《坐忘论》

The most precious thing in human life is life itself, and what is most precious in life is the Dao (the Way). For a person to possess the Dao is like a fish having water. Even a fish in a dried-up cart rut still hopes for a little water, yet people lost in worldly life give no thought to seeking the Dao. They loathe the suffering that birth and death bring, yet cling to the many entanglements within birth and death; they prize the reputation of virtue and slight its practice; they take sounds, sights, and flavors as their satisfaction, and regard quiet simplicity as hardship and disgrace. They exhaust mind and strength pursuing goods hard to obtain, hoping to exchange them for blessed rewards in a future life; they indulge desires to which one easily becomes attached, yet damage the very root of cultivating the Dao in this life. They think themselves clever and ingenious, when in fact they are as if living in a dream, mind and spirit bewildered. Born only to die, and after death born again, they revolve through myriad kalpas. On careful reflection, human inversion and delusion have grown severe to this degree!

Thus the Miaozhen Jing (Scripture of Wondrous Truth) says: “People constantly lose the Dao by their own doing; it is not that the Dao leaves people. People constantly abandon life by their own doing; it is not that life leaves the Dao.” Therefore, one who nurtures life must never lose the Dao, and one who cultivates the Dao must never lightly cast life aside. Let the Dao accompany life, and let life and the Dao preserve one another; only when the two are not separated can there be lasting endurance. What is called lasting endurance is precisely the fundamental state of having attained the Dao.

The scriptures say: “Life is Heaven’s greatest kindness, Earth’s greatest joy, and humankind’s greatest blessing.” One who cultivates the Dao may obtain it through practice; it is not conferred by fate or by official stipend. The Xisheng Jing (Scripture of Western Ascension) also says: “My life is in my own hands; it is not for Heaven to control.” From this it can be seen that the length of life depends on oneself. Attaining the Dao is not a gift bestowed by Heaven, and losing the Dao is not something seized by another.

Laying a hand on my heart and examining myself, I find that remorse and awakening have come too late; time will not stop and wait. Alas that human life is brief, like fungi born at dawn and dead by dusk. I have now passed the age of knowing Heaven’s mandate—fifty years—yet I have still not mastered the essentials of returning to the Great Dao. Reflecting that even an inch of time is worth treasuring, and that time passes as swiftly as the flicker of a candle’s shadow, I have exerted myself to inquire into the meaning of the scriptures: these principles are plain and direct, and the methods are easy to put into practice.

Considering the maladies of mind commonly found among those who cultivate the Dao, I have briefly set down the matters of calming the mind, sitting in stillness, and what ought to be avoided in practice, gathering them into seven items as a sequence for cultivating the Dao, and also describing the key auxiliary methods among them, arranged as a text.

Faith is the foundation of the Dao (the Way), and reverence is the root of De (Virtue/Power). Only when the roots are sunk deep can the Dao endure; only when the foundation is firm can De flourish.

Yet a jade disc may shine with dazzling brilliance, and Bian He still had both feet cut off because of it; someone may set forth a way to preserve the state, and Wu Zixu was still put to death because of it. This is because people are easily blinded by what they can see and touch, and their minds grow confused. No sooner do principles and affairs begin to appear than feelings and thoughts commonly overlook them. How much more is this true of the ultimate Dao, which transcends the pleasures of the senses, and of true nature, which stands far from desire? How many can hear principles subtle and hard to see and believe them firmly, or hear principles difficult to put into words and remain unconfused?

If someone hears of the method of cultivating sitting in forgetfulness (zuowang), deeply believes it to be an important path for cultivating the Dao, reveres it sincerely and without doubt, and practices it with diligence, that person will surely attain the Dao.

Zhuangzi said: “Forget the existence of the body, set aside cleverness and ingenuity, depart from the constraints of physical form, abandon the discriminating mind, and commune with the Great Dao.” This is what is called sitting in forgetfulness—the practice, in quiet sitting, of forgetting the body and discriminating thoughts. In sitting in forgetfulness, what remains that one cannot set down or forget? Within, one no longer perceives one’s own body; without, one no longer attends to Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things. One merges with the Dao as a single whole, and every thought dissolves. What Zhuangzi meant by “communing with the Great Dao” is precisely this state.

These words seem plain, yet their meaning runs deep. Those who are confused hear them and do not believe—like a person who keeps a treasure hidden in the bosom and still searches everywhere for treasure. What is to be done? Therefore the scripture says: “Where faith is insufficient, there is disbelief.” This means that insufficient faith in the Dao brings on the misfortune of disbelief; and if that is so, how can one hope to attain the Dao?

“Severing conditions” (duanyuan) means cutting off the worldly affairs that entangle body and mind. Set those affairs aside, and the body is no longer wearied; accord with Wuwei (non-action), and the mind is naturally at peace. Growing daily more pure, quiet, and simple, one finds the burdens of the dusty world gradually lightening as well. The farther one’s traces withdraw from mundane business, the closer the heart draws to the Dao (the Way). Of those who reach the realm of spiritual subtlety and sagely illumination, who did not begin from here?

Thus the Daodejing says: “Block the apertures of the senses and shut the gates of desire, and to the end of one’s life one will not toil.” Some display their De (Virtue/Power) and abilities so as to draw others to attach themselves to them. Some, in the name of greetings, congratulations, and condolences, come and go with one another. Some pretend to cultivate the Dao in seclusion while inwardly hoping for advancement and fame. Still others feast people with wine and food, expecting repayment later. All these practices conceal cunning and seek immediate gain. They do not accord with the great Dao, and they seriously obstruct proper cultivation. Associations of this kind should all be cut off.

Thus the Daodejing also says: “Open the apertures of the senses and multiply worldly affairs, and to the end of one’s life one cannot be saved.” If I do not take the initiative in starting an association, the other party will naturally not respond; even if the other party initiates contact, I do not respond. Let former conditions gradually break off, and form no new ones. Ties of personal affection and relations of influence and profit will then of themselves grow more distant day by day. Only when nothing remains to cling to, and one is at leisure and ease, is one fit to cultivate the Dao. Hence the Zhuangzi says: “Do not go out to welcome, nor follow to see off.” This is because one does not traffic in worldly feelings. The Zhuangzi also says: “Do not be the master of reputation, do not be a storehouse of schemes, do not take on the charge of affairs, and do not be the master of knowledge.”

If some affairs truly cannot be abandoned and can only be undertaken because there is no alternative, one should not on that account give rise to craving, allowing the mind to be caught by those affairs and treating them as one’s own vocation.

The mind is the master of the whole body and the commander of the various spirits (Shen) within it. When the mind grows still, wisdom arises; when the mind grows agitated, it becomes muddled and confused. People immerse themselves in illusory realms and take them for what is real; they cling to all manner of purposeful affairs—and who among them can see the emptiness in these?

The confusion of the mind’s consciousness is due in large part to the influence of one’s surroundings. Even the choice of neighbors with whom one lives can change a person’s habits, and the choice of friends with whom one associates can also bring benefit. How much more is this so for one who cultivates the Dao (the Way) and must leave behind the turmoil of life and death, settling the mind within the Great Dao? How can such a person fail to abandon the dusty realm of the world, and how can such a person fail to attain the Dao?

Therefore, when one first begins to cultivate the Dao, one should above all sit quietly and gather in the thoughts, so that the mind does not chase external objects, but abides in that which has nothing and clings to no thing. In this way one naturally enters emptiness and stillness, and the mind comes into accord with the Dao. The scripture says: “Within the Great Dao there is silence and nothing at all; its wondrous function has no fixed limit, and the original nature of the mind is likewise.” The original nature of the mind takes the Dao as its root. Only because mind and Shen are stained by external things, the obscuration growing ever deeper, and one drifts on for a long time, does one become cut off from the Dao. If now one can wash away the filth in the mind and bring forth the original nature of mind and Shen, this is called cultivating the Dao. No longer drifting, one merges obscurely with the Dao; abiding within the Dao is called returning to the root; guarding the root and not departing from it is called stillness and stability. When stillness and stability have lasted long, illness recedes and life is restored; when what has been restored can further continue, one comes to know the constant Dao. Knowing it, there is nothing one cannot understand; realizing the constant, one is no longer subject to change and extinction. To leave life and death behind truly depends on this.

In cultivating the Dao and settling the mind, the essential point is non-attachment. Thus the scripture says: “The myriad things flourish, and each returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to the life-mandate; returning to the life-mandate is called the constant; knowing the constant is called illumination.” If one deliberately fixes the mind upon a realm of emptiness, that is still a form of attachment and cannot count as truly being without clinging. Whatever realm one clings to will weary the mind and agitate the Qi (vital energy); it neither accords with the Dao and may, on the contrary, become an illness. Only when the mind neither clings to external things nor is pulled about by them is there a true basis for entering stability. Cultivating stability in this way, mind and Qi gradually come into harmony, and body and mind grow ever lighter, quicker, and clearer. By these changes one can tell whether one’s practice is on the right path.

To press down and extinguish every thought the moment it arises, without distinguishing right from wrong, is not correct stability. It is a “blind stability” that cuts off awareness and sinks into numbness. If one lets thoughts arise as they please and does not gather them in at all, one is no different from an ordinary person. If one merely rejects thoughts of good and evil, yet the mind has no place to return to, and one lets thought drift until it settles of itself, one only holds oneself back. If, while doing all kinds of things, one claims that the mind remains undefiled, the words sound fine, but the actual practice is unsound; those who truly cultivate the Dao should be especially on guard against this.

The correct way is to still confusion without extinguishing luminous awareness, and to guard clarity and stillness without clinging to a realm of emptiness. Practice this with perseverance, and genuine realization will come of itself. Sometimes, when affairs arise, or when one truly has doubts about a certain method, one may for a time think carefully, so that the matter is properly resolved and the doubt answered. This too is a rightful path by which wisdom arises. Once the matter is finished, one should stop the deliberation and not think too much. Excessive deliberation uses clever contrivance to harm quiet ease, as though wounding one’s own root; even if for a moment one seems clever and quick, in the long run it harms the cultivation of the Dao. Scattered, deviant, and disordered thoughts should be removed as soon as they are noticed. When one hears talk of praise and blame, good and evil, and the like, one should let it go at once and not allow it to remain in the mind. If the mind takes these in, the inner mind becomes filled; once the mind is filled, the Dao has nowhere to abide.

If what one sees and hears can be as though unseen and unheard, then right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, will not enter the mind. When the mind does not take in external things, this is called “emptying the mind”; when the mind does not follow after external things, this is called “settling the mind.” When the mind is settled and empty, the Dao will naturally come to rest there. Thus the scripture says: “If a person can empty the mind and practice Wuwei (non-action), not deliberately seeking the Dao, the Dao will return of itself.”

When there is no attachment within, outward conduct need not be deliberately contrived. Neither leaning toward purity and stillness nor sinking into defilement, one does not thereby give rise to praise or blame. Neither relying on one’s own cleverness nor deeming oneself dull, benefit and harm have no way to affect one. Meeting affairs by according with constant principle, and handling what is expedient by changing with the occasion, so as to be free of every kind of entanglement—this is wisdom. If, regardless of the proper time and heedless of actual conditions, one strains the mind and forces the matter, then even if one claims to be unattached, it is not true awakening. The condition of the mind is like that of the eye: if the slightest speck enters the eye, the eye is uncomfortable; once a small matter stirs the mind, the mind too is thrown into disorder. As soon as the mind is in turmoil, it is hard to enter the state of stability. Therefore the essential point in cultivating the Dao is to remove the mind’s illness as soon as possible. If the illness is not removed, one can never enter stability.

This is like a good field: if the thorns have not been cleared, then even if seed is sown, no good crop will grow. Attachment and desire, prejudice, and excessive thinking are the thorns in the mind; if they are not removed, stability and wisdom will not arise. Some people live amid wealth and rank and are thoroughly versed in the classics and histories. Their speech appears benevolent and frugal, yet their conduct is greedy and cruel. They are skilled at argument in order to cover their faults, and they rely on power to oppress others. When there is merit, they claim it for themselves; when there is fault, they blame others. This illness of the mind is the deepest. However much they study, it brings no benefit, and the root lies in their conviction that they themselves are right.

The human mind has always depended on external objects and is not yet accustomed to abiding on its own. Suddenly left without support, it finds it hard to be at ease; even if it settles for a time, it soon scatters again. One must therefore gather a thought in promptly as soon as it arises, making sure that it no longer wavers. With long practice one gradually becomes adept, and the mind naturally grows at ease. Whether by day or by night, walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, or when responding to affairs, one should attend to settling one’s own mind. Once the mind has become stable, simply nourish it well and do not disturb or stir it again. With even a little power of stability, one can find peace and joy of oneself. As familiarity deepens, the inner mind grows ever clearer and more removed from the dust of disturbance. What one once prized will also come to seem worn and ruined; how much more, when wisdom arises within stability, will one see clearly the difference between the illusory and the real.

Oxen and horses are domestic animals; left unchecked, they still grow stubborn and refuse to be driven. Hawks and falcons are wild birds, yet after people train and restrain them, they perch on the hand all day and can gradually be tamed. How much more, if one indulges the mind and does not gather it in, will it only grow coarser—and how then can one observe the subtle and wondrous Dao? The scripture says: “Even if one offers fine jade as a betrothal gift and sends it with a carriage drawn by four horses, it is not as good as sitting down to cultivate and advance in this Great Dao.”

The marvel of the methods of the Dao lies in being able to practice them, not in merely knowing how to talk about them. Only when one can truly act accordingly do one’s words have a basis; if one does not practice, however well one speaks, it is empty talk. In those days some who studied preferred difficult and abstruse formulations and looked down on principles that were plain, near at hand, and easy to practice. If someone discoursed at length on emptiness and nothingness, speaking of things that thought cannot comprehend and that action has no way to begin, people would marvel that it was inconceivable and follow with reverence. If someone spoke in a plain and clear way, setting out how matters actually stand, so that one understood upon hearing and could also practice accordingly, people on the contrary would not believe. Thus the scripture says: “My words are very easy to understand and very easy to practice, yet no one in the world can understand them, and no one can practice them. Precisely because they do not understand, they do not know me.”

Some say “fire is not hot” and “a lamp cannot light the darkness,” and call such sayings mysterious and profound principles. But the very function of fire is to give heat, and the very function of a lamp is to give light. While grandly declaring that fire is not hot, they never stop using fire; while emptily saying that a lamp does not light the darkness, they burn lamps all night long. Such talk, in which words and deeds contradict each other, truly makes no sense. It merely uses language to break down the surface appearance of things, yet people turn about and take it for deep mystery. Even though Huizi (a debater of the Warring States period) possessed great skill in argument, Zhuangzi (the Daoist thinker) held it to be of no account. Among those who take in principles only superficially, who can tell them apart clearly? Those who truly seek learning will, in all likelihood, not let their minds rest on such verbal disputation.

Someone asked: “A person who cultivates the Great Dao dwells amid the myriad things yet remains unstained, remains amid turmoil while mind and Shen are not disordered, and even when there is nothing to be done leaves nothing undone, able at all times to maintain stillness. Yet now you avoid affairs in pursuit of clarity and stillness, leave the realm of movement in order to seek entry into stability, and expend effort controlling the thoughts. Does this not form two attitudes of mind, one of movement and one of stillness, cling to guarding some particular place, and fall into the two faults of grasping and rejecting? You do not yourself realize that you are attached, yet you still say this is the key to entering the Dao. Are you not mistaken?”

The author replied: “To gather all the myriad things together and call this ‘great,’ and to let each of the myriad things obtain its own way, is what is called the ‘Dao.’ To dwell among the myriad things without being stained, and to handle affairs without being thrown into disorder, is indeed lofty, far-reaching, and subtle. Yet there is something your judgment has not seen clearly. You see only the dazzling splendor of brocade and do not know that it was first woven from plain silk; you hear only the crane crying as it mounts the sky and do not know that it first needed grain for nourishment. A great tree that shades the sky and blocks the sun also grows from a slender tender sprout; Shen condenses and one becomes a sage only through long accumulation and practice. Now you only learn to talk of the sage’s De (Virtue/Power), without knowing how sagely De is formed. It is like seeing a rabbit and at once wanting the chicken used in sacrifice, or seeing a slingshot and at once wanting to eat roast owl—truly far too hasty. Thus the scripture says: ‘Mysterious De (the profound and subtle virtue) is deep, far-reaching, and vast; at first it seems contrary to the myriad things, and only in the end does it reach the greatest accord.’”

Living in this world, one must inevitably deal with all kinds of affairs, and those affairs are too numerous to count; one person need not take them all upon himself. A bird in the woods needs only a single branch on which to perch, yet it does not for that reason abandon the reed thickets; a wild animal drinking by the river needs only to drink its fill, and does not covet the whole river as its own. Outwardly, one should know the actual circumstances of things; inwardly, one should also recognize clearly one’s own abilities and proper lot. Once one understands that each life has its fixed allotment, one does not pursue what lies outside that allotment; once one understands that each matter has its fitting scope, one does not take on what one ought not to do. Doing what is unfitting drains mind and strength; craving what exceeds one’s proper lot harms the body and the spirit. If even the body cannot be at peace, how can one have the mind to cultivate the Dao (the Way)?

Therefore, one who cultivates the Dao should simplify affairs, discern which matters are important, weigh the light against the heavy, and know what to take and what to relinquish. Whatever is neither necessary nor important should be cut off and let go—for instance, pursuing wine and meat in food and drink, prizing splendid silks in clothing, craving fame and official rank in status, and coveting gold, silver, pearls, and jade in wealth. These are merely extra enjoyments produced by desire; they are not the good medicine required for nurturing life. Many people chase them and in the end bring ruin upon themselves. Quiet the mind and consider: why is one so deluded?

Thus the Zhuangzi says that one who comprehends the true condition of life does not pursue what life itself does not need. Whatever is not required to sustain life, and cannot truly add to life, is an external thing beyond one’s proper lot. Coarse tea and plain food, and worn-out clothes, are already enough to sustain life—must one have wine, meat, and fine fare, gorgeous robes and patterned silks, in order to go on living? Whatever has no necessary use for life should be removed; even when something is genuinely useful, the portion that exceeds what is needed should also be given up.

Wealth brings burdens that cause anxiety; accumulated in excess, it injures a person. Even a little wealth leaves one preoccupied—how much more so a great accumulation? People already find it absurd to use the Suihou pearl (a legendary precious gem) to shoot at sparrows perched on high; how much more so when someone abandons De (Virtue/Power) and neglects nature and life, chasing things of no real importance, and thereby hastens the wasting of himself?

If fame and official rank are compared with De, fame and rank are empty and base, while De is real and precious. Knowing what is valuable and what is slight, one should choose and refuse accordingly: do not harm oneself for the sake of fame, and do not abandon the Great Dao for the sake of official position. The Zhuangzi says, “To lose oneself in the pursuit of fame is not to be a person who has the Dao.” The Scripture of Western Ascension (Xisheng jing, a Daoist classic) says, “Embrace the primal origin and hold fast to unity, and one can reach the realm of the immortals; if you cannot keep to the Dao, you are merely sitting at ease and enjoying glory and office.” If one makes no selection and takes up whatever comes along, body and mind grow weary, the mind grows confused, and the cultivation of the Dao is delayed as well.

If a person handles affairs with composure and meets external things without being entangled by them, then that person has naturally already completed the cultivation. If one has not in fact completed it, yet claims not to be entangled by external things, one is deceiving oneself.

“True Observation” (zhenguan) means observing things thoroughly and seeing clearly the roots of fortune and misfortune, of the auspicious and the inauspicious. The wise can detect signs before events occur and respond in good time; they carefully guard body and mind, taking the preservation of life and self-cultivation as what matters in everything, and from beginning to end they do not allow their thoughts to become entangled. Only by following this principle can one be said to practice “True Observation.”

A single meal or a single period of rest, and the routines of daily life, may all bring benefit or harm; a single word or a single action may also become the beginning of fortune or misfortune. Rather than expend effort only on the peripheral details of affairs, it is better to be careful at the root. Only when the root is seen clearly can the consequences be understood; this requires quiet concentration and cannot depend on impatience and contention. By gathering in one’s thoughts, reducing miscellaneous affairs, and gradually diminishing unnecessary activity, so that body and mind become quiet and at leisure, one more readily sees the true principle. Thus the scripture (Jing) says: “Always be without desire, so as to observe its subtlety.” This means that only by constantly keeping the mind from being led by desire can one observe the hidden and subtle aspects of things.

Those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) still need clothing and food. Some matters cannot be left undone, and some things cannot be discarded; one should accept them with an open mind and handle them with clear awareness, and not, the moment something arises, regard it as an obstacle to cultivating the Dao and grow agitated. If one becomes troubled as soon as affairs arrive, the mind is already unsettled—how then can one speak of calming the mind?

Daily affairs, together with clothing and food, are like the boat used to cross the sea. To cross the sea one must rely on the boat; once one has crossed, one naturally no longer clings to it. To throw the boat away before one has crossed—would that not be unreasonable? Clothing and food are inherently illusory and not worth excessive worry; yet in order to leave illusion behind and cultivate self-reliance, a person still needs to find ways to sustain life. Although one must manage affairs, one should not give rise to a mind anxious about gain and loss. In this way, whether there are affairs or none, the mind can remain settled and at ease. One may seek a livelihood as others do, yet without craving; one may obtain things as others do, yet without hoarding and clinging. Without craving, there is less worry; without holding on and refusing to let go, there is less sense of loss. Outwardly one’s conduct may be the same as that of ordinary people, while inwardly the mind constantly does not shift with worldly desires. This is an important principle of actual practice and should be earnestly carried out.

Although the method of gathering the mind and reducing desire has already been explained, some afflictions are hard to remove, and one may observe them in the following way. If one is greedily attached to beautiful form, one should see that fascination with appearance all arises from imagination in the mind; if such imagination does not arise, there is no so-called attraction of beautiful form. Recognizing that external appearances have no fixed beauty or ugliness, and that the mind’s thoughts of appearance are also delusive, one will understand: apart from the deluded mind and empty imaginings, where is there anything that truly governs sensual desire? The scripture says: “Form is entirely thought! Thought is wholly empty—how can there be form?” This means that the appearances to which people cling are entirely constituted by thought; since thought is empty, upon what can appearance stand?

One may also reflect in this way: the bewitchment of seductive beauty is greater than that of fox spirits. Fox spirits arouse loathing; even if one loses one’s life because of them, one will not on that account fall into an evil path, because people loathe them and can keep far from illicit desire. Beautiful form, however, makes people cling in love, and even after death they still cannot let go. To fall into hell because of deviant thoughts is to lose for a long time the chance of being reborn as a human being. The scripture says that those who in this life resolve to become husband and wife may not after death be reborn together as humans, because if deviant thoughts are involved, such consequences follow.

If beautiful form were truly a fixed beauty, why do fish dive to the depths when they see it, and birds fly to the heights when they see it? Immortals regard it as defiling, and worthy persons compare it to knives and axes. In the course of a life, seven days without food may bring death; yet going long without beautiful form does not cause one to die young. From this one can know that beautiful form is not essential to the survival of body and mind, and may instead harm one’s life. Why still cling to it in greedy attachment and walk of one’s own accord toward ruin?

Seeing others do evil and giving rise to aversion may also become one’s own affliction. It is like seeing someone take their own life and stretching out one’s own neck to meet their blade, seeking injury for oneself. When others do evil, they are not trying to harm you; why take their evil upon yourself and turn it into a sickness of your own mind? If one loathes those who do evil because evil deeds obstruct cultivation of the Dao, then good deeds likewise become attachments that obstruct cultivation of the Dao—why not loathe them as well? The key is not to let the mind be seized by either side.

If one is distressed by poverty, observe carefully: who gave me this poverty? Heaven and Earth cover and shelter the myriad things equally, without partiality; my hardship was not caused by Heaven and Earth. Parents bear and raise children hoping that they will be wealthy and honored; my poverty and low station are not the parents’ fault either. Humans and ghosts and spirits each have their own difficulties—how could they have the power to thrust poverty upon me? Examining this again and again, one cannot find a source from which poverty arrives from outside, and thus one understands that it is connected with one’s own karma (the causal results produced by one’s own actions) and with one’s allotted fate. Karma and fate follow a person as a shadow follows the body and an echo follows a sound: they are hard to escape, and there is no need to resent them. The wise accord with their circumstances and accept them calmly, and do not feel that poverty must become suffering. Zhuangzi says: “Once karma has entered, it cannot be cast off.” The scripture also says that Heaven and Earth cannot alter a person’s integrity, and Yin-Yang cannot reverse a person’s karma. Therefore true allotted fate is not arbitrarily produced by external things—what is there to resent?

This is like a brave warrior meeting bandits: without fear, he brandishes his sword to meet the enemy and scatters them; after establishing merit, he receives lasting honor and emolument. Now poverty, illness, and affliction come to assail me, like bandits; an upright mind is the warrior, and observation through wisdom is like brandishing the sword; the receding of affliction is like defeating the enemy; clarity, peace, and joy within the mind are like receiving honor and emolument. Whenever bitter matters press upon the mind, if one does not observe in this way but instead gives rise to worry and distress, it is like meeting bandits, throwing down one’s armor, and fleeing, and thereby incurring punishment. To abandon peace and joy and choose suffering is truly not worthwhile.

If the body suffers illness, observe: illness can attach itself to me because I have this body; if there were no body, where could illness attach? The scripture says: “If I had no body, what trouble would I have?” Observe the mind within as well: in the mind there is also no real, unchanging master. Searching inward and outward, one cannot find a true subject that bears the suffering of illness. All kinds of calculations and thoughts arise from the deluded mind; if one can bring the body to cease clinging and let thoughts settle into stillness like ashes, the disturbances caused by every kind of illness will also subside.

If one fears death, consider this: the body is a house in which spirit-consciousness (shenshi) temporarily dwells. Now the body grows old and ill, and Qi (vital energy) and strength decline, like a house that has decayed and is no longer fit to live in; one naturally needs to leave and seek another place of rest. The death of the body and the departure of spirit-consciousness follow the same principle. If one clings to life and loathes death, resisting change, spirit-consciousness becomes disordered and loses the right path. Then, when one takes lodging in a new birth and receives Qi anew, it is hard to resonate with a life that is clear, bright, and refined, and one readily meets with turbidity and evil, hardship and disgrace. Ignorance, greed, and baseness arise precisely from this.

Therefore one need not rejoice excessively in life, nor loathe death: first, the principle of life and death is inherently equal; second, the conduct of this life will affect the body to come. If one greedily loves the myriad objects of experience, each greedy love brings a kind of affliction. Illness in one part of the body makes the whole body uneasy; if the mind holds myriad attachments and afflictions, how can the body hope for lasting stability? Love and hatred are both deluded thoughts; if deluded thoughts accumulate and are not removed, how can one see the Dao?

Therefore one should set aside the various desires, let the mind abide where there is nothing to cling to, remove sensual craving, and establish right faith. Afterward, looking back to observe the things one formerly obsessed over and greedily loved, one will naturally and gradually give rise to weariness and detachment. If one still observes them with a mind that greedily clings to objects, one will never see their faults; only by observing with a mind that wishes to leave attachment behind can one see clearly what is right and what is wrong. This is like a sober person who can see that a drunkard’s conduct is improper, while one who is oneself drunk cannot perceive the errors of others. The scripture says: “I originally abandoned the vulgar and, in aversion, left the human world.” It also says: “Sounds and sights for the ears and eyes leave faults for you; the fragrances and flavors that nose and mouth delight in are resentments.” This means that when the ears and eyes greedily cling to sound and form, faults are left behind; the fragrances and flavors loved by nose and mouth may also become causes of harm. Lord Lao rejected the worldly and even regarded fragrance and flavor as sources of resentment; how would those sunk in craving know that they are like people sitting in a salted-fish shop (a shop that deals in pickled fish and smells heavily)?

What is called “ding” (settled stability) is the most profound state attainable in ordinary cultivation, and also the starting point that leads toward the great Dao (the Way). It is the attainment formed by practicing clarity and stillness, and the perfected condition that can be reached by preserving peace. When cultivation arrives at this point, the body seems like withered wood and the thoughts of the mind like dead ashes: one is not stirred by external things and has nothing one seeks, reaching a realm of extreme quiet and detachment. One does not deliberately pursue “ding” in the mind, yet there is nothing that cannot be settled; it is therefore called “taiding” (Great Stability).

The Zhuangzi says: “When the realm of the mind is vast and settled, heavenly light appears.” Here “yu” refers to the mind, and “heavenly light” refers to wisdom. The mind is the vessel that bears the great Dao. When the mind is empty and still to the utmost, the great Dao can dwell at ease within it, and wisdom arises along with this. This wisdom originally comes forth from a person’s inborn nature; it is not something newly produced only now, and so it is called “heavenly light.” It is only greed and clinging that make the mind turbid and disordered, so that people become dull and confused. Once the mind has been cleansed and made gentle and deeply calm, it can return again to purity. The numinous clarity that was originally genuine gradually comes into view; this is not to say that some further wisdom is born at that moment.

After wisdom has appeared, one must guard it with care and not chase after too much knowledge, lest the state of ding be harmed. The difficulty lies not in giving rise to wisdom, but in having wisdom and yet not displaying it or putting it to use for show. From ancient times, many have been able to forget the body, but few have been able to forget reputation. Only one who possesses wisdom without flaunting it is a person who truly forgets fame. Few in the world can manage this, and so it is especially rare.

To occupy a high position without arrogance, and to be wealthy without extravagance, is to avoid the faults of ordinary society, and thus one can long preserve wealth and rank. Likewise, to enter ding without wavering, to have wisdom without displaying it, and to have De (Virtue/Power) without presuming upon it, is not to depart from the great Dao, and thus one can deeply realize the constant Dao. The Zhuangzi says: “To understand the Dao is easy; not to speak it is hard. To understand and yet not speak is to accord with the Dao of Heaven; to understand and then speak is to fall into human contrivance. Those of antiquity who attained the Dao accorded with the Dao of Heaven and did not fall into human contrivance.”

Wisdom can bring a person to recognize the Dao, but that is not the same as having already attained the Dao. People of the world know only the benefits that wisdom brings; they do not know the benefit of attaining the Dao. Some use wisdom to grasp principles, and then use argument to move human feelings. The mind rushes about after affairs; whenever it meets one kind of matter it keeps drawing out inferences, and one supposes that, though the body is in motion, the mind remains constantly still. Yet if, after one has understood stillness, one must still use stillness to cope with external things, one has not yet reached taiding. Such cultivation and such speech are not taiding. Even if wisdom exceeds that of ordinary people, one is not necessarily any closer to the Dao. It is like setting out after a deer and in the end catching only a rabbit: what is gained is very slight, because one’s outlook and one’s aim are too small.

Therefore the Zhuangzi says that those of antiquity who cultivated the Dao nourished wisdom with tranquil calm. After wisdom has arisen, one does not take knowing or cognition as the goal; this is called “nourishing tranquil calm by means of wisdom.” Wisdom and tranquil calm nourish one another, and the principle of harmony then appears from within human nature. Tranquil calm and wisdom are ding and hui (insight); the principle of harmony is Dao and De. Only when one has wisdom and does not use it recklessly can one abide in tranquil calm. Nourished over a long time, Dao and De take form of themselves.

This state of ding may be reached by different paths. Some observe the harm that lies behind advantage and, fearing disaster, draw in and restrain the mind. Others, by diminishing, letting go, and cleansing away stray thoughts, after long practice gradually bring the mind to maturity. Although the paths differ, all finally return to ding, and it seems to come about of itself. In this realm, thunder that shakes the mountains does not startle one, nor do blades crossing before the eyes inspire fear. One looks upon fame and profit as something flashing past a crack in the door, and upon life and death as an abscess breaking open, and clings to them no longer.

This shows that when the will is single and undivided, Shen (spirit) can gather. The mind is something empty and subtle, hard to conceive: as to its fundamental substance, one cannot say that it really exists; as to its functioning, one cannot say that it is wholly nothing. It does not hasten, yet it arrives swiftly; it is not summoned, yet it suddenly appears. When anger is intense, it is said that even dark stone can be shot through; when resentment runs deep, high summer seems to send down frost. Give free rein to evil thoughts, and the dark underworld hardly seems distant; accumulate good without cease, and the immortal realm of the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing) is not beyond reach. The mind comes and goes in an instant; both its movement and its stillness are hard to name. Sometimes it can, and sometimes it cannot, and even yarrow stalks and the tortoise shell cannot foresee it. To tame this mind—how could that be as easy as driving deer and horses?

The Most High Lord Lao (one of the highest deities revered in Daoism), by constant good deeds, comes to the aid of living beings, and at the Lingtai (Numinous Terrace) he sets forth the wondrous principle. He briefly speaks of the cause and effect taught by the Two Vehicles (the paths of cultivation of the hearer and the solitary realizer in Buddhism), and broadly clarifies the principle of the natural spontaneity of the myriad things. Cultivating the Dao may advance by gradual steps, diminishing day by day, or one may let go all at once and no longer seek learning outwardly. Drawing a bow and boring a doorway, for example, serve to illustrate acting by following the way things tend; blunting what is sharp and untying what is tangled are methods of cultivating the Dao. Cultivation has its path; repeated practice turns it into habit.

The practitioner should gather in the senses, lay down attachment to the body, and rest at ease in zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness), so that the mind is not pulled by stillness itself and even the finest changes are reflected with clarity. Even those who have traveled by different roads can understand the principle; cultivating along this path, one may hope to behold the mysterious and subtle. Little effort, yet a far-reaching effect: this is precisely the essential point of cultivating the Dao.

Dao (the Way) is a wondrous existence, hard to fathom. It possesses a spiritual nature, yet it has no fixed form. Whether one goes to meet it or follows after it, it remains elusive, and it cannot be found by tracing the marks it leaves behind. It enables the myriad things to grow, and its working is inexhaustible; this is what is called the Dao. The supreme sages of antiquity realized it, and from them subtle methods have been transmitted down to the present day. By examining names and inquiring into principles, one comes to know that the Dao indeed has real substance. Those of superior capacity accept it with pure faith, restrain themselves, and cultivate with diligence. They empty and clarify the mind and make the spirit (Shen) as vacant and still as a secluded valley, and the Dao then gathers and comes.

The Dao has immense power and can transform a person’s bodily form and spirit. When the body becomes open and communicative through the Dao, and the spirit unites with the Dao, form and spirit are one; this is called a divine person. Spiritual nature is empty, luminous, and freely interfused, and the body is no longer governed by change and dissolution, and so is not bound by life and death. When hidden and unmanifest, the body is identical with spirit; when it appears, spirit again accords with the body. Thus one can pass through water and enter fire without harm, face the sun and moon yet cast no shadow, and the body’s persisting or perishing, its going out and coming in, are all under one’s own control. The human body is originally something coarse, heavy, and substantial, and yet it can still reach a realm of empty subtlety—how much more so can spiritual intelligence, which reaches even farther?

Therefore the Lingbao Jing (Scripture of the Numinous Treasure) says: “When body and spirit unite as one, that is the true body.” The Xisheng Jing (Scripture of Western Ascension) also says: “Form and spirit accord with each other, and thus one can endure.” Yet what can be reached by emptying the mind and cultivating the Dao may be deep or shallow. If cultivation is deep, the bodily form itself receives the working of the Dao; if it is shallow, only the mind and spirit benefit. Those whose bodies are also transformed are divine persons; those who realize something only in mind and spirit merely gain wisdom and awakening.

Why, when benefit is gained only in mind and spirit, does the body still inevitably decline and perish? Because wisdom is the functioning of mind and spirit, and excessive use wearies them. When a little wisdom first appears, a person easily grows delighted and speaks too much; the spirit then scatters and cannot nourish the body, and life may even be brought to an early end, so that it is hard to be fully endowed with the great Dao. What the classics call “corpse deliverance” (shijie—in Daoism, the cultivator leaves the physical remains behind and departs through transformation) refers precisely to cases of this kind. Therefore those who succeed in cultivating the Dao draw in their radiance and conceal their sharpness, seeking the completion of their practice. They concentrate the spirit and preserve primordial Qi (vital energy), seeking nothing external with the mind, and in the end unite spirit with the Dao. This is called attaining the Dao.

The classics say: “One who is the same as the Dao, the Dao will also receive.” They also say: “Why did the ancients treasure the Dao? Was it not because by seeking the Dao day after day one can obtain it, and, having faults, can thereby be freed of them?” When a mountain harbors jade, its grasses and trees do not easily wither; when a person bears the Dao within, the bodily form can long remain firm. Through prolonged permeation and practice, one’s physical substance changes and accords with spirit; going further, one refines spirit into the subtle and obscurely unites as one with the Dao. At this point a single body can be manifested as the myriad phenomena, and the myriad phenomena can be gathered into a single body. Wisdom illuminates without bound, and the body transcends the finite. All visible forms, together with emptiness and stillness, are taken as the field of one’s functioning, in accord with the creative work of heaven and earth. The responses manifested by the True Person have no fixed manner; they truly depend on the cultivation of the Dao and of De (Virtue/Power).

Therefore the Xisheng Jing says: “Be of one mind with Heaven, yet do not cling to knowing; be of one body with the Dao, yet do not cling to form.” When this realm is reached, the great Dao is fully manifest. What is meant by “fully manifest” is realizing the ultimate of the Dao. The classics further say: “If spirit does not leave the body, one can endure as long as the Dao.” When the body accords with the Dao, there is no moment in which one does not exist; when the mind accords with the Dao, there is nothing that cannot be penetrated. Ears like the ears of the Dao hear every sound; eyes like the eyes of the Dao see every form and color. That the six faculties (the six capacities of perception: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) are unobstructed is precisely for this reason.

If one is to discuss the profound teachings of Daoism, their benefits are far-reaching and vast. Inquiring into the principles according to the scriptures, one may put it thus. The secret methods of the Shangqing (Highest Clarity) lineage emphasize meticulous cultivation and resonant communion with the realm of the Dao. By means of the divine elixir they refine and nourish physical substance, so that wisdom and discriminating thoughts are thoroughly dissolved. The aim of cultivating the Dao opened by the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Its Virtue) emphasizes diligent faith and observance: with an emptied mind one washes away entanglements, so that the bodily frame is not confined by outward traces. These two methods each have their skillful means, and both can converge in the great Dao. Cultivation of mind and spirit and refinement of the body assist each other and interpenetrate in principle. One leads from outer methods into inner cultivation; the other carries inner practice through into the body. The paths differ, but the destination is the same.

These principles embrace what is profound, obscure, and subtle, and neither discourse nor silence alone can exhaust them. Each of the two methods of cultivation has its own subtle excellence, and neither the learning of Confucius nor the Buddhist teaching can match them. As for other teachings that have not understood these principles, that is probably only the ordinary case.