《圆峤内篇》Vol. 4

(Continuing from above) Its nature is fierce and restless; yet the stillness of Water can restrain the movement of Fire—this is when “lead” arrives and can check the “flying” of “mercury.” To take stillness as the lower position is to employ silence and softness, cultivating humility and lowliness to settle the heart-and-mind. Thus the fine fluid of Kunlun (the region at the crown) flows into the Yuanhai (the lower Dantian as the “origin sea”). The fluid again turns into Qi and enters the Dantian.

When “the great state places itself below the small state,” the movement is from Kunlun down to the Dantian—taking the small state means gathering the metal-and-water of the Dantian and reversing flow toward the Heavenly Valley. When “the small state places itself below the great state,” the movement is from the Dantian back up to Kunlun—taking the great state means merging the golden fluid of Kunlun so that both settle together in the Huangting (the middle Dantian, the “Yellow Court”).

Thus: either the fluid of Kunlun descends to the lower Dantian to generate Qi, and one takes the Qi of the lower Dantian—this is “going lower to take”; or the Qi of the lower Dantian ascends to Kunlun to generate fluid, and one swallows the fluid of Kunlun—this is “being lower and taking.”

“He whose great state overreaches” in fact follows the Way of the Yi: the hexagram Lake over Wind (Da Guo, Great Exceeding), beneficial to go forth—hence the image text uses “the lake submerges the trees” as a likeness: when the lake water rises high, the trees are drowned—exactly the image of great exceeding. When sweet dew from Kunlun descends, going forth is naturally prosperous; this aligns with Da Guo: spirit transforms into Qi, Qi transforms into Jing, until the lower Dantian is full. Hence there is desire to “gather and store the virtue of others.”

“He whose small state overreaches” likewise follows the Yi: the hexagram Thunder over Mountain (Xiao Guo, Small Exceeding), beneficial to hold to correctness—hence the image text uses “the bird leaves its call behind” as a likeness: the flying bird should keep low so its cry can be heard—exactly the image of small exceeding. When true fluid is contained within the lower Dantian, holding to correctness is auspicious; this matches Xiao Guo: Jing generates Qi, Qi generates spirit, which is about to ascend and rely on the Huangting. Hence there is desire to “enter and serve others.”

One movement up, one down, mutually supporting and mutually guarding—reversing Qian and Kun and running the Yellow River against its course: among the subtle keys of self-cultivation, nothing surpasses this.

Supplementary Note

Some editions therefore combine the relevant lines into a single reading: saying that “the Huangting resides below” is for gathering the “Kunlun fluid,” and thus belongs to the path of drawing from below. Other editions read “the Huangting shines downward,” meaning to draw and guide the Qi of the Dantian (the store of refined Qi below the navel)—again the path of drawing from below. This layer of meaning can also be grasped together with the preceding passage.

Wushan’s Commentary

Huangting is originally the chamber for nurturing the heart; pìn hù (the “female gate”) is originally the source for nurturing the kidneys. Here the heart-nurturing “Huangting” is called “pìn hù” because cultivation requires keeping the Shen to preserve Jing—the Dao values stillness; concentrating Shen and gathering Qi—the Dao values softness; emptying Shen to receive Qi—the Dao values humility; guarding Shen to await Qi—the Dao values weakness; joining Shen with Qi—the Dao values lowering; harmonizing Shen and Qi—the Dao values harmony. The feminine way has six virtues: stillness, softness, humility, weakness, lowering, and harmony; hence the name “pìn hù” is borrowed as a provisional label for “Huangting”—not that the physical “gate” is literally moved to the middle of the Huangting. Alchemists often invert hexagram lines and borrow names for images; this is routine. Hanxuzi states the meaning plainly; Huidao Ren goes further: one line, one secret formula—worth more than a thousand metaphors. Those who receive it should treasure and keep it secret, and not show it lightly to others.

Chapter Sixty-Two (Theme of the Daodejing)

The Dao is the treasury and root of the ten thousand things. The good person treats it as a treasure; even one who is not good can still be preserved through it. Fine words can be traded for profit; honorable conduct can win people over; when a person has faults, how could the Dao utterly abandon him? Thus when the Son of Heaven is enthroned and the Three Ducal ministers are installed, though there be jade disks borne ahead and teams of four horses following, these are still not equal to sitting in stillness and advancing in this Dao. Why did the ancients value this Dao so highly? Was it not because what is sought can be obtained, and guilt can still be remitted? Therefore it is prized by the world.

The innermost secret of the ten thousand things (wanwu zhi ao—the deepest root of all beings) is precisely the source of zaohua, the creative transformation that shapes the world. Good people treat it as their greatest treasure, using it to refine the elixir within and become sages; even those who are not good can still rely on it to preserve life and replenish qi to extend their years. This is the supreme impartiality of the Dao—it does not favor or reject anyone according to moral worth.

Those who speak this Dao well find followers as thick as a market crowd; those who honor and practice it can stand above others in human relations. It is not that the Dao has failed people, but that most of those who “abandon the Dao and run the other way” have hearts that are not good—the Dao has never actively cast anyone aside. So even if one offered rank as exalted as Son of Heaven or the Three Ducal Ministers, or gifts as weighty as jade disks and teams of four horses, those who forsake the Dao would still find holding fast to this Dao (an shou, cherishing and keeping to the Way) more precious than all of that. Zuo (sitting) here carries the sense of holding and maintaining, as in the Zuozhuan account of Chu troops “holding” the north gate; it also means kneeling in formal posture, as in the Liji (Book of Rites) rule that one should shift position when seated. The ancients prized this Dao because seeking it brings attainment, and attainment can ward off guilt and fault—therefore nothing under heaven is more precious. Bu yue (“is it not said”) is the tone of the old formula “can one not say thus?”

Chapter 63 (River He commentary title “Beginning of Grace”; Peng edition also “Great Chapter”)

Take wuwei (non-action) as your way of acting, take “no busyness” as your business, and take “no flavor” as your flavor—implement the Great Dao in what looks like no doing, no affairs, and no strong taste. Whether the grudge is large or small, whether enemies are many or few, respond with virtue and do not forge dead-end enmity. When you mean to tackle something hard, begin where it is easy; when you mean to do something great, start from what is minute. Difficult tasks under heaven always open from easy beginnings; great undertakings always pile up from small steps. Therefore the sage never advertises himself as “doing something big,” and by that very restraint he completes what is truly great.

Make promises lightly and trust grows thin; treat worldly matters as trivial and later troubles multiply. So the sage still treats affairs as “hard,” handling them with care, and in the end meets no great calamity.

This passage explains what several lines in the Dao De Jing mean—phrases such as acting through non-action, repaying resentment with virtue, and “plan for difficulty in what is easy; accomplish what is great through what is small.”

“Do the work of non-action, handle affairs as non-affairs, savor the flavor of the flavorless”: all of these tell us to keep the mind quiet and detached, not to force or contrive, and not to chase showy display.

“Great and small, many and few—measure things and distribute fairly”: how much to give, whether large or small, should follow what each thing actually requires—fairly, without bias.

“Repay resentment with De (virtue)”: respond to resentment in an upright way that accords with the Dao—that is, when the text says to “repay with virtue,” repay with virtue. It does not mean adding extra kindness on top of retaliation, which would slide into indulgence or hypocrisy.

“Plan for difficulty in what is easy”: when others treat easy tasks casually, you still take the easy parts seriously and carefully—not by deliberately seeking hardship first and then making it easy, but by never looking down on what seems easy from the start.

“Accomplish what is great through what is small”: great undertakings begin in small steps; if you disdain small matters, you eventually harm great character. This matches what the ancient books say, hence the further line: what is hard to do in the world must be begun from what is easy; what is great in the world must be begun from what is small. From this we see: to begin from the easy, you must first guard against being rash or careless; to begin from the small, you must first value small words and small acts.

“The sage never strives to be great, and therefore can achieve greatness”: the sage never prides himself on “doing great things,” and so in the end he can complete what is great. This reinforces the point above that one “must begin in the small.”

On “must begin in the easy,” the text offers a further angle: someone who promises lightly often ends up with little trust; likewise, someone who talks much and acts lightly often ends up accomplishing nothing. Therefore, even when a task is not hard, the sage still treats it as if it were hard—so that through life he has nothing he truly cannot finish (“in the end there is no difficulty”).

Plain-Language Reading of the Inner Chapter of Round Peak

Main Sense of the Passage

When things are in a stable state, they are easiest to hold onto; when misfortune has not yet shown any sign, it is easiest to plan against it. What is fragile breaks at a touch; what is still extremely fine vanishes the moment it scatters. Therefore one should act before problems have arisen, and put things in order before disorder has broken out.

A tree thick enough to embrace grew from a tiny shoot; a nine-story terrace rose from basket after basket of earth; a journey of a thousand li begins with the step under one’s foot.

Forcing and reckless action often ruin the affair; clinging tightly often makes one lose what one holds. The sage (one who has attained the Way) does not act rashly, and so does not fail; does not insist on possessing, and so does not lose.

Ordinary people often fail precisely when success is almost within reach. Therefore in finishing, be as careful as at the start, and the work will not collapse at the last moment. Thus what the sage desires is few desires (not indulging appetite); he does not treat rare and hard-to-get things as precious. What he learns is not to learn those crafty arts of rivalry and display; in that way he can remedy the faults people commonly fall into. He only assists things by following their natural course (their inherent pattern, without forcing human will upon them), and does not dare to act on his own caprice.

How the Inner Chapter Applies This to Cultivating the Great Dao

Anyone who would cultivate the Great Dao (the root Way, the path of practice as a whole) should understand the foregoing in this spirit:

When the mind can be settled, holding to the Way is relatively easy; otherwise, once desire stirs, the mind is hard to keep steady. When signs have not yet appeared, planning ahead is relatively thorough; otherwise, once outer things slip away or circumstances shift, planning is hard. Fragile things break easily; fine, subtle things scatter easily—meaning that the “tender” state is hardest to preserve for long, and the “small” juncture is hardest to seize in one grasp.

Thus “acting before it exists” means: stability can be maintained, and the unmanifest can still be planned for; “ordering before disorder” means: what is still fragile need not break, and what is still subtle need not scatter. Can one apply these principles with due care?

One who cultivates the Great Dao should put “be careful at the beginning and the end, desire little and follow nature, do not act rashly or cling possessively” into practice—guarding the mind, nipping trouble early, accumulating virtue, and conducting affairs—rather than merely memorizing a few lines on the page.

(Continued from Yuanjiao Neipian)

Practice also requires progress in steady stages; only then is backsliding less likely. Trees grow from small to large; a platform is built layer by layer from the bottom up; a journey goes from near to far—these are plain proofs. People who insist on youwei (deliberate, forced action) often fail precisely when they try to succeed; those who cling to having to obtain often lose what they grasp. The sage practices wuwei (non-action). Yet even wuwei and non-clinging still demand care at the end as at the beginning, one mind from start to finish—only then can one speak of accomplishment; that too is clear proof. Ordinary people often ruin what is almost finished, so all the more one should “be as careful at the end as at the beginning.” The sage “desires without desiring”: when desire is fitting, he cherishes the Dao; when it is not, he values De (virtue) and treats goods lightly. He also “learns without learning”: when learning is fitting, he knows the methods; when it is not, he rests calmly in wuwei. This turns around the common habit of straining too hard and acting rashly, assists and follows the natural order of the ten thousand things, and does not dare to force and act willfully. Chapter 57 says: “I practice wuwei and the people transform themselves; I love stillness and the people correct themselves; I take no busywork upon myself and the people grow rich; I am without desires and the people return to simplicity.” The point is the same here.

Chapter Sixty-Five

(In the Heshanggong commentary tradition this is titled “The Chapter of Pure Virtue”; in Peng’s edition, “The Chapter of Keeping the People Simple.”)

In antiquity, those skilled at walking the Dao did not use cleverness to make the people bright or teach them tricks; they guided them with plain simplicity. When the people are hard to govern, it is often because there is too much cleverness. Governing the state by cleverness is a calamity for the country; governing the state without relying on cleverness is a blessing for the country. To discern these two ways and take them as a model (a rule one can follow); to hold to that model is called xuan De (profound, hidden virtue). Xuan De is deep and far-reaching; it runs counter to what ordinary custom pursues, yet it turns toward great accord (smooth harmony with the Dao).

The Dao does not value “having wisdom and knowledge,” because that harms its primordial undifferentiated wholeness; it values “not knowing, not recognizing,” so as to preserve its nameless state. Therefore one who is good at practicing the Dao does not use cleverness to display the people to themselves, but uses simple unsophisticatedness to settle them.

“When the people are hard to govern, it is because there is too much clever contrivance”—this is the meaning of what was said earlier: “When wisdom appears, great falsity arises.” “To govern the state with clever contrivance is the state’s calamity”—that is the meaning of “When government is sharp and scrutinizing, the people become restless and insecure.” “Not to govern the state with clever contrivance is the state’s blessing”—that is the meaning of “Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom, and the people benefit a hundredfold.” These two sides—cleverness and the lack of it—truly bear on the benefit and harm of governing the state, and may serve as models for governing. When a person can understand this, they may be called possessing Mysterious De (profound Virtue). Mysterious De: its mirror is deep, its illumination far-reaching; on the surface it seems dull, yet it is not truly stupid—it is the opposite of the muddled, dim state of the myriad things. “Great accord” (da shun) means great transformation (great following-along, great fulfillment). Only with such Mysterious De can one reach and participate in great transformation.

(Continuing from the previous chapter)

Rivers and seas are good at staying low; all waters gather toward them, so they are called “kings of the hundred valleys.” Apply this to the sage: he wishes to stand above the people, yet in speech he keeps himself low—that is what was meant by “the high takes the low as its foundation”; he wishes to walk ahead of others, yet in action he steps back—that is what was meant by “putting himself last, yet finding himself first.” Thus the sage’s De (Virtue/Power) is even and unassuming: above, he has no awe-inspiring force that would make people put on airs and affect dignity; ahead, he has no sharp, pressing presence that would make people always guard against being hurt. So the people of the world uphold the sage and draw near to him without growing weary of him. No one can contend with him—just as rivers and seas are good at dwelling below, and the hundred valleys cannot split off their commanding place.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Everyone under heaven says my Dao (the Way) is great, as if it did not look like anything concrete. Precisely because it is great, it does not look like ordinary things; if it looked as definite as common things, it would long ago have become small and narrow.

I have three treasures that I hold to and cherish: the first is Ci (compassion—caring for others with softness, not lightly resorting to killing and destruction); the second is Jian (frugality—restraint, not indulging desire and dissipating one’s energy); the third is daring not to be first under heaven (not rushing ahead, not flaunting strength and taking the lead).

Because of Ci, one can be truly courageous; because of Jian, one can truly extend and give widely; because of daring not to be first under heaven, one can become the elder on whom the multitude relies.

If today one casts aside Ci and talks only of courage, casts aside Jian and talks only of lavish giving, and casts aside staying behind to fight for the front rank, that is the path of self-destruction.

With Ci one goes to war and wins; with Ci one holds a city and it stands firm. When Heaven wishes to preserve someone, it surrounds him with Ci.

On “Great” and the Dao

The Dao originally has no fixed form and no fixed body; people call it “great.” If you really tried to liken it to some form or body, it would no longer resemble that kind of “greatness.” Precisely because it is so great that it cannot be described, it is not like the “great” people ordinarily speak of. If it were like ordinary “greatness,” then within that “great” there would in fact be something “small.” Hence it is said “long ago it became fine/subtle” (jiu yi qi xi)—greatness in essence is formless; once it falls into names and appearances, it becomes subtle and diminished.

The Most High (Laozi) speaks of the “three treasures,” also explaining them as aspects unfolded from “greatness”: first ci (compassion)—compassion must be carried out as ren (humaneness), and therefore one can be courageous; second jian (frugality)—frugality means skill at storing up, and therefore one can be expansive; third bu gan wei tianxia xian (not daring to be ahead in the world)—not rushing ahead is like a great vessel completed late, and therefore one can become a vessel and a leader.

Yet if one abandons compassion and seeks courage, there will be a ruthless heart; if one abandons frugality and seeks expansion, there will be a greedy heart; if one abandons being last and strives to be first, there will be a contentious heart—all of these turn toward the way of seeking death. The scripture uses “one, two, three” to distinguish the three treasures, while “one” is most fundamental, so compassion is summed up as the head. When compassion is used in battle, one wins; when one sees righteousness, one acts. When it is used in defense, one holds firm; where humaneness is preserved, one is steadfast. “The one who saves” refers to how one treats others: when Heaven intends to save people, it also must use compassion to protect them. As the Dao, the meaning of compassion is vast indeed!

Chapter 68

(Titled “Matching Heaven” in the Heshanggong commentary edition; Peng edition the same)

One skilled as a knight does not display martial prowess. One skilled in warfare does not grow angry. One skilled at defeating enemies does not contend for superiority. One skilled at employing people stays below others. This is called the virtue of non-contention, called employing others’ strength, called matching Heaven—the utmost way of antiquity.

(Continuing from the previous discussion of “one who is good as a soldier, good in battle, and good at defeating the enemy”)

Relying on brute strength is called “martial force” (wu); relying on a burst of temper is called “anger”; rushing forward to fight head-on is called “contention”—none of these is how one who is truly good as a soldier, good in battle, and good at defeating the enemy acts. When people of old employed talent: if the enemy line had a fierce general, they often first approached with humility and deference to win him over so he would lay down his arms and come join them—this is called “the virtue of non-contention” (buzheng zhi de), that is, what is meant by “employing others’ strength.” Such virtue is enough to match Heaven (pei tian); Heaven does not contend for merit yet the ten thousand things complete themselves—this has been the utmost norm since antiquity.

Secret meaning of this chapter (Neidan, internal alchemy)

The hidden purport of this chapter is addressed to those who cultivate the inner elixir (Neidan): to subdue the “White Tiger,” one must first tame the “True Dragon.” The White Tiger is hard to control; if the dragon does not humble itself, the tiger will bolt. Only when “refining oneself” (lian ji) has reached clarity and freedom from defilement can one deploy the tiger’s power.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

(Titled “Chapter of Mysterious Use” in the Heshanggong commentary; titled “Chapter of Undervaluing the Enemy” in the Peng version)

Those who use arms have a saying: “I dare not take the lead as attacker—I take the guest’s role as defender; I dare not advance an inch—I would rather retreat a foot.” This is called: marching as if not marching, raising the arm as if armless, facing the foe as if there were no enemy, holding weapons as if weaponless. No misfortune is greater than undervaluing the enemy; undervaluating the enemy almost costs one one’s treasure. Therefore when two armies are matched, the side moved by grief and restraint often wins.

Plain-Language Commentary

On using troops: it is better for the other side to take the lead and for us to play the guest. Let them provoke first; we rest and wait for them to tire. In the art of war this is “advance an inch, retreat a foot”—better to advance little and retreat much, to lure the enemy deep. Then let them come after us, so we can set ambushes and win by surprise. That is one sharp stratagem of warfare.

The text also speaks of wuxing (having no “going”): if a person had no two feet, one step on the left (chi) and one on the right (chu) together make xing (walking); without two feet, there is no path at all. Rang (pushing aside, warding off) depends on the arms; without arms, how can you push back or block? Here the commentary uses the shapes of characters and parts of the body to show: when the root condition is missing, even the name of the action cannot be fulfilled.

Reng (reng, here glossed as reng in the sense of mutual leaning and entanglement) means leaning on each other and being tied together. Often enemy and friend become foes precisely through that mutual entanglement; without such mutual pulling, there would be no “us and them” to speak of. Weapons are sharp tools; the fighter who holds a weapon can charge and strike; with no weapon in hand, there is no real battle—again, all conflict depends on concrete conditions; one must not talk of victory and defeat in the abstract.

The Laozi says: no misfortune is greater than treating the enemy lightly; treating the enemy lightly almost makes one lose what one treasures most. Nothing is more to be treasured than ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness). So when two armies face each other, the side that can hold to ai—a heart that shrinks from harm and is unwilling to kill—wins. This ai is the same layer of meaning as using troops with ci (compassion) and restraining slaughter with mercy: what truly holds on the battlefield is not contempt for the enemy or show of force, but ren, yi, and ci as the treasure one must not lose.

Summary of This Chapter

This chapter presents the secret of returning the elixir (neidan perfected), using “employing troops” as a metaphor for “approaching the furnace” in alchemy. In the text, “wu” (literally “I/me”) in alchemical language stands for sha—often a stand-in for mercury or for one side of the compound. “The sha of our house” cannot be master on its own; it must be sent into the other party’s yuchi (Jade Pool), where true essence is refined—so they are host and we are guest: the so-called “inverting host and guest.”

“Advance and retreat” refers to firing the furnace: sometimes advancing an inch and retreating a foot. That is not refusing to fire when fire is there, but being extremely careful about timing—approaching the work with fear and caution. “March without marching” is like words that do not get through, or favor and authority that do not reach. “Throw without arms” is like furnace timing still unclear, or the go-between not yet in place. “Strike with no enemy” is like dragon and tiger not in tune, or the proportions wrong. “Hold with no weapons” is like the talisman not yet passed, or the ingredients not yet complete. In such a state, how could one dare work at the furnace and risk losing “my treasure”? Here “my treasure” means cinnabar (zhusha)—and in inner-alchemy usage, the crucial medicine.

Master Ziyang (Purple Yang) said: “To use generals you need left and right armies” (Shangyangzi’s note: left and right mean the other side and oneself); “Let them be host and me be guest; I urge you not to take the enemy lightly in battle, lest you lose our house’s priceless gem.” This chapter’s intent matches that. “When opposing armies meet” means the two sides face each other; if with the compassion and humaneness of one’s original nature one moves the other side’s metal nature to accord with principle, then metal comes to wood and our side can prevail—hence “the side that shows sorrow wins.”

Commentary (Wushan)

The true secret is all in this chapter—where else would you go looking for immortal books?

Chapter Seventy (Heshang Gong titles it “Knowing Difficulty”; Peng titles it “Knowing Me”)

My words are very easy to understand and very easy to put into practice, yet people under heaven mostly cannot understand them and cannot practice them. Speech has its master theme; affairs have their root. Precisely because people are ignorant, they do not know me. Those who know me are few; those who can follow my example are honored. Therefore the sage wears coarse cloth outside and holds fine jade within—plain on the surface, yet storing the supreme Dao within.

What the Supreme One (Taishang) spoke of concerns the Dao throughout. Yet the Dao never departs from the human person, which is why Laozi said it is easy to recognize and easy to put into practice. Still, in the end no one in the world truly recognizes it or can practice it. The Zhongyong puts it well: “The Dao cannot be walked in the world—I know why: the clear-minded go too far, the dull cannot reach it.” “The Dao cannot shine in the world—I know why: the worthy go too far, the unworthy cannot reach it.” Hence it is said that no one can know it and no one can practice it. Yet the Supreme One’s words can serve as the root of self-cultivation and ordering the realm; their gist is to set out the master themes of “person” and “world,” which is why the text speaks of “having a lineage” and “having a sovereign”—that is where the Daodejing’s meaning lies. People fail to grasp what “Supreme One” means precisely because they do not understand this Dao. The Supreme One also said: those who truly understand me are few; for that very reason what I represent—the Dao—is all the more precious. It is like the sage who wears coarse cloth outside while cherishing fine jade within: cheap garments on the outside, jade hidden in the breast—thus “the knowers are few,” yet “precious” is not diminished. To hide in the world without seeking to be known, to understand inwardly yet not regret—only the sage can do this.

Chapter Seventy-One

(In the Heshanggong commentary edition this chapter is titled “Knowing Illness”; in Peng’s edition it is “Illness of Illness.”)

To know that you still do not know—this is a superior state. To treat what you do not know as if you knew—this is a sickness. It is precisely because “forcing not-knowing into knowing” is taken as the sickness to cure that one is no longer afflicted by that sickness—hence one can say “not sick.” The sage does not fall into this sickness because he treats “forcing not-knowing into knowing” as a sickness to cure; therefore he is not sick.

Chapter Seventy-Two

(In the Heshanggong commentary edition this chapter is titled “Cherishing Oneself”; in Peng’s edition it is “Revering Majesty.”)

This segment only records the chapter title and differences among editions; the main text is not continued here. From the titles, “Cherishing Oneself” usually means the sage values his own person and does not lightly display his virtue; “Revering Majesty” usually means the people fear the ruler’s majesty and submit—connected with themes such as “when the people do not fear majesty, then great majesty arrives” in the lines that follow. A clause-by-clause reading will be given when the main text appears.

Plain-Language Reading of Yuan Qiao Neipian (Inner Chapters of the Round Peak)

On the passage about “when the people no longer fear authority” (continuing the meaning of Chapter 72)

“Authority” here carries a harsh, suppressive quality. When ordinary people no longer take that kind of intimidating power seriously, a heavier weight of coercion tends to fall on them—and that often happens because people themselves have narrowed their own path.

Heaven’s nature, however, favors giving life, not taking it; much of the killing force in the world is something people bring upon themselves. So one should not squeeze the “dwelling place” too tight, and not cut off one’s own “vitality.”

Here “dwelling” can be understood as where mind and spirit settle; “vitality” as the flow of Qi and life force within the body. The point is: give the mind’s home more room and let the heart rest there; keep the breath and Qi connected and draw them back to the root. As long as you do not sever your own Qi, nourishing breath can continue without end.

The sage knows himself yet does not show off (does not insist on being seen), and cherishes himself yet does not treat himself as lofty (does not hold himself above others). Knowing oneself, he stays inwardly careful and does not parade before others; cherishing himself, he takes preservation as the basis and does not boast. Therefore discard the impulse to perform and elevate the self, and take up clear self-knowledge and steady self-care. In short, everything turns on what is truly practical for one’s own body and life.

Chapter 73

(In the Heshang Gong commentary tradition the title is “Acting as Assigned”; in Peng’s edition, “The Net of Heaven.”)

Main sense of the text:

Those who are bold in the sense of forcing and daring reckless action often invite death; those who are bold in holding to softness and not daring to act rashly often preserve life. These two kinds of “boldness” may benefit or harm. What Heaven dislikes—who can fully explain why? Therefore the sage still treats the matter with caution and does not lightly decide.

The Way of Heaven: It wins without contending, responds without many words, arrives without being summoned, and plans effectively while remaining open and unhurried. Heaven’s net is vast—coarse in mesh yet nothing slips through. It may look sparse, but what must arrive eventually does.

Commentary on “bold in daring” versus “bold in not daring”:

“Boldness” here means decisiveness and readiness to act. Bold in daring is hard pushing and reckless doing—trying to “slay” every wandering thought—and often draws one into the same destructive pattern; bold in not daring is keeping to softness and not acting rashly, so what keeps wayward mind “alive” is right mindfulness and caution, and one is more likely to be preserved.

These two paths may help or harm; the deeper reasons for what Heaven dislikes are hard to state in full, so even the sage finds it difficult—and still does not pronounce lightly.

The four lines on the Way of Heaven mean: the heavenly Dao does not rely on struggle to prevail, on much talk to meet events, or on calling to make things come; it accomplishes its designs naturally in openness. Heaven’s net is wide; though the mesh is loose, nothing is lost—cause and effect and the Dao may not show at once, but there is always a destination.

Together, these two sections link the themes of “authority” with “not insisting on being seen or holding oneself high” to “boldness, the Way of Heaven, and Heaven’s net.” They stress one message: dwell with room, continue the breath, know and cherish yourself without flaunting reckless daring; align with the Way of Heaven—winning and responding without contending or empty talk.

Courage means resolute decisiveness. What is called killing is letting the deluded mind be utterly extinguished; bringing to life is letting the original spirit (yuanshen) be reborn. To make the deluded mind die, the key lies in decisive cutting—therefore one must dare to act; to make the original spirit live, the path lies in gradual advance—therefore one must not rush forward rashly. Killing and bringing to life: within harm there is benefit—first make the mind die, then the spirit can live; within benefit there is also harm—to revive the spirit, one must first let the heart die. Hence “sometimes benefit, sometimes harm”: benefit and harm serve each other and mutually complete. Within this there is the Way of Heaven (tiandao) itself: Heaven has preferences and aversions, silently carrying out punishment and virtue (de); ordinary people often cannot fathom why. If we speak only of what it abhors: cherishing life is Heaven’s nature, yet the killing impulse alone is unfathomable. Therefore when sages speak of the Way of Heaven, they dare not lightly speak presumptuously.

What is the Way of Heaven really like? It does not wrangle over principle with the common people, yet length of life, fortune and disaster when they arrive—all are ruled by Heaven, and everyone is subject to its constraint. It does not idle away talk of good and evil with the common people, yet when fortune and disaster come to a head, nothing fails to be verified. Without being summoned it comes of itself; it runs openly and calmly, skillfully deploying stratagem. It speaks to the utmost of the slow or swift retribution of good and evil, applying differently to each person, without the slightest deviation. Heaven’s net is vast; though loose, nothing slips through—how vast and yet how fine its embrace! Those who cultivate themselves should constantly keep their virtue (de) to inherit the Way of Heaven—only then is it fitting.

Chapter Seventy-Four (He Shanggong’s commentary titles this “Chapter on Restraining Confusion”; Peng’s edition titles it “Chapter on the Master of Killing”)

If the people do not fear death, how can you use death to frighten them? Suppose the people constantly fear death, yet there are still those who commit treachery and break the law—I seize them and put them to death according to law; who would still dare to offend? Originally there is one who specializes in killing and punishing (the Way of Heaven) who carries out killing. If a person oversteps the sacrificial vessel and takes the butcher’s place, substituting for Heaven in killing, that is called substituting for the master carpenter in hewing wood. One who substitutes for the master carpenter in hewing wood rarely fails to cut his own hand.

If the people no longer fear death, trying to frighten them with execution will not work—why go to such lengths? If you want the people always to keep in mind the thought that death is to be feared, you must pick out from among them those whose conduct is exceptionally outrageous and perverse, seize them, and put them to death according to law—then who would still dare, clinging to old habits, to treat beheading as nothing? Confucius once said to Ji Kangzi: “In governing, why rely on killing? If you wish to do good, the people will follow you toward what is good.” Yet when he served as minister in Lu, he had only Shaozheng Mao put to death, to awe those of perverse and eccentric ways—that too was this same idea. When one can “take hold of them and kill them” in this way, who still dares to treat the habit of contempt as second nature and not fear the law of death?

Only when one has reached this point can one be called a “officer of Heaven” (tianli)—the “executioner” appointed by Heaven. Heaven has its own side that holds authority over killing: it slays the perverse and eccentric, and does not let those who ought not hold the power of life and death usurp that role. If one forcibly replaces Heaven’s appointed agent and kills indiscriminately, it is like leaving the axe and chisel to the master craftsman, yet letting someone who cannot cut at all do the work in his place; when one who cannot cut acts for the master craftsman, rarely does he fail to cut his own hand. From this we know: when one who ought not be the executioner performs killing in Heaven’s stead, rarely is the humane heart of the one who kills not harmed. Given that, why rely on killing? Better to win people through good governance.

Commentary: Here “using killing” is a metaphor for harboring in the mind the intent of slaughter and the desire to kill; “not using killing” is a metaphor for having no such desire in the mind. When a person can rectify the spirit and hold fast to right mindfulness, all crooked demons and heterodox paths naturally dare not intrude—this is the secret of dispelling the perverse without having to resort to slaughter.

Chapter Seventy-Five (In the Heshanggong commentary tradition the title is “The Chapter on Greed and Harm”; in the Peng version it is “The Chapter on Not Giving Life”)

The reason the people starve is that those above them squeeze and levy taxes too heavily—therefore they go hungry.

(Upper section’s intent, akin to Daodejing chapter 75)

The people go hungry because those above levy taxes too heavily, and that is why famine follows. The people are hard to govern because those above intervene too much and rashly practice “having action” (youwei), and that is why order breaks down. The people no longer fear death and risk their lives because they care too much about material comfort and strive desperately to live more abundantly, and that is why they dare to take extreme risks. Only those who do not treat “living to grab advantage” as life’s first aim can be said truly to understand guisheng—to understand what it means to live well.

When taxes are heavy, famine comes in their wake; when those above do too much through youwei, those below become harder still to manage. When the people treat life lightly, it is often because they crave wealth and goods and want to nourish themselves lavishly, until they disregard even their own lives. The common saying that people die for gain points to exactly this. If goods and profit are not held supreme, the mind can stay clear and desires can stay few—and that is more refined than “only caring about thick living.”

Editor’s note (yu an)

Heavy taxes and hungry people are like a body worn out by toil until it withers; too much youwei above and hard governance below are like the spirit overused until it falls into disorder.

Chapter 76 (warning against hardness / dwelling in the upper place)

While alive, the human body is soft; in death it is stiff. While alive, plants are tender and fragile; in death they are withered and dry. So the way of “strong and hard” belongs to what is dead; the way of “soft and weak” belongs to what is alive. Therefore an army that is too strong often cannot win; wood that is too hard often grows only to about a gong (roughly the span of two hands around a trunk) and no further—the character read here as gong, meaning that measure. In the natural order, what is powerful often sits lower, while what is soft and yielding often sits higher.

Commentary on the meaning

What is soft and weak has full Qi and can circulate; what is hard and strong is where bone-qi gathers and the physical form turns rigid. In a person, where Qi is present there is life; where Qi disperses and the bones are laid bare, there is death. Birth and death in the ten thousand things follow the same pattern: in their tender, fragile phase water-qi is ample, so there is life; in their withered, dry phase water-qi is exhausted, so there is death. The hinge of life and death lies in softness versus hardness—you cannot judge from a single glance at the surface alone. Another comparison: when an army is too strong, often our side’s Qi declines first while the enemy’s Qi is still vigorous, so victory does not come; when wood is too hard, its qi nodes do not flow, and it cannot grow large. Thus high and low, honored and humble, can also be read through soft versus hard. For those who cultivate the self, should not humility and softness be what is honored?

Chapter 77

(The Heshanggong commentary edition titles this “The Way of Heaven” (Tiandao); Peng’s edition uses the same title.)

The way Heaven operates is like drawing a bow: what matters is balance and harmony between strong and weak, high and low. Should those who cultivate themselves not put humility and yielding first?

Heaven’s pattern is like pulling a bow—what is high is pressed down, what is low is lifted up; what is in surplus is reduced, what is insufficient is supplemented. This is “the Way of Heaven takes from what has surplus to fill what is insufficient.” The usual way of the human world is often the opposite: it takes from those already insufficient to serve those already in surplus. Who can take what they have in excess and use it to supply what the world lacks? Only one who accords with the Dao. Therefore the sage acts but does not rely on it, achieves success but does not dwell on merit—is this not “not wishing to display one’s virtue and worth”?

Note (explaining the Way of Heaven with plain comparisons)

The Supreme Old Lord (Laozi) uses things we see every day: the Way of Heaven is like drawing a bow; what it values is levelness and straightness. Press down the high and lift the low, and both arms are even; reduce surplus and fill lack, and the whole body is upright. The Way of Heaven adjusts the seven luminaries (the sun, moon, and five planets and the order of the heavens), arranges the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and accomplishes the marvel of transformation and nurturing—its key too lies in holding to balance and uprightness. Hence it also says: “The Way of Heaven takes from what has surplus to fill what is insufficient.” The human way is not so: it takes from the insufficient to serve the surplus, with the result that the insufficient become more insufficient and the surplus more surplus. Who can use surplus to serve the world’s lack? Only one who embodies the Way of Heaven, establishes the Great Dao, and wishes all things each to find their place—from the sage we see: he acts but does not rely on it, achieves success but does not cling to it; he uses reducing surplus to fill the world’s lack, yet does not hang his virtue on his own name—is this not refusing to flash one’s virtue and worth?

Bi’s verse commentary

The Way of Heaven diminishes the full and increases the humble; if human sentiment always harms the low to benefit the high, the harm grows deeper. If one can penetrate the scripture’s meaning, then the point of internal alchemy (Neidan)—“planting the elixir in cinnabar sand, merging with the sage’s lineage”—also lies in this same principle.

Chapter 78

(The Heshanggong commentary edition titles this “Trustworthiness in Responsibility” (Renxin); Peng’s edition titles it “Softness and Yielding” (Rouruo).)

Citations and Explanations from Yuánqiào Nèi Piān (Plain Language)

(Meaning of Chapter 78)

Nothing in the world is softer or weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it for striking and piercing hard things—nothing else can replace it in that role. The weak overcome the strong and the soft overcome the hard; everyone under heaven knows this, yet few truly live by it. Therefore the sage says: Only one who can bear the nation’s disgrace is fit to be lord of the altars of soil and grain; only one who can bear the nation’s ill fortune is fit to be king of all under heaven. Straight words sound like their opposite.

(Commentary on the passage above)

The opening three lines restate the idea that “the softest thing in the world can travel through the hardest.” “Nothing can replace it” (wú yǐ yì zhī) means nothing else can take water’s place in breaking through resistance. The soft overcoming the hard is a truth the whole world understands, yet in the end almost no one puts it into practice. So Laozi again cites the sage to show the full virtue of softness: bearing the nation’s disgrace and bearing its ill fortune are both cases of the sage turning inward in self-examination—as if to say, “The fault is mine; what crime have the people committed? My virtue is thin, and that is why this heaven-sent calamity has come.” “Straight words sound like their opposite” (zhèng yán ruò fǎn) means that these upright teachings of the sage are always turned back upon oneself; one dares not blame others. That too is the way of softness.

Chapter 79

Scripture:

When deep hatred is settled in reconciliation, some resentment still remains—how can that count as good? Therefore the sage holds the creditor’s side of the contract yet does not press the debtor for payment. A person of De (Virtue/Power) keeps the tally but does not dun; a person without De is harsh in pursuit and settlement ( sī chè suggests pressing collection and clearing accounts). The Dao of heaven shows no partiality; it constantly protects the good person.

(Where this chapter has only the scripture and no later commentary, the plain-language reading is as above. “The person of De keeps the tally; the person without De is strict in collection” can be read as: the virtuous hold to the agreement without cornering others, while the unvirtuous chase payment without mercy. In ancient lending, the left half of the split tally was often held by the creditor; the sage holds that half yet does not hold others to account—embodying the soft virtue of “having a bond but not coercing.”)

Chapter 79 (continued) and Related Themes

When resentment fills the realm, the ruler’s virtue is surely not deep enough. When the people already cry out in anger, if he does not turn inward and blame himself but tries to “make peace” to dispel great resentment—even if the surface looks reconciled for a time, the grudge in the heart cannot be fully cleared; leftover resentment is hard to exhaust. How can that be called perfect good?

Confucius said: “Demand much of yourself and little of others, and you can keep resentment far away.” Therefore the sage who governs the realm first cultivates the work of thick virtue and establishes trust and righteousness in the people’s hearts; he does not harshly blame others, yet others naturally believe in him. It is like drawing up a contract: each side holds one half as a permanent record, so neither side deceives the other. The sage keeps virtue as openly as one who holds the left half of the tally; how could the people not be secure and at ease?

Thus the person of virtue is like the tally-keeper who guards good faith; the person without virtue is like the “recorder of violations”—one who specializes in finding fault: scrutinizing everything and pursuing every slip, never examining himself, so the people will not follow him. The Way of Heaven has no favorites; it constantly protects the good person. What the Book of Documents says—“High Heaven is not partial; it is near to those who revere it; the people have no fixed loyalty; they only cherish humaneness”—means exactly this.

Chapter 80

(He Shang Gong’s commentary titles this “Standing Alone”; Peng’s version titles it “Small State.”)

Let the state be small and the population sparse. Even if there are tools enough for ten or a hundred households, do not use them. Lead the people to value life and not treat it lightly, so they do not migrate far from home. Though there are carts and boats, no one rides them; though there are armor and weapons, no one displays or deploys them. Lead the people back to keeping records with knotted cords. They find their food sweet, their clothes fine, dwell content where they dwell, and take joy in the customs of their own village. Neighboring states are within sight of one another; the crowing of cocks and barking of dogs can be heard across borders—yet the people live out their lives without traveling back and forth.

Yuan Qiao Nei Pian’s Elaboration on “Small State, Sparse Population”

Some guests wish to argue that the state should be large and the population numerous—that though the myriad people have every kind of implement, they should not use them, thinking that in that way their supply would actually be more ample. That would amount to returning to the condition of the earliest primal people. The Supreme Way (Tai Shang) is not like that: it takes the small example to clarify the large; from the ideal of a small state one can infer how a great realm ought to be governed.

Within a small state, the people could still visit one another among themselves.

Some wish to govern a great state and lead hundreds of millions of people, yet they possess a “great vessel” capacious enough for billions and do not use it—in that case, what the vessel truly accomplishes becomes all the more complete. That line of thought is rather like trying to drag the whole world back to the age of primordial simplicity and the earliest people. The Supreme One (Taishang)—what Laozi teaches—is not on that path: he uses the “small” to stand for the “great,” so that people may infer from small-scale conduct how to act on the large scale.

When the state is small and the population sparse, even if there are implements that could hold ten or a hundred people and one does not use them, the purpose of those implements is fulfilled more fully and adequately; what difficulty is there in returning to simplicity and plain authenticity? Therefore one should keep the people from relying on elaborate tools, treating the preservation of their own persons as their treasure; they should remain in their native villages and homelands and not move to other lands; they should value life and not treat death lightly, nurturing life in pursuit of long life—what beyond the body is there to fix the mind upon?

Under such governance the people walk with light, easy steps, so that though there are boats and carts they need not ride; within the borders there are no robbers or thieves, so that though there are armor and weapons they need not be displayed; government is thick and solid in substance, and the ancient custom of knotting cords for record-keeping may continue. Food is sweet, clothing comfortable; they dwell in peace and delight in their customs. Neighboring states are within sight of one another, and the crowing of cocks and barking of dogs can be heard—yet the people live to old age and death without traveling back and forth between them. Social obligations are thus reduced and flashy bustle does not arise; goods are plentiful and each household keeps to its own.

Sages within the state often say: to guard a single hill and valley and call it surpassing the human world; to pass one spring and one autumn as if forgetting oneself inside a gourd (huzhong)—what difference is there from the grotto-heavens and blessed lands (dongtian fudi), from a paradise of bliss? Ancestors enjoy health and long life; husband and wife remain together through the years; brothers play the xun (pottery flute) and chi (bamboo pipe) in harmony; descendants tune the luan and crane (emblems of auspicious immortal music)—how is this unlike those blessed realms?

Chapter Eighty-One (In the Heshanggong commentary version the title is “Chapter of Manifest Substance”; in the Peng version it is “Chapter of Not Hoarding.”)

True words are often not ornate; ornate words are often not trustworthy. A person of goodness (shan) does not contend with clever speech; one who loves disputation is often not good. One who truly understands does not parade wide learning; one who parades wide learning is often not one who truly understands. The sage does not hoard fame and profit for himself—the more he acts for others, the fuller he becomes; the more he gives to others, the more he has to spare. The way Heaven (tiandao) operates benefits the ten thousand things without harming them; the way of the sage (shengren zhi dao) acts yet does not contend with people.

In Yuan Qiao Nei Pian (Inner Chapter of Round Hill), the three thematic strands—trust, goodness, and knowing—form the main thread of the author’s exposition; they gather and clarify the essential meaning of the entire scripture.

On solid genuineness: True solidity in practice holds to a single standard—the true (zhen)—and does not rely on empty display to win the world’s approval. When one’s aim is only to please the world, what one uses is hollow show, not genuine solidity; hence Laozi says: “Words that can be trusted are not fine-sounding; fine-sounding words cannot be trusted.”

On transmission: Sound transmission keeps to one straight path and does not rely on forced or far-fetched interpretations to mislead people. When one’s aim is to mislead, what one uses is contrivance, not faithful carrying forward of the sages’ Dao; hence Laozi says: “Those who are truly good do not wrangle with words; those who love disputation are not truly good.”

On penetrating understanding: Writing that truly penetrates speaks of one principle and does not deliberately spread itself wide to parade learning. When one’s aim is to parade learning, that is diffusion, not penetration; hence Laozi says: “Those who truly know do not pursue breadth for its own sake; those who pursue breadth are not those who truly know.”

The text then takes up establishing virtue and establishing merit to complete the great practical purpose of this scripture.

Here “accumulation” (ji) means accumulating good deeds. The sage does not merely mouth “accumulate good”; he first establishes great merit and great De (virtue/power) in his own person—merit that is never petty, De that never fails to reach others. Thus, when he bestows merit and De upon others, his own merit and De are only the more fulfilled; when he yields merit and De to others, his own store of merit and De is only the greater.

The Dao silently transforms and thereby generates the myriad things, so it benefits without harming. The sage’s way takes no-mind as its creative work; he does not compete with others over “accumulating good deeds,” yet its greatness is one with Heaven and Earth.

The ancients said: the highest is to establish virtue; next, to establish merit; again, to establish words (teaching)—any of the three may be imperishable. That saying may serve as a colophon to this chapter.

Hanxu Zi—the author of the commentary on this scripture—after finishing his annotation, would sometimes explain the text and sometimes probe it deeply, letting what he said and what he did confirm each other. He believed that even without fixating on set phrases, he could express the Dao’s true pivot.

The final chapter uses merit (gongde) as a summing commentary; he also took that closing move to be fitting and good.

Then he asked himself: In chapter 81 of the Daode Jing, how could the four words wei er bu zheng—“act, yet do not contend”—serve as the final home for all eighty-one chapters? Suddenly it was clear: precisely so, precisely so. That line above all can stand as the “Valley Lord” (gu wang) of the whole book—the lord like an empty valley to which the ten thousand things return and gather.

What those who cultivate must watch for is this: after they have heard the Dao, if they still scramble for petty merit, petty virtue, petty fame for learning, and every kind of wealth and rank as fleeting as clouds, each trying to outdo the rest, they will waste this useful body for nothing.

The sage’s way matches Heaven’s way. Heaven’s work is generation and transformation; at root it benefits and does not harm. Does not the sage’s way, which embraces creation and transformation, likewise benefit without harming? He hoped that everyone who had achieved great deeds and fulfilled both loyalty and filial piety would each settle in the true realm and each attain the Dao. First they would practice “jade refinement”—inner cultivation and tempered life in the world, like refining fine jade—and hide in plain sight in the marketplace. Then they would practice “gold refinement”—a deeper stage of work, like refining gold—and dwell deep in cliffs and valley caves. Inwardly they would do all they should; outwardly they would cut off the urge to compete for victory. Only by not contending does no one under heaven contend with you; that is the perfected person (zhenren).

The great closing meaning of the scripture truly goes to the limit.

The True Transmission of Laozi

Laozi was a man of Chu. His father’s name was Qian Yuan Gao.

Legendary Accounts of Laozi’s Life Cited in the Yuanqiao Neipian

Immortal scriptures and works such as the Lushi (Records of the Way), as cited in the Yuanqiao Neipian (Inner Chapters of Round Mount), relate the following: Laozi’s ancestral home was in the land of Chu. His father was named Qian Yuangao, who served as senior remonstrating official under the Shang dynasty (in another version, under Zhou). His mother was surnamed Hong, personal name Yingfu. One day, while sleeping peacefully in daylight, she saw five-colored rays of light surrounding the Supreme Unity Old Lord (Taiyi Laojun) as he descended from the sky; in an instant he turned into a shooting star and flew into her mouth, and she conceived. After twelve years she gave birth at Queli in Kuxian, under a plum (li) tree. He took Li as his surname; because in a dream the Old Lord entrusted himself to be born through her, he was called Laozi (“Old Master”); because his ears were long, he was also named Chongshen (“Heavy Ears”), with the style Baiyangfu. One tradition dates his birth to the fifteenth day of the third month in the first year of King Wuding of Shang.

The Neizhuan (Inner Tradition) says: surname Li, personal name Er. His mother saw solar essence like a shooting star fall into her mouth and became pregnant; she carried him for seventy-two years and gave birth beside the Guo River in Chen, under a plum tree, and pointed at the tree, saying, “This shall be my surname.” At birth his hair was already white, hence the name Laozi; his ears had three openings, hence he was also called Laodan.

The Wuzong Wangji (Net Chronicle of the Five Ancestors) gives another account: surname Li, personal name Zai, born on the fourteenth day of the ninth month in the dingsi year of King Ding of Zhou.

The Yueling Guangyi (Broad Meaning of the Monthly Ordinances) records that Laozi’s mother was called the Jade Lady. She dreamed that five-colored light gathered into a pellet, entered her mouth, and was swallowed, and she conceived; she was pregnant for eighty-one years and was delivered from under her left armpit beneath the Xiyuan tree, on the fifteenth day of the third month in the first year of Wuding.

The Suosui Qianlianglu (Record of Former Liang by Suosui) adds that Qian Yuangao was seventy-two and still unmarried; he lived next to a neighbor, Yishou Shi, who was pregnant for eighty years and gave birth to Laozi.

These sources disagree on period, names, birth year, and manner of birth. They are mythic hagiographies of a sage’s life in later immortal literature, not reliable historical biography.

This passage gathers different versions of “how Laozi came to be” from assorted notebooks and popular lore. They do not agree with one another; some refer to Laozi the person, while others actually describe the higher Daoist figure known as Daode Tianzun (Heavenly Lord of Virtue and the Dao).

Youyang Zazu says that the mother of the Li clan was treated as a yuanjun (a holy mother or female immortal of that type). Solar essence entered her mouth; she swallowed it, became pregnant, and carried the child for seventy-two years before giving birth.

Liu Xie’s Xinlun says Laozi was born through a response to the planet Mars (Huoxing).

Lushi says the mother was moved by a falling star and there were signs of shaking; she was pregnant for twelve years and then gave birth. The child could speak at birth, had a yellowish face and white hair, and was therefore called “Laozi” (“Old Master”). It also places him in Lai township, Kuxian, and notes that Lai was also written Lai (as in “Lai”), which led some to identify him with Old Laizi, the ancient figure famed for filial piety.

Gaoshi zhuan records briefly that Laozi was born in the Yin–Shang period.

Shenxian zhuan adds more variants: Laozi’s name was Chong’er; his mother conceived after a great meteor; or she carried him for seventy-two years; or his father was unknown and he took his mother’s maiden clan name; or his mother gave birth under a plum (li) tree, and the infant spoke at once and pointed to the tree, saying that should be his surname.

Liexian zhuan goes further: Laozi entered the womb riding a white deer.

Tang ji says Laozi’s mother became pregnant from eating plums, was abandoned by her parents, and gave birth under a plum tree eighty years later. The Tang founder Li Yuan claimed Laozi as a remote ancestor, which fed the idea of an “immortal Li lineage with deep roots”—that the Li surname descended from a transcendent source.

A note in the same family of miscellanies as Youyang Zazu (Zazuo) records that the Mystic Jade Maiden (Xuanmiao Yunü) received dark-yellow qi from heaven into her belly and conceived, and that after three thousand seven hundred years she gave birth in the land of Xi Na. In the sources this line usually refers to the birth of Daode Tianzun, not the philosopher Laozi of ordinary tradition.

The closing lines mix in phrases about “ utmost nature and pure filial piety,” “transforming through Lai custom,” and “ spanning many centuries between Shang and Zhou,” stacking Lai township, Old Laizi, and ancient recluses together with deeds attributed to Daode Tianzun. Readers need to keep the layers apart: which stories belong to Laozi’s life as a historical or literary figure, and which belong to later hagiography that divinized the “ancestor of the Dao” (Daozu) in the immortal genealogies of the religion.

This passage mainly concerns a man of the Way later honored as an “ancient hermit gentleman” (the text also weaves his legend together with those of Laozi and Old Master Laizi), lists differing accounts from various books of his lifespan and names used across ages, and appends a story of Old Master Laizi refusing office and going into hiding with his wife.

Opening overview

By nature he was utterly pure and filial, and achieved his virtue through worldly nurture; all his life he was detached and free of desire, not coveting glory outwardly while inwardly conserving essence and vital energy. It is said that from the Shang–Zhou transition onward he lived for several hundred years without showing decline, and people of the time called him the “ancient hermit gentleman.”

Records of longevity from various sources

• Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji): over one hundred sixty years, some say over two hundred.
• Ge Hong (style name Zhichuan): Laozi lived over three hundred years in the Zhou dynasty.
• Lu shi (Records of the Way): (his mother carried him) four hundred forty years, or two hundred twenty (texts differ, mostly in mythic reckoning).
• Guang ji (Extensive Records): two hundred seventy years.
• Shantang sikao (Examination of the Mountain Hall): born in the time of King Wuding of Yin, until the ninth year of Qin Shihuang, totaling nine hundred ninety-six years by that reckoning.

Counting from the first year of Wuding to the ninth year of the First Emperor, that would be one thousand eighty-seven years.

Laozi’s many names in the Zhou

Legend has it that in the Zhou, Laozi often used different style names: under King Wen he was styled “Master of Xieyi” (another reading: “Master Zhiyi”), serving as Keeper of the Archives; under King Wu, “Master Yucheng,” serving as Historian under the pillar; under King Kang, “Master Guoshu”; under King Qing, “Old Master Laizi.” His wife was wise and worthy; together with Old Master Laizi she hid away among fields and mulberry groves. He composed fifteen chapters on the uses of Daoist teaching.

Old Master Laizi refuses King Zhuang of Chu’s summons

King Zhuang of Chu heard his fame and went to visit. Old Master Laizi was weaving at the time; the king drew near and said: “The great policies of governing the state—I wish you, Master, would assist me.” Laozi (here continuing the earlier name, meaning Old Master Laizi) answered: “Very well.” The king left. His wife returned from gathering firewood and asked: “Did you agree?” He said: “I agreed.” She said: “I have heard: ‘Those who can feed you with wine and meat can also lash you with a whip; those who can give you rank and salary can also kill you with axe and halberd.’ I cannot be ordered about by others.” She threw away her basket and left. Old Master Laizi was equally resolute and at once went into hiding with his wife.

Plain-Language Commentary

Sima Qian records that someone (one tradition links this figure with Old Master Laizi) declared that even rank and stipends could not buy him, nor axes and halberds coerce him—he could not be “made to dance to another’s tune.” He then cast down his basket and left. Old Master Laizi was delighted and at once went into reclusion with his wife.

Sima Qian also notes that Laozi’s son was named Zong, who served in Wei as a general with a fief at Duan. Zong’s son was Wang, Wang’s son Yan, Yan’s great-great-grandson Xia held office under the Han. Xia’s son Jie served as Grand Tutor to the King of Jiaoxi; the family settled in Qi territory. From this perspective, Laozi’s line of ancestors, fathers, and sons mostly wandered from place to place and split into branches—it is hard to pin them to a single locale.

Others say Laozi assumed different identities in different regions and eras: in Yue he was Fan Li, in Qi the “Floating Barrel” recluse, in Wu Lord Tao of Zhu, in early Han the Yellow Stone Elder (Huangshigong), and under Emperor Wen of Han the Riverbank Elder (Heshang Gong). None of these claims can be firmly verified.

Ge Hong (Ge Zhichuan) held that Laozi did not appear in only one lifetime but “emerged in every age,” merely changing names and titles each time. The reasoning runs thus: according to texts such as the Jiugong Jing, Sanwu Jing, and Yuanchen Jing, a person meets certain “passes of adversity” (ekui—critical junctures, karmic knots) in life; at such times one must change one’s name to align with shifts in primordial Qi (vital energy) and thereby escape calamity and extend life. Many adepts of his day and later did the same. Laozi lived several centuries in the Zhou period and must have met adversity many times, which would explain the proliferation of names. To grasp Laozi’s origins properly, one should rely chiefly on orthodox historical records and cross-check them against scriptures and secret writings transmitted in Laozi’s name; most popular tales are largely fanciful and cannot be fully credited.

Moreover, works such as the Xisheng Zhongtai and Fuming Bao (in the same vein as the above) also stress that one should adjudicate by interweaving documented history with Laozi’s canonical and esoteric texts; vulgar hearsay is mostly unreliable.

Works such as Xisheng Zhongtai, Fuming Bao, Zhutao Yuji, and Jinpian Neijing all describe Laozi’s appearance: skin white with a yellowish cast, clear brows and bright eyes, a broad forehead, long ears and large eyes, sparse teeth and a square mouth, thick lips; several lines on the forehead showing the way of penetrating principle, auspicious facial signs such as “sun corner” and “suspended moon,” a nose bridge like twin pillars, ears with three “leak gates,” feet treading the two-five pattern, hands holding the ten characters, body nine feet tall, teeth six-by-eight— the form a sage should have. One who receives Heaven’s mandate at birth will naturally have spirit-transcending vision unlike ordinary people and is fit to be patriarch of the Way; hence protection by celestial gods and the following of immortals. Therefore the methods he transmitted for saving the world number nine hundred and thirty scrolls in all, and talismanic writings seventy scrolls—all recorded in Laozi’s Benqi Zhongpian; the catalog still exists today and can be trusted and verified. What lies outside this count was mostly added privately by later Daoist priests and is not authentic scripture (Ge Hong Zhichuan’s note).

Laozi “took non-action to transform himself and purity and stillness to set himself right” (words from the Records of the Historian). With single-minded devotion he made long life his task; therefore though he remained long in the Zhou court, his name and rank did not rise—likely because he wished to blend his light with the dust while inwardly guarding the natural. Additions outside the correct count are not authentic scripture (Zhichuan). It is also said: after the Way was complete he departed—originally he was an immortal (Biographies of Immortals).

When Confucius went to the Zhou capital to ask Laozi about ritual, Laozi said: “Those you speak of and their bones have already rotted; only their words remain. When the noble person has his time he goes forth in carriage; when he does not, he drifts like tumbleweed. I have heard: a good merchant hides his goods as if empty; the noble person of great virtue seems dull. Put away your arrogance and many desires, your bearing and your unrestrained ambition—these do you no good yourself.”

One day someone asked Confucius: “Have you also attained the Dao?” Confucius replied: “I have sought the Dao for twenty-seven years, and I have not yet attained it.” Laozi said: “If the Dao could be offered to a ruler like a gift, who in the world would not offer it to their lord? If the Dao could be used to win favor with one’s kin, who would not give it to family first? If the Dao could be told to anyone at will, who would not tell their brothers? If the Dao could be passed to one’s children like family property, who would not pass it on to the next generation? The reason none of this works is simply this: when the mind lacks a true master, the Dao cannot take up residence within.”

When Confucius visited Laozi, he spoke at length about benevolence and righteousness. Laozi said: “When chaff blown upward gets into your eyes, you cannot even tell east from west; when a mosquito bites your skin, you cannot sleep peacefully all night. Now this talk of benevolence and righteousness is harsh and burdensome—it has stirred my heart to unrest; there is no greater disorder than this. If you would have people under heaven not lose their original simplicity, move with the natural flow of things, gather De within themselves and stand at ease in life, and all together return to what is natural—that would be enough. Why act like someone shouldering a great drum and rushing about to find a lost child, putting on that kind of exaggerated, forced display?” (In some transmitted versions, lines such as “standing out conspicuously as if carrying a great drum in search of a lost child” may appear with repetition; the point is that one need not promote benevolence and righteousness in such a showy, strenuous way.)

Laozi also said: “When the spring dries up, fish are stranded on dry land; they moisten each other with dampness and wet each other with spit—but that is not as good as each returning to the rivers and lakes and forgetting one another in their own element.”

Confucius said to Laozi: “I have studied the Six Classics—the Odes, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals—and have presented them and offered counsel to seventy-two rulers. I have spoken of the way former kings governed and of achievements like those of the Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Shao, yet not one ruler truly took my advice. Is it that people are too hard to persuade, or that the Dao itself is too hard to put into words?”

Laozi said: “The Six Classics are traces left by former kings; they are not the ‘foot’ with which those kings walked. What you speak of now is still only traces. Traces are impressions left after the foot has passed—how can an impression be the same as the foot?”

After Confucius returned, he did not speak for three days. Zigong found this strange and asked him about it. Confucius said: “Birds—I know they can fly; fish—I know they can swim; beasts—I know they can run. What runs can be caught in nets, what swims can be hooked with lines, what flies can be shot with arrows. As for the dragon, I do not know how it rides wind and clouds to rise to the ninth heaven. Today, having met Laozi, he is perhaps like a dragon.” (This story is drawn from Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian and the Zhuangzi.)

Laozi had long resided in the Zhou court. Seeing the royal house’s virtue in decline, he took a cart drawn by a green ox and went west through the Qin Pass, intending to ascend Kunlun. Yin Xi, keeper of Hangu Pass, saw purple qi and knew in advance that a lofty person was coming; he cleared the road for forty li to go and meet him. Before long Laozi indeed arrived. Yin Xi said: “You are surely about to withdraw from the world—please be sure to write a book for me.” Laozi then stayed at the pass and composed the Daodejing in slightly more than five thousand words, gave the whole work to Yin Xi, and departed.

Plain-Language Interpretation

In the Eastern Han, there was a man in Qingzhou surnamed Wang, named Cheng, courtesy name Xuanfu, with the Daoist name Donghua. He met Wang Qizhu, the Western Mother of Kunlun. Delighted that they shared the surname Wang, she bestowed on him the title “Sage of White Cloud” and transmitted to him the blue talisman jade seal and golden-command spiritual text that Laozi had passed down. Xuanfu cultivated for three years without slackening. Laozi, moved by his sincerity, descended and condensed the Huangting Neijing into one scroll, naming it the Outer Scene, and gave it to Xuanfu for practice, also revealing the firing regimen for the Nine Revolutions Eight Jade Elixir pill. Xuanfu then hid his light and lived in seclusion, building a hut for quiet refinement. When his work was complete, he took the title East Flower Sovereign Lord (Donghua dijun), governing the qi of the Eastern Lesser Yang, and was also called the Lesser Yang of the Purple Mansion—minister to the Emperor of Fusang.

By the third generation, the Pure Yang Master (the patriarch honored in the Lü Dongbin lineage) said: The External Landscape Scripture that Laozi transmitted, and the Internal Landscape Scripture in the Jade Sovereign line, were both secretly preserved in the Palace of Fusang; the Donghua Patriarch praised and passed them down, intending to show Laozi’s original heart in saving the world.

In this incarnation Laozi’s prior body was a transformation entrusted by the Supreme Venerable Sovereign (Taishang Laojun), so he could hide or appear and change without limit—of the same lineage as Laojun. In high antiquity Laojun first manifested the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing). In the age of the Heavenly Sovereign he was named “Heavenly Master of Myriad Methods”; in the age of the Earthly Sovereign, “Master within the Mystery”; in the age of the Human Sovereign, “Master of Firmness”—after the Three Sovereigns he was named “Sovereign of the Golden Gate.” Under Fuxi he was Yuhua Zi (some texts say Yumi); under Shennong, Nine Spirits Laozi; under Emperor Ku, Lutuzi; under Yao, Wuchengzi; under Shun, Yinshouzi; under Yu of Xia, Zhenxingzi; under Tang of Shang, Xizezi. Only under King Wu Ding of Shang did he descend in full spirit and incarnate as Laozi—again opening a new phase and remaking heaven and earth. Later people, not knowing the details, conflated Laojun with Laozi, and piled all the “prior body” stories onto the “later body” Laozi. Some say Laozi was born before heaven and earth; some say Laozi was the essential spirit of heaven—so anyone trying to verify finds only emptiness; none of this comes from the orthodox Old Immortal Scripture.

The Baopu Zi says: Those with heavenly virtue naturally have Daoist arts; has the path of cultivation ever been cut off for a single age? From Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor through the Three Dynasties, people famous for Daoist arts appeared in every generation—why must every age have only one Laozi? These are sayings of late learners who crave novelty and oddity and wish to exalt Laozi to the utmost.

In careful reckoning, Laozi was likely among those who attained the Dao the most refined and pure—not some figure of bizarre wonders. Why? If Laozi is presented as one who attained the Dao, people will naturally strive to follow and emulate him; if he is presented as a supernatural prodigy, then the path to long life becomes something that cannot be learned at all. In my humble view, in earlier lifetimes the Lord Lao appeared in wondrous forms, but after descending as Laozi he was the same as ordinary people: what belongs to the wondrous side cannot be learned, and what belongs to the side shared with ordinary people can be learned. Ge Hong’s (Ge Zhichuan’s) point rests entirely on what is solid and verifiable.

Confucians say that sages are born among humans and receive the refined qi of heaven—this is the most fitting account. Laozi took form through the four great elements, refined his practice and fulfilled his work, and became the model for immortals and the standard for De (virtue and power). When merit and conduct were complete, he returned to the totality of the heavens. Divided he becomes the myriad; united he is the One. Whenever he divides his spirit and descends to the world, cultivation of the Dao remains the root—what cannot be learned lies here, and what can be learned lies here as well. As for figures like Zhuangzi or Dongfang Shuo, the claim that they were Laozi under another name or surname is not to be trusted; such people were rather those whom Laozi granted or transformed. The Baosong says: “From him came those of Lacquer Garden and Fang Shuo’s kind, refining the subtle gleam of elixir—like the mother of Danyang, who dreamed of receiving a spirit’s elixir talisman and bore a great immortal talent.” The Xianzhuan (Biographies of Immortals) says: “Those in the world who follow Laozi’s teaching are all clear, empty, and tranquil, without striving against the age—hence they can wear coarse cloth yet cherish jade within, and not be thrown into turmoil in a dangerous world.” So broad and deep is the stream of his influence—surely he is the teacher for ten thousand generations, as heaven and earth have ordained?

The author lived in Qingdao for several years and once instructed the late-blooming Master Zhu, Master Li of Jiecheng, and Master Liu of Huifeng in Laozi’s method of clarity and stillness—always with reverent caution, never forgetting the family tradition of the lineage.

Commentary on Yuandong Neipian

Some texts speak of “Lord Lao” at the beginning and “Laozi” at the end—is that one figure or two? In truth they merge into one, yet the distinction remains clear. The style and tone are like flowing water in its shape today and the moon as the shadow of a former life. (Wushan)

Narrative and reflection interweave, part historical biography and part Zhuangzi-style exposition. The collected biographies from various schools all pick out what is finest and savor what is most luminous. This is the first treasured account of Laozi in the series. (Baohe)

Classified Exegesis of the Yinfu Jing

Stated by Shuxia Hanxu

Preface to An Interpretation of the Yinfu Jing

The Yinfu Jing (Scripture of the Hidden Talisman) takes the principles of Heaven, Earth, and Humanity—the three powers—and the root of the transformation and nurturing of the ten thousand things, to set forth the method of cultivation. It truly reads like writing that ought to have existed since heaven and earth were first opened; for the most part it speaks of what is naturally so. Some say it is a work of the late Zhou and Warring States period, and that it falls into talk of “seizing the mechanism” (daoji) and “giving life and taking life” (shengsha); on that basis they suspect it of being bizarre and uncanny, without seeing that its reasoning is in fact straightforward and correct. Others attribute it to Master of Broad Perspectives Li Quan; if Li Quan could produce such a work, I would rather take Guangchengzi as the author. Still others say Guangchengzi is Laozi in an earlier form as transformed Qi—and that one should not speak of this scripture so soon. They do not realize that antiquity had heaven and earth, and today has heaven and earth; antiquity had sun and moon, and today has sun and moon.

Only this book emerged from Tiger Mouth Rock on Mount Song and circulated in the world from the Tang dynasty onward—already thousands of years after the age of the Yellow Emperor—so later people naturally doubted. Li Quan met the Old Mother of Mount Li (the immortal woman of legend who transmitted secret methods to the Yellow Emperor) and received the deep meaning of the Yinfu. The Old Mother admonished Li Quan: the Yinfu has more than three hundred characters—one hundred expound the Dao, one hundred expound technique; consider these three layers and blend them into one. Above are the ways of immortals who embrace the One; in the middle are methods to enrich the state and settle the people; below are arts to strengthen the army and win in battle. These are not empty words.

The terms “upper,” “middle,” and “lower” are not titles of three separate chapters but names for three levels of meaning. These three levels are woven together and mixed throughout the scripture; one must read closely again and again before the hidden threads show clearly from section to section—what the ancients meant by “joining the three and blending them into one.” In Daoist practice, “strong armies and victory in battle” originally points to the upward return of the elixir and the movement from life (ming) toward nature (xing). Why, then, is it classed under the lower level? Laozi said: “Fine weapons are inauspicious instruments; one uses them only when there is no choice.” Arms are not auspicious things by nature; they are employed only at the utmost necessity.

I had earlier annotated the Daode Jing and was mistakenly honored with praise from a holy master. Recently I continued with a commentary on the Yinfu, pleased that the text is spare and the intent deep, every word touching the hidden language of cultivation. I therefore clarified the heart once more, observed things anew, and wrote another commentary to unfold its meaning.

Preface by Juan Shi Shanren Huo Xiyue, on the great river.

Preface

People only know spirit (shen) as spirit; they do not know how “non-spirit” (bu shen) is what makes spirit what it is. I again clarified the heart, observed things, and wrote a commentary to unfold this.

Preface by Juan Shi Shanren Huo Xiyue, on the great river.

Preface

People know spirit as spirit, but they do not know why “non-spirit” is what makes spirit what it is. I observed Hanxu: his bearing plain and dull as if foolish; most treated him as a fool, but I did not treat him as a fool. When Hanxu annotated the Daode, Qingjing, Dingguan, Wuchu, and other classics, many again thought him remarkable; I did not treat him as remarkable either. Lately, contemplating the import of “Heaven makes clear the five thieves,” “observe the earth to settle the people, and when the people are settled the state is rich,” and the art of strong armies and victory in battle, I found that all of it is gathered in the commentary on the Yinfu—and from that, what Hanxu holds within is hard for me to fathom. In his Self-Preface he says that “since the opening of the universe there ought to have been writing,” arguing forcefully that it is an ancient book—truly talent and insight together.

Legend has it that the Yinfu comes from the age of the Yellow Emperor: after the slaying of Chiyou, the Yellow Emperor sought Guangchengzi, who transmitted this scripture to him; he silently cross-checked the characters handed down from high antiquity and argued forcefully that it is an ancient book—again, talent and insight together.

The Yinfu Jing (Hidden Talisman Scripture) is traditionally said to have been composed in the age of the Yellow Emperor, after he defeated Chiyou. The Yellow Emperor had sought the Way from Guangchengzi, who then transmitted this scripture.

At court, Feng Hou, Li Mu, Qibo, Tongjun, Dou Bao, and Da Rao and others already understood the “sha ji”—the pivotal moment when heaven and earth govern birth and death, flourishing and decline, and transformation—and grasped the principles of life and death. They were also versed in the Jiazi cycle (the sexagenary system for marking time and correlating celestial patterns with human affairs). Guangchengzi looked around at the assembly and deliberately spoke in obscure, difficult language, while within lay a plain, practicable path, so that the ministers at the Yellow Emperor’s side could all hear this profound teaching. Taking the Yellow Emperor as the listener was in truth a way to guide and transform the whole court together; Guangchengzi accomplished others while accomplishing himself—a truly vast attainment.

Confucian scholars after the Xia, Shang, and Zhou sometimes doubted that the book predated those dynasties, but that was mostly quibbling over wording on the surface. It is like offering a miraculous elixir for sale in the market: someone falsely claims it is rat poison, then says it can cure illness, and passersby will disbelieve, mock, or even revile it as poison—if it is poison, how can it heal? Yet a person of insight buys it, takes it, and may ascend in broad daylight. When people discuss the Yinfu Jing, it is often much the same: forbidding on the outside, yet the Great Way within.

Author of the preface: Daoist Zhang Quanyi of Purple Light Cave on Mount Penglai, with respectful submission.

Collected appraisals from various masters

Daguanzi said: “Within it aligns with celestial mechanism; without it responds to human affairs. Consider the depth of its essential meaning—even the Eight Visions in the Huangting Jing (Yellow Court Scripture) cannot be called more arcane; examine the weight of its key points—even the various schools and historical classics cannot be called more learned; however clever stratagems and tactics may be, Sun Wu, Wu Qi, Han Fei, and such military and legalist masters cannot be called more ingenious. Thus the endowed nature of plants and animals, the fixed patterns of success and failure, and the principles of life and death—all lie in the pivot of ‘ji’ (the mechanism).”

Zhang Guo said: To observe the “Way of nature” is not to fix the eyes on outer things. One does not look with the eyes but views with the heart—the heart enters the subtle depths; outwardly one seems to see nothing, yet it illuminates the inherent nature of the ten thousand things. This is called yin (here: the hidden and inwardly reflecting, as opposed to the exposed “yang”).

Zhang Guo also said: To grasp the “movement of nature” is not to seize with the hands. One does not hold with the hands but uses ji (the responsive pivot that turns with things and does not stick)—only such holding accords with how nature appears. This is called fu (one sense of the word: in accord with the Dao and with the situation; same gloss as below).

Lü Chunyang said: The Song Confucian Shao Yong (Master Shao) read the Classic of the Hidden Agreement (Yinfu Jing) very well. “The cosmos rests in the hand; the myriad transformations are born from the body” are lines from the Yinfu; the Jirang Pian (Strike the Earth) also adapts that meaning. One whose realm accords in silence with the scripture’s meaning will find that realm showing itself naturally—this too may be called a kind of fu (same sense as above).

Lü Chunyang also said: Master Shao was adept at reading the Yinfu; the two lines above—the Jirang Pian takes over their sense; for one who can accord with them in silence, the subtlety often lies in fine points that are hard to put into words.

Luqiu Cimeng said: In the Yinfu Jing, the lines “The Way of nature is still, therefore heaven, earth, and the myriad things are born; the Way of heaven and earth permeates, therefore yin and yang prevail; yin and yang push each other, and change follows”—even if you weighed them against the Six Classics, you could hardly add a grain more.

Zhu Xi said: The four lines beginning “The Way of nature is still” are extremely well put. Stillness yet able to give rise to movement is like things gradually fading and gradually growing again; the Way of heaven and earth is just this—always showing people generation and decay, and ceaseless shifting.

Zhu Xi also said: In the line “The Way of heaven and earth permeates (jin),” jin carries the sense of soaking through, seeping in, and gradually filling—through this yin and yang overcome and push each other, and change goes smoothly.

Zhu Xi said: “The four lines beginning with ‘the way of nature is still’ are put extremely well. Stillness can give rise to movement, just as things gradually ebb and then gradually swell again. The principle of heaven and earth is to display this to people all along.” He also said: “The line ‘the way of heaven and earth is immersion’ is excellent. The principle of yin and yang is that not a day passes without one side waning as the other waxes; it is always pushed forward bit by bit—where one side retreats a fraction, the other advances a fraction.” He also said: “If there were not utmost stillness, heaven, earth, and the myriad things could not come into being. The word jin (immersion) is well chosen: jin means gradual. The way of heaven and earth is gradual decline and growth, and so hard and soft mutually prevail. That is the principle of fortune and misfortune, steadfastness, and mutual overcoming. These passages in the Yinfu Jing are especially fine.”

Zhu Xi also said: “The talk of the three returns and of day and night in the Yinfu Jing is like the cultivator’s midnight-and-noon regimen: today thus, tomorrow thus—the more familiar the practice, the clearer the results.”

The Yinfu Kaoyi says: Commentaries attributed to Lishan Laomu are mostly later forgeries; their tone is quite shallow. Where they occasionally quote Zhang Guo, one can tell they appeared only after Zhang Guo.

Ouyang Xunqi said: Once the arts of the Dao split apart, everyone who could write produced his own book. Straightforward language was challenged or deemed impure, yet the Yinfu alone speaks in reverse and still agrees with the orthodox principle.

Wei Heshan said: Li Jiayou was broadly versed in the classics, histories, and collected writings, and was especially deep in the Yi; in his later years he grasped the teaching of “concentrating qi to attain softness” and saw the Yinfu as aligned with the orthodox principle (this sentence largely repeats the next paragraph in meaning).

Wei Heshan also said: Li Jiayou was broadly versed in the classics, histories, and collected writings and was profound in the Yi; in his later years he grasped the teaching of concentrating qi to attain softness, widely collated and finely pondered the Yinfu and Cantong, and believed in them without wavering. Clearly, those who awaken to the Dao ought to use these two books together with the Yi.

Lu Qianxuan (Ming-dynasty Neidan scholar) said: What the Yinfu Jing and the Daode Jing discuss are cultivation methods of appropriating celestial timing and operating in reverse. Passages about governing the realm, deploying armies, taking all under heaven, as well as phrases like “extraordinary vessel,” “myriad phenomena,” “Eight Trigrams and sexagenary cycle,” and “spirit mechanism and hidden ghosts” all carry deeper meaning. People who do not understand treat the Yinfu as a military treatise and the Laozi as a book of statecraft—far off the mark.

At root the Yinfu Jing is a book of cultivation. “Yinfu” (hidden accord) is set against yang fire: on the surface it speaks of yin and not yang, yet yang is contained within. The Yizhi says “one yin and one yang—that is called Dao”; yin comes first, yang follows—the pattern of heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things: without stillness there is no stirring of life; hence Bo (when yin is full) precedes Fu (when one yang arises). The whole Yinfu is about the pivot where yin and yang unite and qi is set in motion: where what is called “spirit” passes away, and where life does not depend on ordinary “spirit” to arise; also where killing-timing and issuing-timing, concealment and manifestation meet; the gateway of return and reversal; where sun and moon wax and wane in conjunction; the path of great and small in mutual passage; the root of death and life in mutual restraint; the occasion where favor and harm multiply each other; the place where water and fire advance and retreat. When yin and yang constrain each other, they also overcome each other. The hidden accord holds the key to transformation; but whoever wields the yinfu must know that within the body there is an “extraordinary vessel” (a hub in the body where qi can be stored and circulated). Hide the vessel in the body and act when the time is ripe—then trigrams, sexagenary cycle, heaven, earth, ghosts, and spirits all align with Dao; what difficulty then in enriching the state and settling the people, strengthening the army and winning battles, or even embracing the One and attaining true completeness?

Zheng Qiao’s Yiwen lüe records thirty-eight commentaries on the Yinfu Jing, fifty-one volumes in all; centuries have passed since, and new commentaries are beyond counting. I again interpret it together with the Laozi, the Yijing, and the Cantong qi, under the title Leijie (Categorized Commentary).

In the Bibliographic Treatise on Literature (Yiwen Lüe), it is recorded that there were thirty-eight commentaries on the Yinfu Jing (Hidden Talisman Scripture), in fifty-one volumes; centuries have passed since then, and no one knows how many new annotations have been added. I draw on Laozi, the Book of Changes (Yijing), the Cantong Qi (Zhouyi Cantong Qi), and related works to compose this commentary, which I call Leijie (Classified Exegesis).

“Observe the Way of Heaven”—from the very first phrase, the yin (hidden/receptive) meaning of the Yinfu Jing is pointed out. Laozi says: “When the work is done, withdraw—that is the Way of Heaven.” (When a task is finished, one should step back; that is Heaven’s pattern.) “Uphold Heaven’s movement”—immediately following the previous line, this adds the yang fire / active side. The Commentary on the Changes (Yizhuan) says: “Heaven’s movement is vigorous; the superior person strengthens himself without ceasing.”

To observe the Way of Heaven is to see how it generates and flows freely, then retreats and stores itself in winter—the meaning of the Kun hexagram’s “six lines reaching their limit” is included here. To uphold Heaven’s movement is to grasp its concealment and manifestation, caution and leaping forth, up to the fifth line of the Qian hexagram: “The flying dragon is in heaven.” Kun carries the meaning of Heaven’s movement and follows after. The first two lines secretly encompass both the Qian and Kun hexagrams; the Yinfu Jing is the Way of the Yijing.

“Enough”—to this point, praise is sufficient; there is no need to say more.

“Thief” carries the same sense as the two words ke (overcoming) and dao (stealing) below. The Five Thieves refer to the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). Heaven has the Five Phases: within mutual overcoming lies the subtlety of mutual generation; within mutual stealing lies the mechanism of mutual suitability. One who can see through this principle will find the Dao’s qi flourishing. The Five Phases originally dwell in the human heart; only by “acting in reverse against the usual order” can one achieve mutual overcoming and mutual generation, mutual stealing and mutual suitability. Consider this subtle meaning: it is already so in Heaven; if a person can embody Heaven in action, then the cosmos is in the palm of the hand, and the myriad transformations arise from the body. Since the text speaks of “giving birth to the body,” the Five Thieves are not thieves that harm people.

“Heaven’s nature is in the human; the human heart is the pivot.” Establish the Way of Heaven as the foundation, and only then can human life be settled.

Nature is Principle. What are called the Five Thieves are both the principle of Heaven and the principle of humankind; when they operate in a person, they turn within the heart, so that on the Middle Way they mutually generate and restrain, borrow from and use one another, and fit together—the whole pivot is the word ji (mechanism).

The Yiyi says: “Establish the Way of Heaven: call it Yin and Yang.” When Heaven is spoken of, Earth is already included; when Earth is spoken of, humankind is already included—hence the saying that the Way of Heaven is used to settle the Way of humankind. Yin-Yang already embraces the Five Phases; how could humankind stand apart from Yin-Yang?

When Heaven moves the “killing mechanism,” stars and constellations hide or fall; when Earth moves the “killing mechanism,” dragons and serpents rise from the land; when humankind moves the “killing mechanism,” Heaven and Earth in turn shift and reverse. When Heaven and humankind move together, the root of change in the ten thousand things is fixed.

“Fa” (to stir) is the mechanism of life; “sha” (to slay) is the mechanism of death—life and death are the hub of movement and stillness. To store the mechanism of life inside the mechanism of death is stillness first, then movement. “Concealment” is covert shifting and transformation—from the side of stillness, movement is already present within stillness. “Rising from the land” is forceful ascent from the earth—from the side of movement, stillness is still present within movement. Lines in the Yinfu often give only half the picture, so that one may infer the whole from one corner.

“Humankind moves the killing mechanism; Heaven and Earth reverse”: Heaven, Earth, and humankind are the Three Powers; their killing mechanisms answer one another, as the Yijing says, “Its way goes and returns; in seven days comes return.” “Reverse” means turning the handle of generation and destruction and holding the power of waxing and waning. “Heaven and humankind move together—the myriad transformations fix their foundation”: when the mechanisms match and the principles match, the root of the myriad transformations is established here.

Patriarch Lü Disguised as a Hired Hand, Illuminating the “Killing Mechanism”

Legend says Lü Dongbin once disguised himself as a hired worker in the Chen household. The master of the house was discussing with a Daoist priest the line from the Yin Fu Jing—“When humans unleash the killing mechanism, heaven and earth overturn”—yet neither could grasp what “killing mechanism” meant. Lü interjected from the side: “What is called ‘life’ is not the ‘life’ ordinary people cling to; what is called ‘death’ is not the ‘death’ most people fear. While you are still alive, you must learn to ‘kill’ delusion and the false self; before you have truly perished, you must first learn to ‘die’—letting go of attachment to the body and to desires—then you can turn toward long life.”

Read in light of Patriarch Lü’s words, “killing mechanism” means the critical pivot at the threshold of life and death, the turn of a single thought: not killing others, but in the heart-mind cutting through clinging to life and fear of death, and in the alternation of stillness and movement seizing that point of “mechanism” (ji). Regrettably, the Chen master was led astray by the priest; he was briefly startled, then soon confused again.

The following lines mostly draw on cultivation essentials in the style of the Yin Fu Jing, on guarding one’s nature, restraining perversity, and discerning calamity

Human endowment may be quick or dull, yet all can be protected through fuyin (concealment and restraint—not exposing or flaunting). The perverse disturbances invited through the nine orifices (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and the rest) hinge on the three essentials (sanyao—often the eyes, ears, and mouth, or essence, qi, and spirit); they can be regulated through coordinating movement and stillness.

“Fire is born from wood”: fire attaches to wood and burns; once it flares, it must harm its root—an image of inner fire running wild and desires blazing; disaster often erupts from the foundation, so restraint is necessary.

“Treachery is born within the state”: when treachery arises inside, once the moment moves, the state easily collapses—an image of hidden trouble in the body or in the heart; one must not act rashly.

Those who understand these principles and cultivate accordingly were called sages (shengren) by the ancients.

Note: The original text repeats a passage in the middle, and the sentence “At that time, Chen was bewitched by the Daoist…” is inserted between “treachery is born within the state” and “when the moment moves, it must collapse”—likely a copyist’s error. The translation above follows the meaning of the classic in coherent order, while preserving the story of Patriarch Lü and the explanation of “killing mechanism.”

Human beings carry two kinds of “nature”: one is habitual disposition shaped by temperament (qìzhì), the other is the original nature fully present from the start. The layer of habit tied to temperament looks clever on the surface but is actually clumsy; original nature looks clumsy on the surface but is great skill in disguise. Both can be “concealed and gathered inward” (fúcáng)—drawn back and stored within. Once concealed, the inner mind is still and unmoved; when in contact with the outer world, it can still respond naturally. This is hiding skill within clumsiness and clumsiness within skill.

People fail at concealment because of the disturbances of the “nine orifices” (jiǔqiào). Among the disturbances of the nine orifices, ear, eye, and mouth are the three that matter most. These three can both move and be still. In stillness, the eyes hold light, the ears gather spirit, and the mouth seals the breath—these three essentials, reversed, become the “three treasures” (sānbǎo) of cultivation. In movement, lust for forms blinds the eyes, sound and dust deafen the ears, and flavors make the mouth greedy—the three essentials become the “three calamities” (sānzāi).

Consider fire: fire arises from wood, yet in turn burns wood to ruin. So sight arises from the eyes, yet in turn harms the eyes; hearing arises from the ears, yet in turn harms the ears; flavor arises from the mouth, yet in turn corrupts the mouth. The same pattern holds for treachery in a state: when the state is still, evil lies hidden; when the state is active, evil scatters. Whoever grasps the pivot of movement and stillness and takes stillness as the mainstay in cultivation may be called a sage (shèng rén).

What heaven gives life to and heaven takes away follows the constant pattern of the Dao (the Way). Heaven and earth “steal” the vitality of the myriad things; the myriad things “steal” human refined essence (jīng); humans in turn “steal” from the myriad things for their own use. When these three layers of “theft” each find their proper place, the triad of heaven, earth, and humanity (sāncái) is settled. Hence it is said: “Eat in season, and the hundred parts of the body are regulated; act in accord with the moment, and the ten thousand transformations find peace.”

Birth and death (sheng-sha) are the subtle principle of heaven and earth, and likewise the subtle principle of the supreme Dao. What is called “death” (sha) is first to “steal” and store sheng qi (life-giving qi). Heaven and earth steal qi from the myriad things, so after the winter solstice when spring qi returns, sheng qi is first stored at the place of return to the root (gui gen). The subtle principle of the myriad things is the same as that of the supreme Dao: what is called death is likewise first to steal and store sheng qi. Heaven and earth are thieves of the myriad things; hence after the winter solstice when spring returns, sheng qi is first hidden at the place of return to the root.

The myriad things steal qi from human beings, so when sprouts break their shells and emerge, sheng qi is first stored within gou jing (the union of yin and yang and the merging of essence and qi). Human beings steal qi from the myriad things, so when taking and using is both abundant and wide-ranging, sheng qi is first stored within preservation and cultivation (cun yang). Within death there is birth; one nurtures yuan qi (primordial qi) and awaits the right moment—this is the meaning of “stealing.”

Movement and stillness are the constant way of the Two Modes (Liangyi, yin and yang); yet mutual nurturing and parallel unfolding are the mutual nourishment of the Three Thefts (San Dao—heaven, earth, and humanity stealing from and nourishing one another). Once they nourish one another, heaven, earth, human beings, and things each hide their function. The Three Powers (San Cai) are heaven, earth, and humanity; the text does not name “things,” yet things are already included. If any one party is unsettled, there must be a failure to respond. When the Three Thefts each obtain their proper place, the Three Powers are secure. Once the Three Powers are secure, they can develop and nurture the myriad things, acting in accord with the seasons.

The words “therefore it is said” connect to what precedes and cite an ancient saying; what they refer to is precisely the moment when sheng ji (the pulse of life) first stirs. Shi shi (the hour of eating/taking) is when qi first moves—one should immediately swallow it into “one’s own house” (the self), and then the hundred bones and channels will all fall into order. Ji (the trigger) is sha ji (the killing trigger)—after great stillness, the newly arisen sheng ji is taken in food-wise according to its season, and then the ten thousand images are at peace. Hence it is said: “When its trigger is moved, the myriad transformations are secure.”

People only know spirit (shen) as spirit, yet do not know why “non-spirit” counts as spirit. Sun and moon have fixed numbers, large and small have fixed allotments; sagely accomplishment (sheng gong) arises from this, and numinous clarity (shen ming) emerges from this.

In cultivation, the most crucial and subtle point lies in Shen (spirit).

Ordinary people only call the lively, active aspect Shen, yet they do not understand that the truly refined Shen comes precisely from what appears without relying on restless agility—in the utmost stillness. This kind of Shen is born when stillness reaches its extreme; when the moment arrives, Shen knows on its own and is adept at discerning when thoughts and motives arise—just as the sun and moon move according to fixed rhythms.

The Cantong qi uses lunar phases to illustrate this pattern, for example: “On the third day, Zhen at the geng position brings clear dawn; on the eighth, Dui at the ding position receives qi, the first quarter like a level cord; on the fifteenth the Qian body is complete, jia qi fills the east; on the sixteenth Xun at the xin position takes charge, appearing at daybreak; Gen values bing in the south, the last quarter on the twenty-third; Kun and yi on the thirtieth day, the northeast loses its light.” This describes the numbers of the moon’s waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness. The six gate medicines of neidan are what the sage calculates and grasps through the moon’s surplus and deficit; and forming the elixir in six phases must be checked against the greater and lesser waxing and waning of yin and yang. What the Cantong qi calls “yin and yang intertwine, the small departs and the great arrives” means just this: “the small departs” refers to the earlier stretch of the path, shorter in span, corresponding to seeking the medicine in two phases; “the great arrives” refers to the later stretch, longer in span, corresponding to uniting the elixir in four phases. The twelve divisions of firing all fall within this scheme where sun and moon have fixed numbers and large and small have definite measure. The sage’s work arises here, and the spirit’s operation manifests here.

As for “stealing the mechanism”—the pivotal secret of heaven and earth—people under heaven cannot see it and cannot put it into words. When a gentleman obtains it, he uses it to cultivate the body and secure life; when a petty person obtains it, he may risk life recklessly (misuse it and harm the body).

Dao Ji (stealing the mechanism) denotes the pivotal method of secretly “borrowing force and seizing the moment.” It is not limited to the mutual overcoming of the Five Phases; encroachment among Heaven, Earth, and Humanity also counts as Dao Ji. Even in internal alchemy, embracing spirit and guarding qi, and drawing from Kan to fill Li (balancing the fire of the Li trigram with the water of the Kan trigram until water and fire are in harmony) belong to the same category. The perfected person quietly turns shen ji (spiritual mechanism), enters the water palace (a metaphor for kidney water and the lower dantian), establishes the golden village (golden fluid, the land of the elixir), and walks in Xi Yi (the realm without sound or form, chaotic and undifferentiated), cutting off the ears’ hearing and the eyes’ sight—within which there are layers that cannot be seen or put into words.

Here, the “spirit within spirit” must be fully stilled; only then does the “un-spirit spirit” arise from it. Thus when the noble person obtains this Dao Ji, they may zao ming (reshape fate and renew the true life) and gu gong (consolidate the body); when the petty person obtains it, they inevitably harm the body and treat life lightly. As the saying goes: in upright hands it is upright; in crooked hands it is crooked.

The blind often hear sharply; the deaf often see keenly—devotion to one channel can increase capacity. “Cut off one source of profit, and your forces are tenfold; thrice return through day and night, and your forces are ten thousandfold” (through day-and-night cyclic practice and repeated huiguang [returning the light], efficacy may increase tenfold or ten thousandfold).

Plain-Language Reading of Yuanqiao Neipian (Inner Chapters of the Round Peak)

A blind person treats the ears as eyes and relies on hearing to infer another’s expression and bearing—hence the saying that the blind are skilled at listening. A deaf person treats the eyes as ears and relies on sight to gauge another’s tone and feeling—hence the saying that the deaf are skilled at looking. Yet within the human person there are also those who are “without eyes” yet can bend and listen, and those who are “without ears” yet can turn and see. What makes looking and listening truly skillful lies in telling whether the “source of the water” is clear or turbid. Laozi said that water benefits the ten thousand things—from this one knows that where beauty and benefit reach their utmost is precisely the springhead of Zhenyi (True Unity, the single root of qi).

“Employing the army tenfold” (yong shi shi bei) in the Yijing takes earth and water as teachers. When earth restrains water yet earth itself does not move, the water feels all the more clarified. Here “employing the army” means using earth to restrain water—going through danger yet keeping to the right (the sense of the Shi hexagram). When one thus “governs” (du) the realm and the people follow, how could there be blame when the outcome is auspicious? “Ten” is counted as a complete number.

Within the “three returns” (san fan), “three” belongs to wood. What is born from fire essence in the Ligong (Palace of Li, the fire position) together with water mercury hides fire within wood; both sink into the Kungong (Palace of Kun). When Kun is solid it becomes Kan and gives birth to water; the true qi within that water is then metal. After wood carries metal back, one must apply the principles of the Zhun and Meng hexagrams for “drawing and adding”—hence “three returns day and night, employing the army ten thousandfold.” “Ten thousand” is counted as the full number. Only after ten months of fire talismans can the elixir be refined into the treasure pill. “Seven returns and nine reversions” (qi fan jiu huan) is another way of speaking of the same thing as “three returns.”

The heart arises because of outer things, and also perishes through clinging to outer things; the pivot lies in the mu (the eye—as that which attends and what one relies on). Heaven seems without partial favor, yet within it great favor is constantly giving birth. Under crashing thunder and fierce wind, nothing among the ten thousand things fails to quiver and stir.

Heart–Mind and Things

When the heart–mind is stirred by outer things, it also arises along with those things. If you chase outer things without end, you lose your original heart–mind—you might as well say the heart dies on things.

The Nine Orifices and the Three Essentials

The waywardness of the nine orifices (eyes, ears, mouth, nose, and the rest) hinges on the “three essentials”; among those three, the eyes matter most. The eyes tie to the light of Shen (spirit); they most easily pull heart–awareness to turn with things as they flow.

Stopping the Mechanism and “Wu En” (No Favoritism)

To stop this mechanism that moves with things, use wu en—not cold-heartedness, but not granting favor from private intent, and not clinging to the split of “I have done you a favor.”

Heaven’s Seeming Lack of Favor and Its Great Beneficence

Heaven seems to have “no favor” (it does not deliberately favor anyone), yet great beneficence arises naturally; within death hides life, within movement hides stillness. Thunder and violent wind both issue from chaos and quiet stillness (dunran, dull and unmoving); nimble responsiveness is born from stillness.

If heaven constantly deployed wind and thunder, the numinous qi of wind and thunder would eventually be exhausted. How then, under heavy yin, wait for dilei fu (Thunder within Earth, the Fu hexagram—one yang returning), and again raise the shenming zhi xun feng (the commanding Xun wind—Xun as wind, answering thunder)? It shows movement must have its season; one cannot move constantly.

Supreme Joy, Supreme Stillness, and Heaven

Those of supreme joy tend to have natures at ease with surplus; those of supreme stillness tend to have natures clear, pure, and upright. Heaven sometimes thunders without wind—like supreme privacy; yet it can also issue commands from chaos—this is supreme publicness. Supreme privacy looks like wu en; supreme publicness lets great beneficence arise on its own.

Bird Control, Roots of Life and Death, Grace and Harm

The control of birds lies in qi (using qi to govern form, using stillness to govern movement). Life is the root of death, and death is also the root of life; grace is born from harm, and harm is also born from grace (grace and harm turn into each other—do not fixate on one pole).

Sink water into fire—self-destruction—(In some editions this line follows directly on “harm is born from grace,” and the sense runs on.) Like water sinking into fire: water and fire cannot coexist—it is the image of self-destruction. Clinging to grace and harm, leaning to one side, follows the same principle.

The Baihu Tong says that qin (what is captured and subdued) refers to what people can subdue and constrain. The key to constraining qin lies in qi (vital energy): fire stands for qi, and the Zhuque (Vermilion Bird) stands for qin. Using qi to constrain qin is, in effect, using fire to control fire.

The Zhouyi Cantong Qi has this line: “The Zhuque is the essence of fire; it holds the balance and adjusts victory and defeat.” The gist is: when the situation is like “earth filling water so that water cannot rise,” you must borrow the fire of the Zhuque to maintain equilibrium and regulate the outcome, refining with fierce fire to the utmost. As fire steams and water boils, the metal (the essence of the metal phase) rises with the water vapor. Thus the Zhuque’s “constraint” consists in sinking fire into water and raising water to control fire.

Within this there is the pivot of life and death: water boils and fire ascends, entering the Ligong (Palace of Li, the Li trigram, which belongs to fire); then the Li fire is extinguished by Kan water (the Kan trigram, which belongs to water)—this is “the root of life lies in death.” After further restraint and fixing, neither flying nor fleeing, lead and mercury both “die” and return together to thick earth. Only after this great “death” does true life appear—this is “the root of death lies in life.”

“Favor arises from harm” means using fire to sink into water; “harm arises from favor” means leading water into fire. The subtlety of sinking water and entering fire is that life and death arise and cease of themselves within it; hence the phrase “bringing ruin upon oneself.”

Fools take mastery of astronomy and knowledge of geography as “sageliness”; I take observing things in their season and clarifying their pattern and principle as wisdom (zhe). Fools look at the sage with suspicion; I do not doubt the sage because of folly. Fools treat the sage’s words as strange because of the times and circumstances; I do not treat the sage as strange because of times and circumstances.

(The last six sentences appear in some transmitted versions as praise by Wubo; the Fengzhou manuscript once omitted them, but they are retained here below “bringing ruin upon oneself.”)

Section One

Foolish people take mastery of astronomy and insight into geography as the accomplishments of a “sage.” If one stops at that level, what real benefit does it bring to cultivating body and mind? I investigate in astronomy the subtle workings of seasons and celestial motion, and in geography the conditions under which the myriad things arise and flourish—“stealing from Heaven and Earth, seizing from Creation” (borrowing the qi and patterns of Heaven and Earth and aligning with the laws of Creation in cultivation)—only then can one be called truly clear and penetrating. “Observe the Way of Heaven; hold fast to Heaven’s conduct” (observe how the Dao of Heaven runs, and act in accord with it)—when understood to this depth, that is enough.

Section Two

“People measure the sage with their foolishness; I measure the sage with my not being foolish.” This is what is meant by “knowing how to cultivate—only then is one called a sage” (understanding how to practice cultivation is what qualifies one as a sage).

Section Three

“People take strange arts as the mark of a wondrous sage; I take not being strange as the mark of a wondrous sage.” This is what is meant by “people know the spirit-like, but do not know that what is not spirit-like is what makes it spirit-like” (people see only surface marvels and miss how the “un-marvelous” holds the true marvel). Moreover, the sun and moon run by fixed measures; each has its limits of size and scale. The three powers stealing from one another (Heaven, Earth, and humanity mutually drawing on and transforming one another) is the “sagely work” that belongs to nature itself—what is there to find odd or uncanny? These six lines all extend and praise the meaning of what came before.

Section Four

The Way of nature is stillness (the Dao of nature rests in stillness), so Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things can come into being. The Way of Heaven and Earth is infusion (the Way of Heaven and Earth lies in gradual soaking and permeation), so Yin and Yang can overcome and constrain each other. When Yin and Yang push each other, change follows nature.

Section Five

The Way of nature, when reduced to one word, is stillness. Within stillness, movement can arise; once there is movement, Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things are generated. The Way of Heaven and Earth, when reduced to one word, is infusion—“infusion” is the image of gradual permeation that nature itself presents: Yin qi gradually sinks; Yang qi gradually rises. The subtlety of Yin and Yang ascending and descending lies in mutual overcoming (each side appropriately checks and propels the other); without overcoming, they would not push each other. When Yin and Yang push each other, change accords with nature. Change is the visible form of advance and retreat, waxing and waning. Zhu Xi said: “The four lines on nature are extremely well put.” He also said: “The word ‘infusion’ is used very aptly.”

Section Six

Therefore the sage understands that the Way of nature cannot be violated, and so shapes laws by following what is already there. The Way of utmost stillness cannot be fully matched or aligned even by calendrical and tonal reckoning (li and lü). Hence there arise wondrous vessels (in Neidan metaphor, the dantian, furnace, and the like), from which emerge the myriad images, the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), and the Jiazi cycle (forms of the ten thousand things, the trigrams, and the stem-branch time system). Within them lie hidden spirit mechanisms and ghostly concealment (deeply hidden celestial patterns) and the art of Yin and Yang overcoming each other. Clearly, one has already entered the level of xiang (images, hexagram figures, and cultivation symbols).

Excerpt from Yuanqiao Neipian (Inner Chapters of the Round Peak)

Establishing Methods by Following the Natural Dao

What is meant by “following” (yin) is aligning with the principles of nature and turning them into concrete cultivation methods. The Dao of nature originally arises from utmost stillness; within that stillness there is another order of “years and months” and of qiankun (Heaven and Earth)—human calendars and pitch-pipes cannot map onto that level. Where does that stillness settle? There is a wondrous “vessel”: the yiguan yiqiao (the single aperture of the mysterious pass—the place in the body where spirit and qi converge and the mysterious pass stirs; it is not an organ in anatomical terms). The myriad phenomena arise from it; the Eight Trigrams (Bagua) transform within it; the cycles of the sixty jiazi (stem-branch time reckoning) also turn there. Spirit’s workings are hard to fathom, the hidden is hard to know; yin and yang push each other, and the logic of number and technique—all enter and leave through this gate. These are truths that stand out clearly and that anyone can verify in experience; they are not supernatural mysteries beyond knowing. Going further, one enters the level of “images” (xiang)—here xiang means the hexagram images and symbolic images of the Yijing (Book of Changes); xiang is the symbol and scene used to show and point at what cannot be stated outright.

Taishang Huangting Waijing Jing (Outer Scripture of the Yellow Court)

(Secret text transmitted by the Primordial Ladies Danxia and Qingxia; annotated by Hanxuzi of Zixia Cave on Mount Yuanqiao)

Chapter One

When Laozi lived in retirement he composed verse in seven-character lines, explaining the bodily form and the gods within. Above is the Huangting (the central palace, the place for mind-abiding); below is Guanyuan (the region of the dantian below the navel). In front is Youque (a metaphor for the chest or before the heart); behind is Mingmen (a key locus linked to the kidneys and the lower back). Breathe the breath of “empty nothingness” into the dantian (the place below the navel for storing qi and mind-abiding); the clear water of the Yuchi (a metaphor for saliva in the mouth and the spring under the tongue) moistens the Linggen (root of life, vital root, or lower dantian). The Zongzhen Tongzi (the image of guarding the One and gathering true qi) takes in Taijin (embryonic or oral essence, a kind of jing); if one truly practices, one may long endure.

This chapter is the opening hymn to the scripture that Patriarch Shaoyang composed for the Huangting Jing (Yellow Court Scripture).

The patriarch says: Lord Lao often recited the jade text; he once condensed the Neijing Jing (Inner Landscape Scripture) by cutting what was redundant, reshaped it into seven-character lines, and still called it Huangting; from it he also separated a portion called the “Outer Scene.” “Inner” and “Outer” refer to names for the first and second parts of the scripture—they do not mean “inner landscape” and “outer landscape” inside the human body. The scripture treats the five forms of the whole body and the myriad spirits within the body; it is a true essential canon of cultivation. The Supreme One takes emptiness (xu) as root. Between above and below, front and back, there is a circle of emptiness; if a person can guard and hold it, coordinating it with breathing, Qi can sink deep into the Dantian (energy center), nourishing the water of utmost clarity before heaven in the Jade Pool elsewhere, to irrigate one’s own spiritual root; when the spiritual root is firm, the foundation of the elixir (danji) is established.

Zongzhen Tongzi (Child of Total Truth) is the embryo spirit (taiying); the embryo spirit is the ancestor of the myriad spirits. Nourish it day by day, ingest embryonic breathing (taixi) and mysterious fluid (xuanjin)—cultivate thus and one may live long without dying. “Irrigating the spiritual root” speaks from nourishing the self in the acquired (postnatal) sense; “partaking of embryonic fluid” speaks from nourishing the elixir in the innate (prenatal) sense—the subtle meaning of this hymn lies here.

The Huangting Jing circulated in the world deletes the two lines “Laozi at leisure…” and replaces what follows with four-character verse: “Above is the Yellow Court, below is the Pass Gate, in front is the Hidden Barrier, behind is the Life Gate; between the breathing chambers, in and out of the Dantian—if you can truly practice this, you may long endure.” The lines about “Zongzhen Tongzi” are mostly omitted in various editions. Without seeing the authentic text, one can hardly recognize its true face.

Earlier, when I intended to annotate the Huangting, I suddenly felt Yuanjun of Cinnabar Clouds descend to my mountain study and say: “I bring Lady Wei’s letter, charging you to examine and annotate the Huangting, and for one day I show you the secret edition from Langyuan.” There was also Daoist Canxia, who obtained a transmission from Director Yang of Nanyue, sent it to Chipingzi, and had me read it. Compared with the Cinnabar Clouds edition, I knew the heavenly palace secret register was originally the same. I therefore recorded this with joy beneath my commentary.

Chapter 2

The Huangting True Person (the inner deity of Daoist inner landscape lore who dwells in the Yellow Court and governs the qi of the whole body) wears vermillion robes. The gate is closed and locked: the male (yang, outer) key enters the female (yin, inner) so the two leaves meet. Here “male key” is the same “key” as in lock and key; the mechanism divides male and female. When the gate closes, male enters female; when the key fits, both doors shut tight. This images the mating of spirit and qi, like female and male interlocking. Writing this as the character for “strong” is wrong. “Earth gives birth to richness” means: take the clearest, undisturbed water from another’s Jade Pool (saliva in the mouth, or the clear fluid gathered in inner refinement), and pour it day after day to nourish the soil, so poor soil becomes rich soil and the spirit root (the foundation of practice) grows deep and firm and does not wither even in old age. The same idea appears in Chapter 4 of the Inner Landscape text.

Chapter 3

The Central Pool is the Qihai (the place below the navel where true qi gathers), also called the “center.” Within it is the person of cultivation, dressed in red vermillion—those red vermillion garments stand for heart-spirit (the spirit of the mind). “Field” means Dantian (the lower energy center). Three cun below the field is the Huiyin region; one cun above is Guanyuan, two cun Zhongji, three cun Huiyin—all abodes of inner deities, not the Central Pool alone. Between the Central Pool and the three cun below the field there is naturally a sense of inner and outer separation; if layer upon layer is tightly closed, inner spirit does not leak outward. Spirit Storehouse is the chamber of spirit; within that chamber one must cultivate purity and allow no outer disturbance—fine and continuous, as if present—nurturing inner spirit fire (the intentional fire of the heart, the light of the original spirit). Suddenly water comes to assist, and the Xuanying conduit (an important point on the Ren channel, also a metaphor for the receiving place) receives the essence talisman (the sign of essence united with spirit). The essence talisman means essence joining spirit—taking water to restrain fire. Essence in one’s own body is one’s own yang essence. From here, urgently consolidating and holding oneself—that is the meaning of Orthodox Unity holding brilliance.

Plain-Language Reading of the Inner Chapters of Yuanjiao

Paraphrase of the Scripture

In the “dwelling within” lives a “ adept” who often wears deep red (cinnabar color, symbolizing Neidan and Yang qi)—the inner spirit, the Qi of the True One. If the cultivator can inwardly behold him, illness is less likely to arise. This inner landscape spans about one foot across; it is measured and held above the “inner spirit”: if you can let him abide in your own “spiritual dwelling,” he can become your Jing and Qi. From then on you must intensify guji—gathering in, warming and nourishing, neither leaking nor wasting—and support yourself thereby. This is what is meant by “Zhengyi holding splendor”: single-minded guarding of the center, storing the essential brilliance within.

Chapter Four

The adept in the dwelling who constantly wears cinnabar garb—if you can see him, you may avoid illness. His span is about one foot, measured above him. If you can keep him dwelling in “my home” (the spiritual dwelling within the body), you can remain unharmed. In the “chamber between” (the inner chamber, the Dantian region) breathe in and out, exhale and inhale, to replenish yourself; if you preserve integrity and wholeness, the body receives blessing and good fortune. In the “square inch” (the heart-mind, the root of intention) carefully cover and store; when spirit returns to its root, the old can become strong again. Let the Qi of Youque (the lower pass, mingmen or a key point on the Conception Vessel) flow and rush downward to its limit; also “nurture the child, the jade tree”—irrigate the spirit root so that, like a jade tree, branches and leaves flourish; in time “it can serve as a staff,” a metaphor for Neidan accomplishment that can prop up a declining body.

Notes on the Main Points

The opening shares the same inner-landscape vocabulary as the Huangting Neijing Jing: “In the dwelling there is truth, ever clothed in cinnabar.” “Dwelling” means the spiritual dwelling, the place where the yin elixir of internal refinement is cultivated—also called “chamber between” and “square inch.” Measured across, its length is no more than about a foot; it must be restrained above the inner spirit: the inner realm does not scatter outward, the outer realm does not disturb within. Guarding spirit happens here, breath practice here, preservation here, storing essence here, and the return of spirit to its root here as well. Youque is made to flow and rush to the lower reach and “end” (jing—to finish, to return to the root). “Nurture the child, the jade tree” means irrigating the spirit root so the inner landscape stands like a lush jade tree—both a sign of achievement and the sense of “usable as a staff”: when the inner elixir is complete, it can sustain the years of decline.

Chapter Five (Fragment)

The passage on “reaching the jade tree” again speaks of irrigating the spirit root, making the jade tree’s branches and leaves thrive so it can serve as a staff—Neidan fulfilled, upholding old age—continuing the meaning above.

Wu means going against the grain—moving in reverse. The supreme Dao follows a path of “retrograde” motion, but this is not the same as the retrograde ways of heterodox side paths: those that twist left-up and right-down and wander off into bias are not the true road. Orthodox practice must be rising from behind and descending from front; only then does it accord with the great Dao of nature.

Lingtai (the platform of spirit) arises at the central heaven—that is, where the true heart-mind appears; it looks down upon the central field, and one must keep intention anchored in the central Huangting (Yellow Court—the middle palace and the region of mind-abiding at the dantian). Fangcun (the “square inch”) denotes the regulated center, the exact middle; quexia (below the gate) lies beneath the navel. Yufang (Jade Chamber) is the jinkui yufang (Golden Coffer and Jade Chamber) spoken of in the Neijing Jing (Inner Landscape Scripture); when the text mentions the Jade Chamber, the Golden Coffer is included as well. Human Shen (spirit) dwells in the eyes, so the eyes are the gate of spirit—this is what the classic means by “the pivot is in the eyes.”

All the essential points of the supreme Dao above read as if the son of Mu Gong were instructing me. (Mu Gong is a character split for “Dong”—east—often pointing to Donghua or the Zhen (Thunder) direction in the east; “gongzi” is the eldest son.) Gongzi symbolizes the Zhen Emperor, the eldest son, and the dragon; the dragon emerges from fire, and mercury (in the alchemical sense) is by nature spiritually responsive. Daoist teaching first has one clarify one’s own nature; when one can clarify one’s own nature, one can awaken on one’s own—and that self-awakening is just like the gongzi teaching me.

Chapter Six

The Mingtang (Bright Hall) opens on four sides; the fahai (ocean of the Dharma/the source of the method) is its spring. The Dan (Elixir) of the Zhenren (True Person) is right before my eyes. Between the Three Passes (Sanguan), essence and Qi (vital energy) run deep and clear; if you wish not to die, you must cultivate Kunlun—the crown, the upper dantian (energy center), and the root of the whole person.

Mingtang (Bright Hall) is the Mingtang palace, located in the region about one inch square between the eyebrows. Like the sun, moon, and stars arrayed in their places, it shines with light—hence it is called “opening in four directions.” In practice, when the “medicine” is brought here, it is where elixir methods gather and return to store; the living spring of the source arises from here, so it is also called the “source of the dharma sea.”

Zidan (the child-elixir) refers to the golden embryo. The golden embryo is the body of the true person: metal overcomes wood, the mother comes to meet the child, and the true body is formed—therefore it is called “true person’s zidan.” From Mingtang one enters the spirit chamber—the spirit chamber lies before Mingtang—hence the phrases “when my body” and “before me.”

The Three Passes (Sanguan) are explained in detail in the commentary on the Inner Landscape Scripture (Neijing Jing).

“If the child wishes not to die, cultivate Kunlun”—this line is subtle language within mystery and must be understood. Ascending Kunlun is the place for cultivating the yang spirit and long life with clear vision—this much is widely known; yet there is more.

There is also middle Kunlun: hidden within the body, the realm of utmost clarity and emptiness. Qi and spirit unite, chaotic and undifferentiated, blended into one, as if entering ten-thousand-fathom void. Though within the body there are upper, middle, and lower three passes, at this point it is as if there were no three passes to distinguish—the one true is revealed, the ten thousand images are empty, far from every edge, building a towering realm. What Master Zhang Sanfeng says in his Daoqing (Daoist lyric)—“the idle true person is hidden within; the master sits upright upon Kunlun”—points to this place. What is seen here is the innate, long-life yang spirit, not the post-heaven, turning-in-samsara yin spirit; hence “between the three passes the refined qi is deep—if the child wishes not to die, cultivate Kunlun.” Those who recite the Yellow Court Scripture (Huangting Jing) should put their mind especially on the two characters “between” (zhijian).

There is further lower Kunlun: the source where elixir practice ignites the fire—this too should be understood.

Whenever one cultivates Kunlun, the spirit-intention must be gathered in the space between the three passes. In this interval are the clearest essence and purest qi; when spirit enters it, depth and vastness, empty and without form—the heart is very clear yet no stray thoughts arise; in one instant one may suddenly leap to the supreme vehicle. As soon as worldly people see the two characters “Kunlun,” they assume the secret lies in Niwan (the mud-pill palace at the crown). Had not Masters Wushan and Baohe pointed this out again and again, who would think to place the intention between the three passes?

Chapter 7

The Crimson Palace (an inner landscape palace linked to the heart and the upper Dantian) lies beneath the Layered Tower (a metaphor for the tiered structure of the bronchial tubes and trachea). For the “Qi” of the elixir medicine to enter the Crimson Palace, it must first descend along the bronchial passage, passing through the twelve tiers of the Layered Tower. What is meant by “within the palace gates” in fact points to the Yellow Palace (the central palace and the region around the Dantian). If one gathers and holds the two kinds of Qi on the Yellow Path (the orthodox route of circulating Qi), and at the Yellow Palace unites the “three surnames” (metaphorical bodies such as Jing, Qi, and Shen, or lead, mercury, and earth), then the five Qi turn toward the Origin and every excellence gathers—hence the name Gathering of the Five Treasures.

The Child of the Red Spirit refers to true intent (a steady mental focus born from the heart). Intent arises from the heart, so it is called the child of the Red Spirit. Central Pool is another name for the Primordial Sea (the water-image metaphor below the navel or near the Dantian). When the five treasures meet, true earth captures true lead and true lead restrains true mercury; they stay fixed and do not scatter, and spirit and Qi hold together—thus it is said they “stand firm.” Below the Central Pool lies the Long Wall, a metaphor for the Golden Embankment (a barrier that holds and seals); there is also the Mysterious Valley, a metaphor for the water country. The settlement within it is where the practitioner “feeds on the treasures” and condenses the power of the medicine—like a human capital with walls and a moat, tightly guarded.

The essential secret of long life is to be grasped through what is called “inner chamber” practice—alchemists name this art of joining with life. This “inner chamber” is not male–female “battle” cultivation; it is spirit and Qi supporting each other, metal and wood joining, like Yin and Yang harmonizing without any outward indulgence in desire.

Chapter 8

Cast off licentious desire and single-mindedly guard child essence (Yuan Jing, the root essence). Inch Field (the tiny field of the Dantian and related centers) and Foot House (the dwelling within the body where one cultivates) can then nourish growth and long life. Fix the mind on the long flow (continuous movement of true Qi, like an unbroken river), and the heart naturally grows calm. Observe conduct with will and roam in illumination with spirit, and the Three Wonders (extraordinary channels in the body, or the numinous pivots of Jing, Qi, and Shen) become clear and bright. With leisure undisturbed and nothing weighing on the heart, Great Peace arises naturally within.

The opening section urges people to moderate sexual desire in order to preserve essence and qi. Cunchi (“inch field”) refers to the Mingmen (Gate of Life), where the body’s essence and qi are stored; chizhai (“foot-wide dwelling”) refers to the lingshe (spirit abode), the “home” where consciousness resides. The Neijing Jing (Inner Landscape Scripture) says “within the Mingmen, one inch square”; this text also places a horizontal span of about one foot above it—the place of nurturing the self and preserving the heart-mind. To read these as the face or the gate of a house is mistaken.

When the heart cannot settle, it is often because thought and spirit chase outward for long periods without being gathered back; therefore one must tie the heart within, and only then can it be at peace. Guanzhi (observing and holding aspiration) means blocking outward-directed thoughts and turning inward in contemplation to guard one’s resolve. Youshen (the roaming spirit) is like the perfected person submerged in the deep abyss, floating yet holding to the center of the compass—an image of free, unforced movement. At that point essence, qi, and spirit merge into one and no longer scatter; hence they are called the Sanqi Ling (Three Wondrous Spirits). At ease in idleness, dwelling in Wuwei (non-action), the mind-state here approaches great peace.

Chapter Nine

If one constantly preserves the yufang (the inner locus in practice tied to essence and spirit), spirit and clarity connect; if one constantly attends to the taicang (the Great Storehouse—the stomach and the place of receiving and transforming qi and blood), one does not feel hunger or thirst. If one can command the Liuding spirit maidens to attend, and seal the path of zijing (seminal essence), one can long nourish life and destiny.

Continuing from above: To constantly preserve the Jade Chamber is to nurture spirit and qi at all times: with eyes closed, hold inward so that spirit-intention does not scatter outward—the heart-mind grows steadier and clearer. People only know that “spirit within spirit” counts as true penetration, yet they do not know that “non-spirit spirit” is what truly penetrates. To be mindful of Taicang at every moment is to tend and harmonize it continually, nourishing it with plain, light fare. Taicang refers to the stomach; the earth of intention (where consciousness and intent dwell) lies there—wherever intention reaches, Taicang is there; one must not fix on the stomach as a mere physical organ. Daoists take the Mystery Gate (Xuan Guan) as the Taicang point, the place where embryonic breathing is nurtured; the Inner Landscape Scripture says “one inch square within the Gate of Life”—I take that to mean the place where intention rests and dwells at ease; that is insight into true penetration. When the earth of intention is strong, grain and water in the stomach are transformed and food is easily digested—hence “no hunger or thirst.” The spirits of the Six Ding are called “maidens”; they belong to the yin spirits. When yang spirit is present in oneself, one can command the Six Ding and order them to come and pay homage. The path of long life is broadly like this; above all one must block the passages through which essence and qi leak away.

Chapter Ten

The central chamber is the divine room at the center—neither biased nor leaning. Wash the heart and retreat into storage; cultivate diligently and dare not defile it. From this, look inward at the five viscera—each clear as if seen by candlelight—and every rhythm of the body may be examined; look inward also at the six bowels, each tended in turn, pure as if unsoiled, without turbidity or filth. The way of emptiness, non-being, and naturalness has been so since antiquity—hence “therefore” (gu).

Chapter Eleven

(The scripture here connects with what precedes and follows; the sense continues the previous chapter:) Through the central chamber, washing the heart, inwardly observing the rhythms of the five viscera, and tending the six bowels until they are pure as unsoiled silk—one follows the way of emptiness, non-being, and naturalness; the thread of it has always been thus.

Plain-Language Interpretation

All things follow their own patterns of movement; in cultivation you need not fuss over much—matters are not inherently complicated. Simply “sit at ease in non-action” (wuwei), and the body naturally settles; recognize emptiness, and the heart stays at ease; dwell in stillness and openness, and the mouth does not speak rashly. Cultivating Great Harmony (taihe) and holding the center in upright independence is what is called the “Palace of the True Person (Zhenren)”; plain and without desire, roaming in the “Garden of De (Virtue),” the inner jade sprout shines bright. At such a time, purity is unstained and fragrance is free of dust, and the Jade Maiden (a metaphor for inner mercury) can endure. De is what a person receives from Heaven—empty spirit, never dimmed, holding all principles in the heart. To cultivate De and clarify goodness is the gateway into the Dao.

Things divide into yin-things and yang-things, apportioned inside and outside Qian and Kun (Heaven and Earth). Here the word “things” is meant in the sense of inner cultivation. For whoever cultivates inner “things,” there is a natural order—no need for extra busyness; the affair is not troublesome in itself. When the body is settled, essence (jing) does not stir; when the heart is at ease, spirit (shen) is not disturbed; when the mouth does not speak, qi (vital energy) does not scatter. It is enough to sit upright in non-action, embody emptiness without clinging to things, and remain still and open. To refine Great Harmony and hold the center in independence is called the True Person Palace; calm and plain, without inner craving, roaming in the Garden of De—the jade sprout gleams. Then purity is unstained, fragrance free of dust, and the Jade Maiden endures. The Jade Maiden is a metaphor for inner mercury; De is what one receives from Heaven—empty spirit, never dimmed, with all principles present in the heart.