things—it is like holding a spirit sword. Mencius said, “He who fully realizes his heart knows his nature”; adepts call this yin elixir, neidan—the work of refining the heart and clarifying nature.

Seventh Layer of Refining the Heart: Refining “Already Clarified” Nature

Up to here, the golden-water river chariot is what masters call internal refinement. From here there is still external refinement: using the outer to harmonize with the inner—the work of true heart and clarified nature.

The seven layers of refining the mind mean that after inner nature (xing) has been clarified, one continues to refine and transform that clarified nature. The Golden Water river chariot (a metaphor in Neidan for the circulation of essence and qi) that was mentioned earlier is what the immortal masters call internal refinement (neilian). At this stage one must also practice external refinement (wailian)—joining outer and inner so that the true mind (zhenxin) can gather and not scatter. For though the inner body may be bright, mercury-nature (the tendency of mind and awareness to drift and scatter) easily floats away; though inner cultivation may be complete, the yin elixir (yindan) (the yin foundation of the elixir) is also prone to spoil. If one does not preserve it with full purity, the refined mind-nature will again regress and vanish.

The method is to take the empty-luminous mind and subtle-being nature (miaoyou zhi xing), and like mixing sand into earth, plant them in “the other house” (bijia) (a Neidan term often pointing to a locus in the body or in the “other” realm of practice—the place of transformation opposite the self). That house is empty; I fill it. That house is without; I establish being there—using the full to enter the empty, the solid to enter the void. When the mind is dead and unmoving, in an instant pre-heaven primordial qi (xiantian yiqi) arrives from nothingness.

One watch of time is one yang, like the Zhen trigram; two watches are two yang, like the Dui trigram. At the second watch, combining the elixir (hedan) is exactly right. There, a thread of true qi is exhaled—likened to the tiger born in water; here, a point of mysterious light descends—likened to the dragon emerging from fire. Dragon and tiger on both sides meet; nature and feeling interact; a great battle unfolds, as if heaven and earth were dark and still, body and mind utterly quiet. Soon three yang stir, like the Qian trigram—tides surge, fire blazes, mist coils and smoke rises, thunder moves and lightning flashes, snow flies and flowers bloom. Yang lead (yangqian) within the body shines; then I hold the sword, grasp the seal, tread the gang, and pace the dipper (visualization and ritual steps in Daoist cultivation), rousing primordial harmony (yuanhe), cooking and refining to the utmost, penetrating the three passes (sanguan) and ascending to Niwan (the inner landscape at the crown, near the Baihui point). Every pore opens; this differs again from the earlier stage of the Jade Fluid river chariot (yuye heche).

Swallow and take it in; use pre-heaven to govern post-heaven; xing (nature) and ming (life) unite as one—this is great restoration (dahuan) (the achievement of returning the elixir). Nature belongs to fire, its number seven; life belongs to metal, its number nine. Returning to root and restoring origin is why it is called seven returns and nine restorations, the golden fluid great elixir (jin ye da dan). From then on lead comes to restrain mercury; the mind stays constantly bright and clear, and mercury no longer wavers—this is the function of refining the mind to preserve spirit (lianxin cunshen).

The eighth layer of refining the heart continues to refine the heart that has already been subdued, enabling it to merge with Shen (spirit). After the stages of "seven returns and nine reversions" and using lead to control mercury, the heart has settled; what follows is nurturing and accumulating cultivation, so that all Qi (vital energy) within the body is fully transformed into Shen, and the Shen within the body can roam outside the body. One then focuses again on regulating the heart so that it connects with the divine. Still one must nurture and warm, until all Qi in the body becomes Shen and the Shen within can travel outward. Here the climate of the twelve months of a year serves as a metaphor: except for the second and eighth months, treated as "bathing" with no advance or retreat counted, the remaining ten months illustrate advancing, retreating, and nurturing—hence the name "ten months of nurturing and warming." This does not mean one must literally practice for ten full months; otherwise the heart may be settled yet not responsive. Refine and forge again, and the responsive heart gradually appears. When responsive, it moves; when it moves, it changes; when it changes, it transforms—then there is the matter of "spirit leaving the body," without being deluded by external objects or desires. This is the work of refining the heart until it becomes spirit.

The ninth layer of refining the heart refines the already luminous heart until it returns to emptiness. After deep nurturing in the prior stage, Shen can emerge without confusion, act as the heart wishes, go anywhere without hindrance, tread high upon clouds and mist, roam freely among sea isles—utterly blissful. Yet if the responsive heart cannot become empty, it cannot embrace all existence; hence there is the phase called "refining emptiness." Refining emptiness means the breast is vast and open, the myriad presences are all absent, a single breath of clear emptiness circling between heaven and earth—it is I yet not I, it is empty yet not empty. When the world is destroyed, only emptiness is not destroyed; when heaven and earth are obstructed, only emptiness is unobstructed. Then Shen fills empty space, and the dharma pervades realms as numerous as grains of sand. This is the sequence of refining the heart from beginning to end; there is no higher layer beyond this.

(The above is from the fifth volume of Li Hanxu's Commentary on the Thirteen Scriptures of the Supreme Lord.)

Cultivators take Laozi as their master. Laozi lived in the world without competing with anyone over anything; outwardly he set aside glory and rank, inwardly he cultivated life and longevity; his mind was at ease and his will settled and still, and he took Wuwei (non-action) as his goal.

Volume 5, Annotations on the Thirteen Scriptures of the Supreme Lord

Author: Li Hanxu

Preface

Immortals take Laozi as their patriarch. While Laozi was in the world, he never contended with others in anything; outwardly he renounced splendor, inwardly he cultivated long life; his mind was harmonious and his intention quiet and fixed, with Wuwei and naturalness (ziran) as his guiding principle.

“Wuwei” does not mean neglect or indifference. Rather, the world’s heterodox arts, restless strife, bizarre conduct, and crafty turmoil are not what Laozi taught.

“Naturalness” means that one’s actions accord with human feeling and fit reason, sensing the work of creation and moving with its flow—thus one may know.

Keeping to the center without clinging to one-sided views, contemplating emptiness without fixating on appearances; reaching emptiness and holding stillness, storing depth as if empty; neither showing off the unusual nor setting oneself apart—so the histories call him an ancient recluse and gentleman of withdrawal.

The five thousand words of the Dao De Jing use the words of the ancients to establish their argument; they serve both ordering the realm and cultivating the person. When we read the Dao De Jing day by day, we may not grasp every meaning, yet in mind and conduct we still wish to learn from Laozi.

In deep mountains and remote valleys, with two or three like-minded companions, one goes in and out among mists and clouds, staff in hand, singing the sage’s transforming influence; without forced knowing, following Heaven’s rule—thus one hides one’s awkwardness.

Seeking the Book and Meeting the Master

One day, visiting a Daoist temple, I saw several volumes of Outer History of Yuan Qiao, on the art of extending life, still not departing from Laozi’s Way. Among them was Annotations on the Thirteen Scriptures, all explaining Laozi’s books; the commentary on the Dao De was especially thorough, with Nine Layers Along the Path appended at the end—more immediate and plain.

I asked the Daoist: “Who is ‘the gentleman under the tree’?” He answered: “One who hides in farming life.”

So I sought the master on Juan Mountain; he was acknowledged as being of the same temper as Chao Fu and Xu You (paragons of non-office and reclusion), and he transmitted the essential mechanism of practice (the core of cultivation).

After withdrawing from public life, he had the Thirteen Classics printed and offered them for sale in bookshops, so that his late teacher’s earnest, painstaking intent might be preserved. He also gave printed copies of the Dao De commentary and the Nine Layers text to Daoist and Buddhist temples. The book is not long, yet the true formulas are complete; for us few who practice in earnest, fulfilling oneself and helping others comes down largely to this. He also recalled what he was told when he received the transmission: each should follow his own lineage and school, take a name outside the world, like streams and brooks that all pour into the great river—each returning to its source, each forming its own course.

Zixia once studied under Huiong; we continue the Zixia line after him, with a clear line of descent.

Alas! In the affairs of heaven and earth, people as dull as we need neither struggle nor could we win if we tried. Daoyu is already seventy; Daosheng is nearing the age of the ancients; Daohe is no longer a youth. What joy is there in dwelling in mountains and forests? Only this: carrying this commentary on the Dao De and the essay Nine Layers, singing long songs among cliffs and valleys until the voice checks the stream-mist, forgetting each other’s names and ages.

In such-and-such a year of the Daoguang reign, in the eighth month, three recluses of the Shu mountains inscribed this.

Preface by Master Chunyang

Lord Laozi’s Dao De takes wuwei (non-action) as its core; the commentary Zhengyi takes “non-contrivance” as its aim. (What follows repeats the inscription above and may be a copyist’s error.)

The Dao De Jing speaks of wuwei (non-action); Master Hanxu's commentary and exegesis instead stresses buzuo—not acting rashly, not forcing meaning. The intent of annotations in the vein of Zhengyi is likewise buzuo: not going beyond the scripture's meaning, not inventing a new path. Only through such transmission and exposition as in the Dadao Jing does the teaching grow ever clearer. Someone like Hanxu may truly be said to possess immortal talent: it is said a golden book came to him in a dream; he was born into a household beneath the trees, his family dwelling at Juanshan for generations in plain honesty, heaven bestowing a jade tablet—as was fitting. From childhood his insight was extraordinary; grown, he devoted himself to the profound principles. He once read Lu Xixing's (Master Lu) Fanghu Waishi and privately resolved to ascend to perfection and transformation, with Master Lu always at his side. When I heard of this I went to visit him, using the name of a local mountain Daoist and bringing Qianxu along, to observe his resolve. He lived in seclusion on the eastern slope of Efeng, quiet and sparing of words, indifferent to fame and gain, contenting himself with a single zither. After we met we were companions for many years; I often explained the principles of Chongxuan (Tang-era Daoist learning that assimilated Buddhist thought), and he understood at once. Then his talent surged forth: he wrote Yuanqiao Waishi, standing in distant dialogue with Master Lu's works. Where Lu had Xuanfu Lun, he had Daoqiao Tan; where Lu had Jiuzheng Pian, he had Xuntu Shuo—all writing of pure clarity. The finest of these is his commentary on the Dao De Jing, enough to be a lamp for ten thousand ages, titled Donglai Zhengyi, not inferior to Master Lu's Nan Hua Fu Mo. These two alone truly deserve to be called masters of discourse on Laozi and Zhuangzi.

To annotate this classic carries five faults and three excellences. The five faults are: leaning only toward ordering the world—that is the first; leaning only toward cultivating the person—the second; or knowing that the Dao's lineage embraces both world and self, yet whose wording cannot match the scripture and in the end strays into side paths—the third; not knowing that in the supreme Dao, gongxiu (cultivation of merit and practice) must put the people's peace and the state's wealth first—only then can one speak of wuwei; if one opens the brush with quiet purity alone, one inevitably sinks into empty stillness—the fourth; not knowing that in the supreme Dao, deli (virtue and power) must always return to the root and restore life before it counts as true youwei ( purposive action); if one opens the brush speaking only of sagehood and spirit, it becomes no different from praise hymns—the fifth.

What are the three excellences? Dao that joins inner and outer, annotation divided into main and supplementary, so the scripture's breadth shows more clearly—that is the first; men sun jie mai (gates aligned, shoots joined—threads running through in mutual support), finding gaps and answering them, so the meaning runs in one breath—that is the second; true insight in the breast, no Chan obstruction on the lips, so the scripture's meaning stands bright—that is the third.

I once lamented that the purport of the Dao De was unclear under heaven and wished to take up the brush to annotate; even now I still feel it insufficient. Today I see what Hanxu has set forth: three excellences and no five faults. Had this book appeared a thousand years earlier, other schools might not have annotated at all, and this Daoist would not need to say more. I therefore gladly offer these evaluative notes, to be stored in famous mountains and passed to those with the will to learn. What is called pingdian (evaluative annotation) is also to borrow this commentary's true meaning to fill what I have not yet written, and to instruct people amid the notes.

Poems Inscribed on Donglai Zhengyi

(1)

The foreword by Huweng (in the inner-alchemy line, often a “return-to-the-root” master such as Zhang Boduan) fixed the rules for commentary; the author’s own preface opened especially the gate of “entering De (Virtue/Power).” It is as if purple qi again came from the east through Hangu Pass, so one could surely say that beneath the Li tree an heir of the subtle Dao lineage would be nurtured. The author wished to teach later generations to tread the same path and attest to the same meaning, and explained that he would fill in what he had not yet annotated and set it all out among his evaluative notes.

(Fuller variant of the same inscribed poem from another edition)

Huweng’s opening preface established the standard for comment; his own preface above all opened the gate of entering De. Again one sees purple qi coming from the pass—look straight to the Li tree nurturing the dark heir. He wished to teach people of later ages to cross over together (to return to one path and receive the same deliverance), and to make the pre-heaven Dao still more honored and clear. How many annotators never held this edition in their hands; it could only be kept like a treasured casket, long protected, enthroned upon Kunlun (the immortal mountain, symbol of the Dao’s source).

—Yushu Youxiang, Taiqing Dongxuan collator of merit and fault in cultivation and concurrent selector of immortal affairs, Liaodong Xuanxuan daoren, attendant friend Zhang Quanyi, inscribed with reverence at Qingfu.

(2)

One commentary volume can push open the subtlety of the Dao; it is as if purple qi were seen again from the east. Playing zither and flute—truly the air of a famous scholar; expounding dharma and sutra—great talent in disputation. I dwell on Fanghu (immortal mountain) and enjoy the vast sea; you climb Yuanjiao (immortal mountain) and look down on Penglai. Today we sit together above the river pavilion, reciting the Nanhua (Zhuangzi) yet laughing at our own dull earnestness.

—Sanqing zongxiao zhenhan, concurrent curator of cave-heaven secret archives, Master of Universal Civilizing Salvation, patriarch of the Eastern school, fellow of the Tongxian shiguan, your younger brother Lu Xixing, inscribed with reverence.

(3)

The body rests in mountain clouds, yet the Dao is realized upon oneself; the deep, silent Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) of inner refinement are most steady and strong. Writing books at Qingdao, strict beyond the rush of the world; quelling the “flame” of disturbance, in the Dantian (energy center) keeping quiet at the center. People actually call him “Grand Dean”; I playfully nickname him “Lord Long Wall.” With annotation he fences in the Daodejing (sorting the gate and clarifying meaning); once awakened, the words of all classics converge in one.

—Heavenly Immortal Baiziongguan, respectfully written.

Commentary on the Daodejing (Dongyan Zhengyi)

Hanxu sheng, master of Zixia Cave on Mount Yuanjiao, reverently composed this commentary after ritual purification.

Disciples Zhu Daosheng and Li Daoyu collated the edition at Yueyang Tower.

Chapter One

To speak of the Dao in forced words is not the eternal Dao; to name it with fixed labels is not the eternal name.

The meaning of the Dao is this: inwardly it is used to cultivate the self; outwardly it is used to govern the realm; it is also the constant way people should follow in daily life. When the Dao remains hidden and does not show itself, it cannot be put into words; when it appears outwardly, it can then be spoken of. Viewing manifestation and hiddenness as one, it is at once vast and subtle—hence it is called the “extraordinary Dao.” When a name is still in Wuji—the source state before differentiation, without trace or form—it cannot be named; only when Taiji appears—the first stirring and division from Wuji, the pivot of stillness and movement—can it be named. Taiji arises within Wuji and can both be still and move—hence it is called the “extraordinary name.”

Further note: what people jointly follow is called the Dao. “Ke dao” means what can be narrated or described; what is not the ordinary describable way is the great Dao. “Yu zhuo qi zhuang ze yue ming”—to describe its appearance is to call it a name. “Ke ming” means what can be compared or addressed; what is not a fixed, unchanging name is the name without fixed form.

Nameless, it is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; named, it is the mother of the ten thousand things.

“Nameless” is Wuji; “named” is Taiji. From non-being to being, there was never a fixed name from the start. In the first blending of Wuji, there were no signs and no forms—originally no color, sound, or scent to compare—so the Dao stands at the position of “the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” Once Taiji is clear, there is generation and nurturing, and creation can be verified—so the Dao becomes “the mother of the ten thousand things.” Here “the ten thousand things” speaks of Heaven and Earth together: having this Dao before Heaven and Earth, it gives birth to Heaven, Earth, people, and all beings—no less than a great parent; to say “mother” already includes “father” within that image.

Therefore, by constantly holding a mind without desire, one can contemplate its depth and subtlety; by constantly holding a mind with desire, one can contemplate its signs and the openings through which it enters. (“Jiao” is the same word as “qiao,” meaning aperture or opening. Some editions omit “gu,” and some omit “chang.”)

Miao (subtlety) is the side of the nameless, so it tends toward stillness and is suited to contemplation through chang jing (constant stillness); jiao (manifestation) is the side of the named, so it tends toward movement and is suited to contemplation through chang ying (constant responsiveness). Wuyu (no desire) and youyu (having desire) correspond to chang jing and chang ying: with wuyu one contemplates the nameless; with youyu one contemplates the named. Danjia (the internal alchemy school) treats xuanguan (the mysterious pass) as the subtle aperture between you and wu; its principle originates here.

These two issue from one source yet differ in name; both may be called xuan (dark mystery). Xuan zhi you xuan (mystery upon mystery) is the gateway through which all marvels enter and exit.

Liang (the two) means the subtle aperture: you arises from wu, hence “same origin”; wu turns into you, hence “different names”—though the names differ, the reality is still one. The you-wu subtle aperture is fundamentally one xuan. Contemplating its miao with wuyu already yields one xuan; contemplating its jiao with youyu yields another xuan. The two xuan ultimately return to one xuan. Xuan embraces all marvels; the gate of all marvels is gathered here.

Chapter Two

(The He Shang Gong commentary edition titles this the chapter on nurturing the body; other editions may title it the chapter on beauty and goodness.)

When all under heaven know beauty as beauty, the idea of ugliness arises; when all know goodness as goodness, the idea of not-good arises. Therefore you and wu generate each other, nan and yi establish each other, chang and duan compare with each other, gao and xia depend on each other (commentators sometimes gloss gao as “above” and qing as cyclical reversal), yin and sheng harmonize with each other, qian and hou follow each other. (In various editions the character in this section is usually xing [form/shape]; the Wang Bi commentary edition sometimes reads jiao [compare].)

Yi: to stop, to depart (per the Guangyun). Beauty and ugliness, goodness and not-goodness—these pairs most easily arise in opposition; hence knowing beauty brings the name of ugliness, knowing goodness brings the name of not-goodness.

The character yi means to stop or cease; in the Guangyun it also appears as qu, meaning to leave or remove.

The gap between “beautiful” and “ugly” is widest: as soon as something is fixed as “beautiful,” what counts as “ugly” is defined in turn. “Good” and “not good” stand equally far apart: as soon as something is fixed as “good,” “not good” is distinguished. People’s inborn true nature was originally all beauty and goodness; only after it is stained by postnatal desire do evil and “not good” appear. Hence one must shed desire and return to the innocence one already had.

In practice, one first takes refined emptiness (xuling) as the substance and change (biandong) as the function. From this come “from being to non-being, from non-being to being” (the mutual turning of you and wu); “hard first, then easy”; “the long shaping the short, the short shaping the long” (the mutual shift of bodily form and the length of qi); movement up and down in alternation; and “like kinds seeking one another,” as in “like sounds responding to one another.” It is also like zi running behind and wu descending in front—here zi and wu name the sequence in which the meridian current runs through a full zhoutian (circulation of a day). This is the method of zhi shen (cultivating body and mind).

Therefore the sage undertakes affairs of wuwei (non-action) and carries out the teaching that needs no words: the ten thousand things arise on their own; he neither refuses them nor hoards credit; he nurtures without owning, acts without leaning on himself, and completes without claiming success. Precisely because he does not claim success, that success is not lost—it is neither taken away nor spoiled by grasping after it.

Building on the prior discussion of “governing the body” (zhishen, self-cultivation), this passage develops further: when the sage cultivates himself, what he practices is affairs of Wuwei (non-action), and what he transmits is the teaching without words. He settles in place and sets his intention; in acting, his mind finds its own sufficiency. The myriad things gather and look up, waiting for the sage to settle the realm—and the sage does not refuse. More than not refusing: even if he has the merit of nurturing the people, he does not claim it as his own; even if he has the merit of governing, he does not rely on it. Once great work is done, he withdraws and rests—like the Yellow Emperor visiting Kongtong to seek the Dao, or Yu Shun, weary of diligent rule, yielding the throne. Heroes and outstanding figures of later ages who achieved success and withdrew did not cling to merit. Precisely because they did not hanker after fame and gain, they could again pursue the way of governing the body, keep the body from straying, and become a “perfect person” (zhiren). From cultivating the person one can extend to governing the world; from completing oneself one can extend to completing things—the principle is so. Who says Laozi’s Dao is entirely about exalting stillness and extinction?

Chapter Three (He Shang Gong’s commentary titles it “Anmin zhang” [Pacifying the People]; Peng’s edition titles it “Wuwei zhang” [Non-action])

Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not compete; do not value rare goods, and the people will not steal; do not display desirable things, and hearts will not be disturbed. Therefore the sage governs the realm: he empties the people’s minds, fills their bellies, softens their will, and strengthens their bones; he constantly keeps the people short on cleverness and desire, so that those who delight in cleverness and artifice dare not act rashly. Take Wuwei as one’s way of acting, and nothing in the realm is left ungoverned.

At the end of the previous chapter it was said: when the sage governs the world, he completes his work yet does not claim credit; instead he turns back to cultivating the Way within himself. Even if we consider only how the sage governs, his method of ordering the realm does not use a mind of worthiness to compete with the people for status—thus the heart set on fame grows faint, and the people do not contend. He does not use a mind of wealth to compare with the people for gain and loss—thus the heart of profit and desire is cut off, and the people do not steal. He does not see desirable things and then grasp for them, so craving is cleared away. Because of this the people’s hearts are not disturbed, and the sage’s heart is not disturbed either. The goodness of governing the world all stems from the goodness of cultivating the self. Therefore when the sage cultivates himself, though outwardly he seems to do nothing (Wuwei), there is nothing he does not put in order. He sets aside fame, profit, and desire, and only holds to the center to empty the heart-mind; he clears fame, profit, and desire, and only nourishes Qi to fill the belly. Moreover he keeps aspiration and breath gentle and soft, using weakness as his application, while bone and frame stay firm and strong, taking strength as his substance. Body and mind become tranquil and plain, dwelling with the world in untroubled peace. The people then know nothing and desire nothing, holding to that original simplicity in undifferentiated chaos; even the cleverest in the realm can neither act recklessly nor dare to do so. Such is the sage’s governing through Wuwei.

Chapter Four

(In Heshanggong’s commentary tradition this chapter is titled “The Sourceless Chapter.”)

The Dao (the root of the cosmos) is like an empty vessel: use it and it seems never to be filled; deep and still, it seems the root to which the ten thousand things return. It blunts sharp edges, unties tangles, softens glare, and mingles with the dust. Clear and deep, it seems to be there and yet not to be. I do not know whose child it is—it appears to have had its image even before the Lord on High.

(Note: This passage aligns in meaning with Chapter Four of the Daodejing; in the Yuanjiao Neipian it follows the prior chapter’s theme of “cultivating the self—governing the world,” using “empty, abyssal, blunting sharpness, harmonizing light, and mingling with dust” to explain the sage’s cultivation of emptiness, non-contention, and unity with the Dao.)

Plain-Language Reading of Yuanqiao Neipian

On “The Sage Practices Wuwei (Non-Action)”

The sage’s way of wuwei always turns on the single character xu (emptiness). Chong (empty) is xu. The Dao takes emptiness as its function: its capacity can hold all under heaven and the realm, yet never appears full; it is as deep and vast as the shared ancestor of the ten thousand things. It blunts the world’s sharp edges without harming itself, and unties the world’s tangles without growing weary—because emptiness dissolves sharpness and disorder. It harmonizes with the world’s brilliance without being hidden, and mingles with the world’s dust without being stained—because emptiness lets light and grime be forgotten. One only senses that empty, hollow body, always keeping a clear, tranquil nature: as if something is there, yet nothing is truly stored; ask who it is, and one cannot say—do its name and form perhaps precede the Lord on High? This is what is meant by a beginning without beginning, a primeval first, a heaven before heaven.

Chapter Five

(In the Heshanggong commentary the title is “Chapter on the Use of Emptiness”; in the Peng edition, “Chapter on Guarding the Center.”)

“Heaven and earth are not benevolent; they treat the ten thousand things as straw dogs.”

Heaven and earth do not deliberately set out to practice benevolence; they simply follow what each of the ten thousand things needs and supply it. Each thing takes what it needs and uses it for itself—this “non-benevolence” is in fact benevolence at its fullest. If heaven and earth had to show benevolent intent and bestow favors one by one before they would nurture life, then every thing would depend on heaven and earth for favors before it could live—something that could never be done completely. Only when heaven and earth do not prepare fodder for beasts do beasts eat grass on their own; only when they do not feed dogs for people do people feed dogs themselves—then the reach of benevolence is actually wider. The text uses “straw dogs” as an example; the same logic applies to melons, vegetables, chickens, pigs, and the like.

“The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs.”

The sage shares the same De (Virtue/Power) as heaven and earth: he lets the people be born and provide for themselves, achieving completion through wuwei (non-action).

“The space between heaven and earth—is it not like a bellows? Empty yet not collapsed; when moved, more comes forth.”

(Note: Some manuscripts read “when moved, more dogs”; following the Daodejing and usual commentaries, the line should be “when moved, more comes forth”—like a bellows that is hollow and never exhausted, the more it is worked the more breath flows out.)

Between heaven and earth is just like a bellows (tuoyue): hollow in the middle so it cannot be crushed, and when set in motion the outflow increases. The sage works the same way—using emptiness as his function, so the people can each receive what nourishes them. (A later sentence repeats that “the sage shares De with heaven and earth … completes through wuwei”; the meaning is the same as above and is omitted here.)

Original famous line

Between Heaven and Earth — is it not like a bellows? Hollow in the middle yet not collapsed; stir it once and qi keeps pouring out without end. Talk too much and the Way gets boxed in; better to hold to the center — that state of empty stillness, neither leaning nor straying.

Plain-language commentary

Heaven and Earth and the sage do not personally “make” food and clothing for the ten thousand things or for the people, yet the people can still get what they need on their own. The reason is this: they take as substance the body of emptiness within, and as function a capacity that can gather all things and nourish them.

Heaven and Earth are divided into upper and lower realms, yet the space between is not stuffed full — it is open and hollow, like a tao (bottomless sack) with no bottom and a yue (a pipe-like instrument, here a metaphor for connecting air passages) linked through. One qi moves to and fro; through wuwei (non-action) things follow their own course, so they can be empty and thereby hold. They are not “burst” or bent out of shape no matter how many things arise, because the middle can contain. That middle holds; movement turns within stillness, and the more it moves the more it brings forth the full measure that was always there — without end.

Heaven and Earth do not rely on many words; the sage does not get things done by talking much either. If one keeps on speaking, words have a “count” and a limit; when the count is used up, one is at an end — so better to hold to the center: guard that root of empty stillness, harmony, and not rashly putting forth.

Chapter 6 (He Hengong’s commentary titles it “Chapter on Forming Images”; the Peng recension calls it “Chapter on the Valley Spirit”)

Scripture

The valley spirit does not die — this is called the Mysterious Female (xuan pin: pin originally means a female animal or the feminine; here it stands for the deep, secret mother that begets and nurtures the ten thousand things). The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth and the ten thousand things. It is fine and continuous, as if there yet as if not; rely on it in use, and you need not wear yourself out grasping for it.

Main idea

“Valley” suggests emptiness that can hold; “spirit” suggests subtle operation that does not perish. This root that is empty yet can give birth is like a deep “mother”; its “gate” is the source of Heaven, Earth, and all that is. It is soft, fine, and enduring — seems to exist, seems not to exist; go by it in practice, and you need not strain the spirit trying to “seize” it.

Sages cultivate themselves through “holding the center” (shou zhong), because the center nourishes the “valley spirit” (gu shen). What is called the valley spirit is a person’s original nature (yuan xing)—one’s primordial nature. “Valley” is a metaphor for emptiness; “spirit” for luminosity. When the nature is both empty and luminous, it does not grow dim; not dim means the meaning of long life without death.

Why is the valley spirit also called the “mysterious female” (xuan pin)? Xuan refers to Heaven; pin to Earth. Heaven and Earth unite and the mysterious female is formed—between them, empty upon empty, clear and bright within the void. Confucians call this realm the “hidden and subtle”; within it is a fineness that is neither seen nor heard. Buddhists call it “that”—within it is suchness (zhenru) without good or evil. Sages cultivate by using this hollow mysterious female to nourish the empty-luminous valley spirit; therefore they name the mysterious female after the valley spirit—this is “naming from function.”

One xuan and one pin are one Qian and one Kun. Confucius said: Are not Qian and Kun the gates of the Yi? The Cantong qi also says: “Qian and Kun are the gates of the Yi.” The method of the “two aperture points,” and metal qi mutually depending, speak of this gate of the mysterious female: yin and yang circulate within it; Kan and Li unite within it. It is both the chamber where male and female essences and blood join, and the place where sun and moon exchange light. When sages invert and apply it, it becomes the gate of life; when ordinary people follow emotion and use it as usual, it becomes the door of death. “Earth above, Heaven below—great peace” (di tian jiao tai) does not depart from this principle; hence it is also called the “root of Heaven and Earth,” pointing to where Heaven and Earth hide within each other and are each other’s root. The root of Heaven and Earth is where one returns to the root and restores the origin—the domain of refining qi to become spirit (lian qi hua shen).

“Continuous, as if present” (mian mian ruo cun) is nurturing the valley spirit until fetal breathing (taixi) is naturally achieved; “use it without strain” (yong zhi bu qin) is outer-furnace addition and subtraction naturally matching the tally-fire (fu huo). “Without strain” means without toil—one need not apply force too heavily.

On the Passage “Heaven and Earth Endure”

Heaven and earth can endure for a long time because they do not live for their own “survival”; that is why they can last. The sage puts himself last, yet ends up ahead of others; treats body and life lightly, even as if setting them aside, and thereby preserves himself. Is this not precisely because he is not selfish? Thus he achieves the longevity and fulfillment he seeks.

(Another formulation) Heaven and earth endure, and therefore they endure without end. The sage puts himself last yet his body comes first, and sets his body aside yet his body is preserved—likewise because he is without private interest, he can fulfill what seems like “private” gain.

Development in the Neipian of Yuan Qiao

“Heaven and earth endure” is exactly the way of long life. Heaven and earth can be both enduring and long-lived because their movement and stillness follow constant patterns: in stillness they are unified; in movement they open and unfold; in stillness they gather; in movement they close. They broadly generate the myriad things and cover and carry all without favoring their own “life” as private—only then do they attain this long life. If heaven and earth lived only for themselves and held “life” as their private possession, the lives of the myriad things could not flow smoothly, and heaven and earth would harm their own central harmony; when the nature of things is not upright, what lies within heaven and earth is also harmed—the injury and ruin of the myriad things is the injury and ruin of heaven and earth. Only by not privately hoarding their own life, but taking the life of all beings as “life,” do they attain it: when all beings ceaselessly give birth to life, that is the long life of heaven and earth—hence they can endure.

The sage models himself on heaven and earth. Therefore in nurturing the body the sage uses softness and yielding; outwardly it seems he puts the body last and does not rush ahead, but his aim is the way of unceasing life; gradually filling and completing, in fact the body comes first and obtains life first. Holding the center and governing the outer, outwardly it seems he sets this body aside, almost to the point of “no life”; first forgetting, then preserving—this is forgetting attachment and then preserving the body, and only then having life. All of this is not holding the Dao as private possession. The sage is tranquil and plain, and the people’s nature returns to simplicity and goodness; the sage lives long, and the people’s lives are also extended. The great Dao is originally without private interest—at this point the sage seems also to “privately possess his life”: non-selfishness turns into what looks like selfishness; the teaching has been carried to its utmost.

Chapter Eight

(In the Heshanggong commentary this chapter is titled “Chapter on Changing Nature”; in Peng’s edition it is titled “Chapter on Highest Good.”)

Passages Related to Yuanqiao Neipian (Vernacular Interpretation)

Scripture (following the meaning of Daodejing Chapter 8):

The highest good is like water. Water benefits all things and does not contend with them; it settles in places that people disdain, and therefore it is closest to the Dao.

(A person of virtue) chooses a dwelling wisely, keeps the mind still as a deep pool, treats others with the generosity of benevolence, speaks in good faith, governs well, handles affairs capably, and acts at the right moment. Because he does not contend, he draws no resentment.

Interpretation:

The Dao values humility: dwelling in the lower place yet reaching upward toward the Dao—hence the phrase “supreme good” (shang shan). That highest good compares virtue to water.

The goodness of water lies in nourishing the growth of the ten thousand things so each gets what it needs, while water itself never claims credit. Water’s nature is to flow downward; it often stays in low, damp spots that people loathe—yet though people dislike those places, they cannot ultimately harm the water. Water benefits others without hoarding merit and takes softness and yielding as its aim; in that respect water comes nearest to the Dao.

Human goodness should likewise resemble the goodness of water: keep a humble disposition, and every move will lean toward the good. Do not stir a mind of rivalry; choose a worthy place to dwell; keep the inner mind still as a deep pool; relate to others with humane depth; let speech delight in sincerity; in governing, be called good at order; in work, be called good at ability; in action, align with the timely fit.

In all of this, take gentleness as good and do not contend. Because one does not contend, no one heaps blame or resentment upon oneself. Compared with water, which still meets dislike when it flows low, a person who can be low yet rise upward surpasses the Dao in subtle wonder and surpasses water in spiritual clarity.

Chapter Nine (In the Heshang Gong commentary tradition this is titled the “Yunyi Chapter”; in Peng’s edition it is the “Chiying Chapter.”)

(Only the chapter title appears in this excerpt; the main text is not attached here.)

Chi means to hold fast and obtain; chuai means to probe and fathom.

When a person has already received the Qi that should be received and kept the share that should be kept, yet still gives rise to the thought of wanting to fill a bit more, to take a bit more, that is the beginning of inviting loss and harm—so it is better to stop here (yi).

When someone is sent to feel out hidden treasure, the mind at once shows sharp edges and competitive zeal—that is often the sign of certain defeat and retreat, so one cannot hold on for long.

If one should stop but does not, is that not like piling gold and jade to fill the house, yet being unable to keep them? If one should hold but does not hold, should withdraw but does not withdraw, is that not like being rich and honored yet arrogant, bringing disaster on oneself?

The principle of how things are done in the human world is just this.

When achievement is complete and reputation is settled, one should withdraw the body—this is the way Heaven’s Dao operates.

Speaking again from Heaven’s Dao: Heaven does not proclaim merit in words, yet takes generating the ten thousand things and letting life flourish as its merit. When the ten thousand things are nurtured to completion and work is finished, when the seasons have run their course and name and reality are both full, Heaven and Earth at that moment step back to the next phase—for example winter’s hiding, which is for storing and nurturing what will rise again with Yang Qi.

Why should humans not take Heaven’s Dao as their model?

Chapter Ten (He Shang Gong’s commentary titles it The Chapter on Being Able; Peng’s edition titles it The Chapter on Mysterious De) opens by saying:

Can you embrace spirit and soul as one and not let them part?

Can you gather Qi until you are soft, like an infant?

Can you cleanse the heart’s imaginings and observe with mysterious clarity, without flaw?

Can you love the people and govern the state through Wuwei (non-action)?

Can you, as the gate of Heaven opens and closes, keep to the feminine and yielding?

Can you understand all directions yet not parade cleverness?

To give life to the ten thousand things and nourish living beings—to give life without claiming ownership, to act without relying on oneself, to grow without dominating—this is called Mysterious De (Xuan De). (In transmitted texts the original classic may continue beyond this; here only the opening as seen is explained.)

Plain-Language Explanation

“Zai” (to carry/load) means loading something onto a cart; “ying” here refers to the body’s Ying-Wei (nutritive and defensive aspects of Qi—Wei Qi being yang, Ying Qi being yin). Ying and Po means the yin Po (corporeal soul); some readers treat “ying” itself as “Po,” but that reading is awkward—when we speak of Po, the yang Hun (ethereal soul) is implicitly involved as well. On the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, the Hun’s qi fully returns to the Po in the moon; the moon is full, and in cultivation symbolism this corresponds to pure Qian (Heaven) hexagram imagery. At this point the sage turns the River Cart (internal circulation of Qi ascending the Governing Vessel) and gathers Qian Metal into the body—what the classics mean by “obtain the One and all affairs are complete” is exactly this step. Once you have this “One,” you must hold it without losing it. When the sage carries the Po home and embraces the One in dwelling, he can “capture cinnabar mercury” (the alchemical metaphor for refined essence) within the earthly body (the physical self), and thus remain “without separation.” Through ten months of nurturing warmth, inner fire arises naturally, warm qi stays present, and the infant embryo (the inner elixir fetus) grows on its own. The sage “concentrates Qi to attain softness”—that is this inner fire—hence acting “as if nurturing an infant.”

Xuanlan (profound viewing) means looking inward. “Clear the profound mirror” means sweeping away stray thoughts and observing within stillness. When inner viewing is pure and the mind has no flaws or entanglements, this is what is meant by “view emptiness and emptiness too is empty; what is empty has nothing empty; once that nothing is gone, no-no also is not; when no-no is gone, deep stillness abides.”

“Loving the people” in body cultivation means settling the “people”; “governing the state” means enriching the “state.” Only when the people are settled and the state is rich can one practice Wuwei (non-action) governance. In self-cultivation, take Jing (essence) settled as “people at peace” and sufficient lead (the alchemical metaphor) as “state wealth”—refining the self (lianyi) corresponds to settled Jing, returning the elixir (huandan) to ample lead. When both self-refinement and elixir-return are in place, one can practice embracing the One and the way of Wuwei; the principle is the same.

(Continued) In self-cultivation, the practice is to hold to the “feminine” (ci)—softness, stillness, holding back, not rushing ahead. To harmonize the spirit and nurture the embryo (in Neidan), one cannot fail to hold to the feminine. Only when the “Heavenly Gate” (Tianmen) opens and the yang spirit moves in and out with ease in opening and closing need one no longer endure the hardship of holding to the feminine.

If in cultivation one is troubled by “knowledge” (discrimination and scheming), once the sacred body is complete, knowledge too turns into spirit-light, becoming right and equal enlightenment—clear, penetrating in every direction, without contradiction. Only then can one speak of being “without knowledge.”

There is also the achievement of “bearing sons and grandsons”—changing the cauldron and dividing the embryo, establishing a new embryo within Neidan (internal alchemy); there is the capacity to store blessing and store De (Virtue/Power)—establishing merit and aiding the world. Yet though one gives life, one does not treat that life as one’s own possession, as when empty space shatters; though one acts, one does not credit oneself with the deed—compassion vast and wide; the mind to guard the realm and bless the people remains so through a thousand kalpas and ten thousand kalpas, without boasting of being lord of heaven—only this is truly called mysterious De (Xuande).

Chapter Eleven

(In He Shanggong’s commentary this chapter is titled “The Chapter of Uselessness”; in Peng’s version, “The Chapter of Usefulness.”)

Thirty spokes converge on one hub; because the hub is empty within, the cart can function. Mix clay and fashion a vessel; because the vessel is empty within, the vessel can function. Cut doors and windows to make a room; because the room is empty within, the room can function. Therefore “being” (you) gives convenience, and “non-being” (wu) accomplishes the use.

The thirty spokes symbolize the sun and moon in their course. The hub stands at the center of the cart, through which all spokes pass; emptiness inside the hub gathers the spokes from without—the hub itself is nearly “nothing,” yet it is what makes the cart useful. “Yan” is to mix earth; “zhi” is sticky clay—the potter’s term for kneading earth into bricks or clay. When earth is mixed it is not yet a vessel; once kneaded and shaped, it has the use of a vessel. A room is bright because of doors and windows; before doors and windows are cut it seems there is no room, yet once carved and finished, it has the use of a room. Thus the useful lies in what is, and the functioning lies in what is not—being born from non-being is largely a matter of this.

(Continuing the previous chapter’s meaning) Before a house has doors and windows cut into it, it seems as though there is no “room” to speak of; once carving and finishing are done, doors, windows, and walls show the usefulness of “being able to live in it.” Hence: “being” (you) brings convenience; “non-being” (wu) is what actually functions—“being” arises from “non-being”; broadly, cases follow this pattern.

Chapter Twelve (He Shang Gong’s commentary title: “Checking Desire”; Peng’s title: “Taking the Belly as Basis”)

Main sense of the scripture: When colors are too mixed, the eyes are easily harmed; when sounds are too numerous, hearing is easily harmed; when flavors are too rich, the mouth is easily spoiled; indulging in field sport and racing easily makes the heart wild; rare and hard-to-get goods easily make people act out of line and contend with one another.

Commentators’ explanation: Shuang means loss and injury; kuang means unrestraint. Curios and fine objects are often fought over, so carrying such treasures on one’s person even hampers how one walks and acts. These five—color, sound, taste, hunting, and goods—harm people in just this way. Therefore the sage values the “belly”—nourishing the inner and keeping to what is solid and treats lightly the “eye”—greed for the outer and chasing appearance, and so discards the latter and takes the former.

Chapter Thirteen (He Shang Gong’s commentary title: “Loathing Shame”; Peng’s title: “Favor and Honor”)

Scripture: Favor and disgrace are like alarm; to value great trouble as one values the body.

Commentators’ explanation:

“Favor and disgrace are like alarm”—being favored and startled is like hiding fine jade deep; being disgraced and startled is like planting the foundation anew—images of settling the mind and fixing the will.

“To value great trouble as one values the body”—treating great trouble as weighty as the self—if one values (zhong) it, one should delight in the Way and rest in honor; if one treats it as calamity (huan), one should blend with ordinary light and dust and dissolve slander—this is the practice of embracing the origin and keeping to the true.

What is meant by “favor and disgrace are like alarm”?

Commentary texts differ: Wang Bi and most editions read “favor is what is lower”; Peng Haogu reads “favor and disgrace are lower.” The gist: honor and favor have no fixed place—they often fall on what is “lower” or on things that shift at any moment, so gain and loss cannot be measured reliably. Gaining favor startles; losing favor also startles—whether favored or disgraced, one must always be cautious and always self-exhorting; this is called favor and disgrace are like alarm.

What “Treasuring Great Calamity as One Treasures the Body” Means

What does it mean to “regard great calamity as heavily as one’s own body”? Laozi says: The reason I have great calamity is that I have this body. When there is no longer a body, what calamity remains? Therefore, one who values the body as one values the world may be entrusted with the world; one who cherishes the body as one cherishes the world may be relied upon with the world.

This passage explains “treasuring great calamity as one treasures the body.” First one must clarify what it means to “have calamity”: since calamity exists, one must return to “being without calamity.” Great calamity can attach only because the form body (this visible fleshly body) still abides in the world—only then can misfortune be imposed. Once one sheds the shell and preserves the spirit (discards the physical husk and keeps the original spirit intact), calamity can no longer be imposed. Or, like retaining the form and dwelling in the world (body and spirit both present, long remaining among humans), with true Qi guarded within and brilliance concealed and tracks hidden—how could great calamity disturb such a person? Hence one should esteem this body: when the body is treated by the world as the life entrusted to it, one dare not slight that “body worth a thousand in gold”; only then can one lodge oneself in the world—as Lord Yellow Stone taught Zhang Liang. One must also lovingly guard this body: when the body is what the world relies upon, one must not expose oneself as a “talent spanning the ages” (one who could order heaven and earth); only then can one commit oneself to the world—as Zhang Jiuling thus admonished Li Mi (Lord Ye). To excel at preserving the body is to excel at cultivating the body; to excel at cultivating the body is to excel at ordering the world. Confucius said: Dragon and serpent lie dormant in order to preserve the body; adapting to circumstances to secure one’s place is to exalt virtue. The noble person keeps talent hidden within and acts when the time is ripe—what harm could there be?

Chapter Fourteen (In the Heshanggong commentary tradition, titled “Praising the Mysterious”)

Look yet do not see—it is called “Yi” (obscuring); listen yet do not hear—it is called “Xi” (rarefied); grasp yet do not hold—it is called “Wei” (subtle). These three…

This passage explains that the Dao itself cannot be grasped with the eyes, ears, or hands; it can only be apprehended as a whole.

What cannot be seen the ancients called “yi”; what cannot be heard, “xi”; what cannot be touched or held, “wei.” Each of these three cannot be pursued to the end or fully interrogated, so in truth they merge into one—they are not three separate things.

Looked at from “above,” it is not dazzlingly bright; looked at from “below,” it is not murkily dark. It stretches on without break and endures, yet is hard to name clearly; in the end it returns to the state of “no-thing”—shape without fixed shape, image without concrete image. This is called “huanghu”: as if there and not there, faintly appearing and vanishing.

Meet it face to face and you cannot see its beginning; follow behind and you cannot see its end.

Therefore the sage holds fast to the Dao that has existed from antiquity and uses it to govern and respond to everything that already exists today; from this one can infer the primordial root of heaven, earth, and the myriad things. This is called having grasped the guiding thread of the Dao—that is, understanding and following the overarching law by which the Great Dao runs.

“Not seen, not heard” points to the realm of the Gate of Xi-Yi (“xi” means subtle and hard to discern; “yi” means level and without form). This gate is where xing (nature) and qing (emotion and discursive mind) lodge and operate.

Yi stores xing away; xi stores qing away—hence “seen yet not seen, heard yet not heard.” Within this, true intent comes and goes; try to grasp it and you cannot—so it is further called “wei” (subtle, hard to name).

Xi, yi, and wei cannot be split into three separate paths or traced to three separate roots. They should mix into one, each reflecting and merging with the others.

Speaking of above and below, what the classic calls “closing above, closing below” (both upper and lower sealed and turned inward) is neither bright nor dark—a state as if there, as if not. “Careful and reverent” means vigilance and awe; it still describes closing above and below, being there and not there: be wary even where nothing is seen, yet you cannot say where it begins or ends.

“Dim and vague”: as if something is inside, then again returning to nothing—that is shape without shape, image without image. No fixed form, no fixed image—that is the time of trance-like vagueness. Reality within vagueness, with no visible head or tail—is that not yuan shi zhi qi (the primordial qi before heaven and earth were divided)?

The Dao of antiquity is the substance of yuan shi (the beginning); all that exists now is the function of the present. Ancient and modern differ, but the key is to use the ancient Dao to govern present affairs—to bring being from non-being.

To know before yuan shi and also reach after yuan shi is the chronology of the Dao (the sequence and calendar of the Way). Marking years, months, days, and hours—even one talisman, one quarter-hour—are all methods of recording the Dao; likewise the emphasis is holding the ancient to steer the present, non-being giving birth to being.

In ancient times, those skilled in cultivation had a way that was subtle, profound, and penetrating—so deep it could not be fathomed. Because they were hard to see through, people could only resort to images to describe them: cautious, as when crossing a river on thin ice in winter; alert, as if afraid of disturbing the neighbors; dignified and restrained, like a guest; open and easy, as when ice is about to melt; plain and solid, like uncarved wood; empty and receptive, like a valley that holds; blended and undifferentiated, like muddy water not yet cleared.

Who can in that turbidity slowly grow still until the water clears by degrees? Who in that stillness can long endure and keep it, until new life slowly stirs? Those who hold to this Dao do not chase fullness. Because they are not full, they can stay with what is old and not hurry to launch a whole new round of “fresh achievements.”