《圆峤内篇》Vol. 3

Plain-Language Reading of Passages Related to Yuan Qiao Nei Pian

(Continuing the earlier discussion of “subtle, mysterious, and penetrating”)

Since ancient times, those who cultivate the Way have understood that this principle of self-cultivation (nourishing body and mind through the Dao, including Neidan internal alchemy) is so subtle, mysterious, and penetrating that its depth cannot be fathomed; therefore they dare not guess at it lightly. Even when they put it into words, it is at most a strained analogy. The seven lines in the chapter that contain the word “ruo” (“as if”) are all descriptive language; what they describe are scenes and images of things. Who can remain in what is heavy and turbid and quietly wait for the light and clear to rise? Who can, with a spirit of An Dun (steadfast solidity), long wait for it to form little by little? To wait and abide in this way is precisely not daring to seek a surplus. “Those who preserve this Way do not wish to be full” likewise means not seeking surplus. Because they do not seek surplus, they can “guard the old constant” (hold fast to the Way as it always was). By not inventing new devices, they do not stray from the true Dao.

Wei Boyang (Eastern Han author of alchemical classics, writer of Zhouyi Cantong Qi) said: “At the furnace, fix the zhu and liang; five parts water with a little to spare. Take these two as the true; metal is heavier than the primal base. The third then does not enter; fire two goes with them together.” This is the practice of not seeking surplus and being able to guard the old constant. Yun Ya Zi (another name for Wei Boyang), in Cantong Qi, likewise follows the Supreme Old Lord’s Daodejing and does not invent a new doctrine of his own.

Daodejing Chapter 16 (Heshang Gong’s title “Returning to the Root”; Peng’s title “Emptiness and Stillness”)

Original text:

Reach emptiness to the utmost; guard stillness with sincerity. The ten thousand things all arise together; I thereby observe their return. Things flourish in profusion, each returning to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to destiny (fu ming). Returning to destiny is called constancy (chang); knowing constancy is called clarity. Not knowing constancy, reckless action brings misfortune. Knowing constancy, one can be accommodating; accommodation leads to fairness; fairness qualifies one as “king”; the king aligns with Heaven; Heaven aligns with the Dao; the Dao endures, and one is not endangered through life.

Main idea:

Push emptiness and stillness to the limit and hold to them steadfastly. While the ten thousand things grow together, I watch how they return (fu) to source. In their teeming variety, each goes back to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to destiny (reverting to one’s original mandate). That return is constancy; to know constancy is to be clear. Not knowing constancy and acting at random is dangerous. Knowing constancy, one can embrace all things; true embrace yields fairness; fairness makes one fit to rule; rulership harmonizes with Heaven; Heaven harmonizes with the Dao; the Dao is lasting, and one passes through life without peril.

(Wei Boyang’s quotation above uses the proportions of water, fire, and metal in elixir work to illustrate “not wishing to be full” and “guarding the old constant”—the same thread as Chapter 16’s “return to the root, guard stillness, know constancy, do not act rashly.”)

“Zhi” means to place something within; “xu” is the empty vessel; “ji” means to penetrate the whole Way; “shou” is to abide; “jing” is wuwei (non-action); “du” is to be careful—not to lose or miss.

The text says that the myriad things arise together, and everything that lives has a beginning. Here “I” (wo) means the one who presides over cultivation and nurtures the myriad things—understood as primordial spirit (yuanshen) or the “master” in practice. “Guan” is to wait upon and watch over; “fu” is to return.

The practitioner settles primordial spirit in the “empty vessel”—the empty, quiet body within—and thereby attains the Dao. Once the Dao is attained, one must dwell in ease, stillness, and freedom from busyness, staying careful so as not to lose the Dao. When the empty vessel again gives birth to the myriad things, one waits again for them to return to root and source. In this back-and-forth, change and numinous clarity arise. With this understood, the work of the seven returns is complete.

Outwardly the myriad things flourish in full vigor: from nothing to something, from something back to nothing—yet they can still move with the pivot of creation and transformation. Hence spring begets, summer grows, autumn gathers, winter stores, then decay and return to the root. Things reach their root; after movement they settle again into stillness—so it is called “stillness.” In stillness one returns again to no-thing and re-enters creation and transformation—so it is called “returning to the mandate” (fu ming). Only by returning to the mandate can one know the true constant Way. Constant stillness makes constant responsiveness possible; after deep silence, clarity shines all the more. That is why Laozi said, “To know the constant is called illumination.”

Ordinary people do not see that the true constant Way lies in returning to the root and returning to the mandate. They busy themselves with contrivance, sunk in the names and forms of deliberate action, wearing down spirit—so reckless action brings misfortune. From this angle, how can one fail to know the “constant”? To know the constant is to be able to embrace. “Rong” means to hold and include with fairness; “gong” is greatness; “wang” is nobility; “tian” is what is revered; “dao” is the utmost emptiness and non-being. The point is: in stillness one nourishes primordial qi, thereby expanding creation and transformation, entering the realm of utmost sagehood and numinosity, and then returning to the truth of utmost emptiness and non-being. When body and substance merge with emptiness and non-being, one can endure long without perishing.

“Mo shen”—through to the end of the body—here means having no body: spirit without a fixed body, so water and fire cannot harm, metal and stone cannot break, tigers and rhinoceroses cannot maul, blades and weapons cannot cut—what danger remains?

Chapter 17

(The Heshanggong commentary edition titles this the “Chapter of Pure Wind”; the Peng edition titles it the “Chapter of the Most High.”)

Main Meaning of the Scripture

The finest governance is when the people only dimly sense that someone leads them from above. The next best is when they feel close to the ruler and praise him. Below that, they fear him. At the worst, they despise and insult him. When the leader’s trustworthiness is inadequate, the people will not trust him. A good ruler is cautious and steady and does not casually issue orders. When great tasks are finished and achievements secured, the people all say: we have always been like this.

Expansion in the Heshanggong Commentary

“Taishang” (the Most High) can mean the sage, or the highest way of governing. The sage stands above the multitude, hence “Taishang”; some also read it as “supreme principle,” the highest rationale—both readings work.

The sage acts through wuwei (non-action) and teaches through wordlessness: he does not boast of his ability, so the people do not compete; he does not chase profit, so the people are not greedy; he does not indulge desire, so the people are not unruly. Not competing, not grasping, not falling into disorder is originally what belongs to the Taishang (the sage or ideal rule), yet in good times the people can embody it too. The “xia” (those below) in “the lower ones only slightly know [of him]” sometimes means those of lower rank, the common people: they only vaguely know there is a leader above, without feeling tightly controlled.

“Next, they feel close and praise him”: a step down, closeness and praise are needed to hold people together. “Next, they fear him”: further down, awe must make them afraid. “Next, they despise him”: at the bottom, the people look down on and insult those in power.

“Where trust is insufficient, there is distrust”: when those above lack sincerity, those below naturally withhold faith. “Cautiously, as if hesitant, he values his words”: a good ruler holds back and does not lightly talk much or issue reckless commands.

“When the work succeeds and affairs are settled, the people all say we are naturally thus”: when things are done, the people feel life should be this way and do not think it was forced from above—this is exactly governing through wuwei and not claiming the credit.

Next comes the level below “Dao.” The Supreme Sage practices Dao by accomplishing through wuwei (non-action) and governing the realm without words. Those on the next level, unable to practice wuwei or non-speech, use affection and praise to move people and advance teaching. Below that, when even affection and praise fail, they must use laws and decrees to make people fear and obey. Below that again, when decrees no longer hold people, they must use cleverness and artifice to slight and control others. When talk of “Dao” has fallen to the step of cleverness, the climate is already low; the rest need not be pursued. So the text turns back to stress faith rooted in the heart (sincerity, true trust): when those above truly value trust, the people dare not fail to respond with genuine feeling; when trust above is sufficient, those below respond in kind; when trust is lacking, some below will not believe. Sages who govern the realm always take trust as the foundation. Valuing words means being careful in speech: if the ruler personally carries out real policy and moves people at ease through resonance, without issuing many proclamations, the people will still submit—so all the more must one be careful with one’s commands and words. When achievement is complete and affairs are done, the people seem not to know, not to be aware—they simply follow the Heavenly Emperor’s law and all take it to be ziran (spontaneous, natural)—they do not feel that those above deliberately acted.

Editor’s note: The meaning of this chapter can be read as governing the world and also as cultivating the person. Supreme De (Virtue/Power) takes qingjing (clarity and stillness) as cultivation; the six roots are all settled—this is wuwei without deliberate means. Next, taking love and reverence as cultivation, responding until connection flows—this is wuwei with deliberate means. Below that, controlling through law and merit. Below that again, investigating through cleverness and artifice—what is called shu (technique)—belonging to the path of youwei with deliberate means. Among these, nothing surpasses trust—trust belongs to Earth among the Five Phases; in Neidan (internal alchemy), from start to finish, pure yitu (intention-as-earth) is the subtle application; in sum it is all ziran. That is saying enough: it applies both to governing the world and to cultivating the person.

Chapter Eighteen

When Great Dao declines, benevolence and righteousness stand out; when wisdom (craft, cleverness) appears, great hypocrisy follows; when the six kin are not harmonious, filial piety and kindness are stressed; when the state is in disorder, loyal ministers appear.

On Chapter 18 of the Daodejing (He Shanggong titles it “When Customs Grow Thin”; the Peng commentary titles it “The Great Dao”)

This chapter describes how the world moves from order to disorder, from flourishing to corruption—and the same pattern can be read in self-cultivation. Two angles are worth separating.

First, governing the state: When rule no longer rests on Wuwei (non-action) as its foundation, people turn to benevolent policies and favors to patch the gaps—much as the body, having lost its original wholeness, must rely on practices of return to recover. When rulers use stratagems and numerology to pry into the people’s affairs, the people hide all the more deeply—like using clever tricks to hunt for drugs, so that the best medicinals learn to conceal themselves and are harder to obtain. Filial and kindly conduct in the household exists to harmonize discord among the six relations—like entering the chamber to practice Taieding (the method of settling mind and will), so that the six senses (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) no longer surge in agitation. Loyal ministers appear in the state to rescue misrule—like the true gold in the Daoist gate (true teaching, true elixir) that saves a body worn to exhaustion. From this comes the lament: the simple, quiet governance of high antiquity, and the cultivation of “superior De without deliberate action,” belong to a distant age.

On Chapter 19 of the Daodejing (He Shanggong titles it “Return to Purity”; the Peng commentary titles it “The Three Abandonments”)

Main sense of the text:

Abandon “sageliness” and “wisdom,” and the people benefit the more in concrete ways; abandon “benevolence” and “righteousness,” and the people can return to filial piety and kindness; abandon craft and profit, and thieves disappear.

The commentary continues:

If those three—sagely wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, craft and profit—are kept only as outward show and ornament, that is still not enough; the heart must have something to rest in—see plainness, embrace simplicity, reduce selfishness and dampen desire. This follows the thread of the previous chapter’s “when the Dao is lost, then there is benevolence and righteousness”: it is not a flat rejection of filial piety or loyal ministers, but a diagnosis—only after the Great Dao fails do people patch the gap with the names of benevolence and righteousness, with craft and profit. To restore purity at the root, one must cut off the ornament that arose because the Dao was abandoned, and turn back to plainness and few desires.

Passages Related to Yuanjiao Neipian

The meaning of jue: Jue can mean “great” or “reaching the utmost.”

The sage who has reached the utmost does not rely on clever contrivance; then custom becomes solid and generous, and the people gain real benefit. Utmost benevolence does not lean on the outward label of yi (righteousness); then manners grow close and harmonious, and the people naturally return to filial piety and kindness. Utmost craft does not scheme for private gain; those who chase profit are mostly the clever and cunning. When those above are not crafty, those below are not thieves. These three—sagehood, benevolence, and craft—seem to have substance without ornament. Muddled and undifferentiated, all share one wind of the Dao, so the people each keep their place; that is simply going along with the plainness they already have. See the plain, embrace the uncarved block; lessen selfishness, few desires—the people’s ornament, benevolent names, and clever profit-seeking seem to have substance without decoration; muddled and undifferentiated, one wind of the Dao, letting the people each rest in their role, again is only following plainness. Ornament seems insufficient, yet in this way things become more beautiful still.

Chapter Twenty

(In the Heshanggong commentary tradition the title is Yisu Zhang [Chapter on Differing from the Vulgar]; in Peng’s edition, Juexue Zhang [Chapter on Jue Learning].)

Scripture:

Jue learning, no worry. Between wei (straight assent) and a (fawning assent), how far apart? Between good and evil, how far apart? What people fear—one must not fear in the way people fear. (The Wang Bi text reads “cannot but fear,” which clashes with this commentary’s sense in many places.)

Main interpretation:

Jue learning, no worry: So-called jue learning means Dao and De are fully complete; when Dao and virtue are complete, what is left to worry about?

Seen from the sage toward ordinary people: how much difference between wei and a? How far between good and evil?

The sage has no worry—that is, nothing to fear. What people fear is that jue learning is too hard. How can one only dread what others dread, and not pursue jue learning? Hence the line should not be read as in “cannot but fear”; here it is understood as “do not fear in the way of fearing”—consistent with jue learning, no worry.

Dao is vast and profound, as if it had no end. The crowd bustles and clamors, as at a grand sacrificial feast or a spring outing on a high terrace. I alone am plain and still; nothing yet stands out clearly in my mind—like an infant that has not learned to smile, or like someone drifting without a fixed home. Everyone else seems full and overflowing; I alone seem left behind and lacking in everything. My heart is almost like a fool’s—muddled and dim. Ordinary people are clever and sharp; I alone am dull and unclear. Ordinary people are keen and exacting; I alone am thick and slow. Suddenly I seem wrapped in shadow and depth; in silence I seem to have no boundary. Everyone has their use and their support; I alone am stubborn and crude. I deliberately differ from the crowd, and value being nourished from the “Mother”—the great Dao, the root source of all things: that is, holding to the root, holding to simplicity, not chasing profit with the world.

(Continuing the previous chapter)

The primordial Great Dao is like the vast age before heaven and earth were opened—accomplished through Wuwei (non-action) by nature, and the world governed itself without words. Thus everyone could return to plain sincerity, live in harmony, and rest at ease. They shared the Dao’s grace as at the richest sacrificial feast, and roamed together in the Dao’s realm as if on a high terrace in spring. Even the legendary ideal of the land of Huaxu could hardly surpass this.

The sage (Laozi) said: Only I am empty and still, with nothing showy—like an infant not yet grown to childhood. What is meant by “riding, riding” (chengcheng) is moving in step with the Dao, hence the name. Within it one ascends and descends in ceaseless transformation, yet seems to cling to nothing and belong nowhere.

So the multitude all feel they still have room to strive; only I among them seem like one cast off and standing apart. The many appear clever; only I seem dull—this is precisely “great skill seems clumsy.” Dazed, as if heaven and earth were dark; waking and sleeping, one feels coming and going have no fixed place. Seen this way, the crowd all have aims and uses; only I am muddled and shut in, drifting like a simple, stubborn rustic. People are not like me, and I am not like people.

(The cultivator says:) One pellet of yang elixir is called “mother Qi.” Only I seek it out and take it, to pursue long life. This is where the multitude fall short of the sage—as far apart as “yes” and “ah,” “good” and “bad.” Perhaps this is why the sage alone upholds juexue—transcending conventional learning.

Chapter Twenty-One

(Title in He Shang Gong’s commentary: “Chapter on Empty Heart”; in Peng’s version: “Chapter on Kongde”)

The form that Kongde—virtue at its utmost—shows is that the mind follows only the Dao. The Dao as being is dim and indistinct, as if there and yet not. In that dimness there is form; in that indistinctness there is substance. In depth and darkness there is Jing (essence). That essence is utterly real; within it is trust and verification. From antiquity to the present its name does not vanish; by it one observes and knows the root of the myriad things. How do I know what the root of things is like? By the Dao I have come to know as above.

Kong (the aperture): It means emptiness and vastness. As a vessel of utmost emptiness and utmost vastness, it can hold subtle things within; thus the Great Dao enters through it.

Kong: Denotes the empty and the vast—like the most empty, most capacious vessel, able to contain subtle things; hence the Great Dao enters here.

Dao as a “thing” is vague and indeterminate; speaking in terms of departing from fixed nature, it originally has no image. Dao taken as a “thing” is hazy and without fixed form. From the angle of “li xing” (departing from fixed nature), it never had an image to begin with.

Now dim, now bright—where there is no image, there seems to be an image; now bright, now dim—where there is no thing, there already seems to be a thing. At one moment seeming clear, at another seeming dark: though originally without image, there appears to be image; at one moment seeming dark, at another clear: though originally without thing, there already seems to be thing.

Some say that “hu xi huang” rhymes with “xiang” (image), and “huang xi hu” rhymes with “wu” (thing). Some take “hu xi huang” as rhyming with xiang, and “huang xi hu” with wu.

They do not see that when the sage speaks, the order of words is inverted—and that inversion itself embodies the inversion of Dao. They fail to see that in the sage’s speech, word-order is reversed, and that very reversal encodes the reversal inherent in Dao.

“Hu xi huang” is the root image of xing (inner nature); “huang xi hu” is the seed within xing—the male below the female, union begetting jing (essence): one thing on the surface, yet in truth two things joined. “Hu xi huang” is the fundamental image of xing; “huang xi hu” is what xing bears within—male below female, intercourse forming jing: nominally one thing, actually two linked.

Hence “you xiang” in the upper line, “you wu” in the middle, “you jing” in the lower—the syntax again encodes Dao. Thus there is image in the upper line, thing in the middle, jing in the lower; the structure of the lines again embodies Dao.

Jing arises when the fire of xing and what is “below” mutually reflect and generate; only then can the Kan (Water trigram) disposition show—yet it is truly subtle and hard to fathom, hence “yao xi” in the lower line with jing. The syntax again encodes Dao. Jing is produced by the mutual stimulation of the fire within xing and what lies “below”; only then can the meaning of Kan emerge—yet it remains exquisitely obscure, hence “yao xi”: jing in the lower line, and the line-pattern again encodes Dao. (Note: Kan is north and water; in neidan it often stands for kidney water and true jing.)

Jing arises from that mutual stimulation between the fire of xing and what is below, revealing Kan’s meaning, subtle and unfathomable—hence “yao xi, ming xi.” Jing comes from fire-of-xing and below reflecting each other, manifesting Kan’s aspect—subtle beyond measure—so the text says “yao xi, ming xi.”

Jing in depth and stillness is true jing. To obtain true jing, one must know true xin (faith/trust). The jing that is deep and silent is true jing. To gain true jing, one must first recognize “true xin.”

Within it, xin comes first—vast as a rising tide, melting like ice thawing. Within it there is xin first: rolling like a flood tide, dissolving like melting ice.

At this point the cultivator waits for the first arrival of xin, knows it for jing, and at once subdues and captures it. Miss not the moment—in that lies the portion of the golden immortal. Here the practitioner awaits the first touch of xin, identifies it surely as jing, and immediately fu (subdues) and qin (captures) it. Let the timing slip by not a hair—then there is share in becoming a jinshen (golden immortal). (Fu and qin are neidan terms for seizing and subduing the first stirring of jing-qi.)

It is also called true gold, first scripture, true water, spirit water, true lead, lead-qi, white tiger, tiger-qi—yet none of these names falls outside true jing. It is also named true gold, shou jing (primordial scripture), true water, spirit water, true lead, lead-qi, white tiger, tiger-qi—all names that still point to one body: true jing.

From antiquity to today, scriptures cannot set aside this name of true jing. From ancient times until now, no classic in the tradition can omit the name true jing.

Thus, viewing the principle of the ten thousand things through the truth of this one thing, all come down to honoring this primordial qi. Taking the truth of this one thing as lens on the principle of all things, nothing fails to weight this first qi.

“Yue zhong fu” means to inspect the beginning of the ten thousand things. “Yue zhong fu” is to observe the inception of the myriad things.

Hence it is also said: “How do I know that the beginnings of things are so? By this.” Hence also: “How do I know the beginnings of the myriad things are thus? By this.” (Adapted from the Daodejing: “How do I know the beginnings of things are so? By this.”)

Supplementary Note

The chapter cites the same kind of principle four times; from this one can see that the “single aperture, the mysterious pass” (yikong xuanguan)—that crucial gate within the human body—is precisely the gateway to the Great Dao; in alchemical practice, “creating lead to obtain the elixir” ultimately comes down to nothing other than this.

Chapter Twenty-Two

(Titled “The Chapter on Benefit through Humility” in He Shang Gong’s commentary; titled “The Chapter on Full Return” in Peng’s edition)

“Being bent, one is preserved whole; being crooked, one is straightened; being hollow, one is filled; being worn, one is renewed; having little, one gains; having much, one is confused.”

To bend is to be preserved whole; to diminish is to increase. To yield the body is to stand upright—to overcome the hard by the soft. To be low and hollow is to be filled; humility and yielding bring benefit. What is worn out is renewed; when stripping reaches its limit, there is return. To take little is to gain something; knowing sufficiency, one is not disgraced. To grasp for much is to lose one’s way; when desire runs too high, one confuses oneself. These are essentials of self-cultivation and ordering the world, as taught in the ancient precepts of the Most High.

Therefore the sage in governing the world must keep to “embracing the One” as the model for all under Heaven. Embracing the One means not displaying oneself, not insisting one is right, not boasting of oneself, not holding oneself above others. Wang Bi read all four lines that follow as hanging on “being bent, one is preserved whole,” with each of the four saying something separate—this does not fit the meaning. In fact, “therefore one is clear,” “therefore one shines,” “therefore one endures,” and “therefore one has merit” each explain the line immediately before it.

Someone asked: When the ancients spoke of “being bent, one is preserved whole,” was that empty talk? In truth one can be preserved whole and return to the Dao.

(Note: Wang’s commentary hangs the four phrases “not displaying oneself,” “not insisting one is right,” “not boasting,” and “not holding oneself above others” all on “being bent, one is preserved whole”—a mistaken reading. “Not displaying oneself, therefore one is clear” and the like should each explain its own line.)

Someone asked: “Why did the ancients also cite ‘yielding and bending leads to wholeness’?”

I answered: The Supreme One (Laozi) borrowed words from the ancients on self-cultivation to unfold a teaching on governing the realm, which is why he said it was “hardly empty talk.” If people can revere and hold fast to this single sincerity, the world will surely come fully into alignment with this Way.

Chapter Twenty-Three (He Shang Gong’s commentary titles it “The Chapter of Emptiness and Non-being”; Peng’s version titles it “The Chapter of Spontaneity”)

Scripture: Rare speech, spontaneity (ziran). Therefore a gale does not last the whole morning, nor a downpour the whole day. Who makes these? Heaven and Earth. Even Heaven and Earth cannot make them endure long—how much less can human affairs! Thus those who devote themselves to the Dao: those of the Dao merge with the Dao; those of De merge with De; those who lose merge with loss. Those who merge with the Dao—the Dao is also glad to receive them; those who merge with De—De is also glad to receive them; those who merge with loss—loss is also glad to receive them. Where trust is insufficient, there is lack of trust.

Plain language: “Rare speech” means speaking little, even to the point of silence; it also means not acting rashly and according with spontaneity (ziran). One who enters the Dao takes non-action (wuwei) and spontaneity as the root. With wuwei the heart is settled; with ziran one advances step by step in order. If it is not so, it is like a violent wind or sudden rain—even though Heaven and Earth produce them, they cannot last all day; how much more so with human affairs! Therefore all who walk the path of cultivation must be spontaneous in cultivating De and practicing the Way, only then can they unite with the Dao and unite with De; “loss” here means turning away from spontaneity and forcing action. Dao, De, and loss each also “delight” in obtaining the kind of outcome that matches them. Where sincerity and practice fall short, there will already have been people who did not trust spontaneity or did not trust this principle.

Chapter Twenty-Four (He Shang Gong’s commentary titles it “The Chapter of Bitterness and Favor”; Peng’s version titles it “The Chapter of Tiptoeing and Striding”)

Scripture: One who tiptoes does not stand firm; one who strides does not walk far. One who displays himself is not clear; one who insists he is right does not shine; one who boasts of his merit has no real achievement; one who prides himself on his ability does not long endure. From the perspective of the Dao, these are called leftover food and a redundant growth on the body. Things may loathe them, therefore one who has the Dao does not dwell in them.

Plain language: Standing on tiptoe is unstable; walking with oversized steps does not go far. Showing off obscures clarity; insisting you are right prevents your worth from shining forth; praising your own achievements leaves no solid merit; arrogance about your abilities makes lasting success hard. Speaking in terms of the Dao, these are like leftover food and an extra tumor on the body. The ten thousand things also dislike such conduct, so one who possesses the Dao does not take up residence in them.

On “Standing on Tiptoes” and “Striding”

“Standing on tiptoes” (qí) means rising on the toes to gaze into the distance; “striding” (kuà) means hurrying forward at a quick pace. When one stands on tiptoes, the head tilts back and one cannot remain standing long; when one walks too hastily, the feet are harmed and one cannot go far. Self-conceit and self-praise both belong to those who do not trust in ziran (naturalness—following what is inherently so without forcing). Such people will in the end find it hard to achieve anything. Applied to the way of practicing the Dao (walking in accordance with the Way and cultivating): it is like eating too much or walking too much—one cannot then do gongfu (solid work in cultivation). Compared with a dog, eating to excess brings illness; compared with an ox, overwork brings exhaustion. Therefore it is said: even things can be harmed in this way—how much more so human beings? Hence one who has the Dao (one who accords with the Way) does not remain in such a condition.

Chapter Twenty-Five (In He Shang Gong’s commentary this chapter is titled “Xiangyuan” [Image of the Origin]; in Peng’s edition it is “Huncheng” [Chapter of the Undifferentiated Whole])

There is something undifferentiated and complete that existed before Heaven and Earth. Silent and empty, it stands alone without altering its nature, cycles in motion without exhaustion, and may be regarded as the mother of all under heaven (the root from which the myriad things are born). I do not know its name, so I call it the Dao (the Way); forced to give it another name, I call it “great.” “Great” means flowing onward (opening toward the far distance); flowing onward means far, and being far means returning (reverting to the root). Therefore the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. In the cosmos there are these “four greats,” and the king occupies one of them. Humanity takes Earth as its model, Earth takes Heaven as its model, Heaven takes the Dao as its model, and the Dao takes ziran (naturalness—being so of itself, not contrived by human artifice) as its model.

Undifferentiated wholeness (huncheng) is the integrated state before heaven and earth had separated—it still had no name. That primordial qi at the very opening of the cosmos was a single chaos without designation. What is called “the nameless” refers to a layer that already existed before heaven and earth. “Stillness” (ji) means purity; “vast emptiness” (liao) means open spaciousness. It abides alone in clarity and emptiness yet does not alter its constant true nature—nothing more than this “undifferentiated wholeness.” It circulates through the ten thousand things, preserves them without bringing them to ruin, and therefore can be called “the mother of all under heaven.” Since the time heaven and earth were opened, the Daoist ancestor understood that before chaos there was already this mother-qi; the birthing of heaven, earth, people, and the myriad things all took shape within that mother-qi. When people pressed for its name and it could not be spoken, they provisionally used the word “Dao” to address it. The written form for Dao joins “head” (shou) with the component for walking or going, meaning it precedes heaven and earth in movement and is the source from which the ten thousand things arise. Thus, naming it with characters as best they could, they also obtained the word “great” (da). “Great” joins “one” (yi) with “person” (ren), indicating that it emerges first among all things. Passed down through ten thousand generations, it has been called the Great Dao. In its greatness it goes everywhere without obstruction; above it is Qian (Heaven), below it is Kun (Earth)—it moves and flows onward, and in that sense also “departs” from you. Here “depart” does not mean vanishing but unceasing circulation without stagnation. In departing, nothing is beyond reach: to the north it is Kan, to the west it is Dui—even what is far can be attained. When this Dao reaches its limit it necessarily returns: it may issue from Zhen, align with Xun, appear in Li, and complete itself in Gen. How magnificent! Dao stands alongside heaven, earth, and the king as one of the “four greats” within the realm. Without Dao one cannot know heaven—heaven is great. Without heaven earth is not covered—earth is great. Without earth the king has nothing to uphold—the king too is great. The king occupies one place among them: one person at the head who leads the multitude. The king is lord of people and never separates from humanity. People stand upon earth, so they take earth as model; earth rests under heaven, so it takes heaven as model; heaven rests within Dao, so it takes Dao as model; Dao’s supreme subtlety lies in ziran (naturalness), so it takes the natural as model.

Chapter Twenty-Six

People stand upon earth, so they take earth as model; earth rests under heaven, so it takes heaven as model; heaven rests within Dao, so it takes Dao as model; Dao’s supreme subtlety lies in ziran (naturalness), so it takes the natural as model.

(Version note: In the Heshang Gong commentary tradition this chapter is titled “Chapter on Valuing De”; in the Peng edition it is titled “Chapter on Valuing Stillness.”)

Scripture

Heaviness is the root of lightness; stillness is the ruler of restlessness. Therefore the noble person acts all day long without departing from the standard of “heavy” and “light”; though there be glory and splendor, they can still dwell in leisure and stand apart from the world. Why would a sovereign lord of ten thousand chariots treat his own person lightly and treat the realm lightly? If one is light, one loses the minister (support); if one is restless, one loses the ruler (mastery).

Commentary

“Heavy” is likened to water; “light” is likened to fire. Fire is born from within water, hence heaviness is taken as the root of lightness. “Stillness” is fixity; “restlessness” is discerning insight (hui). Insight arises within fixity, hence stillness is taken as the ruler of restlessness. One may see a noble person of talent and virtue who all day long handles affairs without leaving heaviness and lightness behind—the aim is to employ agility without losing the root. Though there be honor and display, in leisurely dwelling they stand transcendent, not letting splendor and bustle disturb still fixity. Yet the master of the Crimson Palace (the “lord” figured in inner refinement—Dantian, the heart palace, and the like), honored like ten thousand chariots, treats body and realm lightly and forgets to hold to heaviness and guard stillness, wholly failing to use heaviness to nurture lightness and wholly failing to use stillness to restrain restlessness. I fear that if one one-sidedly favors lightness, one loses the true water within the adept’s center, and fire then has no root; fire is born from water, and water is fire’s instrument, hence it is called the minister. I also fear that if one one-sidedly favors restlessness, one loses true fixity in the heart, and insight then has no ruler; insight arises from fixity, and fixity is the master of insight, hence it is called the ruler.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

(In the Heshang Gong commentary this chapter is titled “Chapter on Skillful Use”; in the Peng edition it is titled “Chapter on the Essential and Subtle.”)

Scripture

One skilled at walking leaves no wheel tracks; one skilled at speaking leaves no flaw that can be picked at; one skilled at counting needs no counting rods; one skilled at shutting needs no bar yet cannot be opened; one skilled at binding needs no cord yet cannot be untied. Therefore the sage is always good at saving people, and so does not abandon people; always good at saving things, and so does not abandon things. This is called inheriting the bright (xi ming). Thus the good person is the teacher and model of the not-good; the not-good person is the resource and loan of the good. If one does not honor one’s teacher and does not cherish one’s resource, though one may think oneself clever, in fact one is greatly deluded—this is called the essential and subtle (yaomiao).

Commentary

“Xi ming”: to carry forward and inwardly embody the path of clear discernment. Good and not-good mutually serve as teacher and as resource: only when there is no “abandoning people” or “abandoning things” does one accord with the sage’s constant skill in saving people and saving things. If one relies on one’s own cleverness and does not value the teacher or cherish the resource, one turns away from the essential and subtle; though wise in appearance, one is in fact lost.

(Continued from Chapter Twenty-Seven)

“No wheel tracks” means the natural working of the “river chariot” (He Che)—vital essence and Qi rising and falling along routes such as the Conception and Governing vessels without deliberate visualization or forced “transport.” As soon as one stores up images and mentally hauls Qi around, that is human contrivance, no longer the natural cycle.

“Nothing to fault or pick at” means naturally carrying on the patriarchs’ intent—staying with what is already there instead of inventing a new path. Any deliberate move against that intent, however sharp the mind, is great delusion.

“Without counting rods” means naturally knowing the “fire phases” (huohou)—in practice, waxing, waning, ascent, and descent show themselves with body and mind; they are not pinned down by calculation. Binding steps to yao lines and hexagram patterns is a dead routine.

“Cannot be opened” means natural inner restraint—when it is time to hold in, one holds without rash stirring. Forced “opening” is often shutting ears and eyes in pretense, not true stillness.

“Cannot be untied” means natural gathering—essence and Qi cohere on their own, without outside force. Forced “untying” or hard matching is forced union and damages the root.

So the sage keeps natural constant goodness (chang shan): establishing oneself, one establishes others, so people can honor themselves; completing oneself, one completes things, so the ten thousand things are worth truly seeing. “Inheriting illumination” (xi ming) is the already awakened awakening those who come after—heart and lineage linked in mutual vigilance. That is inheriting illumination. Thus the good can manifest bright virtue (ming de); those not good who stay near the good are moved by that bright virtue. If the not-good do not examine themselves, the good, seeing what is not good, turn inward—they teach each other and support each other. Whoever does not treat mutual support and mutual teaching as precious and lovable, but trusts cleverness alone, has wisdom in name only and is deeply lost. The fine points of self-cultivation are no more than this.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

(Heshanggong commentary title: “Returning to the Unhewn”; Peng edition title: “The Chapter on Constant Virtue”)

Know how to be strong and bold, yet abide in soft, yielding, feminine stillness, and become the world’s “valley”—the low place that receives and holds. As the world’s valley, constant Virtue (chang de) does not leave, and one returns to the infant—to simplicity, softness, and freedom from grasping.

This passage explains two essential points about “yin-yang pairing” in Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation, drawing on the Cantong qi (Token of the Agreement of the Three), the Wuzhen pian (Awakening to Reality), and the Daode jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue).

I. The Yang Bestows; the Yin Transforms

The Cantong qi says: “The yang of the male spreads the mysterious bestowal; the yin of the female presides over the yellow transformation.” That is precisely what is meant here. When one understands this, one can “bestow” and can “act”; when one holds to it, one can “transform” and can “nurture.” When male (yang) and female (yin) interact and unite, it is like “gold hidden in water”—first the metal’s qi (vital energy) is sunk into water; then water in turn gives birth to metal. When the metal’s qi is full, there arises a “tidal signal” that arrives at fixed times, like the force of water in a diversion channel (caoxi)—flowing backward and rising against the current. This images “the water of the world’s diversion channels”: the true qi within the body surging upward against the normal course. Yet even when one has reached this state of “diversion-channel water,” the yang fire must still be advanced, and the yin talisman (the yin side of the method) must respond at the right moment; the steady “constant De (virtue)” of returning to the root and restoring life must not be lost. Therefore one must return again to the earthen cauldron (the furnace in the belly, a metaphor for the Dantian (energy center)) to warm and nourish the embryonic sage (the sacred embryo formed in Neidan).

II. The Yang Returns; the Yin Receives

The Wuzhen pian says, “Within the male, the female is held—forming the sage embryo,” which expresses this. If we speak of the principle of “bringing forth”: when yin reaches its extreme, yang is born—this is “within the female, the male is held.” If we speak of the work of “nurturing”: when yang reaches its extreme, yin is born—this is “within the male, the female is held.” “Within the male, the female is held” means not only that the male (yang) must return to join the elixir, but also that the female (yin) must settle down to warm the elixir. Its dynamic is like streambeds and ravines: water pours down from above and falls into the stream. Thus the way of holding to the female is like the streambeds and ravines of the world—there is flowing and there is returning. This is the true, constant primordial De; one cannot leave its “ground.” Returning to the stream is like returning to the Yellow Court (the central palace, the region of the Dantian); returning further to the infant means settling the mind in stillness to nourish the sage embryo.

Plain-Language Reading of the Inner Chapters of Yuanjiao

This passage explains the principle of yin–yang as female and male, and uses images such as white and black to make it clear.

White stands for metal essence (the refined quintessence of the metal phase); black stands for the root of water. Metal essence is what arises when male yang is sown into the female body. Before metal essence has taken shape, Kun (Earth, the mother) is originally empty; only after exchanging light with Qian (Heaven, the father) does Kun become solid and form Kan (Water, the middle son).

Once Kan is established, it is like the moon giving off light from the Dui direction—this is called metal within water. Metal in water is nourished by the Kun mother, so it is called mother qi. Wuzhen Pian says, “Take white from black as the elixir mother”—that is exactly this.

When mother qi carries white light, it is called yang light. When yang light appears, one meets it with self-mercury—that is seeking the medicine in the second watch. The two match, two eights of the same kind, and are seized in the same moment; refined into yang elixir, this is the elixir mother. Because creation is on the outside, the elixir mother counts only as outer medicine; the learner uses outer medicine to cultivate inner medicine, using mother qi to subdue child qi.

From the elixir mother yang lead is further born; riding the River Chariot (qi ascending along the Governing Vessel), one carries it back against the flow to the original palace, where it hides in the earthen cauldron (dantian). Through four watches of harmony and three families in union, one cultivates inner medicine—still using mother qi to subdue child qi. In this way one is “joyful,” and obtains long life.

But though the method is like this, to know white you must first keep black—only by keeping black can you know white; knowing white, you must still keep black. Within this are three layers of subtle use, enough to serve as a model for the world. If people act accordingly, constant virtue in the natural way does not stray; without straying, one can return and verify the Limitless, refining spirit and returning to emptiness.

• To know white you must keep black: yang enters within yin.
• Only by keeping black can you know white: yang is produced from within yin.
• Knowing white, you still keep black: spirit returns, qi hides.

The principle of heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things is all like this—hence it can be a model for the world.

Passages Related to Yuánqiào Nèi Piān

Main Meaning of the Scripture

To know what counts as splendor and honor, yet willingly hold the lowly, humiliated place is like becoming the lowest valley under heaven. As the valley of the world, constant De stays full; only then can one return to the undivided simplicity of Pu (the uncarved block).

Once Pu is split apart, it differentiates into concrete things. The sage takes up these things and assumes the role of governing and nurturing the myriad people—so true great governance does not rely on carving the realm into separate pieces to rule.

With the Flow, Against the Flow, Honor and Shame

Following the ordinary human path to become a “complete person” is a matter of glory; going against the ordinary path to seek immortality often looks like shame in the eyes of the world. Yet the cultivator should understand the glory of “becoming fully human” while deliberately keeping to the “shame” of the immortal’s path—that is, not being dazzled by worldly honor.

Learning whose aim is to “constantly keep to humility” is close to “abandoning conventional learning” (letting go of pursuit of worldly cleverness and profit). To practice this by nourishing people with an empty heart is to become the “chief and model” for the myriad folk; therefore great unity does not depend on fragmented rule.

Another reading stresses nourishing qi: empty the heart to nourish qi, like the vast hollow valley under heaven. Whoever wins this “empty valley” state in the heart can fill constant De in stillness; when constant De is full, one can return to undifferentiated simplicity and revert to the origin.

When the truth of undifferentiated simplicity spreads and appears, the myriad things arise; when things flourish, all can be taken as material to make implements. The sage who would use these implements models Yin-Yang, nurtures the multitude, and gathers them back into oneness. Therefore those who govern the realm by the great Dao do not exalt cutting the world into fragments for rule.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

(He Shang Gong’s commentary titles this “The Chapter of Non-Action”; Peng’s edition titles it “The Chapter of the Sacred Vessel”)

Whoever wants to “do” the realm by force and treat it as private property—I see that such effort cannot succeed in the end. The realm is a sacred vessel (a whole that must not be handled casually); it cannot be forced by “doing” (fabrication and grasping). Those who insist on “doing” fail; those who insist on “holding on” lose.

Among the myriad things, some move ahead, some follow behind; some are warm, some blow cold; some are strong, some weak; some carry, some are overturned. Therefore, to “do” the realm by force and claim it as one’s own—I see that cannot succeed in the end. The realm is a sacred vessel; it must not be acted upon rashly; rash action fails, clinging loses.

Hence the sage discards “too much, too lavish, too full” (excess, luxury, and overweening pride)—no extremes, no extravagance, no arrogant fullness.

The Realm and the Sacred Vessel (On the Meaning of Laozi, Chapter Twenty-Nine)

Here, “all under heaven” (tianxia) can be understood as the human body as a whole; the “sacred vessel” (shenqi) denotes what is most precious and essential. The Dao of the pre-heaven state is accomplished through natural wuwei (non-action). People often suspect that wuwei means empty stillness, so Laozi uses this passage to clarify: what people take for wuwei is not a hollow, cold void.

If someone tries to seize and govern the realm through deliberate, forcing governance (youwei), they find that the more forcing they apply, the more disorder grows; the more institutions they pile up, the harder achievement becomes, and rest becomes rare. This “sacred vessel” of the realm is supremely valuable; to burden it with busy forcing is inferior to quiet wuwei with less interference—so it must not be pushed. Forcing to succeed leads instead to failure—this is “act and you fail.” Clinging to grasp leads instead to loss—this is “hold and you lose.” The same holds for the realm and for the ten thousand things.

As for the human body: sometimes yang qi rises alone, sometimes yin qi follows; sometimes there is gathering like an infant’s breath (xi), sometimes ease like an outward exhale (chui); sometimes qi is full and the body strong, sometimes qi is weak and the frame frail; sometimes qi is carried upward, sometimes it disperses and sinks—all of this is simply how nature works. Therefore the sage who walks the Dao sets aside excess, arrogance, and going too far. These three are ailments of forcing action, and so must be discarded.

Chapter Thirty (Warning Against the Use of Arms)

One who assists a ruler by the Dao does not use military force to dominate the realm; such things easily “return” against you (hao huan). Where armies pass, thorns and brambles often grow; after great battles, years of famine frequently follow. So one who is good at using arms stops when the aim is reached and does not dare to press advantage from it. Having succeeded, one does not boast; having succeeded, one does not parade merit; having succeeded, one is not arrogant; having succeeded, one acts only because there was no choice; having succeeded, one does not push further in force. When a thing is too strong, it tends toward decline—this is called not according with the Dao; what is not according with the Dao comes to an early end.

A ruler should secure the realm through De (virtue), not through military force. How could one who assists a sovereign with the Dao brandish armor and weapons to show domination over the world? Yet the world often works this way: when someone sends troops and magnifies martial achievement, someone else may stand down and turn toward civil rule and moral transformation. Affairs under heaven also tend to turn and come back upon themselves—where armies pass, brambles and thorns grow thick, recalling the sorrow of wounds from war; after great campaigns, lean years often follow, the lingering harm of the sword’s poison. War is not something to speak of lightly.

Those who used arms well in antiquity did so to root out treachery, restrain cruelty, drive off bandits, and settle the people. When banners filled the roads and the people looked on as at timely rain, it was only because relief was needed—not to bully the weak with strength. Even after victory, one must guard against self-conceit, boasting of merit, and arrogance: self-conceit leads one always to want to fight; boasting of merit breeds the mind that exhausts the realm in endless war; arrogance tempts one to display military might to the world. Though one may be called “decisive in using troops,” if these attitudes remain, that is not true goodwill. If troops are used decisively to save the people yet their distress still does not end, then the army cannot easily be stopped either—the crux is still to do one’s utmost to ease the people’s hardship, not to show strength to the world.

Or again, if the enemy’s power does not wane and both sides hold their fortifications, strong soldiers gradually become aged, weak, and broken troops—which means wasting and harming one’s own forces. One set out to destroy the unjust yet ends up acting unjust oneself; if punishing injustice leads to committing injustice, it is better to hold the garrison, farm the fields, and let the army rest—that is the more fitting course.

Those in the world who love to show force might also look at the pattern of the ten thousand things: when anything is too strong, it moves toward decline—thus extreme strength meets decay. To treat the ten thousand things as tools and exhaust them is not in accord with the Dao; what is not in accord with the Dao is better stopped in good time.

Prefatory discussion

This chapter appears to discuss the pros and cons of using force, but in Daoist teaching the subtle point often turns on the word wu (things / how things work). When people act with effort and contrivance, it is often because essence and qi are depleted and true qi no longer flows as it should; then one has no choice but to resort to supplementary practices and cultivation—and that too is a kind of guo (fruit, a stage of result). “A hundred days to lay the foundation” and “three years to refine the self” likewise aim at a guo. If the elixir foundation is not yet established and the heart-nature is not yet clear, it is fine to build again, refine again, and seek another guo. But do not become proud and competitive because of small achievements; holding fullness and not stopping inevitably leads to exhaustion and weakness. When the great medicine is about to complete, missing the right moment makes further effort useless. That is why Laozi says: when a thing is at its strongest it ages; better to stop early.

Chapter 31

(Titled “Resting Arms” in He Shang Gong’s commentary; “Fine Weapons” in Peng’s edition)

Fine weapons are inauspicious tools. The myriad things also tend to dislike them, so a person of the Way does not keep them as everyday companions. Therefore the noble person normally honors the left; in war he honors the right. Arms are inauspicious instruments—not what the noble person uses in ordinary life—and are employed only when there is no other choice; even then, calm detachment should come first. Victory in battle is not treated as something fine; to treat war as fine is to delight in killing. One who delights in killing cannot fulfill his purpose under heaven. Thus auspicious affairs favor the left, inauspicious affairs favor the right. Hence the lieutenant general stands on the left, the commander-in-chief on the right—the ceremony is like a funeral. When many have been killed, one should weep with grief; even when the battle is won, it should be handled as mourning rites prescribe.

The character for “excellence” or “good fortune” (jia) carries an auspicious meaning, yet the Laozi says that “weapons are inauspicious tools”—how could one take delight in warfare? Where military disaster spreads, almost nothing fails to repel people, because schemes multiply and turmoil never stops. How could a person of the Dao bear the name of one who “loves war”? Therefore the noble person in ordinary life honors the left—the left symbolizes the auspicious; in using troops he honors the right—the right symbolizes the dire. From this one sees all the more that military affairs are inauspicious.

Weapons are not what the noble person loves; he uses them only when he has no choice, and then treats relieving urgent danger as the highest priority. One must not act from hot blood or a heart too eager to kill; the camp should stay quiet, and one should hold to plainness and restraint. Even when returning victorious, one does not treat fighting as something fine. If one treats using troops as fine, the heart must love killing. Can someone who loves killing be allowed to have his way at court and exhaust the realm with endless war?

Reflecting on human affairs: for auspicious events the left is still honored, for dire events the right. The left belongs to yang and the right to yin; yang governs life-giving and yin governs killing. In the army there are a commanding general and a deputy general. The deputy, without the commander’s order, dares not kill on his own, so the deputy leans toward “giving life” and stands on the left; the commander holds the power to kill and stands on the right. Standing on the right aligns one with funeral rites—for in the world nothing is more inauspicious than mourning. Therefore the commanding general is placed in the position of a funeral rite, warning him not to kill lightly. Alas—“one general’s fame is built on ten thousand bleached bones”—enough to weep for. So for the many dead one should mourn and weep; even victory should be handled with funeral rites. The heart of the “Supreme” (Taishang) is precisely the heart with which Heaven and Earth cherish life.

(Note: This chapter takes weeping as its lesson—when many are slain, weep in grief; when one has won, treat it as mourning. What it reveals is the heart of the Supreme and of Heaven and Earth, which love life and abhor killing.)

Commentary (An Yu)

The imagery in this chapter broadly means that the “female crucible” (nü ding) is inauspicious and should not yet be activated; the discussion of the harm of “deploying troops” (yong bing) is likewise written in sharp terms and rejects that approach outright.

Chapter 32

(Titled “Chapter on Sage Virtue” in the Heshanggong commentary; titled “Chapter on the Nameless” in the Peng version)

Text:

The Dao is constantly without a name and rests in an undivided, plain state. Though it seems minute, no one in the world dares treat it as something to dominate from below. If lords and kings can hold to this plainness, the ten thousand things will naturally come to them. When the qi of Heaven and Earth meet and interpenetrate, sweet dew falls; without anyone issuing orders, it distributes itself evenly. When institutions are first established, names appear; once names exist, one must know when to stop; knowing the limit, one does not fall into danger. The Dao in the world is like streams and valleys flowing home to the rivers and seas.

Interpretation:

The Great Dao has no name or form; it is purely a mass of undivided, plain qi, like Wuji (the Limitless). This “plainness” (pu) seems small yet sits above Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate)—how could it be driven or forced into submission from below? If lords and kings guard this plainness, then “great cutting does not sever” and they do not act rashly; the ten thousand things will likewise come of themselves. Earth qi rises and Heaven qi descends; Heaven and Earth achieve mutual penetration (jiaotai), and sweet dew falls on its own. Without forced contrivance or adjustment, things balance naturally; spirit and qi here achieve mutual harmony. When qi turns to fluid, it is first called the “golden elixir returning to the cinnabar pill” (jinye huandan). Once the name “golden elixir” is fixed, it is as when the ten thousand things come to rest. Earth qi reaches up to Heaven; Heaven and Earth interpenetrate, sweet dew descends—without laborious artifice it evens out naturally, and spirit and qi achieve mutual harmony here. When qi becomes fluid, it is first called the golden elixir returning to the cinnabar pill; once that name is established, one must also know how to stop with gentle nurturing in the earthen crucible (tu fu, the vessel used in refining). Knowing when to stop, one is not endangered; only by embracing the One and emptying the heart does one naturally enter supreme stability (taiding). Extend this Dao to the world: it is like the flow of valleys and streams returning to rivers and seas—each finding its proper home.

Chapter 33

(Heshanggong commentary titled “Chapter on Discerning Virtue”)

Text:

One who can know others is clever; one who can know oneself is truly enlightened. One who can overcome others has strength; one who can overcome oneself is truly powerful. One who knows contentment is rich. One who persists in the Way without slackening has resolve. One who does not lose the root and keeps his place endures long. One whose body dies yet whose spirit and virtue do not perish—only that is true longevity.

Interpretation:

(This chapter has no extended attached commentary; its meaning contrasts “knowing others” with “knowing oneself,” and “defeating others” with “defeating oneself”: outward cleverness and bravery are inferior to inward reflection and self-mastery; contentment is wealth, keeping one’s place is endurance, and not perishing after death is true longevity.)

(Inner Chapter on Yuanjiao, Continued)

One who can observe human affairs and understand human feelings readily attains penetrating wisdom; one who knows one’s original nature and recognizes “who one originally is” finds the heart’s light round and unobstructed—this is already liao xing (clarity on the side of xing, nature). One who can overcome the chase after external fame and gain has inner stability; one who can overcome the shize (corpse-thief—the greedy, lazy habits that tug at mind and consciousness) is truly strong—this is already liao ming (achievement on the side of ming, life-destiny). Content with what one has and guarding that inherent fullness is often likened in practice to zhihuo yangdan (stopping the fire and nurturing the elixir—not squandering jing and qi, but nourishing shen within); setting the will and acting firmly is like mianbi jiunian (nine years facing the wall—single-minded devotion without retreat). Once enlightenment is grasped and held without loss, one may endure as long as the earth; though the heart is stilled to extinction, spirit does not perish—one may share the sky’s longevity.

Chapter Thirty-Four (In Heshang Gong’s commentary this chapter is titled “Success Through Non-Assertion”)

The Dao is like water in its circling flow: without boundary, it may go left or right, meets source wherever it goes, and is taken up according to each person’s need. The ten thousand things are born through the Dao, yet the Dao does not refuse them or claim merit—it only moves with the times; when work is done it does not call it its own achievement. Like wrapping all things in a garment, it nurtures everything yet does not act as master. Rooted in wuwei (non-action), though its virtue of generation spreads far, still “it cannot be named” and it is not lord. Guarding true constancy without desire, it is so small it cannot be further divided—hence “small”; gathering all transformations and returning them to itself, it is so great it cannot be further contained—hence “great.” The sage also does not display his greatness; precisely because he does not make himself great, he becomes great.

Chapter Thirty-Five (In Heshang Gong’s commentary this chapter is titled “Chapter of Humane Virtue”)

(After the chapter title, no further text is given in your source; the title indicates a chapter whose theme is humane virtue.)

Passages Related to Yuánqiào Nèi Piān

Hold to the Great Image, and the world will come to you. Coming and going without harm, they dwell in peace and safety. Music and dainties make the traveler pause—but when the wine is gone and the song ends, people do not stay long. The Dao, when spoken from the mouth, seems flat and flavorless; the eye cannot see its form, the ear cannot hear its sound—yet in use it is never exhausted.

Plain-language reading:

The “Great Image” is not a concrete shape but the Dao (the Way) itself, which cannot be fixed in any picture—hence “Great Image.” Those who hold to and follow this Dao find people under heaven coming to join them. Sharing the same Way, they stay plain and detached, do not harm one another, and live together in calm and safety. Music and fine things can make passersby stop for a moment’s pleasure, but when the feast ends and the song fades, people move on. The Dao spoken aloud seems thin and tasteless; you cannot see it with the eyes or hear it with the ears—yet in practice it is inexhaustible.

Chapter Thirty-Six (He Shang Gong’s title: “Chapter of Subtle Brightness”)

If you would shrink something, first let it expand fully. If you would weaken something, first let it grow strong. If you would abolish something, first let it flourish. If you would take something, first give it away. This is called subtle brightness (weiming).

Plain-language reading:

To gather in, you first allow full opening; to weaken, you first allow strength; to end something, you first let it rise; to seize, you first offer. The subtle insight hidden in these opposite movements is “subtle brightness”—seeing that things often move toward their reverse before turning to the intended outcome.

The soft overcomes the hard; the weak overcomes the strong.

Plain-language reading:

Softness can prevail over hardness; weakness can prevail over strength. This is how “subtle brightness” shows up in contests of force: forcing strength often leads to failure, while keeping to softness and lower place can last.

Fish cannot leave the deep pool; the sharp tools of the state must not be shown to others.

Plain-language reading:

Fish cannot leave the deep abyss and still thrive; the state’s means of rule—strategy, punishments and rewards, military force, the “sharp tools”—should not be flaunted or displayed lightly. The deep pool is what fish depend on; sharp tools kept hidden preserve both person and state. Linked to “subtle brightness” above: knowing reversal and softness also means knowing how to hide the edge and hold the center—not relying on strength and exposing what must stay concealed.

Solidify: means beforehand, in advance. Gather in (xi): to converge. To gather in, one must first open up—only after spreading out will things gather again; to weaken, one must first strengthen—when advance reaches its limit, it will retreat; to discard, one must first raise up—when glory reaches its limit, it will fall; to take, one must first give—what goes away will return. Coming and going depend on each other; the principle can be seen in its entirety from the subtle, hence it is called subtle illumination (weiming). The soft and weak overcome the hard and strong; without fighting, people submit of themselves. Knowing that fish cannot leave the deep abyss, one knows that the Dao cannot leave oneself; knowing that sharp tools must not be shown to others, one knows that the Dao must be kept and held by oneself.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Dao constantly practices wuwei (non-action) yet nothing is left undone. If lords and kings can hold fast to it, the ten thousand things will transform and nurture themselves. If in the course of that transformation wayward impulses to act arise, I will use nameless simplicity (wuming zhi pu)—the uncarved nature before names and forms are imposed—to calm and subdue them. Nameless simplicity also keeps reckless desire from arising. When desire does not arise, there is stillness, and under heaven will right itself of its own accord.

“Wuwei yet nothing left undone” is the work of non-action—which is also effective action. What scriptural keys (qi) in Daoist practice call “holding the center to govern the outer, concentrating spirit to form the body,” is exactly this meaning. If lords and kings can guard it, the ten thousand things transform on their own. With reverent self-restraint and wuwei, one can govern all under heaven—can the ancient way of old not be recalled? Only when long peace breeds reckless movement do feasting and splendor flourish; that is not the blessing of the state. I will use undifferentiated simplicity to settle this, so that they keep simplicity and return to genuineness; perhaps then those who act recklessly will no longer wish to act recklessly. When they do not wish reckless action, the ten thousand things are tranquil; not demanding that the world be “corrected,” yet all under heaven corrects itself.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Main Meaning of the Scripture

The highest De (Virtue/Power) does not wear “De” on the tongue or the face—only then is it truly De. The next grade of De always fears losing the title of De, and often ends up as someone “without De.”

Those of upper De take Wuwei (non-action) as their norm and do not treat “what I have done” as capital; those of lower De insist on youwei (deliberate action) and everywhere want people to see “I am acting.” Those of upper ren (humaneness) also act, but do not claim the credit; those of upper yi (rightness) act with a sense of “it ought to be thus”—calculation and purpose show through. When it comes to li (ritual propriety), even if you push hard, people may not accept it, and you must roll up your sleeves and drag others into line with the rules.

Hence it is said: when the Dao (the Way) no longer holds sway, people talk of De; when De fails, they talk of ren; when ren fails, they talk of yi; when yi fails, they talk of li. Li is what remains when loyalty and trust have thinned—it is also where disorder begins. Those who fancy themselves clever and able to foreknow show the flashy face of the Dao, yet that is where folly starts.

Therefore the great person keeps to thick substance and does not chase thin empty fame; keeps to the real root and does not cling to surface ornament. So they leave the one side and take the other.

Inner Commentary (Expanding on the Scripture)

A person of “upper De” does not look as if they are deliberately performing “having De,” yet inwardly the weight of De is there. A person of “lower De” fears others will not know they have De and often ends up making themselves “without De” first.

Upper De “does not De” because it holds to Wuwei, lets the ten thousand things transform of themselves, and does not treat “I nourished and transformed you” as a claim. Lower De “does not lose De” because it likes youwei—which makes the multitude more restless, with everything becoming “I must do it, I must prove it.”

What ren practices is drawing people near and winning their glad assent; once the world is won over, there is no need to stress “I bestowed ren.” What yi practices is inspiring awe and firm submission; once the world is awed, the intent “I enacted yi” shows more easily. Ren is one, yi is one; with li, court reforms and wild custom differ—unifying and enforcing it is extremely hard. If you force it and the people do not respond, people tug each other’s arms in dispute and each holds to one side—how much harder then to settle affairs under heaven?

(This passage overlaps the examples above in meaning; the point is the same: if li is imposed by force, strife easily arises.)

（Continuation）

The Great Dao does not contend, and so it enables the people not to contend either—is this not the highest teaching? Yet once one strays from the Dao, one falls to “benevolence”; lose another step and one falls to “righteousness”; lose again and one falls to “ritual.” The remarks that follow lament the shift in the times—they do not mean that benevolence, righteousness, and ritual can be applied in isolation. Ritual takes loyalty and trust as its root; when custom grows thin, lightness and disorder easily arise, and one must rely on ritual to restore simplicity. What is called “foreknowledge” is clarity within one’s nature; when its brilliance burns too bright, it turns into foolish darkness—that too is “foreknowledge” gone wrong. Therefore the great person in life should prefer depth to thinness, substance to show; with right choosing and letting go, one may say the breath of simplicity still dwells among people.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

In antiquity, those who attained the “One”: Heaven attained the One and became clear; Earth attained the One and became settled; spirit attained the One and became numinous; the valley attained the One and became full; the ten thousand things attained the One and came to life; lords and kings attained the One and the realm was set right. The principle is all in this “One.” If Heaven lacked this “clarity,” it would fear to split; if Earth lacked this “settling,” it would fear to quake; if spirit lacked this “numinosity,” it would fear to cease; if the valley lacked this “fullness,” it would fear to dry up; if the ten thousand things lacked this “life,” they would fear to perish; if lords and kings lacked this “rightness” and only prized their height, they would fear to topple. Therefore the noble takes the lowly as root; the high takes the low as foundation—lords and kings call themselves “orphan,” “widowed,” “unworthy”—is this not taking the lowly as root? Thus, chasing too much is like having a carriage yet not riding in it; do not polish like jade—better be rough like stone.

Note (on “One” and “water” in the text)

“Of old” (xi) points to before the Grand Beginning; “One” is the start of all numbering. The first thing generated is named “One”; before the Grand Beginning there is nothing to fix upon—only after the Grand Beginning does surplus clearly appear. To obtain this “One,” one must be at the Grand Beginning. In the interval before and after the Grand Beginning, there is qi without substance, substanceless yet trustworthy. Among the Five Phases, Water is numbered as one; this water is water at the utmost of goodness and clarity—the inconceivable water of merit. To name it “water” seems to force a label; if one did not name it water, it would seem empty.

Inner Chapter of Yuanjiao — Plain-Language Reading

Try reasoning backward from “attaining the One”: at the beginning there is the Dao; Heaven opened from primordial antiquity through the One—yet without water, Heaven could not be distinguished, so how would its clarity appear? Earth was established from primordial antiquity through the One—yet without water, Earth could not bear and settle, so how would its stillness be secured? Spirit was upheld from primordial antiquity through the One—yet without water, Spirit could not be sustained, so how would its numinosity shine? The valley was filled from primordial antiquity through the One—yet without water, the valley could not hold, so how would its fullness be reached? The ten thousand things came into being from primordial antiquity through the One—yet without water, they could not be nourished, so how would their life be supported? Lords and kings took the One as their foundation from primordial antiquity—yet without water, nothing could be put to use, so how could the security and steadfast correctness of all under Heaven be achieved?

Heaven and Earth, Spirit, the valley, the ten thousand things, and lords and kings differ in body and function, yet whatever achieves clarity, stillness, numinosity, fullness, life, and steadfast correctness does so through the One. Clarity without splitting apart is purified by the Qi of water; stillness without bursting forth is borne by the Qi of water; numinosity without failing is carried along by the Qi of water; fullness without exhaustion is filled by the Qi of water; life without extinction is nurtured by the Qi of water; steadfastness without being cramped—those who sit in lofty, exalted places are assisted by the De of water, because water by nature is humble and flows downward.

From ancient times, rulers who are modest remain honored yet luminous; thus “the noble takes the lowly as its root, and the high takes the low as its base.” “Gu’gu bu gu”—orphaned and solitary, not calling oneself “grain” (or not claiming to be capable)—is the lord’s language of self-lowering, the utmost in baseness and lowness. One fails to see that embracing the four seas, exalted as Son of Heaven, with jade fare from every direction, is precisely what is won by guarding this “gu’gu bu gu”; is that not truly taking the lowly as the root?

Brief note (for reading the scripture): Here “the One” follows the Daodejing line “In old times those who attained the One”: Heaven, Earth, Spirit, the valley, the ten thousand things, and lords and kings each obtain the One and only then fulfill their role. This chapter especially stresses water: though low and tending downward, it clarifies Heaven, bears Earth, moves Spirit, fills the valley, nourishes things, and supports the lord’s steadfast correctness—the same thread as “ highest good is like water” and “the noble takes the lowly as its root.” “An zhen” means to rest securely in upright firmness; “bu gu” means not to boast of grain (or, reading gu as “good/able,” not to vaunt one’s worth).

Opening

When feudal lords and kings can hold the position of “lowliness and non-contention,” they are in fact holding to “the One”—holding to the root, the center, and the Dao. The same applies to all things: it is as if someone built many carts and then had other objects pull them; because things are too many and used at random, the whole household is ruined without their knowing it. Or like jade piled in heaps and stones scattered everywhere—whatever appears “too much and too common,” the Supreme One (the utmost of the Dao) will not grasp or rely upon.

Chapter 40 (He Shanggong’s commentary titles it “Chapter on Removing Use”)

Scripture:

Reversal is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the use of the Dao. The myriad things under heaven are born from being (you); being is born from non-being (wu).

Commentary:

“Reversal” means return and turning back: when the dark and the bright of heaven and earth meet, the one yang returns—that is when the Dao first stirs into motion. “Weakness” means softness and yielding: body and mind at rest, concentrating qi until it is supple—that is the subtle function of the Dao. The work of returning the elixir (Neidan, internal alchemy) lies in taking the “being” of Qian and placing it into the “non-being” of Kun—Qian plants the seed below, Kun receives and brings forth; from non-being, being arises; hence “the Dao is born from being, being is born from non-being.” The myriad things under heaven all follow the same principle.

(The preceding commentary shares the same point: reversal is return; the return of one yang is the Dao’s first movement; weakness is softness; stillness and concentrated qi are the Dao’s function.)

Chapter 41 (He Shanggong titles it “Chapter on Same and Different”; Peng’s edition titles it “Chapter on Hearing the Dao”)

Scripture:

When the highest person hears the Dao, he diligently practices it. When the middle person hears it, he seems to have it, seems to lose it. When the lowest person hears it, he laughs loudly. If he did not laugh, it would not suffice to be the Dao. Therefore the established saying has it: The bright Dao seems dark; advancing in the Dao seems like retreat; the level Dao seems rough; supreme De seems like a valley; the greatest white seems stained; broad De seems insufficient; established De seems stolen; plain truth seems changed; the greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed late; the greatest sound is rarely heard; the greatest image has no form. Only the Dao is good at lending and at completing (all things).

Plain summary:

The finest person who hears the Dao works hard to live by it; the middling person who hears it seems to have it and seems not to; the lowest person who hears it laughs out loud—if he did not laugh, it would hardly count as “the Dao.” So the old sayings go: clear in the Dao yet like darkness; going forward in the Dao yet like stepping back; the even Dao yet like a mix of things; the highest De like a low place; the whitest yet like disgrace; wide De like not enough; built-up De like shoddy work; simple authenticity like corruption; the biggest square has no sharp corners; the greatest implement is finished late; the greatest tone is almost inaudible; the greatest form has no shape. Only the Dao is good at giving and at bringing things to completion.

(This section gives the full text of Daodejing chapter 41 with chapter-title cross-references among the Yuanqiao inner fascicle, He Shanggong, and Peng editions, for reading the canon.)

Superior adepts—those of the highest attainment—take diligence as their root. Diligence here is not showy effort on the surface; it is gathering heart and conduct inward: not parading oneself (as in Laozi’s “the bright Dao seems dim”—the Way is plainly there, yet seems obscure), not sharpening oneself to a point (“advancing seems like retreat”), not chasing novelty (“smooth seems like rough mixture”), not treating oneself as full and solid (“supreme De is like a hollow valley”), not putting oneself on display (“great whiteness seems like disgrace”), not feeling self-sufficient (“ vast De seems insufficient”). Only then can one conceal one’s brilliance and refine oneself gradually, blend with the dust yet guard emptiness, seek completion within worldly traces, and cherish time and revere the Dao.

If one cannot achieve this inward gathering, yet only in form “practices as if slackening” and “receives the teaching as if self-deceiving”—mouth says faith, body acts, yet the heart is like laxity, like self-deception—then one differs little from the middle adept’s “now it seems to exist, now it seems gone,” or the lower adept’s loud laughter. How could that count as true diligence?

When a middle adept hears the Dao, practice comes and goes; hence Laozi says “as if it exists, as if it perishes.” When a lower adept hears it, he laughs loudly; those who laugh are often slanderers and the contemptuous. Yet even when they laugh, the Dao itself is not harmed; if lower adepts did not laugh, one would not see that this is the supreme Dao (the highest Way). The ancients also had this intent in setting words on record: they used the lower adept’s reaction to mark how precious the Dao is.

The scripture lines up Laozi’s Chapter 41 images with the superior adept’s “not-self”:

The bright Dao seems dim → not self-displaying. Advancing seems like retreat → not self-sharpening; this is “concealing brilliance and gradual refinement.” Smooth seems like rough mixture → not self-differentiating. Supreme De is like a hollow valley → not treating oneself as solid; this is “blending with dust and guarding emptiness.” Great whiteness seems like disgrace → not self-promoting. Vast De seems insufficient → not self-satisfied; this is “achieving amid worldly traces.” Established virtue seems like theft → though one follows the teaching, it seems like lazy slackness. Plain sincerity seems like corruption → though one receives it in faith, it seems like self-deceiving distortion; this is “cherishing time and revere the Dao.”

All of this belongs to the superior adept’s diligent cultivation—what middle and lower adepts can hardly reach.

Therefore it is said: a square has four corners, yet the great square does not cling to four corners—it only holds to the center. If one wants a vessel to be finished quickly, the great vessel cannot be rushed; it must slowly seek perfection (completion and fullness). The great sound and the great image are rather soundless and formless—the same spirit as the Confucian Zhongyong: “Be reverent where there is nothing heard; be cautious where there is nothing seen”—work in what is hidden and subtle, not perform before others.

One who embraces the Dao in the human world, gives without limit, and brings nurturing transformation to great completion—such a person is the true superior adept.

Plain-Language Commentary

“The Dao gives birth to One; One gives birth to Two; Two gives birth to Three; Three gives birth to the ten thousand things.”

The Dao stands above the “three powers” of Heaven, Earth, and humanity, and also precedes the Five Phases; when the Supreme Lord (Laozi) speaks of creation, he must begin from the Dao. The great Dao is formless, blended into the limitless; only when stillness stirs into movement does “One” appear. Here “One” refers to Water, which in the Yijing corresponds to the Kan trigram; Kan lies in the north and is the trigram of toil. That the ten thousand things can both begin and complete their course is tied to this: in completion, the myriad kinds return to the root; in beginning, the single yang returns at the depth of winter. Yang is Fire, so when we speak of “Water,” Fire is already within it—this is “One gives birth to Two.” Water and Fire harmonize, yin and yang reach mutual flourishing, the nature of Wood stirs, species multiply, and thus “Two gives birth to Three; Three gives birth to the ten thousand things.” This is said from the perspective of creation as a whole; the logic of internal alchemy (neidan) is contained in it as well.

In my humble view: in post-heaven operation, the numbers are mixed and numerous, so one must invoke “five” to cover everything. Metal generates Water—that is four generating one; Water generates Wood—that is one generating three; Wood generates Fire—that is three generating two; Fire generates Earth—that is two generating five; Earth generates Metal—that is five generating four. In pre-heaven Five Phases, the numbers are whole and simple; invoking “three” is enough to embrace all five. Fire flares within Water—that is one generating two; Wood rises because Fire is strong—that is two generating three; when Wood is born, it is also when the ten thousand things first sprout, so “three” can stand for “ten thousand.”

In the methods of Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) are in fact all contained within “one” and “two”: water and fire are cultivated together, while three, four, and five serve only as auxiliaries—there is no need to treat “three” in isolation. When the Supreme One (Laozi) speaks of “three,” he uses that number to exhaust the principles of the ten thousand things, and so “three” appears along the way. Nor need one speak only of “two”: when one qi completes the elixir, two, three, four, and five are all supporting conditions, and the Five Phases are wrapped up in “one.” Yang fire arising within water is one containing two; mercury with the nature of wood hidden in water is one containing three; lead with the nature of metal appearing in water is one containing four; true earth harbored in water is one containing five. Nor need one speak only of “one”: that dim, unfathomable substance, the embryo formed in empty space, can also gather everything back into the Dao (the Way). Is the art of returning the elixir not utterly simple and easy? Though the words are many, the destination lies only in the vital point; one feels only the weight of the classic and does not mind the fullness of the phrasing.

“Ten thousand things carry yin on their backs and embrace yang; they harmonize their qi and call it harmony” (commentary on the passage above): When it is said that “three gives birth to the ten thousand things,” three is the number of wood. Things follow the vigor of wood, and wood in turn follows the vigor of fire—fire is born within water, so the body of the ten thousand things outwardly carries yin and inwardly embraces yang: yin outside and yang within, empty outside and solid within; yang held within emptiness is “harmonizing qi.” When things reach this disposition, they accord with the great harmony (Taihe). Now to speak again in terms of the elixir method: when Kun and the metal of Qian interact and transform into the Kan hexagram, the Kan trigram’s form is empty outside and solid within; one should take empty stillness to hold its qi, as when the breath of great harmony mingles and suffuses.

“What people dislike are names like ‘solitary,’ ‘widowed,’ and ‘unworthy,’ yet kings and lords use them for themselves” (close in meaning to the Daodejing): People usually shun designations such as “solitary,” “widowed,” and “unworthy,” yet kings and lords adopt them as titles for themselves. Thus in affairs, sometimes what is reduced is increased, and sometimes what is increased is reduced. However others teach, I teach the same: the violent do not die a natural death; I take this saying as the root of what I teach.

(The following passage repeats the preceding text in meaning; it is not translated again here.)

Chapter 43 of the Laozi

(Titled in the Heshanggong commentary as “The Chapter of Partial Application”; in Peng’s edition as “The Chapter of Supreme Softness”)

Section 1 (On “lowly names” and the Yijing’s Sun [Decrease] and Yi [Increase])

Nothing is more dreaded than a name that marks one as lowly; terms such as “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy grain” are precisely such humble names, yet kings and dukes use them of themselves. In name they seem diminished, yet for rulers in practice there is often gain. Seen this way, things can turn from gain to loss and from loss to gain—the Yijing’s teaching makes this clear.

Pi (Obstruction): Heaven above, earth below; yin and yang do not interact. To turn toward Yi (Increase), the way of heaven cannot insist on self-exaltation alone, so decrease above and increase below (sun shang yi xia)—transforming the blocked heaven-and-earth situation of Pi into the Yi hexagram’s “from above, from below” mutual benefit. The noble person therefore takes Pi as a reminder to reform faults and turn toward the good.

Tai (Great Flow): Earth above, heaven below (the image of flourishing interchange). To see how to “decrease well,” the way of earth cannot be self-satisfied, so decrease below and increase above (sun xia yi shang). The flourishing interchange of Tai likewise depends on those above being able to practice the way of decrease; the noble person therefore takes Tai as restraining anger and damming up selfish desire (cheng fen zhi yu).

Heaven and earth gain through “decrease,” so sometimes practicing decrease is more fitting than blindly seeking increase. With Pi and Tai set side by side, one should all the more emulate the side of the Sun* (Decrease) hexagram. Moreover, if the *Gen-Dui Sun (Mountain-Lake Decrease) hexagram is inverted in use, it can become Xun-Zhen Yi (Wind-Thunder Increase); the resonance among mountain, lake, wind, and thunder is itself built on the principle of decrease.

Section 2 (With the Laozi on “teaching” and qiangliang)

This teaching is the teaching of the Yijing, and the teaching handed down by the ancients. The Most High (Laozi) said: however others teach, I teach the same—what is “increased” is teaching people to understand self-decrease (actively lessening arrogance and selfish desire). He also said: those who are not good can still serve as a mirror for the good; hence he takes qiangliang (the overbearing and violent, those who seize from others) as a “teaching father” (jiaofu). Qiangliang denotes those who harm others to benefit themselves and live by plunder; in the end they gain no real benefit either. Here fu (father) is the same word as fu (beginning), read in the rising tone, meaning “origin, that from which something comes”—that is, reading backward from the qiangliang type to see what one ought to renounce.

Chapter 43

(Heshanggong commentary title: “The Chapter of Partial Application”; Peng edition: “The Chapter of Supreme Softness”)

The softest things in the world can move through the hardest things in the world without obstruction; what is nearly “nothing” can enter where there is no gap. From this I know the good of Wuwei (non-action). The teaching that uses no words and the benefit of non-action—few in the world can truly put them into practice.

(Continuing the meaning of “supreme softness” from the previous chapter)

The softest things are Qi and water. Qi has no opening it cannot penetrate; water has no channel it cannot follow—so they can move through the hardest things without obstruction. Mountains can spit out stones; springs can bore through rock—this is plain to see. What is meant by “non-being” (wu you) is the absence of fixed form—only Qi and water; they likewise enter our bodies and seep into every fine crevice.

The first two lines speak broadly of Qi and water in heaven and earth; this line turns to within the body, using the method of opening with a metaphor. The scripture also says: “Therefore I know that the benefit of wuwei (non-action).” Wuwei is not forceful hauling or deliberate manipulation, but letting Qi and water naturally harmonize and circulate on their own. Taken together, the wordless teaching and the benefit of wuwei—nothing under heaven surpasses them.

Chapter Forty-Four

(Titled “Establishing Restraint” in the Heshang Gong commentary; titled “Fame” in the Peng edition)

Which is closer—reputation or life? Which matters more—life or goods? Which is the greater harm—gaining or losing? Therefore, excessive love must greatly drain one’s strength; hoarding too much must greatly deplete one. Knowing contentment avoids disgrace; knowing when to stop avoids danger—then one can endure long.

On Chapter Forty-Four (continued)

People often cherish reputation more than their own body and prize possessions more than their own body. They keep the body as though it were perfectly well and pay it no attention, yet they injure the body as though it were ill and still feel no pain—even though the point ought to be obvious. That is why the Supreme Old One (Taishang, Laozi) spoke of “what is dearest, what is most abundant, and what counts as sickness,” to stir people’s conscience and help them wake up on their own. This is unlike many later admonitions that lean on reproach and only breed resentment in the heart. That is the modest De (virtue/power) of the Supreme Old One. Even so, some in the world still honor fame and slight the body, or value goods more than the body: while the body lives they do not treat it as precious, and when it is gone they do not feel the loss. Such obsession usually comes from an overly heavy heart for fame and profit and an overly light regard for preserving body and mind. When breath fails at the throat and the final limit arrives, fame returns to nothing and goods dissolve into emptiness; the dead enter the ghostly path and can scarcely regain a human birth—then the pain is real. In this life, building one’s name often drains one’s Shen (spirit); goods taken in against the Way also leave against the Way—just what is meant by “if you cherish too deeply you must spend greatly; if you hoard too much you must lose heavily.” Love pushed to the extreme is great spending, and that is disgrace; hoarding pushed to the extreme is heavy loss, and that is danger—neither endures. The Supreme Old One spoke in compassion to awaken people: “Knowing contentment avoids disgrace; knowing when to stop avoids peril; in this way one can last long.” That is the De of the sage.

Chapter Forty-Five

(In the Heshanggong commentary this chapter is titled “Great De (Virtue) Chapter”; in Peng’s edition it is “Purity and Stillness Chapter.”)

The greatest wholeness seems chipped, yet in use it does not fail; the greatest fullness seems empty, yet in use it is not used up. The straightest seems crooked, the most skillful seems awkward, the most eloquent seems slow of tongue. Agitation can overcome cold, stillness can overcome heat; Qingjing (purity and stillness) is the right measure of the world.

(Note: In various transmitted versions, the familiar line “stillness overcomes agitation” and the pairing “agitation overcomes cold, stillness overcomes heat” appear in different arrangements; here the reading follows the text as quoted above.)

(Continuing the meaning of “Great completion seems incomplete” and related lines)

Great completion seems incomplete: The greatest fullness still appears as if something were lacking. Like the light of the sun and moon: though round, they briefly wane; when the waning is complete, brightness returns—so their effect never runs dry.

Great fullness seems empty: The greatest abundance still appears hollow. Like the ocean’s capacity: it holds all things without overflowing, deep as if without bound—so its function never ends.

Extreme straightness, clever contrivance, and forced argument: Those who are excessively upright often seem reckless; those who rely on tricks often seem to be cheating; those who argue by force often seem to be slandering—none of these can be put on a par with the “Great” (the Great Dao, great De).

The way of sages and worthies: The sage takes Qi (upright inner breath, natural disposition) as straightness—without forcing strength yet naturally firm, outwardly seeming to yield; takes subtle spirit as skill—without showing off wit yet naturally wise, outwardly seeming clumsy; takes practicing the Dao and establishing De as discourse—few words yet to the point, outwardly seeming dull.

Cultivation and stillness: As for harmonizing lead and fire, the Chonghe (harmonizing) of one Qi (the image in Neidan of lead–mercury and firing phases in accord)—even three winters suffice to ward off cold; sitting settled in stillness on the meditation cushion, the heat of midsummer can be forgotten. This is exactly what Laozi meant: “Restlessness overcomes cold; stillness overcomes heat.” One side restless, one still; one cold, one hot—both are the principle of Yin-Yang. If people nourish the heart with clarity, emptiness, and stillness, and observe changes in Qi such as dryness, dampness, warmth, and cold, the right way under Heaven is contained therein.

Chapter Forty-Six

(In the He Shang Gong commentary tradition the title is “Chapter on Restraining Desire”; in Peng’s tradition “Chapter on Knowing Sufficiency.”)

When the world has the Dao, they turn the horses back to spread dung: When the world follows the Dao (politics clear, aligned with natural order), war horses are retired to pull carts and spread manure on fields.

When the world lacks the Dao, war horses breed in the suburbs: When the world loses the Dao, war horses multiply in the outskirts—war is about to break out.

Crime, disaster, and fault: No crime is greater than indulging desirable things (seeing what can be desired and still desiring); no disaster greater than not knowing sufficiency; no fault greater than wanting to obtain (wanting what one ought not to have).

Therefore one who takes sufficiency as sufficiency is always sufficient: Only one who treats “knowing enough” as enough can remain always enough.

Elaboration on the meaning (commentators’ explanations)

Having the Dao: When adverse fortune (decline and disorder) has reached its limit, Yin at its extreme gives way to Yang, and the age is about to turn toward peace and good order. Lacking the Dao: When favorable fortune (great peace) has reached its limit, Yang at its extreme gives birth to Yin, and the age is about to turn toward decline and disorder.

When disorder is fixed and good order newly established, war horses return to the fields and manure fertilizes the soil—affairs under Heaven tend toward rest, without excess to the point of harm. When good order peaks and disorder lurks, war horses appear in the suburbs—affairs under Heaven will again stir and act. Disorder and order cycle endlessly; to hold steady amid good order is blessing.

To see what can be desired and still rise in desire—no crime is worse; to be already enough yet not know enough—no disaster is worse; to want what one should not obtain—no fault is worse. Therefore one who takes knowing sufficiency as sufficiency can always be sufficient.

Supplementary note (earlier passage)

Que means to leave or withdraw; fen here means to govern or work the fields. When the empire is at peace, that in itself is a blessing. To grasp at desirable things when you see them—there is no greater wrong; to be discontent when you already have enough—there is no greater misfortune; to insist on taking what you ought not to have—there is no greater fault. Thus only those who know when to stop and are content can remain satisfied for long.

Supplementary note (horses and farming)

When the world is at peace, the war horses are still there even if they are not used in battle. Que here means sending the horses back to hills and marshes—the sense of returning the horses. It is also said that horses are not really fit for plowing; speaking of fen (tending the fields) is like saying arms are laid aside and farming takes their place.

Chapter 47 (Seeing from Afar / The Window and Door)

Scripture: Without stepping beyond the door, one can know the whole world; without peering out through the small window, one can see the way of Heaven. The farther one goes, the less one truly knows. Therefore the sage travels without moving yet knows, sees without looking yet is renowned, acts without striving yet things are accomplished.

Interpretation: Hu is the inner door; to know the affairs of the world without leaving the house is to dwell in quiet and still grasp worldly matters. You is the small window; to see the way of Heaven without craning one’s neck outside is to discern what is open and clear even in what is hidden and subtle. Body, mind, and life-nature are all where the Dao is lodged; to forsake what is near and seek what is far is the fool’s way. What cannot be seen, heard, or touched—where would you begin to search for it? Whoever grasps this meaning finds the Dao right between door and window; whoever misses it finds the more they visit, the more lost they are—the more they ask, the more paths diverge. Every track looks like a road, yet nowhere is easy to walk—that is “the farther out you go, the less you know.” Only the sage does not travel yet knows: when spirit is settled, intention grows sharp; does not look yet is named: in guarding the empty, the full arises; does not act yet completes: in embracing the One, one returns to emptiness.

Main idea (Laozi, Chapter 48 and the meaning of “taking the world”)

In study, one adds and accumulates day by day; in cultivating the Dao (the Way), one reduces selfish desires and fixations day by day. Reduce again and again until there is Wuwei (non-action). Wuwei is not doing nothing at all—it is not acting recklessly or wrongly—so that in the end everything can be accomplished. Therefore, those who wish to settle the realm should habitually take “non-busyness” (not troubling the people, not meddling) as their way; when they become meddlesome and act wrongly, they are unfit to “take the world.”

Elaboration in the Yuanqiao Neipian

Learning and the Dao pull in opposite directions.

Learning prizes increase: from breadth back to essentials. On the surface that looks like “reduction,” but it is really broad first, then refined—so it is still increase first, then decrease. Cultivating the Dao prizes reduction—but some people first lay a foundation and first have “business” (such as foundation-building and earnest practice). Before the phase of decrease there is also a phase of increase; what matters is knowing how to decrease later.

“Decrease” means stripping away and peeling off layer by layer. Decrease upon decrease: in internal alchemy terms, the “lead” breath gradually dries and the “mercury” light appears (signs of transforming essence and qi and of the spirit-light shining forth), until one nurtures the spirit and returns to emptiness and only does what belongs to Wuwei—then Wuwei is “without not acting” (wuwei er wu buwei).

“Taking the world” here often stands for governing the realm and keeping one’s own person in order, not only for conquering territory. One must first have the will to settle the realm: Wuwei without not acting, using stillness to master movement, taking virtue as the constant, governing with benevolence, so the people are of one heart and myriad lands come in allegiance—only then does “taking the world” make sense. Hence one must habitually keep to non-busyness: less troubling the people, less craft and cunning.

If there is “business” in the heart or in policy—first a show of force that shakes the world, acting with much doing, meeting movement with movement, cruelty with cruelty, violence with violence, taking strife as skill and raid as occupation—one only throws the realm into disorder and loses the world first; how then could one “take” it?

Another reading: those who take the world are often people who seem unoccupied on the outside yet carry weight within—like the ancient figures of the wilds at Xin (Yi Yin), the banks at Pan (Jiang Taigong), or Nanyang (hermit-scholars in the Zhuge Liang mold) and other Daoist adepts. But if there is business and the heart is in turmoil, the inner square inch is already chaotic and the world cannot be taken either—as when Fan Zeng resented Liu Bang, or Xu Shu left for Cao Cao because of his mother: the heart is tied elsewhere and wisdom cannot be whole. That sense fits too.

In brief

In the same chapter, “in study, daily increase; in the Dao, daily decrease” sets out the stages of practice; “he who would take the world constantly keeps to non-busyness” speaks to governance and to the nature of the mind—fewer wrongful acts, a heart that is not in chaos—mutually illuminating the internal alchemy theme of “decrease again and again until Wuwei.”

Chapter 49 (River Lord commentary title “Chapter of Bearing De”; Peng title “Chapter of the Undivided Heart”)

Main idea of the passage

The sage has no fixed, partial mind that favors one side alone; instead, they take the common people’s concerns as their own. Toward the good, the sage is kind; toward the not-good, the sage is still kind—so De (Virtue/Power) truly shows itself as goodness. Toward the trustworthy, the sage trusts; toward the untrustworthy, the sage still responds with trust—so De truly shows itself as trustworthiness.

In governing the world, the sage is earnest and careful (the term tiantian suggests a focused, sincere attentiveness), so that hearts under heaven return to plain simplicity rather than each clinging to one fixed stance. Ordinary people often spend their attention pricking up ears, widening eyes, catching rumors, and reading faces; the sage leads the multitude back toward the simplicity and reduced scheming of a child, until hearts gradually grow unified and undivided.

Chapter 50 (River Lord commentary title “Chapter of Valuing Life”; Peng title “Chapter of Preserving Life”)

Main idea of the passage

In the span from birth to the approach of death, those who “live well” make up roughly three parts in ten; those who “move toward death” also about three in ten; and those who are alive yet, through reckless action, fall into the ground of death and die before their time, another three in ten. Why is this? Because they treat “nourishing life and clinging to life” as too heavy a matter—they live too “thickly,” with excessive attachment to survival, pleasure, and strife.

It is said that one skilled at preserving life, walking on land, does not encounter rhinoceros or tiger; entering an army, is not harmed by weapons. A rhinoceros cannot gore such a person, a tiger cannot claw them, and blades cannot pierce or cut them. Why? Because they lack the conditions of heart and circumstance that would deliver them into the “ground of death”—neither clinging to life nor fearing death to the point of imbalance, neither forcing strength nor courting danger—so they can keep far from the calamity of losing their lives.

(Note: The phrase “three parts in ten” (shi you san) is interpreted in several ways; one part may be left to the natural course or to the sage’s Dao, depending on the commentator. Here the common reading is followed: the categories of living well, moving toward death, and dying early through reckless action each account for three tenths.)

This passage explains the meaning of “ten and three” and the cycle of birth and death.

What does “ten and three” mean?

Many ancient commentators missed the point. The author says: “Ten” is the number by which Heaven and Earth give rise to things—one Heaven, one Earth, one Qian (the Heaven trigram), one Kun (the Earth trigram). The Qian trigram has three yang lines; the Kun trigram has three yin lines. All things that receive the qi of the three yang lines live; when they meet the qi of the three yin lines, they die. At birth a person also receives the three yang, like other beings—but people often turn themselves toward the “three yin”: the seven emotions and six desires drain Yuanshen (the innate spiritual vitality and life force). Hence “moving toward the realm of death”: it is not outer force that compels it, but one’s own movement onto the path of death. Such hastening of death still ultimately returns one to the three yin.

Why do both people and things have “three births” and “three deaths”?

Because the power of “begetting and begetting” is very strong: where something dies and is extinguished, new life is added elsewhere; the still aspect and the active aspect alternate in a cycle of mutual causation. If there were only birth without death, living beings would fill the world and there would be no place to rest. So there must be death as well as birth.

The difference between things and people

For the myriad things, death mostly comes in winter and birth mostly in spring; birth and death are simply the shift between movement and stillness. People, by contrast, often do not “return to life” in the same way after death—not because creation shortchanges humans, but because they do not understand nourishing life (yangsheng), and so long remain in the “realm of death.”

Overall meaning: Use the three yang and three yin of Qian and Kun to explain life and death; people are more likely than things to enter the realm of death by desire and injury to the spirit; the cycle of birth and death is the arrangement of Heaven and Earth; people can avoid sinking solely into the realm of death through life cultivation.

The Supreme Lord has the De (Virtue/Power) of treating all living beings generously and nurturing them; the sage also has methods for preserving life. If one truly seeks the Dao, one should turn the ordinary rule that “Yang qi gives life and Yin qi brings death” into the cultivation work of “Yang qi advances and Yin comes”—only then can one achieve long life and lasting vision, and not end like ordinary people who, soon after birth, move toward the realm of death.

Among the ten thousand things there is the saying “three give birth, three bring death.” The path of preserving life and cultivation uses the Qian trigram of three Yang lines to plant one Yang into the three Yin, so Kun fills and becomes Kan; and within the Kun trigram of three Yin, one Yin sprouts among the three Yang, so Qian empties and becomes Li. Kan and Li are what Neidan (internal alchemy) calls the “medicinal ingredients.” Enter the chamber for quiet practice, observe within oneself the “return of Yang at Fu” (when Yang qi first rises after the Zi hour), then immediately gather it back and subdue it. Such preservation of life is the way of returning the elixir, the work of returning to root and source, the method of continuing the root of life, and the essential secret of attaining immortality: gathering back against the ordinary course is “she” (gathering); from below upward is she; from outside inward is she; and in the middle there must be the Huang Po (the harmonizer of lead and mercury—intent, breath, or the middle mediator) for gathering to succeed. The phrase preserving life is not easy to explain in full. Mother and child love each other and deeply nurture one another; the infant boy and maiden girl (Kan and Li, Yin and Yang) go together and joy increases; lead and mercury congeal and the holy embryo is formed; verified through Wuwei (non-action), the Yang spirit leaves the shell. Even with tigers, rhinoceroses, and armed soldiers, none can harm one—how then could one still be bound like ordinary people and things by “three Yang give life, three Yin bring death”?

Chapter 51

(In the He Shang Gong commentary version this chapter is titled “Nourishing De”; in the Peng version it is titled “Honoring the Noble.”)

The Dao (the source of the ten thousand things) gives birth to the ten thousand things; De (the Dao’s manifestation and nourishing power in things) rears them; things take form, and environmental momentum completes them. Therefore among the ten thousand things none fails to honor the Dao and value De. That the Dao is honored and De is valued is not because anyone decreed it—it is so by nature, spontaneously so.

Passages Related to Yuanjiao Neipian

(Continuing the meaning of Chapter 51)

The Dao gives birth to the ten thousand things; De nourishes and sustains them, so they take on form; when conditions are complete, they reach fulfillment. Therefore nothing among the ten thousand things fails to honor the Dao and value De. The Dao is honored and De is prized not because anyone commands it—it is simply their natural course. Thus the Dao produces the ten thousand things; De stores, nurtures, transforms, completes, ripens, feeds, and shelters them. It generates without claiming ownership, acts without leaning on its deeds, and nurtures without dominating. This is called Xuande (mysterious virtue, in the same vein as “highest De”).

From another angle: the Dao sows the seed; De guards and preserves—so things are born through the Dao and stored through De. Form appears only then; fulfillment comes when momentum is ripe. The ten thousand things honor the Dao and prize De: the Dao is originally nameless, while De has a name—hence the Dao’s honor and De’s worth. Dao and De do not issue orders; the patterns of things run of themselves. Only the Dao presides over generation; only De presides over storing, nurturing, ripening, and then feeding and covering. Preserving spirit and essence is all De’s work. Not possessing, not relying, not ruling—achievement through wuwei is the true reading. Xuande is shangde (the highest virtue).

Chapter 52

(In the Heshanggong commentary tradition the title is “Returning to the Root”; in Peng’s edition, “Having a Beginning.”)

The ten thousand things under Heaven have one beginning—take it as the “mother” (root, womb) of the world. Once you grasp this mother, you can through it know the “children” (the images of myriad transformation). Once you know the children, return and hold to the mother, and all your life you can avoid peril. Block the openings of outward exchange (dui, the mouth and the like), close the gates of rash movement, and all your life you can avoid toil and turmoil. Open those openings and go out to finish miscellaneous affairs, and all your life there is no remedy. To see the subtle is called clarity; to hold to softness is called strength. Use outward illumination, then turn back to inner clarity, and you will not bring harm upon yourself. This is called inheriting the constant Dao.

The Great Dao under heaven: where there is an end, there must also be a beginning—yet this “beginning” is not a single road or one sole source.

In refining the golden elixir (jindan), too, there is a first place where the “medicine” appears, a first set of practices to undertake, and a first root-nature to return to.

What is the first place where the medicine appears? It is the Kun furnace and the yin furnace. Yin holds yang within, hence the name “yin–yang furnace”; the moon rises in the position of the Dui trigram (west), and its shape is like a reclining moon, so it is also called the “reclining-moon furnace”; Dui symbolizes the youngest daughter, so it is likewise termed the “innate wondrous cauldron.” What the Wuzhen Pian (Understanding Reality) calls the “river source where medicine is produced” all points to such starting places.

What are the first practices to undertake? They are what the Daodejing describes: reach the utmost emptiness, hold fast to deep stillness, so as to observe how the myriad things return; muddy water gradually clears, and when stillness is sustained long enough, one awaits the moment when living potential stirs—these are the tasks at the outset of elixir work.

What is the first root-nature to return to? Chaotic and undifferentiated, deep and obscure—within it there is trustworthiness and there is essence; the nameless uncarved block and formless “gold” are all “things” of this opening phase. Returning the elixir (huandan) takes this kind of “gold” as its starting point, which is why it is said that there is “a beginning.” Yet this gold is not something originally present in the Kun side; it is essence refined in the fire of the Qian side. Methods such as those in the Ruyao Jing (Mirror for Compounding Medicine) take “sand” as the chief material, put it into the Kun furnace to form the image of the Kan trigram, then combine it with the “mercury” of the jade pool (the pool of saliva in the mouth) to transform it into wu earth; wu earth is the yang elixir. The yang elixir belongs to external elixir (waidan), and external elixir is in turn the root of internal elixir (neidan).

Golden flower, true seed, yellow sprout, and white snow—in oral formulas often refer to “the other,” that is, what comes from external refinement; taking external elixir as the “mother” of internal elixir is why “having a beginning” can be regarded as the mother of all under heaven. This “mother” bears a sacred title: she is called yang lead (yang qian).

When there is Yang Lead (yang qian) as the mother, there is Yin Mercury (yin gong) as the child. Yin Mercury means the posterior child qi; Yang Lead means the primordial maternal qi. The outer Yang Lead is used to tame the inner Yin Mercury; when mother and child meet, that is what “knowing the child” means.

For Yang Lead to rise, however, depends on the skillful use of “fire.” Lead arises in the Kan palace (kan gong)—its nature is heavy and it does not rise easily. To have it control the true mercury in the Li palace (li gong), one must first refine it with Martial Fire (wuhuo) so that it can ascend. After it joins the true mercury, one should “hold the city” and enter “bathing”—and must not keep applying strong Martial Fire.

At first the mother, longing for the child, comes down; then the child, longing for the mother, stays—hence “knowing the child, again guarding the mother.” When mother and child stay linked, one is without danger for life, and the Great Elixir (da dan) is complete.

Brief glossary (for reading the passage above)

• Yang Lead, Yin Mercury: Neidan imagery—primordial unity qi is the “mother” (Yang Lead); posterior essence qi is the “child” (Yin Mercury).
• Kan palace, Li palace: The body mapped to the eight trigrams—Kan often refers to the lower dantian region; Li often to the heart or upper burner. Lead sinks in Kan; mercury dwells in Li.
• Martial Fire: In practice, a more forceful, pressing intent and breath regulation; bathing: after union, ease off and nourish the state—do not refine aggressively again.
• Hold the city: Guard what has been attained so it does not dissipate.
• Great Elixir: The fulfilled attainment sought in internal alchemy.

Plain-Language Explanation

The Great Elixir (Da Dan) means the inner elixir; Sacred Embryo, Infant, and True Person (Zhenren) all refer to the same thing—the state reached through Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation.

To refine the inner elixir, one needs the natural true fire, continuously and gently warming what is held in the “earth cauldron” (the Dantian, energy center); one also needs the yin-yang talisman fire of the outer furnace, applied diligently through increase, decrease, drawing, and adding. Used in this way, form can turn into Qi (vital energy), and Qi into Shen (spirit); form and spirit both become refined, and one merges with the Dao.

So one should “block the opening and shut the gate,” and for life keep to guarding the center as the main practice. Nourishing warmth has two aspects: inwardly, slow fire (wen huo); outwardly, talisman fire (fu huo). Preserve the work of the “ten months,” leave purposeful action behind and realize Wuwei (non-action); therefore one must not busy oneself with outer affairs, lest the quiet work within the chamber be disturbed.

The Cantong Qi (Seal of the Unity of the Three) says: “Firmly seal the place where paths meet; see that it stays whole and strong. Watch and wait with extra care; examine and adjust cold and warm. Move through the twelve nodes; when each node is done, attend to it again.” This is that kind of nourishing practice: the inner realm does not go out, the outer realm does not come in; blocking the opening and shutting the gate is the secret.

If one does not block the opening, but day after day deals with outer affairs—Daoists who talk politics and current events, intending to help the world—one has already harmed inner cultivation. When the mouth opens, spirit and Qi scatter; when the mind is scattered, the fire work grows cold, and the great path of long life may be hard to complete. Hence it is said: “If you meddle in such affairs, you will never be saved even for a lifetime.”

Chapter 52 (Essentials of Internal Alchemy Interpretation)

Perceiving the small (jian xiao) means the first appearance of the golden light (jinguang) of internal alchemy (Neidan), about the size of a millet grain—hence “small.” Only one who can see this “small” is truly clear/illumined (ming).

Holding to softness (shou rou) means that kidney water (shen shui) within the body is the master of the person, and Qi (vital energy) is inherently balanced and gentle—hence “soft.” Only one who can hold to this softness is truly strong.

Light (guang) refers to Shen (spirit)—that is, golden light; ming (clarity) refers to Qi—that is, golden essence (jingjin). Golden light envelops golden essence, and brightness is stored within; spirit and Qi (shenqi) depend on each other. When nurturing the embryo (taiyang) succeeds, the whole person is freed from calamity—hence “employ its light, return again to its clarity, and leave no affliction for the body.” This is the way of inheriting constancy (xichang)—the practice of long life and enduring vision (changsheng jiushi).

Inheriting constancy (xichang) means guarding and maintaining true constancy (zhenchang) without change.

Chapter 53

(The Heshanggong commentary edition titles this the “Benefiting from Proof Chapter”; the Peng edition calls it the “Jieran Chapter.”)

If I had even a little wisdom, walking on the Great Dao (Dadao), I would fear only straying from the path.

The Dao is originally broad and level, yet people love byways (xiejing)—short cuts and crooked paths.

The court is swept excessively clean, while fields lie waste and granaries stand empty. People wear ornate brocade, carry sharp swords, eat and drink to excess, and hoard goods—this is dao gan (“leading the raid,” i.e., leading others into theft and being first to depart from the Way)—it does not accord with the Dao!

Commentary on the preceding passage

“Wo” (I) refers to “my house, my lineage”—not Laozi speaking of himself as “I.” “Jieran” means being able to hold to one’s own integrity and settled view. The nature of our lineage is originally round and bright, which enables one to be jieran and self-settled: both a distinctive integrity and complete awakening. In personally practicing the Great Dao, one treats only “acting outward” as something to be feared. Once there is “shi” (outward giving or acting), following emotions and leaking outward falls into the ordinary world and greatly depletes the true essence in the body—so “shi” is seen as dreadful.

Accumulating essence and gathering qi can lead to becoming true—this is the level road of the Great Dao that everyone inherently can walk. Yet people’s hearts love shortcuts; they rush onto crooked paths. Reckless movement and reckless action invite danger; essence withers and spirit scatters. It is like old offices at court: once abolished and stripped away, primordial yang is entirely lost. It is like field boundaries: once left fallow and abandoned, the passageways are all blocked shut. It is like stores in the granary: all become empty waste, and essence and qi are all dispersed and lost.

Those people care only for fine dress and ornament, wear sharp swords, bustle through feasts and social drinking, and dream of ample wealth. People like that set their hearts on usurping the name of Dao for themselves—it is like someone who pokes things through a wall with a pole in secret; that can only be called “pole theft.” That is absolutely not the Dao! That is absolutely not the Dao!

Chapter 54

What is well established (in its roots) cannot be uprooted; what is well embraced (the Great Dao) cannot be let go. Descendants will offer sacrifice without end.

When cultivated in the person, virtue is genuine; in the family, virtue has surplus; in the village, virtue is long-lasting; in the state, virtue is abundant; in the world, virtue is universal.

Therefore: use the person to view the person, the family to view the family, the village to view the village, the state to view the state, and the world to view the world. How do I know the world is like this? Through these—contemplation and cultivation from what is near to what is far, from what is small to what is great.

Note: The middle of the original text of Chapter 54 contains repetition and mistaken characters (for example, “use the world to view the heavenly kingdom” instead of “world”). This vernacular version follows the usual thread of meaning in Chapter 54 of the Daodejing and does not add separate remarks about the original being incomplete.

Doctrine of the preceding section

Establishing yourself in the middle way and holding fast to the root is why you are not uprooted entirely; embracing the “One” without parting from it is why you do not scatter and fall away. When sons beget grandsons and the body divides into manifestations, sacrificial rites (the tradition of honoring ancestors and spirits) can continue without end. The text moves in turn through body, household, state, and all under heaven to show the levels at which cultivating De can be put into practice. “Yi” here means “you” (by, through); “guan” means to display the teaching and unfold the dharma. From this one body one manifests the Dharmakaya (the awakened body that embodies the great Dao and is one with the Way), then extends to manifesting the Dharmakaya in the home, in the state, and under heaven—each case concerns this same true body. When De is complete in oneself, the display of teaching has no limit, and so one can thereby comprehend all under heaven in full.

Chapter Fifty-Five

(In the Heshang Gong commentary tradition the title is “Chapter of the Mysterious Talisman”; in the Peng tradition, “Chapter of Embodying De.”)

One whose embodied De runs deep is like a newborn infant. Poisonous insects do not sting him, fierce beasts do not seize him, and birds of prey do not strike him. His bones are soft and his sinews pliant, yet his small fist closes firmly. He does not yet understand the union of male and female, yet he has spontaneous erection—this is the sign that Jing (essential life-force) is at its fullest. He cries all day yet his throat does not grow hoarse—this is the sign that He (harmonious balance of Yin-Yang and smooth flow of vital breath) is at its fullest. To understand this kind of “He” is to grasp Chang (the unchanging constant Way); to grasp Chang is Ming (true illuminating wisdom). Deliberately forcing life onward and over-seeking nourishment is xiang (an ill omen, what is contrary to the norm). Letting the mind drive Qi (the life energy circulating within) is to act by force. When things grow too strong they age too soon; this is called not conforming to the Dao; not conforming to the Dao, they perish early.

(Note: If the closing lines “This is called force… onward to early demise” belong to commentary on the preceding passage, they mean: the heart of the true person never loses the heart of the child, hence he is likened to an infant and forgets external things entirely—only this is true strength; when things are overly strong they grow old, which is not in accord with the Dao, and what is not in accord with the Dao dies young.)

Plain-Language Reading of Yuandiao Neipian

(Continuing the previous chapter’s explanation of the “red infant”)

“Contain” (hán) means to hold in the heart and to embrace. One whose heart holds deep De (virtue/power) is a True Person (zhēnrén). The True Person’s heart never loses the heart of the red infant—the newborn’s untainted mind—so Laozi compares the sage to a red infant: blended with things without barrier, almost forgetting the outer world. Hence venomous insects, fierce beasts, and vicious birds do not harm him. Weak bones and soft sinews describe the infant’s body; that is why when it grasps, the fist closes tightly (wògù, the “firm grip” of infancy).

Ordinary people know sexual union; when the yang part stirs, essence may be spent and life injured. The red infant is without knowledge and without desire; its Jing (essence) is most pure—fundamentally because there is no desire. Juān refers to the infant’s genitals and also means “to draw back.” In common writing it appears as “contracted and withdrawn”—shrunk and not raised. When adults flare with anger, harmonious Qi (vital energy) turns; the voice may go hoarse. The infant cries and chokes, yet does not go hoarse: crying is loud wailing, ài is qi blocked in the throat. Wailing and choking all day without hoarseness shows harmonious qi at its utmost. If one can know “harmony,” one can keep to the constant and avoid danger; if one can know “the constant,” true clarity is at hand. What benefits human life is precisely that peaceful qi of the red infant. Once knowing and scheming appear, and the heart drives qi by intent, softness turns hard and things reverse. Have those in the world who love to show strength ever read this lesson from the ten thousand things? The gloss on the last three lines appears in Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Fifty-Six

(The Heshanggong version titles this “Chapter of Mysterious De”; the Peng version titles it “Chapter of Profound Unity.”)

“Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.”

One who truly knows does not talk lightly; one who talks endlessly often does not truly know.

“Block the openings, shut the doors, blunt the sharpness, untie the tangles, harmonize the light, become one with the dust—this is called profound unity (xuán tóng).”

Plug the outward-facing apertures (duì, the mouth and other openings to the outside), close the gates of coming and going (mén, the ears, eyes, and the like), dull sharp edges, release entanglements, blend with light without shining alone, and mix with dust without setting oneself apart—this is called profound unity.

“One cannot be treated as close, nor as distant; not as profitable, nor as harmful; not as noble, nor as base. Therefore such a one is treasured by the world.”

(One who has reached profound unity) cannot be favored because of closeness, nor cold-shouldered because of distance; not courted for profit, nor harmed for advantage; not flattered for rank, nor despised for low status. Therefore the world holds such a person in honor.

(Note: In some quoted texts the final line reads “do not obtain and be base,” which is likely a corruption of “cannot be obtained and treated as base”; this reading follows the standard received text.)

Plain-Language Reading of Yuanshao Neipian

In the line “Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know,” “those who know” means people who have genuinely tasted the path in practice and gained something real; “do not speak” is not deliberate secrecy, but that it is hard to put into words.

Such people have often gone deep in contemplation and hold an inner certainty, yet when they open their mouth the language falls short. If someone treats words on the page as the final authority, claiming that some immortal’s classic has already written out the whole true transmission so that no master’s pointing is needed and one can practice straight from the book—know that what the book records may indeed be true, yet fine points, metaphors, and inner mechanisms may not all be spelled out.

Moreover, to become a true immortal and enter the Way depends on returning the elixir (internal refinement of the golden elixir). Only when the logic of returning the elixir is truly clear can one speak of attaining the Way. Ask: which hexagram and which line do Qian, Kun, Kan, and Li correspond to? In practice, what do Dragon and Tiger, mercury and lead stand for, and how are they used? Which step does guest and host, which does male and female principle govern? From where does one enter vague obscurity and deep silence? In the fire phases, how are floating, sinking, and inversion arranged? If Xuanpin (the dark female, root of creation) is not understood, creation cannot be set in motion; if Huangpo (the yellow mediator harmonizing yin and yang) is not properly engaged, yin and yang cannot “join in kinship.”

There is more: between master and disciple words are hard to align, kindness and strictness are hard to apply; the entry key scripture is hard to find, fire timing is hard to grasp. The ancients also said: the great matter of the golden elixir must be fulfilled by someone with power and with karmic affinity. How such a “person of power” is to be used and where they are found— which book can exhaust that? As for keeping precepts and steady practice— abstaining from lust, lightening attachment to wealth, cutting worldly ties, guarding conduct— all must be done in the body, not completed by reading alone.

Only with a sincere heart turned toward the Way, moving Heaven, worldly thoughts fading, and the spirits secretly protecting, does one gradually “know” what the Way is. If one can only seek the steed by the picture, hunting by the literal surface, one may not reach its subtlety. Hence those who know do not speak— not playing mysterious, but because there truly is what cannot be said; conversely, those who talk grandly and pride themselves on words often do not truly “know.” That is “Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know”: what is real was never something three sentences could finish.

Someone asked: “Those who truly understand have always been hard to put into words; as for those who do not yet understand, how can light reach them from anywhere? Surely there must be people who can speak and guide others?” The answer: Koujue (oral formulas) means words that stick to the heart and body, entering the subtle and fine—layer by layer pointing through and peeling open; that is what counts as koujue. It is not a few phrases, a handful of characters, or one or two sentences that qualify. When the Yellow Emperor visited Guangchengzi, they talked in depth for three days; when my master met Patriarch Zhong, they sat facing each other discussing the Dao for ten days. Heaven-chosen sages and vessels of the highest root still could not be settled in a few words—how much less those whose root-capacity is somewhat lower? People today treat koujue as a shortcut or quick transmission; that is all wrong. If the koujue has not yet been fully passed on, the master will leave and return; in the repeated explaining and joint inquiry, one must listen until it is familiar in the heart and fixed in mind—only then can one thread the ancient books together and bring out the sequence of stages and levels. That is the wonder of koujue. When someone has read many alchemical scriptures, hearing the koujue often brings sudden enlightenment; confirming the formula with the scripture and the scripture with the formula—true and not empty, aligned with the Great Dao. Hence a true master is worth seeking; relying on cleverness alone is not reliable.

Moreover, the root of a true master is originally someone who accumulated hidden virtue and completed cultivation—would such a person not know that esoteric language is heaven’s gift to the good, not something casually given to the unworthy? If one knew its weight yet spoke lightly, why would Patriarch Ziyang have issued three stern admonitions? Refusing to speak easily is really “not daring to speak lightly.” Even when meeting a person of great capacity and eager to transmit the lamp, one must test and polish again and again; the disciple cultivates diligently, the master toils at heart—only then incense is pledged, the teaching laid out, and the bowl passed on. When the lineage spreads later, do not hear without practicing, and do not obtain and then hoard in secret. Spoken to this point—can it be easy?

In my foolish annotation of the Daodejing, though more detailed than earlier sages’ explanations, I follow each chapter’s legacy verse by verse as commentary; on the subtle mechanism of the elixir path I cannot write it out in continuous passages. Heroes and aspirants who fortunately meet a clear master’s pointing-through find obtaining the method easier. I therefore discuss this in detail because of annotating the opening two lines of this chapter.

(Continuing the themes of profound unity and holding to softness)

Blocking the openings of the senses and closing the gates that face outward is a way to preserve spirit (Shen) and essence (Jing). “Blunting one’s sharp edge” does not mean dulling yourself into weakness; it means holding to softness and not contending for the cutting edge. “Untying entanglement” does not mean being dragged through worldly affairs; it means the heart can rest in stillness and not be carried off by turmoil. To “harmonize the light and be one with the dust” is to move in the world without flashing a sharp edge, yet still to rise above the grime. Mencius said that sages and ordinary people belong to the same kind of being—that is precisely this state of profound unity (Xuantong). Therefore the sage must not show favor because someone is close, nor coldness because someone is distant; once closeness and distance dictate different treatment, one has already fallen short of that unity. The same holds for profit and harm, for noble and base: none of these can be used to measure the sage. Thus among all under Heaven the sage stands most honored, and nothing is more honored than sage virtue (Shengde).

Chapter Fifty-Seven

(Heshanggong’s commentary titles this “The Chapter of Pure Customs”; Peng’s version titles it “The Chapter of Upright Governance”)

Govern the state with the upright Way (Dao), employ stratagem in warfare, and win the empire through non-action (Wuwei). How do I know it is so? From the patterns shown below.

The more taboos and prohibitions under Heaven, the poorer the people become; the more sharp tools the folk possess, the more confused and disorderly the state; the cleverer people’s skills, the more strange things and marvels proliferate; the finer and denser the laws, the more thieves there are.

Therefore the sage says: I practice non-action, and the people transform of themselves; I cherish stillness, and the people straighten of themselves; I keep to “no busyness,” and the people grow rich of themselves; I am without desire, and the people return to simplicity of themselves.

(The point: when rulers fuss less, indulge fewer private wants, and pile on fewer elaborate rules, the people can transform, correct themselves, prosper, and return to plainness on their own—set in contrast to the opposite picture above: many taboos, many sharp tools, much clever craft, many laws.)

Plain-Language Commentary

What is meant by “direct” (zheng) is not merely sitting up straight for show, but having a way of teaching that truly inspires reverence, moves the heart, and brings one into accord with the Dao. What is meant by “unconventional” (qi) is not plotting and trickery, but a teaching that meets force with stillness and keeps depth concealed, so that others cannot easily fathom you. Therefore in governing the state one uses what is direct—upright, steady, and not deceiving the people; in using troops one uses what is unconventional—adaptability and surprise. To rule all under heaven without reckless action or exhausting busyness is to lead through wuwei (non-action) and thereby accomplish the work. Apply this same pattern to self-cultivation, and you will see how to order the world.

When the court has too many taboos, fawning and greedy, base ministers easily rise to power, and the common people grow poor in turn. When sharp tools and clever contrivances are too common among the people, crafty and deceitful sorts arise, and the state grows ever more confused and corrupt. When skill is used to flatter the ruler, extravagant and frivolous inventions multiply; when laws are harsh and humiliate the people, thieves and outlaws multiply. All of these are consequences of shifts in the way of governance. Hence the text again cites what the sage said, to show the constant pattern of governing: the decisive difference lies between “having desires” and “having no desires.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

When government edicts are lenient and intervene little, the people stay plain and honest; when edicts are sharp-eyed and pry into everything, the people become crafty and deficient. Woe—how often it leans against blessing; blessing—how often it hides beside woe. Who can know where things will end? Perhaps there never was a single unchanging “orthodox principle.” What is direct can turn unconventional again; what is good can turn uncanny again. The people’s confusion has not been a matter of a day or two.

Therefore the sage is square without cutting, sharp-edged without stabbing, straight without being overbearing, and bright without dazzling.

Yuan Qiao Inner Chapters (continued)

Bibi describes a closed, stolid plainness; chunchun a quiet, even calm. When governance honors plainness, the people can rest in stillness. Chacha means harsh, finicky scrutiny; queque slackness and neglect. When governance delights in harsh scrutiny, the people easily become slack and negligent.

Fortune and misfortune lean on each other and turn into one another; one ought to know their limit truly and hold the center. The two words dun zhi (“sincere knowing”) carry a sigh that people in the world cannot really know. If one cannot know the limit, is there anyone left to hold the center? Center and correctness spring from the straight Dao, yet they also become the gate where fortune and misfortune nest together; one should just know the extreme and guard correctness—dun zhi still implies regret that people do not know. Not knowing the extreme, no one holds correctness either. Center and correctness spring from the straight Dao, but can shift into the strange and crooked, precisely because uprightness is lost; what is good springs from harmony, yet can turn into omens of disaster, again because uprightness is lost. Then the people lose their way—hardly the work of a single morning or evening.

Ge is cutting and trimming; gui is wounding and maiming; si is acting on one’s own whim; yao is showing off what is odd and bright. These four are all ways of making people stray. Only the sage is square yet not cornered, not relying on cutting and artifice; clear and self-restrained, not bringing harm upon himself; walks straight while keeping his light hidden—that is the true path of attaining the Dao.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

(In the Heshanggong commentary this chapter is titled “Keeping the Dao”; in the Peng version, “Root and Stem.”)

In ordering human affairs and serving the way of Heaven, nothing fits better than se (frugality and restraint)—this is called zao fu (early attunement to the Dao). Early attunement is called zhong ji de (deep accumulation of De). When De is deeply accumulated, nothing is beyond reach; when nothing is beyond reach, no one knows its limit; though its limit is unknown, one can yet hold fast to the realm. The you guo zhi mu (mother of holding the state) can long endure. This is called shen gen gu di (deep root, firm stem)—the way to long life and clear vision.

（Continuing the notes on “se” [thrift], “zao fu” [early submission], and related terms)

“Se” means thrift and restraint; “zao fu” is spoken from the angle of making the state wealthy and the people settled. “Ji de” (accumulating virtue) is spoken from the angle of settling the people and strengthening the state. “Ke” means to overcome or to restrain. The general sense is this: in governing, honoring thrift enriches the state and steadies the people; when the people are at peace and the country is strong, there is victory in every contest; when victory is unbroken, one no longer knows where the limit lies; in time, virtue grows thick and benevolence runs deep, and holding the realm becomes assured. “Guo” (the state) here means the root of the polity. Once that root is fixed, one casts true cinnabar into the jade pool and first forms the lead mother (qian mu); when the lead mother captures the mercury child (gong zi), one may long enjoy dominion. This is cultivation of “deep roots and firm stem,” the Way of long life and far-seeing vision. “Root and stem” means returning to the root to subdue Qi and nurturing the stem to complete Shen (spirit).

Chapter Sixty

(In the Heshanggong commentary this chapter is titled “Occupying Position”; in Peng’s edition, “Cooking Fresh Fish.”)

To govern a great state is like cooking a small fish. When one presides over the world with the Dao (the Way), ghosts are not “spiritual” in the harmful sense. It is not that ghosts lack power, but that their spirit does not harm people; and not only that their spirit does not harm people—the sage also does not harm people. Because neither side injures the other, virtue meets and all submit.

“Cooking” differs from “cutting”: cutting stresses analysis and division; cooking stresses harmonizing and blending. “Small fish” means something slight; to treat a great state as something slight is to do nothing beyond harmonizing the people’s disposition. “Ghost” stands for demonic forces, “spirit” for numinous power, and “not harming” means not disturbing. When governance is founded on the Dao, though demons may be numinous, they do not disturb. It is not merely that demons refrain from troubling people—the sage, governing through stillness, does not trouble people either, so how could demons dare to disturb them? Thus demon and human both forget contention and are subdued by sage virtue. “Jiao gui” (mutual return and submission) means universal yielding.

Chapter Sixty-One

(In the Heshanggong commentary this chapter is titled “Modest Virtue”; in Peng’s edition, “Lower Stream.”)

What follows here is only the chapter titles in the various editions: the Heshanggong commentary calls it “Modest Virtue,” Peng’s text “Lower Stream.”

Related Passages from the Inner Chapters of Yuanjiao

“A great state is like the lower reaches of a river—the place where all under heaven meet, and the yin-feminine pole of the world. Yin-feminine qualities usually prevail over yang-masculine ones through stillness; taking stillness and dwelling below as the basis enables one to govern and settle affairs. ‘Convergence’ (jiao) means all realms coming together—the idea that everyone is won over and willingly aligned.”

Chapter 61

(In the Heshanggong commentary edition this is titled “Chapter of Humility in Virtue” (Qiande); in the Peng edition, “Chapter of the Lower Reaches” (Xialiu).)

A great state stands in the downstream position—the point where all under heaven converge—and embodies the world’s yin-feminine aspect. Yin-feminine force often overcomes yang-masculine force through quiet stillness, with “dwelling below” as its rule. When a great state holds the lower place toward small states, it gains their allegiance; when small states hold the lower place toward a great state, they are taken in by it. Some secure their aims by placing themselves below; others secure their aims because they are placed below. When a great state is slightly at fault, it seeks to embrace and nourish all under heaven; when a small state is slightly lacking, it seeks to join and serve a great state. Each side gets what it wants—so the stronger side should all the more keep to the lower position.

This chapter instructs the feudal lords of the realm to cultivate the virtue of humility and modesty, so as to embrace and reassure the smaller states.

“Lower stream” is where all waters gather; it is used as a simile for a great state governing and receiving the subordinate polities. Hence “the great state is the lower stream”—not that the great state lies geographically downstream. When feudal lords meet in alliance and unite their vassals, that is called “the meeting point of all under heaven.” One should employ the virtue of yielding softness, which is why “the female of all under heaven” (the yin, the soft) is used as a figure. The female stands for the principle of weakness; the male for the principle of strength. A small state may appear hard, yet the great state subdues it through yielding stillness—so “stillness” is the virtue of humility.

When the great state is humble toward the small, the small state gladly serves as minister of the altars of soil and grain, and each year the great state may receive its tribute and supplies. When the small state is humble toward the great, the great state also tends to bestow gifts, and each year may grant it benefactions. Thus sometimes gain comes through humility, sometimes through occupying the lower place. Great and small states have always depended on and completed one another.

The great state corresponds to the image of “Great Excess” (Da Guo) in the Book of Changes—as when an old man marries a young wife, joining through “excess”—hence the virtue of “embracing and nurturing others”: the aim is to preserve the small states. The small state corresponds to the success of “Small Excess” (Xiao Guo), moving with the times, benefiting rectitude through “excess”—hence the way of “entering to serve others”: the aim is to attach to the great state. Each finds its place, all because the great state can be humble before the small.

Otherwise, even if the ruler of a small state wishes to serve the great state, when the great state bullies the weak with force, the small state will not submit in heart.

The supreme intent of the Most High (Laozi) was originally to teach the great feudal lords the principle of “using soft virtue so distant states may mutually sustain one another”; within that, the subtle message for self-cultivation is naturally double-layered, with inexhaustible subtlety.

Plain-Language Explanation

When this passage speaks of the “great state,” it means Kunlun—in internal alchemy (Neidan), a common image for the upper “spirit peak” stronghold of the human body. “Lower reaches” (xia liu) means the Yuanhai, the Dantian (energy center) below where innate Qi (vital energy) is stored—the kidney-water region. The “ferry” or channel of essence (Jing) at Kunlun flows downward and gathers into the Yuanhai; the point is that Yuanhai and Kunlun connect above and below in one circulating breath of Qi, which is why the classic says “the great state lies in the lower reaches.” It does not mean Kunlun sits downstream in ordinary geography.

This “lower reaches” is where all under Heaven meets and converges. “Convergence” (jiao) means to attach and unite: the place where the myriad things attach and submit is right here—the Huangting (Yellow Court), the central palace in Neidan, the band between the heart and the navel.

The virtue of the lower reaches is the “female” (pin) of all under Heaven. Pin means yielding, yin-softness, and receiving. The work of “concentrating Qi to reach softness” (zhuan qi zhi rou) is applied here, so it is also called the Pinhu (female gate, gate of reception). The Pinhu is a single pass in the subtle body; Jing is stored within, and one must quietly and steadily hold kidney Qi inside it. By the old method, first the kidneys are the maiden gate and the heart the male (mu—yang, active); at a deeper level of intent, one inverts so that “I” is female and “the other” is male—this inverts the positions of firm and soft (gang rou), not a literal reversal of female and male (pin mu) or of yin-yang as man and woman.

The virtue of the downward flow is the “female” of all under Heaven. Pin is yielding, yin-soft, and receptive; the practice of concentrating Qi to reach softness rests here, hence Pinhu. The Pinhu is one aperture; Jing is within, and kidney Qi is quietly held inside. First, kidney as maiden gate and heart as male; later, self as female and the other as male—still an inversion of firm and soft, not an inversion of female and male.